A Bride for Keeps (15 page)

Julia bit her lip. She had no idea what Everett had to do with anything, but after
seeing the look on Kathleen’s face as she dressed down Carl, she wasn’t about to ask.

The door crashed open against the wall. Carl looked at Kathleen and then toward her.
“Why aren’t you helping my wife?”

She let go of the curtain. “I was looking for someone to yell at to get Rachel. But
now that you’re here, I can go.”

“No!” Kathleen strangled the quilt beside her, her voice ascending. “He’ll be no use
to me, look at him.”

Carl’s face had turned white and glassy like his wife’s, his eyes so wide they looked
ready to pop.

“Go get Rachel,” Kathleen spit before hunching over and moaning in escalating tones.

He turned and sped down the stairs faster than he’d come up.

Julia swallowed. She wanted to run after him. She couldn’t be here. Not alone. Kathleen
didn’t know what she was asking—she wouldn’t want her here if she did. “I can’t do
this. I can’t.”

All Kathleen did was grit her teeth and stare, but the promise of wrath blazed from
her intense expression. She hollered and sunk lower into the quilts. “It’s coming.”

Not already! She ran to the end of the bed and tried to remove Kathleen’s clothing
to accommodate the birthing, but she had no hot water, towels, nothing. Kathleen writhed
in tempo with her staccato howl.

Legs devoid of strength, Julia lowered herself onto the foot of the bed and stared
at Kathleen and the blood. Blood everywhere, just like when she was nine.

Blood and screams. Endless screams.

Time ceased, replaced by writhing and moaning and shrieking. The baby should have
come already. She was a curse. She should get up and prepare some swaddling clothes,
but then she could miss it. Surely it would be there any moment, but it wasn’t, and
Kathleen’s cries grew strangled. She gripped Kathleen’s knees to steady them both,
waiting in agony. What should she do? Surely anything she did would be wrong, just
like her choices at the last birthing she’d attended. But what if doing nothing was
the wrong choice? She had no idea what to do with a baby still tucked away inside
the mother.

She swiped the tears from her eyes and whispered against Kathleen’s raging, “Come
on, baby. What’s wrong?”

Kathleen cried all the more and nothing happened, nothing happened, nothing happened.

“What’s wrong?” Rachel’s firm hand crushed her shoulder, and Julia almost fainted
with relief.

“My mother, my . . . my . . . Kathleen. The baby. It’s right there, but it won’t come.”
She glanced up at Kathleen, white and pale and listless. “I think Kathleen is dying.”

Rachel shoved her aside and examined Kathleen. “Take some deep breaths, girl.”

She didn’t know whether Rachel was talking to her or Kathleen, but she worked at breathing
and reached over for
Kathleen’s hand. The weary woman held on, but without the fervor or a tenth of the
strength she’d had an hour ago.

“The baby is turned funny.” Rachel nodded toward the head of the bed. “Hold her down,
this is going to hurt.”

While Rachel grunted, Kathleen screamed anew and sank her fingernails into her arm.

Blood seeped from the punctures in her white skin on her wrist. Blood trickled down
her arm. Blood stained the blankets. Blood marred the midwife’s dress. Blood spilled
out of her mother and onto the floor.

And then, once again, a blue baby boy was handed to her.

“Slap it! Get it to breathe. I gotta stop this.” Rachel turned back to the bed.

Julia held out the boy. Another dead one. Her curse. The sound of her mother’s voice
declaring that this newborn son would regain her husband’s love echoed in her skull.
The feel of her cold, shivering brother, whom she’d forgotten to swaddle against the
winter drafts as she watched her mother die, was as light and cool as Kathleen’s baby.

She’d lost her chance to be loved when her mother passed into eternity and her father
blamed her for his only son’s death.

Rachel swiped the child from her arms some moments later. “What are you thinking?”
She whacked the child upside down and when he gurgled slightly, she handed him back.
“Get a hold of yourself. I need you to help the baby.”

