She never should have told him about her conversation with Eric, Leah decided. Her supper was late, due to the day being half over before she’d arrived back at the farm. She’d put chicken on to cook, stewing an old hen who was intent on hiding her eggs under a bush in the yard.
This was no time of year for a cluck to be nesting, and by next year the creature would be too tough to grace the dinner table. So, with hatchet in hand, Leah had dispatched the hen quickly. Today’s supper would be chicken, with fluffy dumplings on top of the kettle.
Now she wondered why she had gone to all the trouble of fussing over a meal for the sourpuss who sat at the head of the table. Gar Lundstrom was in a snit. There was no other word for it. Leah’s mouth was set as she plopped his plate down before him.
“I didn’t mean to imply that I would be spending hours on end visiting with the man, Mr. Lundstrom. He simply thanked me for my help and asked if I would consider him a friend. I thought I could not have too many of them on hand, so I accepted his offer. Now, if you don’t like it, you’ll just have to lump it!” She turned away from him, and his growl was the only warning she received.
Fool woman! She thought she could prance around and twitch her skirts and act the flirt with him and then throw Eric Magnor in his face—and he should like it. Gar Lundstrom was filled to the brim and overflowing with an enormous amount of anger, most of it directed at himself.
She’d been gone all morning, and even though his common sense told him that the trip had not taken much longer than necessary, he’d kept a close watch on the road, lest he miss the approach of his farm wagon. He told himself it was the lumber he waited for so impatiently. But in his heart of hearts, he knew he was yearning for the sight of Leah, the woman who held herself from him.
The kiss he’d stolen on the porch had not been enough. And yet it had been too much. And how she could be such a puzzle was beyond his comprehension. She had him in a tizzy, that was for sure. And now she had the nerve to tell him he could lump it…whatever that fine phrase was supposed to mean.
He stood, ignoring the chair that fell to the floor at his rising. In two steps he was upon her. In another second, he had lifted her to settle her plump little bottom on the kitchen dresser, where it vied for space with the second largest pickle crock and the coffee mill.
“Gar Lundstrom! What are you doing?” she shrieked, her tone tempered by the palm of her hand that covered her mouth.
“I’m setting things to rights in my kitchen,” he returned sharply.
“My kitchen,” she corrected him. “Just put me back down on the floor this minute.”
“When I get good and ready,” he told her, leaning to look fully into her eyes. “You have a sassy mouth for such a bright lady. Did no one ever tell you it would get you into trouble someday?”
“Pa? Are you mad at Miss Leah again?” Kristofer asked from his seat at the table.
“Now see what you’ve done,” Leah spouted.
“I’m not the least mad at Miss Leah, Kris,” his father answered mildly. “Just tend to your supper there.”
Leah leaned forward until her nose almost touched his, and Gar inhaled her scent, that of starched cotton, and cinnamon from the apple tarts she’d put in the oven only minutes ago. Mixed with the fresh smell of her skin, it served as an aphrodisiac to his vulnerable body, and he met her mouth with his own. One day he would subdue the fire that burned between them.
For now, he would add to its flame.
Her lips were warm and soft, and unless he missed his guess, they were willing to be tasted and subdued with the touch of his. He sucked softly at her bottom lip, then transferred his attention to the upper, finally seeking entry between the two for the tip of his tongue.
Her whimper was that of a woman made aware of a new and urgent need, and he gloried in the evidence of her feminine nestling as she leaned into his chest. Her breasts were full and firm against him, and he subdued the groan that begged to be let free from his throat.
His mouth widened over hers and he covered her lips with his own, searching out the even, smooth surface of her teeth, the crevices of her lips and tongue. And then he retreated, swiftly and without due care, as he heard the knock at the kitchen door.
“Yes?” His mouth was wet with her flavor, and his trousers strained at the fly front.
“Gar? There is a young heifer caught in the mire.” The voice of Banjo Kemmel was abrupt, its message that of a man who awaits an immediate answer.
