She didn’t look like she was convinced, but she didn’t argue. “What will you name the boy?”
“I’m not sure, really. I’m not sure he should even stay with me.”
“What?” She rounded on him. “He has to. Someone felt you were the right person to raise him. If they hadn’t cared, they’d have left him in the middle of the street for the first person who came along.”
“It’s common for foundlings to be left with the preacher.”
“To raise, not to give away like an extra loaf of bread.”
“But I’m a bachelor. I know nothing about babies other than what I’ve observed of others’ children, and that isn’t much, believe me.”
“Then you’ll learn,” she insisted. “I’ll help.”
That stopped his next argument. “You will?”
Struggling to her feet, she limped a few yards away, pausing as if shocked at what she was proposing. He doubted she was aware that she’d stopped at the spot chosen as her daughter’s resting place. “I was prepared to learn to care for my daughter. I guess I can help you learn to care for your son.”
Son. If he agreed, he would have a son. James rose to join her. “Then I’ll name him James Robert Hathaway, the Fifth, after my father, his father, and his father’s father.”
“And after you. It’s a good, strong name, with a wonderful heritage. Will you call him Jimmy?”
“No!” His instant refusal sent her stumbling back. He caught her elbow and steadied her. “My grandfather called me Jimmy. Not as a diminutive, but to reinforce his certainty that I would never be the man he was.” James closed his eyes and let those old hurts fly away on the freshening breeze. “I’ll call him Robbie.”
“Robbie,” she whispered. “That was my brother’s name. He died at Picket’s Mill.” She took his hand and held on, lifting her face to the sun. “He’d be delighted you’ve chosen his name for your son.”
They stood in silence for a long while, absorbing the peace of the place. Finally, she let go of his hand and turned to start walking down the hill. “We should get back. The baby will need to be fed soon.”
She didn’t speak again until they were nearly to the Finneys’. “Thank you for asking me what I wanted. Claude would have told me where to bury her and not bothered to attend the service. When will it happen?”
“This evening, once the sun goes over some. But before those clouds get together and rain.”
She focused on the western horizon. “It will be a while yet, I think. There’ll be time.”
“I’ve asked Doctor and Mrs. Finney to join us, and Hank Givens.”
“He made the coffin, didn’t he? Ina told me.”
“I also took the liberty of asking Mr. and Mrs. Meier. Dorothea and George own the mercantile.”
She stopped at the base of the steps. “But I don’t know them.”
“Not yet, but she…” He paused, choosing his words.
“Just say it. Don’t try to spare my feelings.”
“They’ve lost children of their own. I thought it might help to meet someone who can relate to what you’re going through.”
Esther turned to study the mercantile across the street. “Yes, I suppose it will. Thank you for being so thoughtful.”
They climbed the steps to the Finneys’ in silence. As James left her in Ina’s care, Hank joined him.
“Can you tell me where to dig, Reverend?”
James gestured for the man to lead. “I’ll show you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
As she’d expected, the rain had held off for most of the night. Their small group of mourners had laid Emma to rest on the high spot above the little clapboard church. Reverend Hathaway’s words had mostly flowed over Esther, but the comfort remained. He’d even led the singing of Amazing Grace, her favorite hymn, in a lovely, warm baritone voice. And Mrs. Meier placed three pink roses on the tiny grave in a touching gesture of respect before they all returned to their homes for the night.
Now, as the summer storm came together with lightning and wind just before dawn, Esther sat on the Finneys’ back porch, wrapped in a borrowed shawl.
The whipping wind matched her emotions, blowing one way, then back again. She still clutched Reverend— James’ handkerchief in her hand. Though it was damp with tears, she could smell the scent of him, the clean, spicy notes of his soap. And it stirred something in her she’d thought long dead. Killed by her lying, gambler husband.
The first time she saw Claude Travers, he’d just arrived in the river town closest to her family’s farm. Striding along the wharf, he looked like every young woman’s dream of a husband. Tall, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, his too-long black hair brushing the collar of his fashionable clothes, he drew the attention of everyone just by being there.
And he noticed her.
She knew, now, that he thought her the daughter of a wealthy plantation owner because of the new dress, matching hat and parasol she’d been showing off to her friends. But they were birthday gifts made by her mother. By the time he realized her father was just a farmer, though a successful one, he’d already proposed and compromised her, trapping her as completely as himself.
They married and made a home in a small cabin on her parent’s property. She thought they’d stay, and he’d take over the farm when her father could no longer run it. But Claude thought himself too good for mere farming. When he heard gold had been found in the Dakotas, he’d immediately made plans to leave. My fortune is there for the taking. As his wife, she’d had no choice but to go with him. What fools they’d both been.
A flash of lightning and boom of thunder shook the house, startling Esther from her thoughts. Dawn was just beginning to pinken the horizon and she heard Ina moving around in the kitchen. Robbie would be awake soon.
Robbie. Not her child, but a baby that needed her just the same. Part of her was grateful to be able to hold him, feed him. To know that carrying her child at least helped another. But part of her wanted to scream at the world, it isn’t fair. It should be my baby at my breast, not him.
