A Patchwork Family

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “You’re a fine young man, Billy. You could teach your sister a thing or two about what’s really important,” she said, gazing proudly into his eyes. “But she’s a girl, and right now she’s caught up in her dressmaking and schoolwork and social activities. Now run on out and help Judd. I have a pumpkin pie to make for somebody’s birthday.”

  November 19, 1867

  My dearest Mercedes, Judd, and Billy,

  Holiday greetings to all, as I’m not sure how soon this letter will arrive. It’s snowy and cold here, and before we know it, Thanksgiving and Christmas will bring us to the end of another year.

  I have asked Christine again and again if we couldn’t accept your invitations. I have reminded her that seeing her brother is so much more important than her objections to the “isolated wilderness” she calls Kansas. She will be serving holiday meals at the Home for the Friendless, and is sewing new clothing as Christmas gifts at the local orphanage. Honorable, commendable pursuits, but she commits herself to these projects before asking me—and no doubt in defiance of our wishes that she’d visit Billy!

  I know, however, that she reads his letters again and again. I don’t look over her shoulder as she writes to you, but I suspect Christine’s letters express a lot about her various interests and activities, and little in the way of affection. Though I cannot condone this attitude, or the shabby way she has treated you, Mercedes, I attribute her aloofness to the way her mother broke her heart when she abandoned those children. You know—quite well—how I cannot force that willful young lady to do anything!

  You can at least be pleased that she has advanced far beyond any student I’ve ever instructed with her design work and sewing. You have saved that young lady’s life, by giving her the opportunity to develop her God-given talents, and to forge a future for herself.

  As far as I know, Christine has heard nothing more about her mother. I have, however, enclosed the last of the letters from Mr. Trudeau. I wrote him a brief but firm note insisting he correspond with her no more, and he has kindly complied. I see no honorable purpose in letting him believe she is receiving his mail, or that it would be proper for her to reply, anyway.

  Have a Merry Christmas, my dears, and know that I wish I could be there to celebrate with you!

  My love,

  Aunt Agatha

  With a sigh, Mercy glanced at the unopened letters. Two more of them, in thicker envelopes than merely polite correspondence would require. Her fingers stroked the seals, itching to rip them open. What if Tucker Trudeau had written news about the children’s mother? What if Virgilia Bristol was trying to contact them, and the Atchison photographer was the only connection she had to her daughter?

  It was probably true that Christine’s imagination had magnified her girlish feelings toward an older, compassionate man, and had embellished his kindness into an affection she believed was mutual. But who was to say that Tucker’s intentions weren’t perfectly honorable? The girl had no doubt sneaked letters out to him—probably as she went to help at the orphanage and the soup kitchen. Christine had to be wondering why he didn’t reply, just as Mr. Trudeau had probably puzzled over letters that reflected no knowledge of his.

  At least Aunt Agatha had informed him of the situation now. It seemed so unfair not to tell Christine what her well-meaning headmistress had done. But again, Mercy didn’t want the girl to explode in Aunt Agatha’s face and run off—or otherwise jeopardize the bright future she’d have if she graduated from the Academy for Young Ladies with Miss Vanderbilt’s blessings. Not to mention her personal and social connections.

  Mercy smiled wryly. She couldn’t send Trudeau’s let ters to Christine at school, knowing Aunt Agatha would see them. And since the willful redhead refused to come here, she had no chance to hand them over in person. A dilemma she didn’t like, but one she hadn’t created, either.

  And surely if Mr. Trudeau had urgent information about Mrs. Bristol or that huckster Wyndham she’d run off with, he would be resourceful enough to send his letter here to Abilene. Unless, of course, Christine had told him not to. Another situation of the girl’s own making.

  So once again Mercy tucked the unopened letters into the bottom drawer of her vanity. And once again she wondered how to tell Billy his sister wouldn’t be coming for Christmas.

