The Midwife

by Carolyn Davidson

  Supper was going to be a quick affair, with corn bread and side pork cooked with fried potatoes. She sliced the slab of white meat, streaked with rosy stripes throughout, and put it in the iron skillet to cook. The boiled potatoes were left from the day before and she sliced them into the grease as the pork fried.

  Deep in the back of the pantry Leah found a hoard of applesauce, the quart jars filled with the pink bounty from the orchard. Gar had not worked hard today and would not be overly hungry. They would make do.

  Kristofer burst through the door just as she drew the pan of corn bread from the oven, his eyes sparkling, his eager words pouring forth. “I had a long ride with Banjo and we looked at all the fences and counted the cows and I helped him a lot. He said he couldn’t hardly get along without me.”

  Leah’s smile came easy and she hugged the boy against her breast. His hair was sweaty and smelled of horses and saddles and hot sunshine. He carried the same scents as his father, she thought, closing her eyes to better retain this single moment in her memory. He would grow so fast, this small replica of Garlan Lundstrom.

  In years to come, she would bring to mind this day, this year in her life, when good and bad were wound so tightly together it seemed impossible to separate one from the other.

  She released him from her embrace, and his grin was as pure as sunshine. “I sure am glad you came to live with us, Miss Leah.”

  Her hand ruffled his hair, then smoothed it into place. “I am, too, Kristofer. I am, too.”

  “I didn’t know if you would come to my room tonight, Gar.”

  He stood in the doorway, one hand gripping the edge of the jamb, the other holding the glass doorknob. “Why did you doubt my word? I said it would be so.”

  She stood before the dresser, watching him in the mirror, her hair a veil over her shoulders, curling and waving to her waist. Her hairbrush was still uplifted, frozen in place, as it had been since his knock and immediate entrance to her room.

  “I thought…” She lowered the brush to the dresser top and pulled her hair over her shoulder to form the braid she wore nightly.

  “You thought—?” He prompted her, closing the door quietly behind himself. She watched as he slid his suspenders from his shoulders and undid the front of his trousers.

  “I don’t think it matters, now,” she told him, suddenly aware of her own lack of clothing. The gown she wore to bed was of fine batiste, an extravagance on her part, but one she gloried in. That a man should see her in it had not been part of the plan when she bought it from Bonnie Nielsen. Now it felt like cobwebs against her skin, its fullness floating like a gauzy cloud around her body.

  He sat on a chair near the door, and all she could see of him was his head and chest as he lifted one foot to pull his sock off. He repeated the action with his other foot, then stretched his legs before him, his arms crossed against the width of his chest. Her hair became too much of a problem to cope with suddenly, and she allowed it to fall from her hands.

  “I want to know what you are thinking, Leah. Is it that you need to confide in your husband? Or that you have secrets better left hidden? Secrets that only the sheriff in town should know?”

  She swung to face him, noting the way his eyes narrowed and swept the length of her body, lingering on her bare toes for just a moment. “I thought you would not want to come to me tonight. That you were angry with me because I didn’t talk to you on the way home from town.”

  A flush rode his cheekbones and his eyes made a trail from her feet upward, seeming to delve beneath the gown to find her hidden secrets. The air was still, the night birds silent outside the window, and his movements were slow and deliberate as he rose from the chair.

  He unbuttoned his shirt rapidly and shrugged it from his shoulders. Beneath it he wore only pale skin, with a tightly furred triangle covering his chest, a narrow strip of darker hair disappearing beneath his gaping trousers.

  “My anger cannot compete with what I feel right now, wife.”

  Her mouth would not form the words her mind whispered inside her head. If anger was not foremost in his thoughts, what did that leave? His eyes burned darkly, his flesh drawn tightly over his jaw, that firm line bespeaking a tension she could not fathom. And his hands had formed fists—large, formidable weapons that could easily render a man unconscious if he so desired. What havoc could they wreak on a woman?