“I’ll be right there,” Gar answered, his narrowed eyes upon the woman who even now was in his arms. His nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply, his head swimming with the passion her mouth and the curves of her body had set into motion.
Her gaze was wary, as one hand lifted to touch her mouth. Her other hand levered against his chest, and she whispered soft, broken words that spoke of her confusion. “Gar? What are…I don’t know…Gar?”
He lifted her to the floor, steadying her with strong hands at her waist. “I must go out and see to the heifer, Leah.” Even to his own ears his words were harsh, as if he were uncaring of her, and she reacted accordingly.
As though each movement pumped new strength into her spine, she straightened, her chin lifting, her hands pushing at him. “Turn me loose,” she said quietly. Her eyes slid to rest on the table where Kristofer watched, his features blurred with bewilderment.
“Kristofer and I will feed Karen while you take care of your animal,” she said. Glancing at Kristofer, her tone of voice softened. “Eat now, Kris.”
“Yes, Miss Leah,” the boy said obligingly. He bent to with a will and filled his fork with a chunk of chicken, gravy dripping between the tines. “It sure looks good.”
“Yes, it does,” Gar offered, regret coloring his words. “Keep some warm, if you don’t mind, Leah. I’ll probably bring Banjo back for a bite, too. He’s late going home. Those brothers and sisters of his will have cleaned the pots by the time he gets there.”
“Yes.” Leah’s head was bent as she lifted a bit of dumpling on her fork, eyeing it as if it were somehow defective.
Apparently, that was going to be the extent of her reply. As answers went it wasn’t much, Gar decided, but it was probably about as good as he could expect after the mess he’d made of this encounter.
Across the barnyard, Banjo was trotting at a quick pace, heading for the hapless cow, and Gar set off in his wake. A detour to the horse corral netted him a strong gelding, and he swung up on the horse’s back, guiding him by a rope he’d snatched from the fence and tied onto the animal’s halter.
He overtook Banjo just about the time the hired hand made it to the swampy area, a low spot in one corner of the pasture. Beyond him, the young cow was knee-deep in muck and mire, bawling her head off.
There was no way around it. If he couldn’t toss a lasso that far, he’d have to wade through the mud until he was close enough to throw the rope over her head. Gar looked down at his boots and sighed. Might as well take them off now, and the stockings, too. No sense losing them in the mess he was about to get into.
Chapter Eight
The mud caked on his feet and legs as he walked, and each step took more effort than the last, the boots he carried weighing more than he remembered. Gar was bone weary, his mind set on the chicken still sitting in the pot at the back of the stove. The dumplings would have lost their fluffy texture by now, but as hungry as he was, that mattered little.
Banjo was just steps behind him, cheery and garrulous in his praise. “Yessir, you just snaked that rope right over that li’l darlin’s head, just slick as a whistle, Mr. Lundstrom.”
That he had had to slog through mud almost to his knees to accomplish the task lessened Gar’s joy in the matter, and his reply was muttered into his chest.
“S’pose Miss Leah saved us somethin’ to eat, Mr. Lundstrom?” Banjo headed for the pump, levering the handle with enthusiasm. He bent his head to slosh water over his nape, wetting down his hair and splashing his face libera
lly. His fingers ran through his hair, and he scrubbed at his hands with gusto beneath the cold water.
The thought of washing up in that chilly waterfall turned Gar’s feet toward the porch. “Leah!” She’d been scurrying around in the kitchen just moments past. Maybe there was warm water left in the reservoir, enough to wash up with anyway.
“Leah!” he called again, only to see her pressing her fanny against the screen door as she backed from the kitchen to the porch. She must have read his mind, he decided in a moment of thanksgiving. In her hands she held her largest basin, filled with water that looked to be steaming.
“I’m here, Gar! You didn’t give me a chance to answer. I had to sort out things to find a basin large enough for your feet.”
“My feet?” He stood in the grass just below the bottom step and watched as she lowered the wide container to the porch. A towel was slung over her shoulder, a washrag with it. She dug in her apron pocket, pulled out a bar of store-bought soap and offered it to him.
