The Midwife's Secret

“I’d never lay a hand on a woman. You have nothing to fear from me.” He lowered the harsh tone of his voice. “I just need to get the facts straight.” Was it possible she’d bought the land from Finnigan, fair and square? “Don’t you want to get them straightened out, too?”

She gulped and slowed down. He placed a firm hand on her bicycle handles to help balance her stop. The wire basket hooked to the front shifted with a sack of packages.

Dismounting, she planted a firm foot on both sides of her bicycle. Taller than most women, she reached to his jaw. She was thin, with a pale complexion, square cheekbones, wiry black hair and long feet, but something about her…

She dressed in baggy clothing, as if to hide her figure. Under normal circumstances, he found that more alluring in a woman than tight blouses and low-cut necklines. It always made him imagine the curves she might be hiding. But these weren’t normal circumstances.

“Cripes, this is heavy.” He glanced down at the metal frame, the chain-and-sprocket-driving rear wheel, the almost equal-size rubber tires. Was that why she was so thin? Because the bicycle was heavy and hard to ride?

The bars felt cool beneath his heated grip. “How did you get that property?”

“I bought it.”

“From Finnigan?”

“That’s right.”

“When?”

“Last month in Calgary.”

He scowled. When he got his hands around Finnigan’s throat… Hell. Looking into the clear eyes of Amanda Ryan, he vowed he wouldn’t lose his piece of property. That land alone was worth more than his little cabin behind the sawmill.

Her jaw stiffened. “I thought you had an appointment.”

“It can wait.” Her gave her body a gaze from head to toe.

She stepped back, flushing. “What do you want from me?”

“Some answers. Have you ever met Finnigan before?”

“No.”

“Are you living up in the shack now?”

Wisps of black hair framed her creamy skin. “Yes.”

“Yesterday, I spotted you with an older woman. Who’s she?”

“My grandmother.”

The animation of her face held him rooted. “Just the two of you staying up there?”

She spoke with a composed, regal quality, in direct contrast to her words. “And my shotgun.”

He laughed at the contradiction. “Pardon me, I wouldn’t want to come between you and your shotgun.” He paused. “How can you afford to live alone?”

If she was offended by the comment, she didn’t show it. “I’m a midwife and make my own way. That’s why I want the log cabin built, to set up a practice.”

A midwife? Well, that seemed like a fairly honorable way to make a living. You couldn’t fake being a midwife. He shoved a large hand into his Levi’s pocket. On the other hand, there’d been a quack or two who’d passed through here before, pretending to be doctors when they weren’t, taking money from people and selling medicinal tonics that were nothing more than pure alcohol.

She folded her arms across her chest. Her slicker ballooned beneath her. Her throat looked warm and satiny at the opening of her collar, but he wasn’t noticing.

“Now,” she said, “let me ask you some questions.”

He pulled back and let go of her bars. “Go ahead.”

“Finnigan sold me this land without your knowledge?”

He clenched his jaw. “Seems so.”

“Was it your land, or the sawmill’s?”

He propped a hand on his hip. She asked good questions. “The sawmill’s,” he said with irritation.

“He’s your partner. Does he have signing privileges?”

Yes. Goddammit, yes. Tom avoided an answer. “That seems to be the question, doesn’t it?”

Staring into a stranger’s eyes, he couldn’t bear to admit his stupidity in trusting Finnigan. Tom had given away a full partnership two years ago for a huge five-thousand-dollar investment. But the money was used for the sawmill’s expansion, which Tom needed to offset the costs of putting his brothers through medical and law schools.

Her bonnet dipped. “Well, it seems simple enough to solve. I’ve got my receipts from Mr. Finnigan. I paid my money, and as his partner, you got your half. But let’s ask him. You said he’s been out of town for five days. When do you expect him back?”

Tom laughed without humor. “Three days ago.”

Her shoulders sagged. “Oh.”

Shaking his head in disappointment, he deliberately kept his voice low and friendly, hoping she’d abide him. “Please, may I see your deed?”

Her lips tugged. She hesitated for a moment. Sliding one leg over the seat and bars, she carefully extracted the caught fabric of her skirt. The bicycle was well worn, a touch rusty in spots, but recently polished and oiled. As the rest of what she was wearing, it was second or third hand. Was that a split skirt she had on?

He’d never seen one before and couldn’t help but stare at the way the green fabric shifted around her slender-ankled boots, one of which was unlaced. And staring at a woman’s boots and ankles…it was a racy thing for him to do. No, Banff hadn’t seen anyone like her before.

Her mended clothing bespoke of poor times. How could she afford his five acres and the cost of building a log cabin? Had her husband left her that much money? If he had, why hadn’t she bought herself some decent clothing?

Or a horse?

Or was this simply an act? Was she a cohort of Finnigan’s? Pretending to be poor, but secretly accumulating a fortune.

He leaned closer and surprised himself with the next question. “Why don’t you still wear your wedding ring?” It was out before he could stop it. But now that he’d asked, he was glad he had. Maybe her astonishment would cause her to blurt a clue. “I mean, most widows do.”

Her cheeks deepened to a brilliant red, the same hue that adorned maple trees in the autumn. “I sold it. To pay for medical supplies.”

It was his turn to feel embarrassed. He shuffled in his boots. “I’m sorry. That question was uncalled for.”

She merely stared. Her eyes were the most striking thing about her. She had deep black hair, but blue eyes. Not brown as you might expect would go with black hair, but tender blue.

She unfolded a yellowish piece of paper from a similar-colored envelope. “Can I trust you to show you this?”