Julia swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on the here and now. She picked up a
discarded shirt and wrapped the limp infant, though it was hotter than an oven in
the bedroom. Holding him close, she rubbed and jiggled him. “Come on, cry.” But there
was no hope, he was too blue. Her hands shook uncontrollably, and she let him slip
onto her lap lest she drop
him. If Kathleen lived, how could she face the woman again when it had been her fault,
her incapability, her fear that had kept her from doing something, anything? She thumped
the boy’s back harder, thinking she could see him coughing up something.

“Please.” Kathleen’s voice was a weak, low hum.

Afraid to look, Julia glanced over, but instead of a dying woman in a pool of blood,
Kathleen smiled wanly at the bundle and reached out her hands.

The baby wriggled and murmured. She couldn’t pick him up; her fingers wouldn’t work.

Rachel swooped him off her lap and swiped her finger inside his mouth. “He’s not breathed
well for quite a while. Only time will tell if he’ll suffer from it.” She blew in
his face and he mewled, quiet and pitiful.

“I . . . I didn’t kill the baby?” Her voice squeaked.

Rachel placed the whimpering baby in Kathleen’s ready arms. “Of course not.” She gathered
up the dirty sheets. “You look as if you’ve seen a haunt. Don’t do well at the sight
of blood, eh? Perhaps you should go outside and get some air.”

If Rachel hadn’t been there, she’d have killed the baby and Kathleen. She was worthless,
just like father and Theodore said. Nothing more than a pretty face, and that wasn’t
worth much and would be gone in years.

She staggered out of the room and nodded at Carl, who rushed past her. She only had
one place left to prove she was worth anything. She clambered up into the wagon and
drove home.

“Looking good, my friend.” Dex entered the new cabin’s main bedroom, surveying it
with his hands on his hips.

Everett pounded the last nail into the bed frame. “Thanks. I couldn’t have gotten
to this point without you.” The smell of new wood and the fact that the wind rushed
in only when Dex opened the door did his heart good. “Are you here to help?”

“Not really. Daisy wandered over here, but I could if you needed something.”

“Nah, you’ve done plenty enough for me.” Everett dragged the coil of rope from the
corner to the bedstead. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to sleep on something
besides the ground or a wood plank.” He uncoiled the cordage and threaded it through
the frame.

“I’d bet since you arrived in Kansas.”

“That’d be a bet you’d win.”

Dex grabbed the rope and fed him a bit at a time. “How long until you move in? I could
help bring in the cookstove while I’m here. You could be in tonight.”

His heart stuttered. “Not ready for that.”

“Why not? I bet Julia’d be happy to get out of that miserable excuse for a roof over
her head.”

She didn’t seem to be in a hurry to do anything but take on more chores and store
every edible wild plant in the cellar. Perhaps this house would make her feel more
secure in facing the winter. But it had to be faultless. No half-hearted gestures.
This needed to be a good move. “I’m planning on making more shelving and a counter
first. And more chairs.”

“But why stay in that hovel? I’m sure you can add those while living here.”

“Julia’s not in a hurry. And I want it to be . . . well, perfect.” He kept his gaze
on the rope as he worked it through a tight hole. Truly, he was buying time, hoping
not to have to build a second bed frame.

“What are you doing?” Everett scurried over to hold the chair Julia was standing on.

“I’m putting up wallpaper.” She smeared some white gloppy stuff on top of a page of
newspaper and pressed it into a corner, her chair tipping slightly to the right.

He gripped the back of the chair with both hands. “No need to do that.”

Julia looked down at him, then bent over to get another paper wet in her murky white
water. “Rachel said it would help keep out the drafts. How you kept this place warm
in the winter is beyond me.”

Frankly, he hadn’t.

Should he stop her and tell her the new house was ready? Any woman would be ecstatic
to move out of this leaning box. When he finally did move them, she’d probably be
angry if she learned how much earlier they could have switched.

But would she be willing to move in with only one bed?

“No,” he answered.

Julia stopped in midstroke and cocked her eyebrow. “No?”

Heat rushed into his face, and he shook his head. “Never mind.” He needed to make
another bed.