  Chapter Twenty

  As the blowing of snowflakes gave way to the greening of trees, it seemed to Mercy that the world was aflutter: birds winging over the sprouted corn rows, cottonwood leaves quivering in the wind, butterflies lighting on wildflowers. It felt so good to be hanging the wash on clotheslines Judd had strung between the trees, watching the garments flap and dance instead of freezing stiff. And then a fluttering inside made her retch so unexpectedly, she almost splattered the shirt she’d just hung.

  She sat down hard on the grassy bank. Was her head reeling with the June heat? Or had she eaten something that was taking its revenge? The sunlit diamonds on the river nearly blinded her, yet she couldn’t stop staring at them. Her mouth tasted coppery and began to water like she was about to vomit again.

  When she gazed anxiously toward the corrals, the motion made her too dizzy to holler for Judd, even if she’d spotted him. The heavy clang of hammer on anvil told her he and Ned McKenzie, the farrier, were still shoeing horses. Billy and the hands were in the barn, too, so no one would hear her if she cried for help.

  Somehow, slowly, she got the rest of the clothes hung, and somehow, slowly, she got to the house. Her need for the bread she’d baked that morning couldn’t wait for the next meal or even a knife. Judd came inside just as she was stuffing a hunk of it into her mouth as though she hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  He wiped sweat from his forehead. “You all right, honey? You look a little pale.”

  Mercy nodded, trying to chew and swallow without choking. She hated to worry him. If he was playing nursemaid, he and the farrier wouldn’t finish today, and Ned had other families to work for tomorrow.

  Judd filled two cups with water he’d just brought in, setting one on the dry sink in front of her while he downed the other. Watching her. Assessing the possibilities, as she had: In the years they’d lived here, their diet had varied little and she’d shown no inclination to be sickly.

  Gently he raised her cup to her lips, but, feeling another sudden urge to regurgitate, she knocked it from his hand. Truly frustrated now, Mercy began to cry. Yet as her husband held her against his warm, solid body, she could feel him laughing. With a towel, he wiped her mouth and then blotted her wet blouse. She wanted to slap that grin right off his face.

  “Is there something you want to tell me, sweetheart? Or is your body already doing that?” he crooned.

  “What are you . . . how can you laugh at me when I’m trying not to—”

  Judd held her fast so she wouldn’t struggle out of his embrace. His deep blue eyes seemed to see inside her very soul—or at least see what was wrong with her.

  “I have a feeling Mother Nature and God have finally put their heads—and whatever else—together, Mrs. Monroe. And come next spring, we’ll be calling you something besides Mercy.”

  Why wasn’t any of this making sense? Had she lost her mind along with her breakfast? She rested her head against his chest, wondering when she’d be able to get on with her day.

  “So now you’ve got a real decision,” he went on, still chuckling softly. “Do you want to be called Ma? Or Mother? Or Mama?”

  A baby? Could it really be?

  That night Mercy’s mind raced with the implications of what Judd had suggested. When she heard his deep, even breathing, her hands went to her abdomen, to feel for any changes that might be taking place inside her.

  Nothing.

  Thank God she’d stopped vomiting after Judd returned to the barn, so Billy and the two hands had no idea of her supposed condition at dinner. They’d been talking about the day’s work with the horses, and Billy now sported a huge bruise on his thigh. Mr. Lincoln’s mama had kicked him when he found
a tender spot while filing her back hoof. So if she seemed pale or different somehow, none of them had mentioned it.

  Maybe she wasn’t in the family way at all. Wasn’t she supposed to look radiant enough that others would notice the change immediately?

  Mercy turned on her side, frowning in the darkness. What if she was carrying a child? What on God’s earth did she know about such things? As the youngest daughter, who’d been sent away to school among other young girls—with a spinster aunt for a headmistress—she’d had no exposure to those mysteries of womanhood. Mother wasn’t one to talk about such things. It was Judd who’d taught her the details of intimacy on their wedding night.

  What if she did something wrong? How would she know?

  What if the baby was malformed or sickly? Though she took no stock in the old beliefs that barren women were being punished for their sins, she had to wonder why—after six anxious years—she now showed signs of being pregnant. Or at least Judd saw it that way.

