At the sudden thought of an intruder in his cabin, he forced his sluggish body to a stand. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he grabbed hold of the mantle to steady himself. If someone wanted him dead they’d had plenty of time to accomplish the task while he was unconscious. Confusion worked its way through his dizziness and pain.
Opening his eyes, he scanned the room, instantly regretting having moved. After a moment, he tried again, and his gaze landed on a musket pointed straight at his heart. Catching his breath, he eased his gaze up to his captor. A wide-eyed waif with messed up hair and dark eyes stared back at him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. On second glance, he realized a woman—not a youth—stood before him in her nightgown and bare feet. Who was she?
The fire beside him flickered and popped. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He needed to shed his bearskin coat before he passed out again, but he was afraid to let go of the mantle. It was difficult to believe that a woman so small could pack such a wallop.
He loosened his belt with his free hand and dropped it to the floor. His heavy coat spread open, and he shrugged his shoulder out.
The woman took a step back. “Just what is it you want?” The musket in her hand shook, proving to Micah she wasn’t as confident as she sounded. She tossed her head like a wild filly. “There’s some bread under that towel on the table. If you’re hungry, take it and get out.”
Micah clenched his jaw as anger and concern surged through him at being told to leave his own home. Where was Kathryn? His gaze darted toward the inky blackness of the sleeping room and back to the woman.
Her gaze followed his, then returned back to him. “M–my husband will be back any time now. You’d best get out of here before he does.”
Micah noticed she kept her voice down—probably so as not to wake whoever was sleeping. Fear and concern fought their way to the top rung of his emotions. Where was his family?
Three steps brought him to the table. The woman’s eyes widened even more. Light from the fireplace danced around the shadows darkening her face. He had to get that musket before she fired it at him. He took another step in her direction, and she suddenly swung the musket around and waved it over her shoulder as if she were going to club him again.
“Don’t come any closer.”
He had no desire to fight a woman. A Bible verse darted into his mind: “A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger.”
“I don’t mean you any harm.” Micah held up his hands as if in surrender.
When she didn’t respond, he pulled out a chair at the table and dropped into it. He could easily overpower this woman, but he didn’t want to get shot if the musket happened to have powder and ball in it. He sank his head into his hands and pressed on his forehead, hoping to make the aching cease. After a moment, he reached for the towel covering the bread, yanked it off the loaf, and dabbed his forehead. The fragrant scent of fresh bread just about did him in. Pushing his thoughts away from food, he concentrated on the stranger and asked, “Just who are you? And where’s my family?”
Micah heard the woman’s sharp intake of breath. When she didn’t respond, he glanced up, wondering why she had gasped. She’d backed up clear into the corner by the front door and held the musket across her chest.
“Look,” he said, his impatience wearing thin, “I don’t mean you any harm. I’m just hurt and confused.” Micah ran his hand across his thick beard. No wonder the woman appeared half scared to death. He probably looked and smelled like some kind of mountain man. “I’m Micah Walsh. This is my house. Where’s my wife?”
❧
Amy pressed against the front door, wishing with all her being she could open it and run outside, away, anywhere but here. It didn’t matter if it was chilly outside or not. Anything would be better than telling Micah Walsh his wife was dead. Would he blame her? Send her packing? And she had clubbed him unconscious! Amy faced him with remorse.
Did it matter if he held her responsible? He couldn’t blame her any more than she blamed herself. There should have been something she could have done to save Kathryn. The doctor—once he had finally arrived that awful day—told Amy it wasn’t her fault. He didn’t even think he would have been able to save her. He’d said, “Sometimes it’s meant to be this way. God wanted to call Kathryn home.”
That manner of thinking confused Amy. Her own mother’s doctor had said something similar the day her mother died. Amy still didn’t understand why God hadn’t spared her. She’d been the only person who’d ever loved Amy. Blinking back tears of longing for what couldn’t be, she lifted her head to face Micah Walsh.