“I can stop, if you don’t want me to do this.” She wiped at the paste on her hands.
“What do you want? Food? Is it later than I thought?” She bunched her skirts with
one wet hand and rested the other on the back of the chair.

He grabbed her by the waist and set her in front of him, the smell of her clean hair
but inches from his nose. “That’s not what I was thinking.”

“What’re you thinking?”

What I’m thinking now would send you running. I don’t want you to run anymore.

He let go of her waist, crossed over to the stove, and grabbed a pan. “Food’s not
a bad idea.” His voice cracked. Stupid vocal cords. “But you don’t have to continue
with this chore. The new house will be done before winter arrives.”

“All right, I see.” She cleaned up her mess, and they made dinner together in silence.

It’s not good enough just helping her, I need to know her.

He slid the warm bread onto the table. “So, Julia, how . . . how was your day?”

She scrunched one eye. “Fine.”

“I mean, what did you do?”

“Oh!” She stopped dishing out food. “I cleaned the coop, put away the eggs like you
told me to—” she brought up her hand to tick each task off with her fingers—“rearranged
the root cellar, mucked the barn, watered the garden, cleaned the stove, and started
on the wallpaper. Is that enough?”

He shook his head at her serious face. “Plenty enough.”

“I should have chopped more firewood, knowing how much you stress firewood. I should
have done that before
wallpapering, but I’d intended to put in an hour of that after dinner.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s why I’m here.” She placed the plates on the table.

“To do the wood chopping?”

“Well, yes, and all the other household chores. I hope I’m learning fast enough. Rachel
gave me an idea of when to pick vegetables from the garden. I wrote it down so I could
remember. I’m afraid . . .” She pulled at her collar. “I’m afraid I didn’t plant enough.
Or really that I planted enough, but ruined too many. From what Rachel said, I don’t
think I have enough to preserve for the winter. I’m sorry for that.” Her voice dropped
to little more than a whisper. “But she’s helped me identify some tubers and other
things growing in the wild to help me make up in stores for what I’ve destroyed.”

He dragged his hand through his tangled hair and let his arm drop to his side. Why
did this woman stand before him slumped as if beaten? Had she always stood this way?
He’d averted his eyes so often when speaking to her in the past, he didn’t know.

“Maybe I should have asked you sooner if what I was doing was right. . . . No, I should
have, but you were . . .” She bit her lip and traced the plate’s edge. “You didn’t
seem interested.”

“No, I . . .” He set the potatoes on the table and dropped into his chair. She sat
quickly and folded her hands neatly in her lap, head bowed. Her immediate obeisance
bothered him. So much of how he’d treated her in the past had to be undone, and he
hadn’t been doing enough to show her he wanted her to stay. And he wanted her to stay
regardless of how many jars of tomatoes and corn she could put away.

She peeked at him. “Are you going to pray?”

He wasn’t sure he should attempt it. God said He heard anyone who called upon Him,
but would He be willing to grant anything to a man who’d treated his wife so poorly
that she acted like an abused animal instead of a cherished companion? “Why don’t
you pray this time?”

She held out her hands. “Oh no. I can’t do that. You wouldn’t want me to do it.” She
bowed her head.

He sighed. “Dear God, thank you for our food. Help me . . .” He looked at Julia, stiff
in her chair. “Help us.”

Julia followed Everett as he walked to the creek, guitar slung over his shoulder.
He’d never played it before, but when he asked if she wanted to go with him to the
creek after breakfast, she’d about said no, except he’d picked up his guitar. She
hadn’t heard music since she’d left Boston. Despite wanting to search for berries,
she’d agreed to a small break. And if he sang while he played, then he couldn’t be
asking questions. Prying questions. Absurd questions.

He’d badgered her these last few days since Kathleen had given birth. Not on what
she did on the homestead anymore, but about crazy things, like her favorite colors
and what games she played as a child. He gave her advice on what to do each day, but
then often remained around the house like a shadow, random, silly questions popping
out of his mouth.

