That Certain Spark

by Cathy Marie Hake

  “I agree.” Hastily she tacked on, “But it’s far easier for me to set lofty goals for marriage and child-rearing since I’ll never marry and have children.”

  “Does it ever occur to you that just as I didn’t turn to God in my grief, it could be that you’re not listening to His will about your future? He could be demonstrating through Enoch and Mercy that you must have your priorities in order.”

  “Are you beating around the bush about the list? It’s only up to fifty-six. But I won’t stop practicing medicine. If Gooding doesn’t honor the contract, I’ll relocate to a town where my skills are welcome.”

  Taylor entered her surgery, sterilized several instruments, and made a list of supplies and medications to reorder. She noted that some of her medical texts were missing and made a mental note to ask Enoch for them. She quickly finished her tasks, noting the quiet that surrounded her. Though she was grateful both little Bethany and Mercy were back home, she felt a bit lonely at times.

  With a satisfied glance at the pristine room, Taylor grabbed her bag. She needed to make a couple of house calls, but first she’d like to stop off at Checkered Past and see the new mama and her newborn baby again.

  Realizing she needed to remain close to home and be available to Sydney, Velma had started taking Taylor with her on prenatal visits and summoning Taylor whenever she was called for a birth. Having attended a few births together, Velma finally admitted she no longer worried about Taylor’s competence and would be glad to share the maternity cases.

  God couldn’t have poured a sweeter balm of contentment on Taylor to make up for the contention around her than to allow her to resume maternity care. Bulky winter clothing had kept the number of maternity cases a secret. Gustav Cutter had greatly underestimated Gooding’s population growth when he had said he expected only two births. Word of mouth had quickly spread that Taylor wasn’t merely competent; she was comforting, as well. Now that Sydney was past her due date, Velma refused to budge any farther than the ranch’s clothesline. Fathers-to-be knew—whether they liked it or not—they had to come fetch the woman doctor to assist their wife. Invariably those proud papas showed their thanks by placing their family’s names on Dr. Bestman’s patient list.

  If Karl accompanies me on this postpartum visit, he’ll stand there and switch from one foot to the other and hem and haw about how we need to get going again. It wasn’t that she planned more than a very brief visit, but she didn’t want him dictating what she did with her time. He’d gotten pushy about her schedule, and she didn’t want to admit that he had every reason to. The man spent more of his time than he could spare escorting her around.

  Ever since he’d told her he thought she was beautiful—thereby essentially declaring himself, he’d become more assertive about her schedule. Our schedule, she amended honestly. He was a busy man, and he had a right to get antsy about being away from his business—but that was proof of her argument for why she’d never marry. Her profession required her attention whenever, wherever, however, and however long was required—regardless of anything and anyone else. No husband would stand for being treated in such a manner. Just about the time she’d been ready to tell him he’d gotten too bossy, he’d changed tactics. Instead of always accompanying her, he now asked Piet to take her on calls, too. Piet was far more placid. The difference in temperament only served to underscore the sparks that flew whenever she and Karl were together.

  After the incident with the men breaking in to see Bethany, she didn’t know if she wanted the Van der Vorts to carry the weapons or not. She and Piet had gone round and round about that. She and Karl had had a fight or two over it, too. What was she going to do? She looked around. Almost every man in Texas had a weapon on him. It really wasn’t her place to dictate what grown men could or couldn’t do. Karl and Piet did exactly what they pleased. They each wore a pair of guns whenever they weren’t standing by the forge.

  She donned her pelisse, took her bag, and carefully locked the door behind herself before going across the way to the smithy. “Hello, Piet. I’d like to go make some house calls.”

  He looked over his shoulder at her and set down his hammer. “Ja. I will hitch up the buggy.”

  Taylor went outside to escape the heat of the smithy while she waited, and Karl rode up in a cloud of dust, coming to a halt a few yards past her.

  “Whoa!” he called, his gelding skidding to a halt. “Taylor! I was coming for you. You’re needed at once!”

  Twenty-Three

  The world—it feels . . . new and fresh.” Karl placed her bag in the Creightons’ buggy and lifted her onto the seat. The buggy dipped ominously and swayed as he climbed in. He set it into motion, and Taylor lifted the lap robe so he could share it. The horses’ breath left clouds of condensation in the frigid air. This ride was far more comfortable than the one they had taken to get there—when Karl had swept her off the ground and onto his lap, and rode straight back out of town. And less exciting by far. Amazingly colder, too—and that was saying quite a bit, because they’d ridden into a stiff wind that had barely let them get inside before it whipped everything with snowy-sleet needles.

  Karl wondered, “Is it always thus after a birthing?”

  “After a healthy one. Blessedly, there are more of those than not.”

  He turned. Piercing blue eyes studied her. “I never thought. Not of that.”

  “Don’t. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “It makes me appreciate more the miracle of holding Rose and sharing this day with Big Tim and Sydney.”

