by Erica Vetsch
Oscar raised one booted foot to rest on the kickboard, and propped his forearm on his knee. “If you have to go over there every day to turn them yourself, then I have to go with you. I don’t want you on those rickety cellar stairs with no one else there. And if I’m going to go, I might as well turn and brush them myself.”
Kate felt guilty causing him so much more work. He hadn’t asked for any of this. How could they repay his kindness? In her life, she had often been on the giving end of charity, but never before had she needed so much assistance.
Mantorville was a bustling, busy town, several times the size of little Berne. Built on the north bank of the Zumbro River, the town rose up from the river to the plains. Coming in from the north as they were, the town spread out and down as they reached the outskirts. On the left, the large, limestone county courthouse rose, its pillared front entrance and domed central tower a testament to law and order in Dodge County.
Oscar pulled up at the intersection of Main Street and Fifth. A square brick building stood on the corner, and hanging over the door, Dr. Horlock’s shingle swung in the breeze.
Across the street, the three-story stone Hubbell House hotel and restaurant sat solidly, white trim-work gleaming. Johann had taken Kate to the restaurant once as a special treat.
Oscar helped Kate from the wagon and held the door open, revealing a set of stairs. “Doc’s office is on the second floor. I’ve never met him, though George Frankel says he’s a good doctor. Horlock took over Doc Easterly’s practice when he retired last year.”
An enormous Boston fern sat in front of the windows, and a set of horsehair-silk furniture that had gone out of style years ago was grouped around a small, low table. On an inside door, a small sign hung from a nail. The Doctor Is With a Patient. Please Take a Seat.
Kate eased herself down into a chair, felt herself sliding on the slick upholstery and pressed her toes into the rug. The furniture reminded her of her grandmother’s parlor, and being scolded for sliding off onto the floor on purpose when she was a little girl.
Oscar clasped his hands behind his back and paced the small space. His scowl made Kate feel even worse about taking up his time like this, especially when it seemed so unnecessary.
“You don’t have to wait for me. You said you needed some supplies from the hardware store and the sawmill. I could meet you somewhere when I’m finished here. Maybe at the mercantile?”
“I’ll wait.” He stopped pacing to study a painting on the wall and then moved to read the book titles on the case in the corner.
The door opened, and Dr. Horlock came out, wiping his hands on a towel. A burly farmer followed, ducking his head to come through the doorway. “Have your wife put a poultice on the wound for a couple of days. Boils can be nasty things, and the heat will help draw out the infection now that I’ve lanced it.” He spied Kate and Oscar and smiled. “Ah, hello. I didn’t realize anyone had come in.” He nodded to the farmer. “If you aren’t better in a week, stop in again.”
The man nodded, put on his hat and clomped down the stairs, not looking at anyone.
“A man of few words.” Dr. Horlock grinned. He was about thirty, Kate guessed, but looked older. He had thinning blond hair and wore wire-framed spectacles. Slender, and not much taller than Kate, he finished drying his hands and folded the towel neatly. “Now, which one of you is the patient?” He raised his eyebrows, pretending not to notice Kate’s expanded middle.
Kate scooted to the edge of the chair and began to push herself upright. Before she got far, Oscar was there with a hand under her elbow to help.
Dr. Horlock nodded. “Come right in.” He waited for her to go in ahead of him and then looked over his shoulder. “Do you want to come in with your wife?”
Oscar was already shaking his head. “She’s not my wife.”
The doctor’s brows rose, and heat filled Kate’s face.
“She’s my neighbor. Mrs. Amaker.”
“I see.” He nodded, though he was still clearly puzzled. “Well, then. You can wait out there. We shouldn’t be long.”
The examination room had a desk and chair in one corner, a padded leather table and glass-fronted shelves full of bottles, jars and instruments. Atop the desk stood a black bag, open, and filled with the tools of his trade.
“Now, Mrs. Amaker, what can I do for you?”
