Читать книгу Accidental Family - Lisa Bingham - Страница 12

Chapter One

January 13, 1874

Utah Territory

Charles Wanlass waited until the sound of feminine laughter had dissipated into the darkness before stepping into the cold. He paused to ensure that the side door to the Meeting House had snapped into place. Then he hurried toward the miners’ row houses and his own quarters, the very last building on the left.

From somewhere deep in the woods, he heard a woman’s voice call out.

“Willow? Willow, where are you?”

The cry was soon followed by a burst of laughter. Snatches of singing.

Charles couldn’t help smiling. Normally, he and the other men in the Batchwell Bottoms mining community hated January. The merrymaking of Christmas was over, the wind had grown especially bitter and the nights were long and dark. With nothing to break the monotony but work, the days seem endless.

This year, however, the occupants of the little community nicknamed “Bachelor Bottoms” were more than happy to put off spring for as long as possible. Less than a month ago, a freak avalanche had closed off the pass, marooning a trainload of women in the valley.

And none of the miners looked forward to that moment when they would go.

“Willow?”

The cry was fainter this time, the giggling more disjointed.

Charles wondered what could have happened to separate Willow Granger from the rest of the group. She was a shy little thing, so tiny she could fit under his chin. Sober and wide-eyed. He couldn’t imagine what could have caused her to escape the Pinkerton guards who had been tasked with keeping the women away from the miners.

As he stepped inside and threw his hat onto a nearby table, he became aware of several things at once: footsteps running through the snow, a commotion of male voices, shouts from the center of town and cooing.

Or the soft mewling of a cat. Or...

A baby?

In that instant, he became aware of a basket on the floor in front of him. It was heaped with blankets. A note pinned to the top read: “Please, please protect my little ones and keep them as your own. They are in more danger than I can express.”

Crouching, Charles moved the blankets aside, revealing not one, but two cherubic faces.

Tiny. So tiny.

A surge of protectiveness rushed through him like a tidal wave, washing all other thoughts and emotions aside.

Almost simultaneously, he heard footsteps charging into his home. He placed himself between the intruder and the basket. To his surprise, it wasn’t a burly assailant, but one of the mail-order brides.

Willow Granger.

From the moment of their arrival, Willow had been a source of curiosity for Charles. Where the other girls were carefree and chatty—even giggly or silly—Willow stood out. The woman was reserved, seldom speaking in Charles’s presence. She had a mane of curly auburn hair the same bright red-gold as a sunset. Most days, she barely managed to contain it in a thick braid. Unlike the other ladies, her wardrobe seemed limited, a pair of shapeless dresses that obscured her figure—one for every day and one for Sunday best. And she was watchful. He wouldn’t doubt that those pale cornflower-blue eyes saw everything, even the contents of a person’s heart.

She seemed to sense that something was amiss because she peered around him. In an instant, she took in the basket, the babies and then the note. Before he could stop her, she snatched the paper from its mooring and read the words.

“Oh.”

It was a mere puff of sound, but it held a wealth of emotion—shock, concern, dismay.

Unfortunately, neither of them had time to ask each other questions, because a swarm of men were heading toward them—the Pinkertons, and close on their heels a group of miners, including Jonah Ramsey, the superintendent of mines, and Ezra Batchwell, one of the owners. To add to the confusion, the alarm bell near the mine offices began to toll.

To Charles’s utter horror, the babies at his feet chose that moment to rouse from their slumber. They began to cry, softly at first, then louder, until the noise cut through the din and the crowd on his doorstep seemed to freeze in the cold winter night.

But that moment of calm was short-lived, because a deep, booming voice bellowed, “Charles Wanlass, explain yourself!”

* * *

“They’re mine!”

“They’re mine!”

Willow trembled when she realized that she had blurted the words at the same moment that Charles Wanlass had uttered his. In an instant, the lie had been cast, not once, but twice, heightening the veracity of the declarations, but doubling the consequences—because this was Bachelor Bottoms where, in order to get a job, a man had to sign an oath that he would abstain from drinking, smoking, cussing...

And women.

Their claims seemed to shudder through the men assembled outside the door. Willow wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d been spoken loud enough for the whole valley to hear. Then a dozen pairs of eyes turned their way, and she withered beneath the stares.