“I’ll push the pan closer and you can wash your hands and face first, then come up on the porch and we’ll do your feet.”
“We’ll do my feet,” he repeated, his weariness preventing his mind from comprehending her plan. The cloth was sudsed in no time, and the hot water was a welcome relief. His skin itched like a son of a gun wherever the mud had touched it, and the hot water dissolved the residue as he scrubbed at his face and head alike.
“You’re looking more like a human being already,” Leah said, her voice teasing.
Relief shot through him. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t upset at him kissing her then leaving her as if she’d come down with a case of the measles.
Her voice softened and touched him with concern. “You look about worn-out, Mr. Lundstrom.”
“Yah, I am. But the heifer is back on solid land, and I am almost clean once more, thanks to you.” Bending over the basin, he poured double handfuls of water over his forearms and wrists. “I was dreading the cold pump water.”
“I need me a good wife, Mr. Lundstrom,” Banjo said from behind Gar. “Seems to me you get treated mighty fine.”
Gar cast him a glance, his mood enhanced more than a little by Leah’s thoughtfulness. “You’ll have to look around for a woman of your own, boy. Mine’s taken.”
“Step up on the porch, Gar,” Leah told him, moving the basin from the edge. “Get hold of the post there and stick one foot in the basin for me.”
He looked at her, puzzlement alive in his mind at what she was brewing. One foot in the basin, he held the post and watched incredulously as she knelt at his feet, competently rolled his pant leg another turn, then soaped the cloth. Her hands worked rapidly, soaping the calf of his leg, her face hidden from his view as she murmured instructions to lift his foot.
He did as she asked and she quickly scrubbed at his ankle, then his toes and the long length of foot between.
“Here,” she said, placing the towel on the porch and motioning him to place his clean foot there.
Within a minute, she had finished the other leg and foot and rose to toss the dirty water from the end of the porch. The washrag she hung on a short rope she kept stretched between two posts for that purpose. Then, hands on her hips, she cocked her head at him.
“I only wash. I don’t dry,” she said pertly. “Supper’s ready.” She picked up his boots and thumped them on the side of the porch, watching as dirt cascaded over the ground below. Then, placing them next to the wood siding, she sailed through the door, allowing it to slam shut behind her.
“I suspect you better dry your feet, Mr. Lundstrom. Miss Leah’s dishin’ up,” Banjo said, following in her wake.
“Yah, I better do that.” Stunned to the core of his being, Gar watched through the screen as his wife placed Banjo’s food before him, then turned back to the stove. With several well-aimed swipes, he dried his feet, slung the damp towel over the line and entered the kitchen.
Leah placed a plate before him. The dumplings still looked more than edible, and he set to with a will. The chicken was well-done, and he ate generously of the carrots and onions she’d added to the stew.
Banjo finished quickly, cleaning his dish with a slice of bread, every bit of gravy and every smidgen of food wiped up and delivered to his mouth. He rose and handed Leah the empty plate, then turned to the door.
“I’ll be here in the morning, sir,” he announced cheerfully. “Thanks again for the supper, Miss Leah.”
He was gone, and Gar ate more slowly, his stomach pangs easing. He watched as Leah brought Karen in from the parlor, where her quilt was left spread open on the carpet. She played there sometimes in the evenings with her assortment of toys. The baby reached for her father, and Gar took the miniature hand in his and shook it playfully.
“She missed you at supper,” Leah said, sitting in the rocking chair with the child. A nightgown and fresh diaper were at hand, and with deft movements, Leah readied the baby for bed.
“I’ve never had anyone wash my feet before,” Gar said, the words slipping past his lips before he thought to hold them back.
“I’ll bet your mother did, more than once,” Leah said, kissing the palm of Karen’s hand, peeling the fingers back to find the sensitive center, then causing the little girl to laugh as she bit at the plump flesh.
“You know how to do all the right things with her,” Gar said, spearing the last bite of his chicken and lifting it to his mouth. “I have to stop and remember the way Hulda played with Kristofer. I don’t think she made up the kind of games you do.”