He made her uneasy. Not uneasy like Ned, but uneasy like . . . like how Theodore’s
eyes used to make her uneasy when they’d first met.

She played with the button on her collar. Everett’s new pastime was watching her.
But not like an overseer. He simply observed her. So many men had ogled her in the
past, but he didn’t leer, he . . . Well, it was just unsettling.

At the bank’s edge, he leaned against a willow tree. She sat at the base of the one
across from him.

He plucked at the strings while turning the little knobs at the top. “So, what songs
do you know?”

“Oh, I don’t know many songs.” She fluffed her skirts around her.

“You seemed pretty excited to hear some music.”

“I haven’t heard music since I left home. But I’ve never heard much on the guitar.
Just the symphony, so I wouldn’t know what you could play on a guitar.”

He whistled. “Just the symphony? That must have been grand.”

She nodded. The sound of his tentative strumming, the haphazard melody he paid no
attention to, made her heart swell with the same excitement she used to feel when
the string section tuned before a concert. The promise of hearing sounds like that
again convinced her that putting off chores to follow him would be worth it.

Evidently done fiddling with his instrument, he plopped down on the grass. “Did you
sing at church?”

The happiness at the thought of listening to music fluttered away. God things were
important to Everett. Well, at least all of a sudden. And the change in his attitude
coincided with this God talk. She would have to humor him. “We went to church infrequently.
Since we didn’t have customers on Sundays, we did a lot of inventory and cleaning
then.”

“Do you remember any songs?”

“I might if I heard one.”

He smiled and patted the ground next to him. “Come over here and sit by me.”

“I’m fine here.” She couldn’t enjoy the music if she was but an arm’s length away.

“But I’m not. How ’bout you get closer, so I can hear you sing?”

Oh no no no. “You don’t want me to sing.”

“Why not? Surely you’ll catch the words after a few times through. Then you can join
me.”

“I don’t sing well enough.” Her father had let her know that often. And he wasn’t
wrong, judging by the looks she’d received in church the few times she attempted a
hymn.

He patted the ground next to him again. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll catch on.”

Julia moved to a closer tree, but not to where his hand lay on the ground.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, strumming the strings gingerly, as if it were
a pet. He opened one eye and glanced over at her. “I’m a bit rusty.” He gave her a
playful smile.

Her breath caught at the fleeting grin. Then Everett settled back, eyes closed, fingers
working the strings. That smile had passed quickly, but it transformed his work-weary
face into a handsome one. Her heart beat with heightened rhythm. All the girls back
in Boston would be jealous if they saw that smile. She averted her gaze to the sky.
Billowing clouds hid the sun, lazily floating by. A flock of birds changed directions
three times before settling in a tree.

She closed her eyes to listen to his guitar and the sound of water trickling behind
her. Much more beautiful than a church organ. Not quite as captivating as the symphony,
but close. The simple melody Everett plucked soothed her anxiety over wasting daylight.
His clear tenor pierced the air, and she opened her eyes just enough to study him.

He sang with expression, head resting against the tree, eyes closed. Like he meant
it.

Good thing she refused to sing—she’d ruin the sound of
his singing with hers. After a few repetitions, she could have attempted the song.
If she had a different voice.

“Fairest Lord Jesus, ruler of all nature,

O Thou of God and man the Son,

Thee will I cherish, thee will I honor,

Thou my soul’s glory, joy, and crown.

“Fair are the meadows, fairer still the woodlands,

Robed in the blooming garb of spring;

Jesus is fairer, Jesus is purer,

Who makes the woeful heart to sing.”

After playing the song through a few times, he sighed and looked over at her. “Forgot
how much I enjoyed singing. Feel like you can join in yet?”

She clasped her hands. “You don’t want me to ruin your song with my sorry attempt
at singing.”

“God doesn’t care what it sounds like, just so long as you mean it.”

She wasn’t sure He didn’t care. And she wasn’t sure she could mean it. “No, thank
you. I’m enjoying listening more than I would trying to remember the words and sing.”

After playing a few more chords, he laid the guitar across his lap. “What church did
you attend in Boston?”