She’d never been good in crowds. Becoming the brunt of anyone’s attention caused her to wilt. Yet here she stood, forced to endure the focus of everyone’s attention.

“What did you two say?”

The growl came from Ezra Batchwell. The owner of the Batchwell Bottoms Mine was a fierce bear of a man, his body stocky and barrel-chested. The fur coat he wore and the beaver hat pulled low over his balding pate helped give him the appearance of some great beast. In her short time at Bachelor Bottoms, Willow had steered clear of him. He had a temper. Especially where women were concerned.

She felt a hand touch the small of her back. When she looked up, she found Charles regarding her with quiet gray eyes. There was something about that look, the steadiness of his gaze, that offered her comfort and strength.

“See to the children,” he murmured. His command was softened by the lilt of his Scottish burr and uttered so lowly that only she could have heard the words.

When she reached out to pull the blankets aside, she realized that she still clutched the note in her hand. Her gaze scanned the words: “Please, please protect my little ones and keep them as your own. They are in more danger than I can express.”

She instantly recognized the loopy script.

No, Jenny, no.

Willow’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t been able to find Jenny for days now. Somehow, the other woman had slipped away from their Pinkerton guards and gone...who knew where?

Why would she leave the safety of the other women and the Dovecote, the dormitory-like building where they stayed? Why would she venture out on her own? If her labor had begun, Jenny would have had everything she needed: warmth, support, even medical help from their very own female doctor, Sumner Havisham Ramsey. The woman had only recently married the mine superintendent. If Jenny had needed an advocate to help smooth things over in the Batchwell Bottoms community, she could have appealed to Sumner.

But she’d been so frightened the last few weeks. So sure that someone meant to hurt her and the baby she carried.

No. Not baby.

Babies.

Willow crumpled the note into a small ball, surreptitiously jamming it into the pocket of her gown. Then she returned her attention to the infants.

Curiously, one of them had fallen back asleep, despite the fact that its sibling piteously squalled. Wrapping the top layer of blankets around the angry child, she lifted it to her chest and then rose again, automatically rocking back and forth as she tried to calm the poor thing.

As soon as she turned, she met the wide-eyed stares, and Willow’s knees began to tremble. Thankfully, before she could sag, Charles’s hand wrapped around her waist and he drew her close to his side, offering her warmth and support. Then, miraculously, the baby grew quiet.

The silence hung thick and dark and ominous, and the longer it continued, the more Willow became aware of the alarm bells in the distance. The last time she’d heard such sustained tolling, there had been a mine accident and dozens of men had been injured.

“Has another tunnel collapsed?” she breathed, looking up at Charles, needing the strength of his gaze. She became inordinately aware of the man’s height, the rawboned planes of his face, the wheat-colored hair that he kept close-cropped at the sides and longer on top.

She felt his fingers tighten at her waist. The sensation was brief, but oh, so welcome.

“What’s happened?” Charles asked, already reaching for his hat and settling it over his brow.

“The tunnels are fine.” This time, the deep voice belonged to Jonah Ramsey, mine superintendent, and even more importantly in Willow’s opinion, Dr. Havisham—no, Dr. Ramsey’s—husband. “We were told there’s been a death. We hoped you’d come with us to check things out. Just in case someone needs some spiritual support.”

The words shivered into the night, seeming to trace a cold finger down Willow’s spine. The men on the steps all began talking at once. Her pulse roared in her ears and her arms tightened around the baby so fiercely that the little one squeaked in protest, then rooted into the blankets again, its eyes closing.

Dread seemed to bloom up from the tips of her toes, rumbling through her extremities, leaving her quaking.

Jenny.

No. Please, Lord. No.

Not Jenny.

She must have spoken her prayer aloud because the commotion stopped again and all eyes turned in her direction—especially those of Ezra Batchwell.

“You know something,” he said accusingly.

“No, I...” Her throat became impossibly tight. “Is it Jenny?”

When Batchwell would have demanded answers, Jonah Ramsey stopped him with a hand on his arm. “What makes you think that one of the women is involved?”

“J-Jenny’s been gone for a few days.”

“Gone!” Batchwell barked, but Jonah moved to stand in front of him.

“What do you mean, Willow?”