She should be glad she was here, at this time, maybe she was even meant to be here, but did her baby have to die?
Why, Lord? Why did you have to take my baby away so you could give me this one? Why?
She didn’t realize she’d been keening the question aloud until Ina spoke. “I used to ask that same question.”
“You?” Esther accepted the coffee Ina held out. “I didn’t know you’d lost children.”
“Not lost. Never had.” Ina settled into the other chair. “Oh, how I prayed. I’m not sure I always wanted children like some, but I felt like I’d failed somehow when I couldn’t give Henry a son. It was my purpose as his wife. At least I used to think so. When I accepted that I was truly barren, that there would be no child to carry on Henry’s name, to take over the medical practice when we retired, I sat for hours begging God to tell me why. He never answered, of course. At least not in words.” She sipped at her own cup of steaming brew. “Gradually the anger faded a bit and I realized I had children. Not of my body, but so many that came to the doctor needing our help. Young mothers with no idea what to do with a colicky baby. Old women bearing yet another mouth to feed. I learned to help where I could. I watched those children grow and begin to have babies of their own.
“You go ahead and yell at God for as long as you need to. He can take it. But, when you’re ready, remember to listen—and look for His answer.” She rose. “I’d best see to breakfast. After that storm, there’ll be a few folks needing the doctor, most likely. Which means we need to move you to the spare room upstairs. It’ll take a little emptying out, since it’s where I do my sewing and anything else I don’t want Henry poking into.”
Robbie chose that moment to begin hollering out his displeasure at a wet diaper. With a slight smile, Ina returned to the kitchen.
Was that God answering her question? Esther rose and took another minute to breath in the rain-freshened breeze. Perhaps. Sh
e wasn’t ready to stop yelling at Him, but maybe He was whispering in her ear after all. Or screaming, in this case. She couldn’t help but smile at the indignation in the baby’s cry.
James Robert Hathaway, the Fifth. There was such history in that name, such a legacy. She’d been given an opportunity to be a part of that legacy. And she decided to do all she could to help him grow into the man he was meant to be.
As Ina predicted, there was a flow of people with injuries from tripping over a downed tree or getting kicked by a frightened mule, to a broken wrist caused by a falling wall. Doc Finney was kept busy most of the day and Ina was by his side, keeping children occupied or reassuring anxious mothers. They stopped for only a few minutes to have a sandwich at midday.
Esther spent the time in the kitchen, baking bread and making the evening meal. It wasn’t much, but it helped her feel useful.
“Something sure smells good.”
Esther turned to James with a shy smile. “Come in. Ina said I should make myself at home. I’m not much help in there,” she nodded toward the doctor’s office area, “but I have a decent hand with a soup pot.”
He took an exaggerated sniff. “From the scent, I’d say you have more than a decent hand.”
“Would you like some? It’s beef and barley soup, with a few of last year’s root vegetables thrown in.”
“I’d love some. Thank you. I’ve been helping with clean-up at the farms around the area since sun-up.”
As she dished up the soup and sliced a hunk of still-warm bread, he washed up at the sink, then leaned over the basket she’d set on a bench near the window. “And how is my Robbie this fine day?”
“Demanding. I swear he’s grown since yesterday.” When a cry sounded from its depths, they both laughed. “Excuse me. Experience has already taught me not to ignore him. Please, sit and eat.” When she returned, Ina was at the table enjoying a bowl, too.
“This is delicious, Esther. I thought I’d have to leave Henry alone to get some supper on and realized I’d been smelling something cooking for hours now. I just came to see if I can help.”
“It’s under control for now. I have bread to spare, if any of the patients need it.”
“How kind of you,” Ina smiled. “Reverend, has anyone come to you needing more than an extra ax this morning?”
“Mrs. Porter would probably appreciate a loaf. Tad is eating like a plague of locusts.”
“He’ll be shooting up another couple of inches soon, then. I swear he’ll grow into that nose of his yet. We’ll wrap some up for you to deliver.”
Esther leaned back against the small counter, enjoying the conversation and that she had made it possible for a family in need to have a little bit extra to eat.
“I wish I had some dried fruit,” she mused.
“There’s probably some in the root cellar. Why?”
“Oh, sorry. I was just thinking aloud. Mama used to make a sweet bread with nuts and dried fruit. Sprinkled with sugar or a bit of cream on top, it’s more a cake than bread. I haven’t had it in years.” Just thinking about her favorite childhood treat made her mouth water.
“I believe I have what you need,” James offered. “Every year at Christmas my sisters send a basket. No matter how many times I remind them I don’t need food for ten, they always include too much.”
“Add in what the single ladies in town send your way,” Ina teased, “and I imagine you have quite a well-stocked larder.”
A blush climbed up from the Reverend’s collar. “That’s true,” James conceded. “My first building project was to add on to the pantry and dig a bigger cellar for the parsonage.” He looked at Esther. “When you have time, I’ll take you to the house and you may choose what you need. As long as I’m invited to taste it, that is.”
He was flirting, Esther was sure of it. Fortunately, Ina responded, saving her from an embarrassing silence.
“You come on back for dinner tomorrow night. You haven’t joined us at our table in far too long. Would that give you enough time, Esther?”
