Accidental Family. Lisa Bingham
Читать онлайн книгу.
if understanding that they were the subject of conversation, the infants began to stir. Willow set her bowl aside and bent to touch the cheek of the littlest child.
“This one is a girl.”
She stroked the dark tuft of hair on the other baby.
“And this one is a boy.”
Charles bent closer. “A boy and a girl. Imagine that.” He reached out a finger and the little girl reacted instinctively, clutching it in her fist. Charles half laughed, half gasped in astonishment.
“The first two children born in Bachelor Bottoms.” His lips twitched in a smile. “Our own Adam and—”
“Eva,” Willow interrupted. “Her name should be Eva.”
Charles grinned.
Willow had grown so accustomed to seeing Charles Wanlass—a man the miners had nicknamed “The Bishop”—looking serious and reserved. She could scarcely credit the way that his expression made him seem young and boyish.
“Adam and Eva.”
Charles touched each of the children on the top of the head with his broad palms. Then, before Willow knew what he meant to do, he closed his eyes, saying, “Dear Lord, we are grateful to Thee for these sweet children, little Adam and Eva. We mourn the loss of their mother and pray that, with Thy guidance, these infants will be happy, healthy and free from harm. Amen.”
Willow’s eyes pricked with tears. Other than her father, she’d never witnessed a man who was so tender and gentle.
Yet strong.
When he’d ordered Mr. Batchwell from his home, Charles had made it clear that he would brook no interference with the infants he’d claimed as his own.
Or his wife.
His pretend wife.
Willow couldn’t account for the stab of disappointment she felt in her chest. She thrust the sensation away before she could dwell on it.
She needed to remember that this was a temporary situation. Once they’d found the danger to the children and eliminated it, this entire charade would be over.
Then what?
She would return to the life that awaited her before the avalanche. She had agreed to marry Robert Ferron, a man in his sixties who had lost his first wife to consumption. Mr. Ferron was an invalid himself, having suffered a serious fall from the loft of his barn. He needed a strong, capable woman to care for him and his children. Willow would look after Mr. Ferron until his children had moved away to begin families of their own, and Robert had passed on. Then, as per the agreement of their marriage, Willow would be left a small settlement—enough to tide her over if she lived frugally.
She couldn’t leave such a man in the lurch.
She’d given her word.
So why was she suddenly discontented with the arrangements she’d made months ago?
Her eyes dropped to Charles’s broad hands. Now that his prayer had been uttered, he stroked the downy fluff on the tops of the twins’ heads. The babies seemed to arch against that gentle caress, their eyes fluttering. As Willow absorbed the sight, she felt something in the pit of her stomach twist with an emotion she’d never felt before. One that felt very much like...
Envy.
Charles glanced up in time to see a montage of emotions flash across Willow’s features: curiosity, joy, sorrow. Then something that looked very much like regret. However, before he could ask what was wrong, the babies at his feet began to whimper.
Within moments, that whimper became full-fledged wails that filled the room.
“What did I do?”
Willow jumped to her feet. “Nothing. I think they need to eat.”
She rushed to the box stove. From one of the open shelves she took a small bowl, which she filled halfway with goat’s milk.
“Rock them for a few minutes while I try to figure out a way to do this.”
Charles scooped both hands beneath the children, lifting them against his chest. The babies were so small, so slight, that it was as if he clutched little more than the fabric of Willow’s cloak. But the cries made it clear that the makeshift blankets were far from empty.
He watched as Willow circled the kitchen, examined the contents of the only hutch against the far wall, then the open shelves. Finally, she seemed to settle on a course of action, taking a half-dozen dishcloths and placing them on the table, then returning to test the milk with her pinky.
“I think this will do. Carry them to the table, please.”
Charles held the twins even more securely to his chest, then rose and joined Willow.
“Sit at the head, there.”
She carried the bowl of milk to the table. Then she took one of the twins from his arms and cradled the child against her.
“I think if we dip the corner of the dishcloth into the milk, then allow it to drip into the babies’ mouths, we can get enough nourishment in their stomachs to tide them over for an hour or two.”
He watched as she proceeded to demonstrate, holding the soaked cloth against Eva’s lips.
At first there was little progress. Eva continued to cry as the milk dribbled into her mouth and down her chin.
Sighing, Willow tucked another cloth around the baby’s neck, then tried again.
The newborn continued to resist her efforts. Enough milk had dribbled into her mouth that the child made odd gurgling cries. Then, miraculously, she swallowed.
In an instant, the cries stopped and the baby blinked up at Willow in surprise. She quickly dunked the cloth in the milk again and returned it to Eva’s mouth. This time, the child sucked on the pointed corner. The moment the milk stopped dripping, Eva began to whimper once more.
Seeing that Willow was having some success, Charles tried the routine himself. Adam was more resistant to the process and it took nearly ten minutes of trying—until Charles feared there was more goat’s milk on Willow’s cloak than in Adam’s mouth. Finally, as his cries grew weary, the baby seemed to realize that the liquid being forced at him might be worth a try. Within seconds, he was latching on to the corner of the cloth.
“It’s working,” Charles murmured.
Willow caught his gaze and he could see the unchecked delight in her expression. Then she laughed, and the sound seemed to shimmer over him like sunshine.
“We did it, Charles. We did it!”
The two of them continued their efforts. At one point, Willow taught Charles how to pause and lightly pat the babies’ backs in case they had air trapped in their tummies. Eva managed to offer a tiny grunt, while Adam closed his eyes and let out a belch worthy of a miner drinking up his share of Mr. Grooper’s home-brewed Fourth of July sarsaparilla.
They returned to the milk-soaked cloths, but it wasn’t long before it became apparent that the children were sated. At least for the time being.
“Do you have any blankets we can use?”
Charles nodded, setting Adam back into the basket. “Give me a minute.”
He hurried up to his bedroom—the only room above stairs that he’d bothered to furnish. Truth be told, there wasn’t much to be found there. A trunk with his belongings, an upended crate with his shaving kit, a nightstand with a lantern, and a narrow bed.
He quickly stripped the mattress of its blankets, then dug into the trunk. Inside, he had a half-dozen precious lengths of Scottish tartan, which he’d brought