“She h-hasn’t been at the Dovecote.” Willow fiercely blinked back the tears that swam into her eyes.

“Why didn’t you let anyone know?”

“I... I—”

Willow shut her lips before she could utter anything more. She and Charles had impetuously laid claim to Jenny’s children. If Willow were to reveal any more of the woman’s confidences that she’d pieced together over the past few weeks...

“Has Jenny been hurt?” Willow tried to control herself, but the last words emerged in a pitch that conveyed her panic.

She saw the way the men exchanged glances. There was a furtive guiltiness to their expressions.

Because they knew.

They knew she was right.

“What happened?” she cried, and then more desperately, “What happened!”

Charles pulled her to him, tucking her head beneath his chin. “Shh.” She felt his hand pass down the length of her braid. And felt safe tucked in his arms. “I’ll go and find out. You stay here.”

She pushed against him, ready to argue. But when his gaze dropped to the baby she cradled next to her chest, he said pointedly, “You stay here and take care of our wee children.”

Willow felt torn, needing to know the truth, now. But she heeded Charles’s unspoken message. Someone had to stay with the twins. Someone who knew that they were in dire need of protection.

“There’s food in the larder, wood in a pile by the fireplace. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Then, to her infinite surprise, he bent to place a soft kiss on her brow, marking her as his own.

“Lock the door behind me,” he whispered to her.

Then he was gone, the latch snapping into place behind him.

* * *

Have you lost your mind?

Charles did his best to push aside the little inner voice that nagged at him for his impulsiveness.

He’d claimed a pair of newborn bairns as his own, and then had kissed Willow Granger to boot. If he weren’t tossed out of the mining camp on his ear within the hour, it would be a miracle.

Even as he inwardly castigated himself for his foolishness, Charles discovered that he didn’t regret his actions.

Which was odd.

He owed a debt to Ezra Batchwell and his business partner, Phineas Boggs. He’d been a teenager when they’d snatched him from utter ruin, and since then, Charles had dedicated his life to repaying them for the faith they’d had in his potential.

Yet he’d lied.

Something he’d promised he would never do again, least of all to them.

“What’s going on, Charles?”

The murmured question came from Jonah Ramsey, who seemed determined to keep pace with him.

Not knowing how to respond, Charles shook his head. His jaw tightened as he worked hard to tamp his emotions deep, deep into his soul. He would sort things out later, after he’d had some time to think, confer with Willow and appeal to God for the strength to appear calm. Maybe then he’d have an answer.

Jonah probably would have pressed him further, but they’d reached the steps of the mining office. Several men stood in the middle of the road, and as Charles wove his way through them, he caught a glimpse of the woman lying on the ground.

Even in the darkness, the prone figure of Jenny Reichmann was easy to recognize.

Willow’s fears had proved to be true.

Charles sank to his knees in the snow, reaching to touch the woman’s cheek. She was cold. Her eyes were partially open, staring sightlessly into the night.

“She’s been murdered,” someone grumbled.

Jonah held up a hand. “None of that, you hear? We don’t know what happened. This could have been a horrible accident. Maybe she was injured and tried to walk to the office to find help. She might not have realized that we were all at evening Devotional.”

Although Jonah’s voice brooked no argument, Charles knew that the rumors would continue until someone discovered the truth. There was nothing else to do during a cold night than think and talk and spin tales.

“What about her baby?” someone murmured.

Charles knew the answer before he shook his head. The mound of her stomach had already begun to gather a skiff of snow. “She’s been gone too long. There’s no saving it.” Even as he said the words, his scalp began to tighten and he remembered the babes in the basket.

Could they have belonged to Jenny?

He racked his brain, trying to remember the last time he’d seen her. As lay pastor, Charles had been allowed to spend time at the Dovecote in order to tend to the spiritual needs of the ladies marooned in Bachelor Bottoms. He briefly remembered that Jenny Reichmann had been different from the other girls. She’d been on her way to meet up with her husband in California before the avalanche. Although she hadn’t been the only pregnant woman on the doomed passenger train, her condition had been the most pronounced. Charles had supposed that was why she’d kept out of sight, secluding herself from almost everyone, preferring to remain in her room. Charles could probably count on one hand the number of times he’d seen her.

“Move, please.”