Somehow she had to find it within herself to tell him about his wife. If only she were braver. And on top of everything, she’d wounded him. Perhaps she couldn’t help him with the pain in his heart, but she could treat the wound she’d inflicted—and it would give her time to work up her courage.
Amy set the musket in the corner by the door then moved over to the table. Before he turned in each night, Ben made sure there was a bucket of fresh water inside, in case anyone wanted a drink. Micah sat at the table with his head in his hands. He looked exhausted. But she had a feeling he wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon.
With a tug, she pulled the bread towel from his hand and dipped a clean end into the bucket. “Turn toward the fire.”
He lifted his head and raised an eyebrow. She trembled at his closeness and tried to ignore the question in his gaze. The chair squeaked against the floor as he turned it toward the fireplace. Amy didn’t want to touch this man. She’d spent the last month both worrying about him and despising him for leaving Kathryn. But he hadn’t known that his wife was with child. Would he still have gone trapping if he had?
Even with the glow from the fire shining on Micah’s head, it was too dark for Amy to see well enough to doctor his wound. Taking a twig of kindling, she stuck it in the fire and lit the wall lantern closest to the table.
Micah blinked at the brightness and glanced at her. Amy looked down and felt the skin on her face tighten with embarrassment. She was standing next to a stranger, and she was dressed only in her nightgown.
“Oh!”
She darted around the table, tiptoed into the sleeping room, and grabbed her bed jacket. Tying it shut, she checked on the children. She could barely make out Beth’s bed but could hear the girl’s soft breathing. The baby’s bed was dark in the shadows on the side of the room where Sookie slept. Though Amy couldn’t see little Missy, she knew the child would let her know when she’d awakened. Amy eased out of the room, hoping Sookie’s soft snores would hide any noises she made. She dropped down the quilt to cover the sleeping room doorway and made her way back to Micah.
His arms rested on the table, and he’d laid his head down. Amy swallowed back regret for clubbing him so hard. She’d known she would only get one chance to take down such a big man, so she’d used all her strength.
I was protecting the children.
Amy picked up the damp cloth, wondering again how badly she’d hurt Mr. Walsh. She expected he’d be demanding to know where his wife was, but he’d only asked the one time. Perhaps he sensed something was wrong.
She reached out her hand then yanked it back. The only men she’d ever touched had been those helping her out of a coach or wagon. She couldn’t even remember ever touching her father.
Heaving a deep breath, Amy reached forward and lifted a dark thatch of hair off Mr. Walsh’s forehead. Her heart stumbled at the sight of a long cut. At least it was a narrow enough wound that it should heal fine without her having to sew it up. With quick work, she wiped off the blood, applied some medicinal salve, then wrapped a cloth around his head and tied it.
Other than wincing a few times he’d said nothing. Now that she was done, he looked up at her with tired eyes. “How’s Beth?” The words came out in a soft rush.
“Sleeping.” Amy turned away, hoping he wouldn’t see the pain in her gaze.
She looked up at the ceiling, wishing she could petition Jonah’s God for help. How could she tell this man about his wife?
Amy took a step away from the table. She needed to soak the towel in cold water before the blood set. As she moved forward again, a tight fist clamped around her wrist. Water sloshed out of the bowl, splashing her bedclothes and splattering on the floor. Her heart nearly leaped from her chest.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “What happened to Kathryn?”
❧
Micah knew in his heart that something was wrong. He’d seen the fear and apprehension in the woman’s eyes. She looked like a spooked filly with a wolf on her tail. He wasn’t a wolf, but she had no way of knowing.
A deep uneasiness settled in his spirit when she’d avoided his questions about Kathryn. His wife wasn’t here. He knew that much. All during the time the woman tended his wound, he’d prayed. Prayed for his family. At least little Beth was safe in her bed. Perhaps Kathryn was out, helping a neighbor. Yes, that had to be it.
The chair across from him screeched as she pulled it away from the table and sat down. He didn’t want to look into those sympathetic eyes, but her gaze held his for several moments before she broke the connection.
With a shaking hand, she smoothed her hair down then swiped at her eyes. “I don’t know how to tell you.”