  She sighed, and a tear slithered down each cheek. And this infuriated her. She was not a crybaby. Mercedes Monroe was a stalwart, cheerful woman of faith who had adjusted to the rigors of homesteading with few regrets about what she’d left behind in Philadelphia. While she sometimes missed the little luxuries of privileged living, she’d wholeheartedly chosen to homestead with Judd, and she’d never looked back. This was her life now, on land they owned free and clear. And she was proud of that.

  But it would be nice to have another woman to talk to. Someone to answer my silly, fearful questions.

  There was Elizabeth Barstow, on the next place over. With those four blond children who stood like stair steps, she certainly knew about birthing and babies.

  Yet as Mercy recalled that day in Doc Moon’s store, when Elizabeth had ridiculed her decision to send Christine to school, she’d felt their friendship slip a notch. And it wasn’t as if she could go running over there with every little twinge and concern.

  Mercy kicked off the sheet. In a couple of weeks, all the neighbors along the stage line would be here for their annual Fourth of July gathering—not only Elizabeth, but Rachel Clark and Nell Fergus and other women. By then, perhaps she could decide whom to trust with her questions.

  Maybe the ladies would have a quilting bee or other gathering to give her gifts for the new baby, as they’d done for Elizabeth. There, they always passed along their wisdom and remedies and advice. How she wished she’d been listening to this chatter, but it hadn’t seemed important before. Collectively, those hardy women had experienced nearly every situation or complication she would confront. Out here on the prairie, they relied on each other, for only women really understood how to elevate this isolated life above the level of mere survival.

  She sighed. So many things to think about, when she really wanted to rest. Mercy hoped she’d get her cooking done without being sick when the stage came through tomorrow. How humiliating, to be retching behind the house, knowing the passengers could hear her. They’d probably guess at her condition and whisper behind her back.

  What if there really is a baby? What if we get snowed in this winter and—

  Judd’s arm slipped around her from behind. “Our smiles will probably give it away,” he murmured against her ear, “but are you going to announce our big news at the party?”

  “No! It’s too soon,” she replied. When she sensed she had burst his balloon, Mercy added, “I want to be sure before we say anything. No sense in having everyone congratulate us for a false alarm.”

  Judd’s chuckle told her he would humor her. For now.

  “Honey, if the Lord has chosen this time to bless us,” he whispered in the dimness, “we might as well decide we’re along for the ride. God’s been the driver all along, and He will change everything with this child.”

  Did she look any different? Would the neighbors know, from the way she acted today?

  Mercy watched the wagons pulling into the yard and wanted to hide in the house. Even though the little kitchen sweltered from baking prairie chickens and a buffalo roast, it felt more comfortable than subjecting herself to their pointed stares at her pale face or her belly—even though her dress still fit the same.

  Billy and Nathaniel unhitched horses and led them into the corral, while Asa carried the food to the long tables. Reverend Larsen was opening his Bible on the podium. Some of the women had faded like flowers in a drying bouquet, and the men had gray in their hair, but these friends were essentially the same solid farmers who’d agreed to work for Ben Holladay and then for the Wells Fargo express lines.

  Only her view of them was different. Because a baby was on the way.

  But no—Emma Clark wasn’t jumping down from the wagon today. She was dressed in bright green gingham that looked new, and her hair was pulled back into a matching ribbon at the crown so her golden waves cascaded halfway down her back. When her father helped her to the ground, she turned, and Mercy’s jaw dropped.

  She had hips. Curves above and below that announced she was no longer a little girl—and a smile that said she knew it, too. Now thirteen, Emma Clark exuded a confident charm Mercy couldn’t have mustered at that age, and the girl was searching the yard to see what her buddy Billy thought of it. Gabriel and the two dogs bounded down as though they knew they were mere commoners accompanying this queen.

  Take note, that little voice inside Mercy teased. This young lady can remind you of a thing or two about being female. And being pleased about it.