Kate stood beside the exam table and spread her hands. “I don’t know. I am fit as a fiddle, and I feel fine, but I promised Mr. Rabb that I would see a doctor.” She smoothed the ends of the red shawl. “My relatives and I are staying at his house, and he’s concerned about me and the baby.”
Dr. Horlock pushed the office chair around so she could sit, and leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. He looked relaxed, friendly, and his air of competence calmed Kate. She’d never been to see a doctor before, and didn’t know what to expect, but his kindness put her at ease, and she found herself telling him about the fire and her husband’s death and Oscar’s kindness.
“You say he’s a widower and has a little girl?”
“Yes, his wife died in childbirth a couple years ago.”
The doctor removed his glasses and polished them on his handkerchief, holding them up to the sunlight. “I can understand his concern for you, then. Shall we do what we can to allay his fears?”
Kate had expected to feel horribly embarrassed, but Dr. Horlock was quick and discreet, listening to the baby’s heartbeat, asking her some questions and feeling the rambunctious movements going on inside her. “You’re correct, Mrs. Amaker, you are fit as a fiddle. That is one active baby in there. Due in six or seven weeks, I’d guess?”
She nodded. “Around Christmas.”
“That will be a nice way to start the new year. Now, who will be with you when you deliver? Do you have a midwife?”
“My husband’s grandmother. And one neighbor across the road, Mrs. Frankel, she has twelve children, and she said I could send for her when my time came, too.”
“That’s fine. And if you need me or you have any concerns, you only have to send for me.” He went to the pitcher and bowl on a small stand and washed his hands again, giving her some basic instructions about getting rest and putting her feet up for a while each day.
Kate picked up her shawl. “Doctor, there was one other thing. My grandfather—” it was easier to refer to Martin as her grandfather rather than explain the relationship “—is ailing, but he won’t come to see you. He’s got a terrible cough, the same as he had last year. Is there anything we can do for him?”
By the time she left, she felt as if she’d made a friend. She clutched a packet of powders and a bottle of cough syrup for Martin along with instructions for their preparation and use. Dr. Horlock opened the door, and she thanked him.
“Oh, I nearly forgot. I don’t have the money to pay you, but I brought something I hope you’ll take in trade.” She looked to Oscar, who was staring at the medicines in her hand, his brows bunching. “I make cheeses, and I have several nice ones with me down in the wagon.”
The physician nodded. “Ah, lovely. You wouldn’t guess it, but my wife actually put together a list of things to bring home from the grocery, and would you believe, cheese was on it?” To prove his words, he pulled a paper from his pocket. True enough, cheese was listed third. Relief made Kate smile.
“Shall we bring one up for you?”
“I’ll get my bag and go down with you. I have a few calls to make.” He plucked his suit coat off the rack and buttoned it up. “I can drop the cheese off at my house on the way.”
When Oscar and Kate stood alone on the walk, Oscar asked, “What is the medicine for? Is the doctor worried about the baby?”
Kate shook her head, touched by the concern in his voice. “No, we are fine, Baby and I. The medicine is for Martin, for his cough. I might not be able to get him to
the doctor, but I can still get him the medicine he needs. And Dr. Horlock was very nice. Do you think one cheese was enough?” She tucked the medicines under the straw in the wagon bed.
“He said it was. And now that I know how much work goes into making one, I’m sure you overpaid.” Oscar took her elbow, guiding her around the corner toward the general store.
The Mantorville Mercantile was three times the size of Hale’s in Berne, and not nearly as inviting and cheery. Shelves packed with canned goods and patent medicines, cases stuffed with collars and buttons and suspenders, tables piled high with shirts and pants. A barrel of salt pork in brine sat near the front door, and a keg of vinegar balanced atop it.
Kate had never dealt with the owner. Martin and Johann had done the cheese-selling in the past. Johann had always thought the proprietor to be cross-grained and difficult to negotiate with. A tremor went through Kate, but Martin and Inge were counting on her to strike a favorable bargain, so she must be brave.
“Mr. Watterson runs things.” Oscar kept his voice low. There were several patrons in the store, and the man behind the counter was tying up a paper-wrapped bundle for one of them. None of the customers were ladies.
