To Catch a Bride

by Gina Welborn

  He heaved a breath in and out of his tight lungs. “I don’t see any drooping, but there are a few veins at the corners of your eyes.”

  Her face scrunched in an adorable manner as she seemed to be considering his observations. After a moment, she nodded and stepped back a few paces. “Thank you.”

  Now that she wasn’t so near—and he could think more with his mind than with his body—he noticed the pallor of her skin. “Are you all right? You seem a little pale.”

  Mrs. Svenson started to laugh. There was a deep-throated quality to it, not the high-pitched cackle he found so annoying in some women. “I’m fine. I won’t detain you any longer.” She hurried to the front of her buckboard.

  He followed and assisted her into the wagon. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she repeated with a smile—although it didn’t reach her eyes.

  And yet, David still couldn’t breathe. She was far lovelier than a widow ought to be in a town of reprobates and heathens. For her safety, she needed to return to Minnesota. Or find a husband here.

  She gathered the reins and released the brake. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Pawlikowski. I’ll check back with you on the wheel next . . . um, soon.” She snapped the reins and the buckboard started forward.

  David pressed his lips together and rubbed the seam with his fingers, unsure if he should go after her or not. Mrs. Svenson was the most capable woman he’d ever met. And the most honest. If she said there was nothing wrong, she meant it. Besides, she was heading home. Being alone with her was the last temptation he needed.

  He picked up the wagon wheel and headed back inside his shop.

  * * *

  Marilyn held Archimedes to the slowest possible pace to lessen the wagon’s jostling while heading straight to Dr. Tolbert’s medical tent.

  Facts didn’t lie. Her cycle, while never having been regular, hadn’t visited since Gunder’s death. Between the shock of losing him so unexpectedly and the additional work around the homestead, she’d not noticed being overdue—hadn’t even thought about it—until the third wave of dizziness hit outside The Repair and Resale Shop. She’d already been in the bright sunshine, so the cause couldn’t be a change in light.

  There was a distinct possibility she was pregnant.

  However, Mr. Pawlikowski’s observations of her eyes were unreliable at best. Nor was there any substantive research in any of the journals she owned to verify Dr. Jacques Guillemeau’s theories about how a woman’s eyes changed when she was with child. The one other time dizziness had overtaken her was during her first pregnancy, which had lasted a mere seven weeks. Drawing a correlation between then and now was, at best, inconclusive.

  If she’d noticed her missed monthly, she would have conducted a wheat and barley experiment before riding into Helena. She’d thought it odd when she first read about how the Egyptians discovered that, by watering bags of seed with a woman’s urine, they could determine not only whether the woman was pregnant but also the sex of the child. The wheat and barley experiment had accurately predicted all of her pregnancies, although she’d never carried a child long enough to know if she’d now be the proud mother of three boys and two girls. Had she done the experiment and one of the bags sprouted, she never would have risked a miscarriage by riding from her ranch to town for an hour over bumpy roads.

  She reined Archimedes to a stop outside the doctor’s tent.

  An inebriated miner stumbled through the canvas door flap and greeted her with a slurred, “How’r ya doin’ there, Mrs. Lady,” before wandering off in the direction of Prostitute Alley.

  Interesting how some men, when intoxicated, turned jovial and others turned mean. Was it possible to test for the reason why? People were unique. Even those who shared the same circumstances were different because of their individual desires or interests. She had twin uncles, and despite being raised in the same household, they were as dissimilar as apples and pickles.

  Dr. Tolbert stuck his head outside the tent flap. “Well, hello, Mrs. Svenson.” He stepped into the sunshine to help her down from the buckboard. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I think I may be with child.” Her heart lifted saying the words aloud, but hope was a dangerous thing.

  The doctor’s auburn eyebrows lifted. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” she responded as was expected. The doctor didn’t know his felicitations were premature. She couldn’t afford to accept them into her heart. “I’m not certain of it yet. I was hoping you could examine me.”