  So Mercy stepped out into the yard, carrying the covered roasting pan of carved buffalo, smiling despite the July heat. Her stomach lurched, but she walked on.

  I will not vomit! I will NOT vomit! she vowed with every step.

  “Here—let me help you with that.”

  “Why, thank you, Michael, but I can carry—”

  The stage driver stepped in front of her, grinning mischievously as his hands closed over hers. Despite the thick hot pads, Mercy was suddenly aware of the heat her pan gave off as Malloy’s hazel eyes sparkled above hers.

  “So it’s true.” His mustache twitched with mirth. “Congratulations, Mercy. Judd told me about your blessed event—but I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  When her mouth fell open, he relieved her of the pan.

  “Now, don’t be mad at him! He’s just so proud he’s going to pop if he doesn’t tell somebody,” Malloy went on. He set the pan on the table, glancing around to be sure they weren’t overheard. “Couldn’t happen to nicer folks—you’ll be a wonderful mother, Mercy. Now, what’d you cook today? It’s always the best food on the—”

  When he lifted the lid, the aroma of the buffalo made Mercy gag and grab her mouth. Mike quickly covered the pan again. “Soda crackers. You got any soda crackers?” he asked quietly. “Breathe deep and slow now . . . that’s the way. This, too, shall pass, you know.”

  How did he know? Yet his suggestions, spoken with low assurance, settled her enough that she thought she could make it back to the house without erupting. Mercy walked without meeting anyone else’s eye, grateful that Malloy accompanied her to steady her arm.

  Once in the kitchen, she grabbed the sack of crackers on the shelf and ate one, then another, praying nobody would come in to ask what was going on between her and Malloy. It didn’t seem to bother him that curious neighbors could spread all kinds of rumors—and then, when they found out she was expecting—why, the speculation—

  “Eat another one, honey. Sugar cookies work, too, if those crackers taste stale.” He leaned a hip against the dry sink, as though he had no intention of moving until she felt better. “I have six sisters. There’s not a lot I haven’t seen when it comes to bringing kids into the world.”

  “Thank you,” she gasped. “I was fine while that roast was baking, but when you lifted—”

  “Probably the gamey smell set you off.” He let her take one more cracker and then folded the bag down. “Stick with potatoes and bread and cake today. You’ll be fine in a few weeks, and then you’ll be eati
ng everything in sight. Odd combinations, like jelly and pickle sandwiches.”

  When she grimaced, Malloy’s laughter filled the kitchen. He focused those eyes on her one more time, eyes that mellowed with friendly affection. “I’m really happy for you, Mercy,” he said. “I know you’ve been waiting for this a long time, after giving up so much to come out here.”

  Was that wistfulness in his smile? As though he wished for a family of his own? Michael Malloy was a handsome young man, yet she’d never heard him mention a sweetheart. He stepped back outside, hailing his friends as though nothing unusual had happened.

  A few deep breaths later, Mercy rejoined the gathering. She didn’t want to be the last one to sit down for the church service. Judd patted the bench beside him, smiling.

  “Hope you don’t mind my telling Malloy—”

  “No, it’s fine,” she whispered.

  And when she looked up at Judd, she saw the pride Michael had been talking about; realized that she wasn’t the only one with something at stake here. Something to hope for.

  Nor did she have to go through the next several mysterious months—and then endure the somewhat terrifying ordeal of giving birth—alone. For when had Judd Monroe ever fallen short or let her down? When had he ever lost his temper—or his nerve?

  The comforting drone of Gregor Larsen’s Scripture reading made her breathe deeply and prepare herself to hear his message.

  “It’s going to be all right,” she repeated, lacing her fingers between Judd’s. “Everything’s going to be fine. I can believe that now.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “So what do you think of my new dress, Billy? I’ve been savin’ it ’specially for today.”

  Emma pivoted to make her skirt billow out over her shoe tops, and when she stopped, that look on her face made him press back against the side of the barn. He could feel the crack where two boards came together, and he was wishing he could squeeze through it and disappear.