“Yes, that would be just fine. And I’ll be happy to help with the meal. Just tell me what to do. And watch over me while I do it.”
Ina gathered the soup bowls and carried them to the sink. “Nonsense. If you can handle a hunk of beef like you handled this soup, it will be perfect. I’m going to take some of this to the doctor. Mr. Abel’s barn wall collapsed on him during the storm. Doc’s having a time trying to keep the man down.”
“Tell him I’ll help, if I can,” James offered. Ina laughed as she carried a tray loaded with soup and slices of bread with butter down the hall toward the examining room.
“I take it Mr. Abel doesn’t like being idle.” She cleared bowls and plates.
“He’s ninety-four and as stubborn as the day is long. Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Travers.”
“Please call me Esther. Mrs. Travers is too formal.”
“All right. We can go whenever you’re ready.”
“Now?” She glanced around the kitchen, but nothing needed her attention. “All right. Let me just wash up.” Esther headed to the pump.
“I’ll take care of the dishes.”
“Reverend, you don’t need to—”
“And call me James. Please. No one here calls me by my given name, and though I’m a preacher, my calling is not all of who I am. I’d enjoy hearing it now and then.”
“Very well, James. But you don’t need to do the dishes.”
“You go feed Robbie, or whatever you need to do. I’m capable of this much, at least.”
“I’m certain you’re capable of a great many things.”
“Not according to my sisters.”
Shaking her head, Esther took Robbie to the small bedroom above the kitchen. She and Ina had shifted cloth, sewing stuff, and a small table to make room for her and Robbie. From somewhere the dear woman had produced a basinet and set about making a comfortable bed for the boy. There was already a bed in the room, so Esther added sheets and a light blanket. Since she’d come here with only a dress and a few cooking items suitable for a fire on the trail, unpacking took only moments.
When she entered the room, she automatically looked for the battered leather satchel she’d carried her belongings in. The one thing she hadn’t yet taken out was the small bag of gold dust that was all that remained of Claude’s delusions of wealth. That would be gone, too, if he’d known she had it. But she’d hoarded the bits of dust that remained in his poke after he passed out from a night of drinking and gambling away any hope of profit.
She’d have to ask Ina or Henry if the Mercantile would exchange the gold for credit. And she could sell her horse. Then she’d be able to buy a few essentials.
Perhaps Reverend—James, she reminded herself. James might know. Surely she could trust a preacher. Smoothing her hair with a brush Ina had loaned her, she tucked a couple of extra diapers into Robbie’s basket, settled him inside and returned to the kitchen.
And James.
CHAPTER FIVE
“The saloon down there was the first permanent building in town. At the time, King’s Ford was a gathering of tents and covered wagons. Next came a dozen or so new citizens and the mercantile, and those houses and the church were built. Once they had a church, they reasoned a preacher would be coming, so they built the parsonage. Unfortunately, by the time they got to it, the crops were in and there wasn’t much time to make it nice.”
He opened the door and ushered her inside. “Welcome to my most humble abode.”
Esther stepped inside, expecting white-washed walls, curtains, something. But James hadn’t exaggerated. The cabin was barely worthy of the name. Light came from the open door and a single window whose glass was wavy and of poor quality. Another door was cut into the back wall, probably leading to the backyard and the outhouse. And the chimney, unless her eyes deceived her, weaved its way up the wall to their right. At least there was a nice cook stove opposite the chimney.
“Not much to look at, is
it?”
“At least there are no north-facing windows.” She glanced up at him as he laughed and pointed north—at the single window. She shook her head. “What were they thinking?
“I used to speculate that they didn’t have a preacher yet and they planned to build a better house when they did. But I’ve been here for five years and I now suspect they feel a bachelor doesn’t need more. Or that I can do it myself.”
“But where do you read and study and write sermons?”
“Here. Or in the sanctuary next door. I don’t have a desk there, but I can make do.”
A horrible howling sound came from outside. “What on earth?” Esther stepped back into the sunshine. The sound seemed to be coming from the direction of the church.
“Mrs. Abel is practicing.”
“Practicing what? Surely that isn’t her singing.”
James choked on a laugh. “No, she’s our organist.”
There was a long chord that faded away as the pitch fell, a pause, then it started up again, like bagpipes running out of air. Esther looked to James for an explanation.
“She’s nearly ninety. She can either play, or pump the pedals, but not both at once. She pumps up the bellows, plays until the instrument runs out of air, then pumps it back up and resumes where she stopped.”
“That must make for some interesting hymn singing on Sunday morning. Perhaps she’d let me help her sometime.”
“Do you play?” There was such a hopeful note in his voice Esther couldn’t tease him.
“I was taught all of what my mother considered the lady’s arts growing up. I play, sing, knit, do needlepoint and cook. A little.”
“You cook more than a little, my dear. The soup was delicious.” He listened to the sounds that only a man of God could call music for a long moment. “I’ll speak with her. With Mr. Abel laid up and needing extra tending, perhaps she would appreciate the opportunity to take a break from her duties.” He led her back inside the parsonage. “Let’s take a look in the pantry, shall we?”
JAMES Page 3