The Midwife's Secret

When the O’Haras left, Tom looked up at the blue sky and removed his hat. His long hair was a rich, raven black. His clean-shaven jaw gleamed bronze in the sun.

“Good morning,” he said again, intimately, addressing only her this time. A corner of his handsome mouth tugged up, almost apologetic.

She swallowed. “Good morning. What brings you here?”

“I’ve got something of yours to return.” The muscles in his shoulders played beneath his shirt as he slid out a square yellow envelope from his leather vest. He offered it to her.

“My deed?”

“That’s right.”

She took it, being very careful not to stand too close. “Thank you.” Flustered, she slid it into her skirt pocket, then tucked her baggy blouse into her narrow waistline. His eyes slowly followed the movements over her body.

When he didn’t say anything more, she pulled in a brisk breath and steadied her nerves. “Well, I best be getting back to my duties. There’s a young couple in town I met yesterday. They’re expecting their first, and I promised I’d stop by.” Later this afternoon, but he didn’t need to know that.

“That would be the tinsmith’s daughter, Fannie.”

“That’s right. Good day.” She turned and walked away.

He sidestepped her and barred her path. Lord, the man was big. He peered at the shack, as if he were searching for something to prolong the conversation. “It’s still lopsided and won’t hold out for another year, but it must have taken you hours to scrub it down.”

She followed his gaze. “It did.” Thinking of the yellow envelope she’d just stuffed into her pocket, Amanda blurted, “I assume you verified my deed?”

His green eyes lit with amber. His profile exuded power. “Yeah.”

She was curious to know what had happened to Mr. Finnigan, but feared mentioning his name might put her own property in jeopardy again, so she let the topic pass.

Her fingers trembled into her apron. “Well, then, I suppose there’s nothing else to say. Thanks for dropping it by.” She turned to go. Tom’s warm hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her back, gently, sending her stomach twisting in a thousand directions. She blinked up at his handsome face, the dashing age lines around his eyes and mouth.

His gaze trailed over her forehead, down her lips and back into her eyes. “You know,” he said with a soft voice, “you’ve got the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Stumbling out of his grasp, she stammered, “What do you— How could you—”

Quickly stepping away, he played with the brim of his hat. “I’m sorry, it just struck me.”

His comment left her speechless. What a thing to say! She wasn’t sad, she tried her best to be cheerful.

He cleared his throat while she caught her breath, then he scratched the back of his neck. “We got off on the wrong foot, and I’m here to apologize. You’re not making this easy.” He stared off at the mountains. “I was thinking,” he continued, “if you’re still aiming to build your log cabin, I’d like to make a bid.”

Her guard was stronger now. “Why?”

“What sort of question is that? I’m a builder and that’s what I do.”

She stood her ground. “Why do you want to build my cabin? I’m sure there’s other work out there. For that fancy hotel, I imagine. And the others that are going up.”

“I’ve got a large crew, and I’d like to keep them working.” His tone was firm but civil. “Most of the large construction is over, and there’ll be a lull in the summer.”

“I just heard Ellie thank you for giving her husband extra work.”

“He needs it.” His dark brows arched with a challenge.

“No thank you, I don’t think we could work together.” In several long strides she wove her way into the forest, toward the river to haul some water. She had to do something with the extra energy he evoked in her, which he seemed to evoke every time they met. Grabbing the water yoke that lay along the path, she slid the smooth wooden handle across her shoulder blades, allowing the buckets to dangle from the ropes on either end.

“Would you stop running away from me,” he said, following her, causing her to catch her breath again. “Don’t you want to hear my bid?”

“There are two other builders in town, and they’ve already given me their quotes.”

He ducked a tree. “Let’s start over. I didn’t mean to get mad at you in the mill. You happened to walk in while I was getting bad news.”

From Clarissa? she wondered. No, it had started before he’d opened the note from Clarissa.

They reached the bank of the Bow River and stopped for a moment. She slid her yoke and buckets to the ground. The sound of surging water, three hundred feet wide, gushed around them. Cut logs thudded against each other, floating downriver from the lumbering camps, making their journey to Calgary.

When she glanced upriver, she spotted the huge brick-and-limestone facade of the new hotel. Only three short days ago, she was thrilled to have moved to Banff.

The town itself was less than five years old, the population under a thousand. In posters across the prairies, the Canadian Pacific Railway promised that a tourist industry would follow the building of their Banff Springs Hotel. They claimed it would make their railroad self-supporting, give the tourists all the excitement of the wild West without the pesky discomforts and create a spectacular opportunity for anyone wanting to be part of it.

She still wanted to be a part of it. What else would give her life meaning, but to open a midwifery practice and to put to good use the excellent training and experience she had?

“Let’s see, how big do you want your log cabin?” he asked. “Twenty-four by twenty-four? One big room with a stone fireplace?”

Was there any harm in getting his bid? She didn’t have to take it, and maybe then the man would leave. “I’d like to have two spare bedrooms attached, so that would make the overall building twenty by thirty.”

“Two spare rooms? For a future family, I suppose.”

The comment caught her by surprise.

“I mean,” he explained softly, “if you do remarry, and you might, you might need the spare rooms.”

“I’ll be using them to take in homeless children.”

The lines around his eyes deepened with respect. “I see. Unfortunately, Banff does get a few orphans. Mostly because of accidents. Sometimes an avalanche. Or consumption. Or a fire.” He stepped back and seemed to soak her in. “How many windows are there to cut?”

“Four.”

“Porch?”

“I’d like one around the front.”

“Well, that’s an easy estimate. I’d say it’d cost you roughly two hundred and twenty dollars.”

With an exclamation of surprise, she dropped into the soft grass of the riverbank.

“I know I’m under the other two bids. I always am. I can cut and saw lumber cheaper than anyone else in town.”

He was a lot under. Sixty dollars under. A world of difference.

“I paid Mr. Finnigan five hundred dollars for this piece—”