Kate watched him struggle with the length of string. It was short, almost too short to accomplish his wishes. But he finally got the knot tied, with only about an inch of extra twine sticking up from the ends. Parsimonious.
When the customer left, Kate stepped forward, her hands trembling slightly. “Mr. Watterson?”
He gave her a sharp-eyed stare, his thin lips a flat line in his face, no warmth or helpfulness in his expression.
“Hello. I’m Kate Amaker. I believe you have purchased cheeses from my late husband, Johann Amaker?”
“I have purchased a few.”
Kate felt as if a cold wind had rippled over her. She forced a bright smile. “Well, I’ve brought some into town today to sell. All two-pound cheeses, but I do have larger wheels...if you prefer to have them in the store for selling wedges and slices.”
“I am not accustomed to dealing with female vendors. Send your husband in to do business if you want to sell products to me.” Mr. Watterson’s glance flicked from her middle to Oscar, who stood a few steps behind her. “Is there something I can get for you, sir?”
Oscar shook his head. “The lady was here first.”
The shopkeeper looked as if he had just sampled straight whey.
“Mr. Watterson, I cannot send my husband. He’s dead.” Kate kept her voice flat and businesslike, though it was difficult.
The storekeeper looked at her from down his narrow, long nose. “Very well. How much?”
Kate named her price per pound.
No reaction from Mr. Watterson.
“Sir?”
“I’m sorry. I was waiting for the rest of the joke. You are joking, are you not? That price is ridiculous.” He busied himself with straightening his ledger book and pencil.
“That is the price you paid last year.” Kate had seen the receipt. This store had received thirty pounds of cheese, paid in cash, eleven months ago.
“That was last year. Times are tougher now. The harvest was lean, and people are buying less. I can neither afford to keep as much inventory, nor pay as much for local products.” He spoke patronizingly, as if she, a mere woman, was too simple to understand.
Her heart sank, but she refused to show it. “Very well. I shall have to take my product elsewhere.” She tightened the strings on her reticule, and turned away.
“Wait, I didn’t say I wouldn’t buy some, but not at that price.” He placed his hands flat on the countertop. “I’ll pay half.”
Half wouldn’t even cover the cost of making the cheese in the first place. She might as well roll the wheels of Emmentaler into the ditch. Every doorway to the Amakers staying in Minnesota seemed to slam shut in her face. But she couldn’t meet Mr. Watterson’s ridiculous offer.
“No. That’s not enough.”
Shrugging, Mr. Watterson turned his back and began taking canned goods out of a box and setting them on the counter. “Suit yourself. You know my price.”
“And you know mine. Good day.” The lump in her throat made speech difficult, but she managed to at least be polite.
She headed toward the door, expecting Oscar to follow, but when he didn’t she looked back over her shoulder. He stood at the counter, hands braced flat, leaning in. His voice was low, and she couldn’t make out what he was saying, but clearly it wasn’t what Mr. Watterson wanted to hear. He leaned away, his face mottling in red blotches.
Then Oscar was at her elbow, opening the door, ushering her outside.
“I think we should have some lunch, don’t you?” His tone was so mild she blinked. “At the Hubbell House? They serve a good meal there.” When she paused her step, he shrugged. “My treat.”
The restaurant was pleasantly busy, but not crowded, and they were shown to a seat in the main dining room. The waiter handed Oscar a printed card. “We’ve still got pot roast and pork chops, but the next stage is just arriving, so you might want to hurry.”
Oscar raised his brows at Kate. “Either is fine,” she answered his unspoken question.
He ordered chops for them both, and the waiter hurried away.
“I’m sorry about that business at Watterson’s.”
Kate unfolded her napkin, smothering a weak smile at the lack of room on her lap to put it and wondering if she should just spread it over her belly. “It’s not your fault. There are men like Mr. Watterson who don’t think women should be doing business, or think that they’re too simple to understand. Or they hope they can take advantage of them, drive a hard bargain, and the woman will just fold her tent and go away.”
