The Midwife

“I’m sure Mrs. Pringle will be happy to take you on as a customer, Brian,” she said briskly, holding her fingers closed around the coins he had pressed into her palm.

“You’re wasting yourself on that man, Leah,” he told her firmly, stepping closer. “I’d make you a good husband. I have a steady job at the sawmill, and my house is almost built.”

Leah stepped back from him, easing inside the door into her parlor. Her voice was firm as she dashed his hopes although a twinge of pity nudged her tender heart. “I’m sorry, Brian. I told you last winter, I’m too old for you.”

He opened his mouth to speak and she waved him to silence. “Never mind! I’m set on the matter. I will marry Mr. Lundstrom on Saturday next. I’ll do your shirts on Monday, and that’s the last time.”

Her would-be suitor stepped backward, nearly falling from the porch as he nodded his agreement. “Yes, I understand.” Turning from her, he trudged up the path to her gate and she watched him go.

He would make a fine man for the right woman someday, she thought. Young and still wet behind the ears, he was like a puppy, all rosy cheeked and almost panting in his eagerness to please. Kirsten Andersen had missed a good bet when she married that man from the next county.

Swooping down to Karen’s basket, Leah lifted the baby high in the air, turning in a slow circle as she parodied a waltz across the floor. “You will live with your papa soon, little bird,” she sang tunelessly.

“And you, too,” came a clear, youthful reply from outside the screen door.

Leah whirled to face the newcomer. “Ah, Kristofer! You startled me. I didn’t see you coming.”

The boy swung the door wide and faced Leah from across the parlor. “Are you glad you’re coming to live with us?” he asked hopefully.

“Oh, yes,” she reassured him readily. “We’ll have a good time, Kristofer. You and Karen and I. We’ll pick flowers in the meadow, and you can help me carry in the milk from the barn and sort out the eggs for market.”

“Don’t you like to go hunting?” the boy asked, his mouth pursing as if he scorned the choices he’d been offered.

Leah shook her head. “I could never find it in me to kill a living thing,” she admitted.

“Hunting is different,” Kristofer said patiently. “You only kill what you’re going to eat, my pa says. Unless it’s rats or rattlers.”

Leah shivered. “Do you have a lot of those on your farm?”

He shrugged. “Once in a while.”

Leah hugged the baby to her and then offered her to the boy who had come on such a transparent mission. “Did you want to see Karen?”

His eyes lit with a pale glow, silvery yet blue, like his father’s. Leah handed him the baby, still holding the infant’s weight as Kris made his way to the rocking chair.

“Sit, now,” she said quietly, knowing that the two would speak their own language for several minutes. Kristofer whispered words Leah could not understand and the baby smiled and chortled her delight at the brother who doted on her.

“Leah?” From the porch, her third visitor in ten minutes begged admission. “Are you busy?”

“Come in, Eva. I’m just ready to put my supper in the oven.” Leah smiled at the woman who hurried through the door, then cast an admonishing look at Kristofer. “Watch that Karen doesn’t get away from you.”

“No, ma’am, she won’t,” he answered patiently, flashing her a smile.

“You got a letter,” Eva said quietly. “The first one you’ve had since you’ve been here, Leah. I hope it isn’t anything bad.”

Pulling the envelope from her pocket, Eva offered it to her friend and watched worriedly as Leah inspected the writing, then the stamp, then the back of the envelope, with care. Leah’s long, slender fingers shaped the rectangle, brushing the edges as she straightened out a wrinkle in one corner.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Eva’s curiosity was evident, but Leah forgave it without thinking, knowing that the woman’s concern was foremost.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” she announced, as if a momentous decision had been made. Her fingers edged beneath the flap carefully and she lifted it to expose the letter within. Written on onionskin paper, it was filled from top to bottom with a scrawling, ink-blotted message.

Leah turned it in her hand, glancing down at the bottom of the page, to first identify the sender, before reading the script. “Anna Powell,” she whispered, her voice tinged with something akin to fear. Her eyes flew to the top of the page and she devoured the words, unaware of the breath she held within her lungs. Not until her head swam and spots appeared before her eyes did she release the soft puffs of air she had held within her. Her hand reached for a kitchen chair and she settled on it abruptly.

“Leah! Are you all right?” Eva knelt before her, eyes filled with concern, her hands gripping Leah’s wrists.

“Yes…yes, of course.” Leah smoothed her tongue over lips gone dry and attempted a smile. “It’s just a letter from a woman I knew, back in…back where I come from.”

She tipped her head to one side, blinking away the dizziness as she caught her breath. “She says that a friend has been looking for me. I’ll have to let her know where I am, won’t I?” Her smile was trembling, but she loosened Eva’s grip upon her wrists, clasping her friend’s fingers tightly.