Fear clutched Micah’s heart. “Just say whatever it is. Please.”
Like a flittering hummingbird, she looked at him and then away. “Kathryn died. Right after I arrived here.”
An ache of loss lanced his being. “No. It can’t be true.” He leaned his head against the chair and stared up at the ceiling, fighting back tears. If only he hadn’t left perhaps. . .
“Oh Lord, please, no.” Tears stung his eyes.
His and Kathryn’s marriage hadn’t been the best, but he loved her. He knew in his heart the well-to-do city girl had married him—a country farmer—to spite her parents. But it hadn’t mattered to him. He loved her, in spite of her persnickety ways at times.
Numb with shock, Micah wiped his burning eyes. How long had this woman been staying here, caring for Beth? Where was his brother? And Jonah? What else had changed in the five months he’d been gone?
Micah shoved to his feet, ignoring the spinning room. He took a feeble step toward the sleeping room. Perhaps Kathryn was actually snuggled safe in their bed. Weaving sideways, he took another tentative step. Why had this woman hit him so hard? And just who was she? He’d never seen her before.
Halting, he faced her. “What’s your name?”
He saw her delicate throat move as she swallowed. “Amy Rogers.”
Micah closed his eyes and contemplated that name. Why did it sound familiar?
“I’m Kathryn’s cousin, from Boston.”
From the sleeping room, he heard something that sounded like a lamb’s bleating. It rose in intensity. Then the quilt covering the sleeping room doorway flipped aside, and his daughter padded out in her nightgown, rubbing her eyes.
Beth!
Micah’s heart jumped. Oh, how she’d grown. At least an inch. He needed her in his arms, comforting him. He needed to comfort her.
Beth looked around, and when her eyes landed on him, they opened wide. She cast a frantic glance at Miss Rogers.
Kneeling, he opened his arm. Beth loved to run to him and then be tossed up in the air. “Come give me a hug, Punkin.”
His daughter cast him an inquisitive glance; then her eyebrows dipped together, and she started moving forward. But instead of running to him, she made a wide arc around him and ran to the stranger, wrapping her arms around the woman’s lap.
If his heart hadn’t already broken at the news of Kathryn, it did just then.
Beth doesn’t know me.
“Missy is crying, Mama.”
Mama? How dare Miss Rogers allow his daughter—Kathryn’s daughter—to call her Mama! Tightening his fists and clenching his jaw, Micah watched the woman kneel and give his daughter a hug. His blood boiled. He wanted to yell and express his anger at this intruder, but he couldn’t make a stink about it with Beth there. As he looked at his daughter, his fury melted like a candle set too close to a fire.
“Beth, dear, this is your father. He’s returned home.” Miss Rogers’s kind tone calmed the storm brewing inside him.
Beth gazed up at him with wide, curious eyes. She studied him then shook her head like a little schoolteacher. “Nuh uh. Him’s not Papa.”
Miss Rogers’s eyebrows dipped down as if she might believe the child.
Micah stood, holding on to the back of a chair for support. “I assure you I am Micah Walsh. Just call Ben or Jonah if you don’t believe me. They are still here, aren’t they?”
The woman stood, holding Beth in her arms, and nodded.
“Them’s sleeping,” Beth said. “But Missy waked up.”
Micah heard the noise in the bedroom getting louder and recognized it as a baby’s cry. He glanced at Miss Rogers’s hand. Perhaps he should think of her as Mrs. Rogers. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but then not all married women did. Micah rubbed at his heavy beard, suddenly realizing why Beth probably didn’t recognize him. At home he rarely wore a beard, preferring to be clean-shaven. In the morning he’d remedy that.
Struggling with all the emotions surging through him, he watched Mrs. Rogers give Beth a drink from a cup then gently press the girl’s head down until it rested on her shoulder. Oh, how he wanted to hold his daughter. To have her rest against his shoulder. His fingers tingled with anticipation.
“Let me put Beth back to bed and get the baby. Then we can talk.”