  And yet, he’d said he was not so much angry as…what?

  “Are you going to thump me until I tell you what you want to know, Gar?” Even as she spoke the words, she knew the thought was ridiculous.

  “I will never strike you, Leah. I only curl my fingers into my palms in order to keep them from touching you until we speak.”

  “Must we speak tonight?” In that moment, she could think of nothing more enticing than to have Garlan Lundstrom’s hands touch her. Beneath the fine fabric of her nightgown, her breasts peaked in readiness for those long fingers to enclose their weight. The memory of his muscular thighs pressing to find space between hers brought to life a heated thrumming in the very depths of her belly.

  She shifted, moving her legs, unsure if the bones they contained were strong enough to carry her weight. Her breathing was affected, her lungs suddenly incapable of supplying the air she required. And surely that was not her heart, skipping and quivering within her breast.

  “I think you are right, Leah. I think we can speak tomorrow. Tonight is not made for talking, but for allowing our bodies to know each other.” He nodded at the bed, his unspoken message clear and deliberate.

  Leah levered herself away from the dresser, her hair flowing freely. She began to braid it once more, her fingers quickly twining thick sections together.

  “Leave it loose.”

  Her fingers set free the waving strands and she sat on the edge of the bed, watching as he walked to stand before her.

  “Move over, Leah. I will sleep on this side.” His hands pushed trousers and underwear from his body in one motion, and he stood before her, this arrogant, bossy man who had married her.

  Within her rose a surge of rebellion that he should tell her to do this, to move here or there, that he should think himself the master of her body and order her to accede to his demands.

  Yet, what else would she have happen this night? Would she banish him from her room, this room he had made ready for a bride, then left empty for so many years? No, she could not. Arrogant or not, proud or humble, Garlan Lundstrom was her husband and she would do as he asked, for there was within her some small voice that cried for his touch, that yearned for his body to possess hers.

  If she would ever come to love him fully, she must fully be his wife, and Gar had said she had much to learn. But this much she knew: the desire he set to churning within her body could only be quenched by the force of his passion, and the need to be joined to him was but one part of the puzzle.

  Tonight she would allow him to teach her the solving of it.

  He waited until she moved to the middle of the bed and then slid in beside her, gathering her into his arms as if he would take her very essence into his body. Between them her gown was a thin wall that offered little resistance, the tiny buttons yielding readily to Gar’s fingers. He was adept at this, she decided as he spread wide the bodice, revealing the slope of her breasts.

  His hand slipped beneath the material and he weighed the curve of her fullness in his hand, a growl of appreciation signifying his pleasure. His head nudged her cheek and she looked up at him, fascinated by the pale heat of his eyes as his gaze encompassed her face. He bent to her, his mouth hot against her own, his lips soft yet assured.

  She opened to him, the sensation of another’s tongue touching where only her own had dwelt holding her in thrall. He explored, nudging her into a reaction she delighted in.

  He retreated slowly, the candlelight glistening on his damp lips. “Ah, you learn fast, my wife.” His teasing words pleased her, and she smiled. “I don’t frighten you?” She shook her head, a minu
te movement. “Will you learn more?” Her hand lifted to slide behind his neck and she tugged him closer, fitting her mouth to his once more.

  He traced the edge of her lips with his own, as if he would commit them to memory. His hand tightened its hold on her breast, one finger moving in a circular fashion around the pink, sensitive bit of flesh.

  She inhaled sharply when his tongue touched the crest that had been prepared for it. His mouth enclosed the firm, pebbled surface and tugged at its length, and Leah was cast into a sea of sensation beyond her wildest fancy.

  A thin wire seemed to stretch the length of her body, from her breast to the hidden secrets where soft folds of her flesh craved his touch. She shifted against Gar, felt his leg ease between her thighs and submitted to the pressure he exerted there. There, where she knew only a tingling, burning need that begged for relief from his teasing torment.