  “You won’t be the first mother I’ve attended to.” He motioned to the tent flap. “Please.”

  She ducked inside the tent. As she looked around, she waited for the sight of a bloody towel to make her nauseous.

  Nothing.

  She peeled off her gloves and tossed them on a nearby chair, then set her reticule on top of them. As she untied her bonnet, Dr. Tolbert grabbed the towel and shoved it inside a large barrel.

  He cleared the examination table of some bandaging. “I’ll need you to disrobe to your undergarments and lie down. I’ll wait outside until you’re ready.”

  Once he left the tent, Marilyn unbuttoned her dress, let it drop to her ankles, then worked to loosen the petticoat. Down to her bloomers, she stepped out of the circle of fabric and crossed to the wooden table, positioning herself as instructed. “I’m ready!”

  Dr. Tolbert reappeared. He stepped close to the table and placed his hands on her abdomen. “Yes, quite firm and a little rounded. How far along are you in this pregnancy?”

  “I’ll need to consult my calendar at home to be certain”—assuming she could find it, of course—“but I believe I know when I conceived. If I’m correct, I should be approximately eleven weeks.”

  Frowning, he pressed his fingers against her abdomen again. “Your uterus is almost rounded to your belly button. I’d say that puts you at closer to four months.”

  Four months? That wasn’t possible.

  “I’m certain I had a monthly cycle in April.” She remembered because of how late it had been—thirty-six days—and how, when it arrived, it had dashed her hopes.

  Dr. Tolbert stepped away from the table. “Some women have a bit of bleeding at the beginning of a pregnancy, which they mistake for a monthly. Most often it stops on its own, but sometimes it leads to a miscarriage.”

  Flutters of hope filled her breast. “Are you saying I might have suffered a near miscarriage but didn’t?”

  He nodded. “You seem to have a specific reason for asking.”

  “I’ve experienced five miscarriages, all before my twelfth week.”

  “I see.” In those two simple words she heard sympathy and maybe a bit of understanding.

  He couldn’t understand. He couldn’t truly know what it felt like to lose five children before meeting them. To wonder if they would have looked like Gunder or her, if they would have his persistence or her curiosity, and if they would grow up to go their own way or stay close to home. Few things made her cry, but if she dwelt too long on how much she and Gunder had wanted children, the tears flowed.

  “What forms of treatment have you tried?”

  The doctor’s question drew Marilyn out of her reflection. She ticked off the various—and useless—remedies on her fingers. “Lying supine with my hips elevated, an abdominal support belt, and bloodletting.”

  “I see.” This time those two words held no sympathy, no understanding. They conveyed he knew something and dreaded telling her.

  “Doctor—” At his look, she bit back her question.

  He held out his hand and assisted her to a sitting position. “I’ll give you a moment to get dressed and then we’ll talk.”

  Marilyn waited for him to exit the tent before easing herself off the table and getting dressed. She replayed what the doctor said about mistaking a bit of bleeding for a monthly. Other than being later than normal, was her last monthly unusual in any other way? She closed her eyes to conc
entrate. No. At least not enough for her to recall now.

  Tears prickled under her eyelids. A baby! And perhaps one she’d carried beyond the first three months. She opened her eyes and blinked until the sensation eased. “I’m ready,” she called loud enough for Dr. Tolbert to hear.

  He ducked back inside the tent, a frown just visible underneath his mustache. “Have you made any decisions about what to do with your homestead now that your husband has passed?”

  “As soon as head-of-household status is legally changed into my name, I intend on selling it and returning to Minnesota. That’s where Gunder and I have family.”

  Dr. Tolbert nodded. “I see. Although going back to Minnesota now is—”

  “Out of the question.” Marilyn finished his statement.

  “Exactly. Too risky in a normal pregnancy let alone for someone who has had five miscarriages. In fact”—he rubbed his hands together like he was washing them—“I don’t think it’s wise for you to ride back to your ranch.”