Her waist-length fawn-colored hair swished back and forth as she carried Beth back to bed. It was rather plain compared to Kathryn’s golden tresses.
He blinked at the stinging in his eyes. How long had his wife been dead? Why hadn’t he sensed it? And why had Ben allowed this stranger to come in and care for his daughter instead of a neighbor?
Overcome with weariness and grief, Micah crossed the room and flopped down in his rocking chair. He ran his hand through his long hair. How could Kathryn have died? She was perfectly fine when he left. Did she have an accident? Get sick?
Micah thought again about how Mrs. Rogers had allowed Beth to call her Mama, and indignation coursed through him like a raging river. Of all the nerve! The child had a mother and needed to be reminded of her—not allowed to forget.
He stormed to his feet and paced the room. This was his home. Beth was his daughter. And this woman had to go!
❧
Enjoying her sweet baby scent, Amy jiggled Missy against her shoulder, took a strengthening breath, and went back into the parlor. Her heart ached for Micah Walsh. She’d seen the devastation in his expression when Beth ran to her instead of him.
Her nose wrinkled at the pungent blend of male odor, wood smoke, and that furry thing Mr. Walsh had been wearing. Would he take offense if she put his bear rug out on the porch?
No, better not give him another reason to be angry with her.
Missy fussed but didn’t scream. Amy knew the baby would be all right for a few more minutes—long enough to get her changed—but she would need to nurse soon. Sookie would have to feed her in the sleeping room if Mr. Walsh lingered.
As much as she’d fretted over his abandoning his wife and children, she’d never once considered what it would mean to her when he returned. Where would he sleep? If he wanted his bed back, she and Sookie would have to find someplace else to bed down. But where? They couldn’t very well stay in this small cabin if he was here.
Amy barely glanced at the back of the pacing man, relieved not to have to see his upsetting expression again. She eased into a rocker, unwrapped Missy, and then quickly changed her. Pressing the infant to her shoulder, she stood, waited for Mr. Walsh to pass by again, then set the wet diaper in a bucket near the front door. Missy’s warm lips and little tongue rooted around on Amy’s neck, looking for a midnight snack, and her
sweet baby breath stirred something maternal inside Amy as it always did.
Mr. Walsh pivoted suddenly, half scaring Amy’s wits from her. Missy squeaked when Amy jumped back, pressing her shoulders against the door, to put some space between her and Mr. Walsh. He stepped closer. Anger and pain formed creases across his brow. The agony in his eyes made her want to take his hand and comfort him. Instead, Amy swallowed hard and tightened her grasp on Missy. She couldn’t fault him for hurting. He must have loved Kathryn more than she thought he did.
He ran his hand through his hair then grabbed hold of his nape. For a moment, his eyes softened a speck. “Look, Mrs. Rogers. . .” Sighing, he looked away.
Odd. . .why did he think she was married?
“I appreciate all that you’ve done for Beth. But I’m home now, and I can care for her.” He stepped back, walked over to the mantle, and leaned against it, facing the fire.
Amy’s heart quickened. What did he mean? She licked her dry lips as Missy let out a frustrated squeal. “I don’t understand.”
He turned, his steady gaze revealed no compassion. “Come morning, I want you to take your baby and go home. My family needs to be with me, and you need to leave.”
Four
Micah leaned down against the ax handle and wiped the sweat from his brow. Through the trees he could just barely see Ben struggling with the plow horse as they walked back and forth cutting rows into the dark soil. The fields should have been plowed weeks ago. What had his brother been doing the past five months?
Pulling himself back to his work, Micah eyed the huge stacks of wood spread out all around him. In spite of the cool morning, his shirt clung to his moist skin. No matter how hard he worked, he couldn’t forget that he hadn’t been there for his wife when she needed him most.
Ben explained how Kathryn had died in childbirth while he scoured the countryside, searching for the doctor. Ben blamed himself for not finding the man more quickly, but the doc had been out at a farm twenty miles the other side of the settlement, tending a boy who’d been wounded in an accident.
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