  His hand smoothed its way down her back, then lifted her thigh to accommodate his touch. His leg held her so, and she knew a moment of panic as his hand parted the veil of curls that protected her woman’s parts.

  A long finger slipped easily against her tender flesh, and he murmured a word against her breast as he plied that clever fingertip. She was still, as if frozen in his hands, but the heat of her body yearned for a cooling breeze and she tugged the sheet from her. His hand was motionless, seeming to await her pleasure, and she shifted her hips restlessly, seeking the elusive sensation he brought her.

  “Leah, roll to your back,” he whispered, his fingers cupping her, as if he could not bear to release the treasure he had discovered.

  She obeyed, caught up in the fabric twisted around her body, and with a muffled phrase she could not understand, Gar released her, his powerful hands lifting her and stripping the gown over her head. He flung it to the floor, and with unerring precision, his hand found its place once more.

  His mouth returned to hers, warm and seeking, suckling at her lips, then smoothing its way over her cheek to her temple, charting a path with teeth and tongue that delighted her. He had not treated her so last night, for there in the barn he had taken her more rapidly, as though he must stake a claim upon her body.

  She had gloried in his touch then; now, she reveled in it, her body seeking whatever he offered. He urged her submission and she granted his wish, opening to his possession. His hands delivered warmth and tender touches, then sought her compliance, even as he demanded her response.

  Clever fingers invaded the tender depths of her body, pressing with gentle friction until she gasped for breath. Her hips surged upward, and she cried out, knowing such pleasure could not be possible, not in this lifetime or in the heaven to come.

  But he proved her wrong.

  He was the giver of joy, and she received it. He lavished her with his gentleness, and she welcomed it. He sought and found the secrets she could not conceal from his greater knowledge, opening to his touch as he coaxed her to his will. He supplied the wings that empowered her release, and her body took flight, soaring within his embrace.

  She trembled beneath him, aware of his weight as he moved over her, finding his place. He lifted her, hands firm upon her hips, and with a groan that seemed wrenched from his depths, he filled her with the very essence of his manhood.

  His thrusts were accompanied by murmurs that escaped his lips, words meshing with sounds of pure pleasure. He was within her, her captor, his weight pressing her into the bed as he came down over her body, his forehead touching hers, his hands surrounding her face.

  She held him within her arms, strong hands clutching him, fingers pressing to bring him ever closer to her yearning, straining body.

  They were equally the victors in this, he with his taking, she with the giving of herself. And in those final moments, as she knew herself to be the recipient of his seed, she was truly his bride. What had come to pass between them tonight far overshadowed their coming together in the darkness of the barn.

  Here, in the light of candles, with his harsh face above her, she had seen the man exposed, as he gave himself into her keeping. And knew a moment of delight as she took his vulnerability to herself, aware in one brief second of clarity that the possession was not one-sided. She had possessed him as well.

  For there was a hidden, vulnerable part of this man, and it would forever be hers.

  Leah slept in his arms, and when she awoke, he watched her, leaning over her on one elbow, holding tightly to the sheet as if he forbade her to cover herself from him. Leah smiled as she felt the flush rise to paint her cheeks.

  “You blush again, Leah. Does your memory hold pleasure this morning?”

  She nodded, unable to speak of the night past.

  “Hold it fast, wife. No matter the storms that come, this part of our life will be sacred, a place we will visit for pleasure and comfort, where we can forget all else but this desire that draws us together.”

  She’d never heard such beauty spoken aloud. That this gruff, arrogant man could speak such words in her hearing was almost not to be believed. Leah touched the back of his head and drew him down for her caress. Her lips brushed against his in a soft kiss of thanksgiving, no desire tainting its purity, only a whispering graze of fragile flesh, still swollen from the night past, when their kisses had been passion filled and seeking.

  He smiled, his blue eyes seeming to see within her soul. “I think you may be the woman of my heart. Know that I have never spoken those words to another, Leah.”