“You probably just didn’t notice,” Leah answered, watching him over the baby’s head. “I’m sure she was a wonderful mother.”
“Yah, she was good with the boy. But she was always so quiet, so…almost sad, it seems like.” He rose from his chair and took his plate to the sink. “I shouldn’t talk about her with you, I guess.”
Leah shook her head. “You can talk about your first wife all you please, Gar. She was a part of your life, and mother to your children.”
“This one,” he said, his finger pointing at Karen. “This one will never know her. She’ll think—”
“We’ll tell her when she’s old enough,” Leah cut in. “She needs to know that her mother gave up her life so that she could live.”
“Is that the way you look at it?” he asked. Somehow that explanation had never occurred to him. That one life was given so another might exist in this world. And yet, it made sense. Hulda had known what a risk she took, and she did it gladly.
“Of course. Hulda wanted to give you a child, and she did. I think she died happy, Gar. She knew the baby was alive. She heard her cry, and then she kissed her brow. Her lips were on Karen’s forehead when Hulda died.”
He hadn’t known that. He hadn’t known that Hulda had seen the child. All he remembered of that night was the blood that covered the bed, the ashen look of Hulda’s face and the terrible mess that Leah had cleaned up all by herself.
“You wouldn’t even let me help,” he said, his mind skimming the surface of those terrible hours.
“It was no place for a man to be,” Leah said, rocking with Karen, easing the child into sleep. “My mother said men were useless in the face of childbirth.”
“It was my fault, though,” Gar said, the words spoken aloud for the first time. He ground his teeth against the doubt that had ridden him lately. “I blamed you, Leah. I wanted it to be your fault that she died, so I told you it was so. Now I look back, and I don’t know what I believe. One thing I do know, though. She got in the family way because of me.”
Leah slanted a glance at him. “She got pregnant because she wanted another child, Gar. She told me so.”
“I think I’ll carry the guilt for the rest of my life.” He walked to the door, looking out on the darkening night.
“She didn’t want you to, you know. She’d want you to be happy, Gar. I don’t think the woman had a selfish bone in her body.”
He acknowledged the truth of
that with a nod. “I didn’t treat her as I should have, though. She was a good woman, and I didn’t have a great love for her.” He turned to Leah. “I liked her, though. And isn’t that a thing to say about your wife, that you liked her! Her father and mine made a pact that Hulda should marry me, and neither of us had a choice in the matter.”
“You could have said no, couldn’t you?” Leah asked.
“I was taught to do as my father said,” Gar answered. “He left me the farm when he died. And for that inheritance, I did as he asked. It was the way things were then.” His words were solemn now, as if he made a pledge in her hearing. “I’ll never raise my boy that way. He’ll have a choice.”
“Yes.” Leah nodded her head. “You’re a good father, Gar. Your children love you.”
“I never had anybody wash my feet before,” he repeated, the thought circling his mind and surfacing as a thing to be spoken of.
“I just didn’t want you to track mud in all over the kitchen. I seem to spend a good share of my time sweeping up behind you.” Her tone of voice belied the scold she delivered, and he caught a smile lurking at the corner of her mouth.
“I’ll try to be neater from now on,” he promised.
“Don’t get all carried away with yourself,” she warned him. “I may hold you to it.”
“Do you want me to carry Karen up to her bed?” he asked, watching as Leah rose from the rocking chair. The baby was turned neatly to sleep on Leah’s shoulder, and a small quilt covered her from the evening breeze that came in from the west.
“No, I can take her up. You might want to help Kristofer with his numbers. He’s sitting at the library table in the parlor. I gave him a slate full of figures to add.”
Gar watched her leave the kitchen, listened to her soft footsteps on the staircase. His gaze followed the sway of her hips until she reached the top of the flight of stairs. She moved past his bedroom to where Karen’s door stood open, and turned to look down at him. For a long moment she was unmoving, framed in the doorway, only the pale form of her dress and the golden glow of her hair visible in the dusky light.
The Midwife Page 11