“You looked so strange there for a minute,” Eva said slowly. “Almost as if you’d seen a ghost, though heaven knows I don’t believe in such a thing.”

“No…” Leah shook her head. “Neither do I.” And yet, within the pages of the letter she held, folded in on itself so that another’s eyes might not see the words, dwelt a ghost she would give much to be rid of.

The nightmare was back for the first time in months. Perhaps having Karen to love and care for had kept the dream in abeyance. The dark was more friendly these days, holding memories of sweet infant scents and the familiar sound of her rocking chair as it moved against the floor.

For a while, the terror of death had seemed far removed from Kirby Falls, Minnesota. As far away as the streets of Chicago. As far as the ornate house in which Sylvester and Mabelle Taylor lived. That house of horror where a baby boy had met his fate at the hands of his evil mother.

His head tilted to one side, his breath forever stilled, his tiny, perfect body…

Leah drew in a deep breath, closing her eyes against the vision she saw. Awake or asleep, this night would hold the memory of death, and she’d as well accept that, she decided.

Her robe brought warmth to her chilled body as she donned it, her slippers adding to the comfort. The banked fire in the stove needed only a bit of kindling to bring it to life, but Leah added a good-sized chunk of firewood for extra measure. She ladled water into her coffeepot and poured beans into her grinder. The pungent odor rose as she turned the handle and inhaled deeply, comforted by the familiar scent.

She settled into the rocking chair, one foot pushing at the floor, setting her in motion. In her pocket, the letter rustled and she drew it forth, the contents already committed to memory.

Anna Powell, neighbor and friend, the only person who had knowledge of Leah Gunderson’s whereabouts. Her fervent assurances had rung true. She’d not divulged anything. But she’d been questioned by an impressive-looking man from a detective agency.

Garlan Lundstrom’s proposal had come at a perfect time. How better to cover her tracks than to change her name, Leah decided. A woman named Gunderson would no longer exist in Kirby Falls. Instead, on a farm outside of town, married to a prosperous farmer, a woman called Leah Lundstrom would live in peace. With the protection of a husband, perhaps even a man like Sylvester Taylor would find it difficult to pursue her and berate her for a sin she refused to own.

As that thought lodged in her mind, Garlan’s daughter announced her displeasure—most likely a wet diaper—from the next room. Leah rose quickly, a smile replacing the somber cast of her face, her steps light as she made her way by moonlight to where the baby lay.

Covers kicked aside, plump legs and dimpled fists waving in the air, Karen Lundstrom was a sight to behold. Beneath the window, she was bathed in moonbeams, her rosy cheeks pale in the absence of sunlight. Leah scooped her from the basket and held her against her breast.

“Hush, little bird. Shh, shh, sweet one! Mama has you now.” Her whispered words of comfort stilled the babe, and Karen gurgled her delight as Leah carried her back to the kitchen. The lamp on the dresser was lit quickly, and the table served dual purpose as Leah stripped the diaper and replaced it with a fresh one.

A soft lullaby eased the babe into sleep in short order, and yet the rocking chair continued to move in its prescribed motion. Not until the sun was fully risen in the eastern sky did Leah’s head tilt against the high back, her eyes closed in slumber.

The farm wagon wore a coat of paint, an unheard-of thing so far as Garlan Lundstrom knew. Red enamel covered the weathered wood, and upon the board seat a leather-covered pad had been nailed into place, providing a comfortable cushion for driver and passenger. More than one pair of eyes followed the wagon’s trail as it wended a path down the main street on Saturday morning. Atop the seat, Garlan Lundstrom and his son sat, the boy waving proudly at each passerby.

“Pa, they really like our wagon, don’t they?” Kristofer’s feet kicked at the front of the wagon, keeping a rhythm with the slow trot of his father’s team of horses. A glance of reproof halted the contact of toes against wood, and he grinned cheerfully. “Sorry, Pa. I was just excited about pickin’ up Miss Leah and all her stuff today. It sure took a long time for Saturday week to get here, didn’t it?”

Gar nodded, his color high as he withstood the knowing glances of the townspeople who watched his progress. Painting the wagon had probably been a foolish gesture on his part, but the old wagon had looked so shabby, and the red paint had been handy, left over from the barn raising last year.

And Kristofer had been adamant.

Gar lifted a ready hand, answering a like salute from Joseph Landers, standing outside his cabinet shop, sawdust apparent against the dark trousers he wore. There was always about the man the fine scent of freshly cut wood. A clean smell, Gar thought.

The sun shone brightly, and the men who sat beneath the wide porch in front of the hotel fanned themselves with pieces of newspaper and an assortment of brightly printed paper fans, red roses vying with the garden of Gethsemane for the preferred design.