He wasn’t sure how much he should tell her. The two women had been friends. If anyone had been privy to Jenny’s fears and emotions, it would have been Willow.
“Sit here,” he said, gesturing to the chair by the fire.
When she would have demurred, he said, “I’ll tell you everything you want to know, but... I could use a cuppa, and I’m sure you could, too. And if I don’t get out of this tie...”
He tugged at the string, but the knot only seemed to tighten.
Willow pushed his hands aside. “Here, let me.”
“I think Gideon Gault did this on purpose,” Charles said. “He’s promised never to marry, himself. Something about being raised with a houseful of older sisters.”
The tie suddenly gave way. Charles felt some of the tension in his body rush out as he was finally able to take his first real breath. He quickly released the top button of his shirt and yanked the boiled collar free, instantly feeling more like himself.
Willow’s smile was shy and quick, and he was relieved to see that she didn’t seem to mind that he found the trappings of polite society confining.
When she reached for the pins holding her veil in place, he quickly offered, “Let me help. You don’t want to snag the lace.”
In reality, he was sure that she could perform the task quite well on her own, but he wanted to offer her the same little kindness that she’d given him. It was important to him that she knew he had no intention of lording over her. Granted, he didn’t have much experience with marriage—or even married folk, for that matter. But he’d seen the way that Jonah and Sumner treated one another, as partners and friends, as well as sweethearts. In Charles’s opinion, that seemed the best way for him to handle things.
One by one, he gently removed the metal hairpins. As he did, his fingers brushed against her hair. The tresses were softer than he’d imagined. He’d thought that such curly hair would have a wiry texture, but the strands were silky. He couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like if her hair was unbound. Free from their braids, would the curls be wavy and thick, or would they spring into riotous ringlets?
Before he could even finish the thought, the task was finished, and Willow stepped away.
For a moment, the air shimmered between them—like the stillness right before a spring lightning storm. Then Willow stepped toward the chair, and the energy shifted back to awkwardness.
“I’ll just...” He pointed in the direction of the teapot on the kitchen table. It was surrounded with the remnants of the impromptu wedding—used cups and saucers, half-eaten cookies, a platter with only a few remaining sweets.
Draping the veil over one of the chairs, Charles quickly found two clean mugs on his shelves. He rued the fact that Willow would have to drink her tea from the no-frills cups. She should have something fancy. Refined. But the pretty things that the women had brought with them from the Dovecote had all been used.
“I don’t see any milk. Do you take sugar?”
“Please.”
Again, he had nothing fancy. Merely the shavings from a sugar loaf. But he gave her what he hoped was the right amount. Then, after hooking his finger through the handle of both mugs, he grabbed one of the chairs from the table and positioned it near the fire, then handed Willow her tea.
She sipped the brew, and he took comfort from the fact that she didn’t grimace. For several moments she stared into the flames—long enough that Charles could take a quick gulp from his own mug.
Then she turned to him, her eyes direct, resolved, and a brilliant crystal blue.
“Tell me about Jenny.”
* * *
Willow feared that Charles would try to shield her from what he’d discovered. She’d seen the behavior of enough of the miners from Batchwell Bottoms. Since the men were denied the presence of females in their community, they invented reasons to interact with the women. In doing so, they tended to put them on a pedestal, insisting that they be pampered and sheltered from the slightest discomfort. The men worried that the women found the wind too cold, the nights too dark, the food too limiting.
Willow had lived in the real world far too long to indulge in such fantasies. She’d known cold and darkness and hunger far worse than any she’d encountered here at Bachelor Bottoms, and she had no desire to abandon those lessons for the false security of half-truths.
So when Charles’s gray eyes met hers, she didn’t look away. Instead, she willed him to give her the information she craved.
Because she wouldn’t rest until she knew the truth.
He exhaled slowly. Then bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his mug held loosely in his hands. For a moment, he stared into his tea.
“She was found in the street near the mining offices. It’s not clear if she stumbled there, looking for help, if she fell, or if she...was left there.”
“Left there?” The whisper pushed from Willow’s lips involuntarily.
Charles looked up.
“She could have had an accident.” His words sounded too forced, as if he wanted to convince himself of their veracity.
“But you don’t think so.”
He reluctantly shook his head.
“It looked to me like she’d been struck.” He lifted a hand to the back of his head. “Here...” his palm shifted to his temple “...and here.” He met Willow’s gaze again before saying, “Her skull was crushed.”
“You’re sure someone did this to her? That it wasn’t an accident?”
Charles’s lips narrowed as he thought things through, and she appreciated the way he appeared to be so deliberate. Clearly, he wasn’t a man prone to jumping to conclusions.
“Maybe I could have given that possibility some credence.” His gaze became intense. “If it weren’t for the note we found on the basket.”
“Who could have done this?” Willow whispered.
“Was there anyone who was bothering her?”
Willow shook her head. “Not that I can recall. The first few weeks we were here, she seemed really...happy. I thought it was a little strange, since the avalanche kept her from reuniting with her husband in California. She didn’t complain about being marooned, like the other ladies.”
“Did she have any trouble with one of the other women?”
“No!” Willow vehemently shook her head. “You can’t possibly think that one of the mail-order brides did this.”
“I’m just trying to gather as many facts as I can.”
“Jenny kept to herself. I think she was self-conscious about her pregnancy. She believed herself to be ungainly and...unattractive. She seemed incredibly preoccupied about the loss of her figure. She remained in her room for the most part. It was only after we all moved to the Dovecote that she perked up. She began taking walks in the mornings and afternoons. But with the guards keeping us near the dormitory, she couldn’t go far. She just circled the meadow around the Dovecote. She was always alone...” Willow’s words petered off. “But I can’t remember her having any disagreements with the other women. If anything, they tried their best to draw her out and help her.”
“Did she have any contact with anyone else?”
Willow scoured her brain, trying to remember the smallest details. “Those first days, when there were so many injured...she was in the same room with a few of those who’d suffered broken bones. That would have been one of the porters from the train, Mr. Beamon, and the conductor, Mr. Niederhauser. The rest of them would have been mail-order