  The fancy black buggy arrived midmorning, when Gar and his men were hard at work with the second cutting of alfalfa in the farthest hay field. Leah wiped her hands dry on the flowered apron she wore, peering through the kitchen window at the driver.

  He sat with reins in hand, hat pulled over his forehead and one foot propped against the front of his vehicle. His bay mare twitched her tail and bent her head to sniff at the clover growing by her shod hooves. With agile strength, Eric Magnor leaped from the buggy and tied his horse to the rail.

  Leah watched with mixed emotions, one part of her welcoming the visitor, the other dreading telling Gar of his visit. Her gaze swept over Eric, noting the welltailored clothing he wore, his clear-eyed appraisal of his surroundings and his confident air.

  The screen door was a fragile barrier between them as he stepped onto the porch, and Leah opened it without hesitation.

  “Come in, Mr. Magnor. What brings you here?”

  He walked past her, his eyes meeting hers for less than a second, then he scanned the kitchen. He pulled a chair from the table and paused beside it. “May I sit down, Leah?”

  “Yes, certainly.” There was a disturbing note in his voice, and she hesitated where she stood, framed in the doorway.

  He removed his hat and gloves. “Sit down, Leah. We must talk.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Sit. Please.” He watched her as she stepped to the table and sat down across from him. His eyes traveled the distance from her hands, clenched before her, to where her teeth bit at her lower lip.

  “I have heard rumors in town, Leah. I fear you are in need of help. What can I do?”

  “Rumors?” Surely the sheriff had not spread the news of Sylvester Taylor’s detective.

  “A detective has offered a reward for your whereabouts, and one of the men is bragging about the money he will come into once his telegram is received in Chicago.”

  “What do you mean? Who would do such a thing?”

  “You scorned a surly young fellow before you married Gar Lundstrom, didn’t you? The man works for me. Brian Havelock. Perhaps I should say, he used to work for me.”

  “Brian? Brian would do this to me? Surely not, Mr. Magnor. There must be some mistake. How would he even know the detective from Chicago was there, looking for me?”

  Eric shook his head. “Such a thing to happen in our town, Leah. There was a poster put up at either end of town, with your description and your name, offering a reward. They tell me Brian saw it and sent a wire within minutes to the detect
ive agency.”

  “Sheriff Anderson didn’t tell me about the posters.”

  “He didn’t know. They were put up without his knowledge. He tore them down in no time, but it was too late, my dear. The damage had been done.”

  “What will I do?”

  “What does Gar want you to do?” He looked out the screen door. “Where is he, Leah? I should be telling him about this, too. He needs to be prepared for what will happen next.”

  “He doesn’t know.” As if those words condemned her, she lifted her hands to cover her face, overwhelmed by guilt. “I meant to tell him, but we…” She shook her head, thinking of the hustle and bustle of early-morning preparations for the haying. They had been late rising, and Gar had been impatient, barely waiting for breakfast before he left to join his farmhands on the hay wagon.

  “This is something you cannot keep from him, Leah. These are serious charges, according to the sheriff.”

  She lifted her head, aghast at his words. “You know about it? The sheriff told you?”

  He nodded. “Yes. I went to see him when I heard about it this morning at the sawmill. The town is abuzz with gossip, and I knew I must hear the truth from your lips.”

  “Oh, God!” It was a fervent petition, her head bowed, hot tears washing her eyes.

  “Leah, the sheriff says you are being accused in the death of a newborn child.”

  She lifted her head, dreading the accusation that must surely be aimed in her direction. Blue eyes, filled with sadness and seeming to peer within her very soul, met her gaze. “As God is my witness, I delivered a live child, only to find it with a broken neck, less than half an hour later.

  “The mother accused me of the death, and I feared for my life. Mr. Taylor is a rich man, an influential man, and he desperately wanted a son.”

  “Then why did he call you to take the case? Surely, his wife had gone to a physician in Chicago during her pregnancy.” Eric’s brow was furrowed.