“She’s my wife!”
The words blurted from Charles’s lips before they’d even formed in his head. A shuddering silence descended around the room—one broken only by the whistle of the wind whirling snow into the house.
Willow trembled even more in his arms, but she didn’t speak. Luckily, she’d turned her face toward him. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been able to hide her shock at his pronouncement.
He squeezed her, imperceptibly, meeting her gaze for a fleeting instant in a way that he hoped reassured her, and then offered, “Willow and I met when you sent me to England to oversee the shipment of the new machinery last spring. We fell in love and married.”
Ezra made a huffing sound that was at once disbelieving and outraged.
How could he make the lie sound more convincing?
“We hadn’t planned on her being marooned here in Bachelor Bottoms.”
Batchwell’s hands clutched his walking stick so that his knuckles gleamed white.
“So, we kept things...secret...”
“And do you have a marriage license to back up your claims?”
Charles was unable to think of a quick enough response.
“As I recall, we were never able to find all of Miss Granger’s baggage,” Jonah Ramsey offered. “If the document was in one of her trunks, we may not find it until spring.”
Charles met his friend’s gaze in surprise, wondering if Jonah knew the truth or if he was merely trying to smooth things over in the most logical means possible.
“And you’ve all got another think coming if you believe I’m going to take their word on the matter.”
“Sir, I—”
Ezra turned to Gideon Gault, stabbing a finger in the air. “Go get that man who married Ramsey. If these two have already been legally wed, it won’t make no never-mind to do it again.”
Charles felt Willow stiffen, so he offered a quick objection. “Now, see here, I don’t think—”
Ezra’s finger pointed in his direction. “Not a word out of you, you hear me? You’re a man of the cloth—or the nearest thing we have hereabouts—and I won’t tolerate a big hullabaloo interfering with the men or the jobs they’re supposed to be doing. More importantly, I refuse to have a scandal on my hands—or even whispers of scandal. Therefore, you’ll be remarried. Within the hour. Until then, you will remain in the Miner’s Hall.” The finger stabbed in Charles’s direction once more. “Ramsey, send for a few women to sit with Miss Granger. And post some guards at the door! I don’t want anybody going in or out until we’ve seen to this matter.”
Batchwell motioned for his retinue to follow him, then stormed toward the door, grumbling, “As if we don’t have enough on our hands.”
Charles resisted, knowing that he had to speak to Willow. He couldn’t let this charade continue. Not if it meant the poor woman would be forced into marriage—to him.
But before he could offer a single word, Gideon Gault was at his side, looking tall and broad and imposing in his dark blue Pinkerton tunic.
“Sorry, Charles. You heard the boss. He’s being high-handed, but it shouldn’t hurt either of you to repeat your vows in his presence.”
Vows they’d never spoken. Vows that would bind them together as man and wife.
He tried to convey a portion of his thoughts to Willow, wanting to reassure her that she could bring this whole thing to a halt, and he’d take the consequences, but her eyes were curiously shuttered. Too late, he realized that the crowd of men had remained and both he and Willow were still the center of attention.
Gideon’s grip on his arm was strong and steady, pulling them apart. But Charles managed to snag Willow’s hand and whisper, “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Promise.” Then the men pulled him resolutely into the darkness without even a coat to shield him from the cold.
* * *
Willow shivered in the quiet.
How had this happened?
Her mind worked in endless looping circles—Charles, babies, marriage—until the door burst open and several women dodged inside.
Leading the charge was Lydia Tomlinson, self-proclaimed suffragist. Unlike most of the mail-order brides in their group, she had no plans to marry. Instead, the avalanche had forestalled her plans to host a series of speaking engagements in California.
“Willow, why didn’t you tell us that you were already married?” Lydia asked, as she draped her cape over one of the kitchen chairs.
“I—”
“Now, Lydia, let the girl breathe.” Iona Skye reached to squeeze one of Willow’s hands. “If Charles and Willow saw fit to keep their relationship a secret in order to preserve the man’s job, it’s no business of ours.”
Thankfully, the other women heeded Iona’s words. As the eldest member of the group of stranded females, Iona had been on her way to live with her sister’s family. Because she was a widow woman, the mail-order brides tended to let her take the lead, since Sumner had moved to live with her husband off company property.
“Whatever the circumstances, we have a wedding to prepare—and not much time to do it.” Iona pointed to a pair of women with identical dark eyes and dark curls. “Myra and Miriam, you keep your eyes on the babes while Lydia and I take Willow upstairs to change. Emmarissa and Marie, you take care of decorating the mantel. They can restate their vows in front of the fire, so see what you can do to gussie it up with the extra candles we brought. The rest of you can make up some coffee and find some plates for the cookies left over from the cook shack. You can’t have a wedding without some refreshments.”
Before Willow could insist that there would be no guests—and no real wedding—Lydia and Iona took her hands and drew her up the staircase to the rooms above.
“This will do,” Lydia said, after opening the first door. Inside was one of the mine-issued cots, with a mattress rolled up tightly near the footboard. On the opposite wall was a simple dresser with a mirror and a chair.
“I brought your comb and brush, Willow, and your Sunday-best dress, but...” Lydia pulled the chair into the center of the room. “I wondered if you would like to be married in something...different.”
Willow found herself staring bemusedly at Lydia. “What?”
“Would you like to wear something other than your Sunday-best dress? Since the men haven’t found your second trunk yet, I thought you might like to wear something...brighter.”
Willow’s cheeks flamed. There was no second trunk—there never had been. She’d arrived in America with only two gowns to her name. Her Sunday-best dress was a staid, serviceable black faille, as shapeless and dreary as the dress she wore now. But when she’d announced that she would be leaving the Good Shepherd Charity School for Young Girls, the headmaster had forbidden her to take anything with her that the school had provided. She’d been reduced to supplying her meagre wardrobe from the charity barrels bound for a mission in New Guinea. Unfortunately, the recent donations had been heavily laden with maternity wear.
“I...yes, I...”
Lydia didn’t seem to need any more of an answer than that, because she left the room, closing the door behind her.
Iona gently pushed Willow into the chair and began unwinding her braid.
“You have such beautiful hair,” the older woman murmured, making Willow’s skin prickle with self-consciousness.
Willow shifted uneasily. The headmaster at the Good Shepherd had proclaimed her red tresses a sign of evil and had insisted that she keep them covered at all times with a scarf or bonnet.
Before