  Marilyn nodded. “I know.” She knew what he was saying and what he’d left unsaid. She knew the dangers of traveling while pregnant. She knew the dangers of being alone on her ranch, an hour away from civilization. She knew she needed a doctor to deliver her child.

  Most of all, she knew she could not manage this pregnancy alone.

  If she managed not to miscarry again.

  Dr. Tolbert picked up a journal with a pencil acting as a place mark and jotted something down. “I’ll need to see you once a month and at any point if you sense anything usual.”

  “Such as?”

  He paused. His brow slowly furrowed. “I have something that may interest you. Stay here for a moment.”

  As he left the tent to retrieve his mysterious item, Marilyn ran through her options as well as their various merits and difficulties. Her goal had been to change head-of-household status, sell the homestead by October 1, and return to Minnesota with the aid of the first available trail master. Leaving Helena was impossible until March of next year at the earliest. She had to think of her baby’s safety. And even then, she was limited to when someone could escort her across Dakota Territory.

  Unless she had a miscarriage—or the Union Pacific built a railroad from St. Paul to Helena practically overnight—she faced nine months minimum of living in Helena.

  Quite ironic given the circumstance.

  What was she supposed to do before she was able to sell the homestead? Without her there, squatters could take over in the next two months before Mr. Forsythe could secure her head-of-household status and once squatters were entrenched, it would be difficult to establish what improvements were hers and which were theirs. The legal hassle and expense to dislodge squatters made some people walk away from their claims without a penny in recompense.

  She needed Mr. Forsythe to work a miracle.

  Unwittingly she touched her belly where, it seemed, God was working another miracle. A fragile one she needed to protect lest it end as all the others had.

  The option of hiring men to continue working the land, even just for two months, was foolish at best. It would have been risky even with her on hand to supervise. To leave them to their own devices was akin to throwing away gold.

  Another option was remarriage. Then she could keep the homestead that she and Gunder had built. She’d wed a stranger before—although her parents had met Gunder a few times before agreeing to the marriage—so she knew it was possible for affection to grow over time. Since Gunder’s death, she’d received at least a hundred proposals.

  In her estimation, only two men in Helena were husband material. One was her lawyer, the other a self-avowed “not a marrying man.”

  Neither were homesteaders.

  Thus, neither were realistic options if—now that returning to Minnesota was impossible for almost another year—she wanted to keep the land. Both men were options if she wanted to sell the homestead and settle down in Helena. Marilyn pondered that for a moment. Life in town? Not that Helena was much of a town yet. She could build a home here. Raise her child here. The thought didn’t seem so unappealing . . . if she found a suitable man to marry.

  Until she knew if Mr. Forsythe was truly the nice man he seemed—and he didn’t have a wife or fiancée back East—she’d need to sell whatever she could and pray no squatters took over her land. She also needed to find someone trustworthy enough to tend to her livestock and retrieve her gold-filled canning jars. She knew only one person for the last job.

  Too bad he wasn’t a marrying man.

  Chapter 3

  Marilyn stabled Archimedes at the livery nearest to Dr. Tolbert’s tent. The livery owner, a squat man with arms the size of a weightlifting circus performer, took the last gold nugget stuffed inside her reticule as payment. But at least he’d promised to leave the barrels in the back of the wagon alone.

  She didn’t inform him that they were full of water, lye soap, and her undergarments. Before leaving home, she’d decided to see if the jostling motion of riding to town would get her clothes as clean as kneeling on the hard ground beside the creek and scrubbing them against a washboard did.

  On the one hand, she hoped her experiment worked. On the other, she hated thinking she’d subjected her child to the same jostling, thereby putting it at risk.

  Her heart rate picked up at how foolish she’d been not to notice her missed monthlies. She closed her eyes and touched her belly, praying God spared this child.