“I’m glad you didn’t cave. Half price.” He leaned back and toyed with the cutlery. “That’s robbery.”
“The problem is, Watterson took a lot of inventory from us last year. If I don’t sell to him this year, what can I do with the rest? Mrs. Hale will take some, but not much, and the other two stores here in Mantorville only take about ten pounds each. With there being a creamery in Rochester, the stores there don’t need to buy from me.” As she worked down her list of possible sales, the worry mounted. She’d invested time and money in the production of the cheeses, and if she couldn’t sell them, the Amakers would have nothing to show from a year’s work.
The stagecoach arrived, clattering to a stop outside the window. Through the rippled glass, Kate watched the passengers descend. The driver jumped down, coiling his whip and reaching back up for the mail bag. Hostlers hurried to unhitch the horses and lead them away, bringing fresh animals from the stables behind the hotel.
A large man edged between the tables, his long coat catching on chairs. Mr. Siddons. Kate tensed. Everyone in Dodge County knew who Mr. Siddons was.
“Mrs. Amaker?” He smiled, but his pale eyes glittered without warmth. Reptilian and cold. “I thought that was you.” He nodded to Oscar. “Rabb.”
Oscar shook his hand, half rising.
“Mrs. Amaker, I was sorry to hear about your house fire. A total loss, I believe?” He gripped his lapels. “I understand you might be selling out and heading back east? If that’s the case, I would like to be the first to offer cash for the farm and livestock.”
And just where did you hear that bit of news? Mr. Siddons was the wealthiest man in the county, and at every opportunity, he gobbled up more and more farmland. He had an immense dairy between Kasson and Mantorville, and Kate’s heart hurt at the thought of Johann and Martin’s beloved Brown Swiss cows being absorbed into the immense Siddons holdings. They would cease to be individuals with names and personalities and become numbers, worthy of being kept only if their milk production numbers merited it.
“We have not yet decided if we’ll go east or stay here, but I will convey y
our interest to Martin and Inge.” Kate didn’t like the way Mr. Siddons rocked on his toes, looking down at her alongside his bulbous nose, as if calculating her net worth and productivity. The Amakers might have to sell out, but she’d rather give the farm to George Frankel rather than see it in the hands of Mr. Abel Siddons.
The waiter brought their food, and Mr. Siddons spied someone else he wanted to speak to and took his leave.
Oscar bowed his head, said a short grace for their food and took up his fork. “I was thinking, I need to make a trip to Saint Paul to deliver some furniture to a store. I could take the cheeses along with me and sell them there. You’re more likely to get a better price, too.”
He spoke as if the Siddons interruption hadn’t happened. It took Kate a moment to switch her thoughts and concentrate on what he was saying. “You’d do that?” A spark of hope lit in her chest. If he could sell the cheeses for enough, maybe they could find a way to keep the farm.
Nodding, he spread a roll with butter. “It won’t take me much out of my way, and the sooner you have the cheese money, the sooner you can make your plans with Martin’s brother.”
Kate’s appetite fled at this reminder that he was eager to get them out of his house and his life.
* * *
Oscar loaded the rest of the lumber into the wagon box—including the special dimensions he’d ordered at the last minute—careful not to bump the cheeses still resting in the straw. Kate had sold ten of them to the remaining stores in town. Those, with the one she’d given to Dr. Horlock, meant she was returning home with twenty-one unsold.
She sat on the wagon seat now, wrapped in the red shawl, hands in her lap. He was glad he’d taken the time to give her some lunch at the Hubbell House, but she’d only picked at her food. The offer from Siddons must’ve killed her appetite. Either that or the unpleasant encounter at the mercantile.
His jaw tightened, remembering Watterson’s uncivil treatment of Kate. Yanking on the ropes securing the lumber, Oscar wished he was yanking on the lapels of Watterson’s coat. The bounder, trying to take advantage of Kate because she was a woman in desperate straits. He had known Watterson was a cold miser, but he hadn’t known the extent of his antipathy toward women.