The voice came from Jonah’s wife, Sumner. As soon as she’d managed to thread her way through the crowd, she came to an abrupt halt. Although Charles knew she’d been trained to keep a poker face while tending the wounded, he didn’t miss the shock that flickered in her eyes. Her gaze lifted, bouncing from Jonah to Charles, then back to her husband.

“We need to take her to the infirmary and away from prying eyes,” she offered in a low voice. Then more loudly, she added, “And will someone please stop ringing that bell?”

Abruptly, the noise halted—but the silence that ensued was worse. The quiet was so thick that Charles was sure he could hear the snowflakes landing on the dead woman’s skin.

Sumner laid a hand on Charles’s sleeve, but he barely felt it until she squeezed more forcefully. “Charles, do you think you could carry her to the infirmary for me? Maybe there, you can say a few words over her.”

He nodded, his throat feeling thick and tight.

“The rest of you go home!” Sumner called out. “And keep your gossiping to yourselves for now. There’s no sense riling up the whole mining camp until we know exactly what happened.”

One by one, the miners began to fade into the darkness, until only Jonah, Charles and Ezra Batchwell remained.

“Jonah, give him some room. It’s been less than a month since we removed the shrapnel near your spine. I don’t want you hurting your back now that it’s on the mend. Charles, if you’re ready.”

Charles slid his hands beneath the still form.

Then he carried his burden into the night.

* * *

Willow glanced up at the ticking clock on the mantel and sighed when the spindly hands marked the passing of another quarter hour.

Since Charles had left, she’d tried to make herself useful. She’d stoked the coals in the fireplace and in his range, and put enough wood on both to chase the chill from the combined kitchen and sitting area. Then, deciding that he would be cold and tired when he came home, she’d made coffee.

Soon, the babies had begun to rouse. Fearing they were hungry, Willow had fretted over how she would feed them. But thankfully, once she’d changed their diapers from a pile of flannel squares she’d found tucked into the corner of the basket, they’d fallen back to sleep.

For now.

How on earth was she going to give credence to the claim of being their mother if she couldn’t feed them herself?

Sitting in the only comfortable chair in the room—a tufted easy chair drawn close to the fireplace—she’d taken turns holding the children.

A boy. And a girl.

The instant she’d cuddled them in her arms, a fierce wave of protectiveness had rushed through her. She’d felt her heart melt at the sight of their tiny fingers.

As the snow spattered against the window, she wondered how long it would be before she was punished for that untruth. Even now, her skin seemed to prickle in foreboding. It had taken only a few fibs at the Good Shepherd Charity School for Young Girls for Willow to learn that the adults in her life would brook no disobedience or dishonor.

God would punish her for the lie.

But she couldn’t find it within her to confess her deceit to Batchwell and Bottoms.

A pounding sound suddenly broke the quiet, and Willow jumped. Immediately, her heart collided against her ribs in time with the banging. Panicked, she set the baby in the basket, covered both wee faces with a blanket and then searched for a place to hide them.

She should have prepared for the worst as soon as she’d locked the door.

“Willow? It’s me.”

It took a moment for her to absorb the words and the low timbre of the voice, but the Scottish lilt slowed the frantic thud of her pulse.

Charles.

She rushed to open the door. After he dodged inside amid a swirl of snow and ice and wind, she slammed the door shut again.

In the firelight, his features looked pinched and pale. Not for the first time, she was struck by the angular lines of his face, the sharp cheekbones, his piercing gray eyes.

“You didn’t light the lamps?”

“I—I didn’t know if you wanted me to use the kerosene.”

He regarded her with open puzzlement, then murmured, “Daft girl. I wouldna leave you here in the dark. Take care of them now while I get out of my coat.”

She hurried to light one of the waxy faggots he kept in a cup on the mantel. Holding her hand over the flame to protect it from the draft, she lit the lamp in the center of the table on what she supposed was the “eating” side of the keeping room. Then, after adjusting the wick, she blew out the taper.

Once again, Charles eyed her curiously. “Do the rest of them. We’ll need to be seeing one another. Given all that’s happened, you and I need to talk.”

At those words, her gaze tangled with his, and she saw in the depth of those kind gray eyes a wealth of sadness.

Without being told, she knew he brought bad news.