  She reclaimed the book Dr. Tolbert had given her from off the buckboard’s seat, then started in the direction of The Repair and Resale Shop. When she arrived, Mr. Pawlikowski was engaged in a spirited debate with a one-eyed miner over the value of several tin gold-panning plates and a small dredge. What surprised her was the lack of other customers. An hour ago, the store was brimming with men.

  Marilyn found a wooden chair to sit in while she waited for the bargaining to reach its conclusion. Unrestrainable joy made her smile. She pressed her lips together. It was too soon for happiness. Too soon to put any stock in her ability to keep this babe. But not too soon to pray again and again…and again.

  “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. P., but I ’spect yer a fair man.” The miner held out his hand to shake on their agreement.

  Mr. Pawlikowski gave the man’s hand a hearty shake. “Would you like your gold now or later?” He released the miner’s hand and walked behind his counter.

  “Later. Next freight wagon don’t come until Friday. It’s best I don’t have no gold on me ’tween now and then so’s I got at least a little somethin’ to take back to Tennessee and my missus.” He turned to leave, dipped his chin at Marilyn as a show of respect, then sauntered out of the shop.

  Marilyn strolled over to the counter, clenching her reticule and the book to her chest. “I don’t think I’ve seen your store this empty.”

  Mr. Pawlikowski hooked his thumbs between his apron and his trousers. “It happens every once in a while.”

  “Where’s George?” She glanced through the gap in the privacy curtain before returning her attention to Mr. Pawlikowski. “I thought he might be an employee of yours.”

  He gave her an odd look. “No, but he’s a trustworthy man. Are you here about the wheel?”

  “Is it fixed?”

  “It’s been an hour and half since you dropped it off,” he said with a touch of amusement in his tone.

  He was happy to see her. She knew it, even if he didn’t know it himself. The thought broke her resolve to keep happiness at bay, which was why she tossed back a flirtatious, “And?”

  He rested his right elbow on the counter, leaning forward a bit, a luminous light in his eyes. “You expect miracles, don’t you?”

  “Actually, I—” Marilyn thought for a moment. “I expect God to do wonders we never thought possible. Today is an example.”

  His head tilted as he studied her.

  She smiled at him, waiting for him to ask what was different about her. Did he see her motherly glow? She certainl
y felt it.

  When he stayed silent, she took the initiative. “I have another matter I need to discuss with you.”

  “Sounds serious,” he said in a solemn tone that she knew was not a bit solemn.

  “It is serious.” And wonderful. And glorious. And probably heartbreaking. She set her reticule on the counter, then opened the book to the title page and turned it around for him to see.

  He took the book from her. “‘Advice to a wife,’” he read, “‘on the management of her own health, and on the treatment of some of the complaints incidental to pregnancy, labour—’” He looked up. “You’re—” His eyes widened then dropped to her waist.

  She chuckled. “There’s nothing to see.”

  “I take it this is a surprise.”

  “It is.” More than he could imagine.

  “You must be thrilled.”

  And terrified, both in equal proportion.

  He put a gentle hand on her arm. “I’m glad you will have something to remember Gunder by,” he said softly before drawing his hand back.

  “Thank you.” Marilyn’s throat tightened, neither from pain nor grief but because Mr. Pawlikowski truly cared. “This means I need to stay in Helena for the duration of my pregnancy. I’ve had multiple miscarriages, and it’s imperative that I not bounce around traveling back and forth from my ranch to town. I’d like to take you up on your offer to sell what you can of my belongings and livestock.”

  “Of course, yes.” He seemed relieved. Or something else entirely. She couldn’t tell what. He laid the book on the counter. “Do you still intend on selling the homestead?”

  “Yes, but I can’t until I’ve secured a change in head-of-household status.” The words unless I remarry lingered on the tip of her tongue. She wanted her baby to have a father. A good father. A man who would model honor, integrity, and compassion for all. A man like David Pawlikowski.

  If only he was a marrying man.

  “Would you mind going out to the ranch after the shop closes?” she asked.

  “I can close now and head out in a half hour or so. Would that be amenable?”