  Taylor cleared her throat. “Karl? My oath says I will not speak of anything that goes on in the sickroom. Since you were there only because you took me, it wouldn’t be right for you to—”

  “You can tell everyone about Rose. Sydney and Tim told you to.”

  “I wasn’t referring . . . to . . . that.” Keeping from smiling, let alone laughing, tested her sorely.

  “Ahh. So what am I to answer about how she and that baby are?”

  “They’re beautiful.”

  Eyes sparkling impishly, he mused, “Then I’ll say Tim is uglier than ever. Especially with those stitches you put alongside his forehead!”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences. God arranged that I’d be there when Tim sustained a freak injury. Not many men fall from that height and can later tell about it.”

  Karl threw back his head and belted out a laugh. “Is this how you’ll say it? To protect his pride?”

  “I don’t plan to say a word. Nonetheless, it never hurts to be prepared.”

  “You’re good with words. I’m not so diplomatic. I’d rather walk barefoot through coals than go to that Richardson wedding next week. There will be women crying. Tears of joy. Linette weeping in sadness. If you think of something good to say, let me know. Better still, if you think of a reasonable excuse so I don’t have to go, give it to me.”

  “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife . . .”

  Though Marcella and Katherine Richardson stood at the altar by their grooms, Enoch couldn’t help himself. He slid his hand beneath Mercy’s. Even though she’d healed, he always sat to her left. The action he’d started weeks ago to protect her still remained, and now it arranged for him to subtly encase her hand. To his delight, the swelling in her hand scarcely was an issue anymore.

  Parson Bradle continued to read the matrimonial vows. “Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor her, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

  Meaningfully rubbing his forefinger over his beloved’s wedding band, Enoch very quietly whispered, “I will.”

  Mercy dabbed at her eyes with a hanky. Women were like that—all sentimental at weddings. No doubt she was recalling their very own wedding.

  Good. He wanted her to remember everything about their special day—about the romance, the love, and how the Lord had blessed their union. Even more, though, Enoch needed Mercy to hearken back to
the beauty and closeness of their wedding night. The memory of that splendor swept over him again, leaving a keen sense of longing in its wake.

  Respecting the wishes his bride had expressed after surgery, he’d said nothing about Mercy going to Taylor to have the dressings changed. Trying to be understanding of how she’d need to recover not just physical but emotional strength, he’d babied, coddled, and praised her. Since her surgery, Mercy had needed more rest, so she’d gone to bed earlier and gotten up later than he had. At night, he curled around her and held her tight. During the day he told Mercy how beautiful she was. But in the last week and a half, when he’d finally made any overtures, she’d shied away.

  When Parson Bradle read through the woman’s portion of the ceremony and paused for the brides to declare, “I will,” Mercy’s hand clutched his more tightly.

  “Who giveth these women to be married to these men?” Pastor Bradle asked, altering the words slightly to fit the situation.

  Mr. Richardson took a red bandanna out of his rear pocket, honked his nose loudly, and quavered, “Mama and me.” He gave his daughters one last kiss.

  Since the front of the church was already crowded, the brides and grooms were serving as each others’ maids of honor and best men, and the girls’ youngest sister was serving as the flower girl. Mrs. Richardson sat in the first row. Sitting beside her, Linette was supporting Bethany, who sat sideways to keep her now-casted leg elevated. The minute Mr. Richardson plopped down by his wife, she threw herself into his arms and let out a wail. “Now, Mama, we still have girls at home.”

  Linette recoiled as if she’d been slapped.

  “Repeat after me,” Parson Bradle said a little too loudly, bringing the focus back to the wedding. He turned to the couple on his right. “I, Leopold, take thee, Katherine, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold—”

  “No. I cannot do this.”

  Some of the parishioners started to snicker.

  “I do not want Katherine,” the groom continued. “I want Marcella. Katherine is nice for a sister-in-law, but it is Marcella I love and want to have and hold.”

  With the proper names paired, the vows sped by. As soon as the organist started playing the recessional, Mercy leaned closer. “Will you please mind Heidi?”

  “Sure.” But why? He’d planned on their enjoying the reception together.

  Country wedding receptions made city ones seem colorless. Folks took care of their chores during the morning, ate a quick lunch, and came to town for the doings. Glad to be together, folks sought to have fun. Sure, the women all cooked and helped out—but accustomed to feeding a whole boardinghouse as Mercy was, merely taking a few covered dishes and helping serve would be like a vacation.

  After everyone had been through the line, Enoch had to track her down, press a plate into her hands, and make her eat with him. He defined having fun as having her by his side.

  “Isn’t the phonograph music fascinating?” Mercy commented. She waved at Linette, who turned the crank on the phonograph and reset the needle. Static sounded, then “Old Folks at Home” came on.

  “As much as we’re both enjoying the music, perhaps we ought to get one. It would be nice to have in the parlor while you knit and I fall asleep over the newspaper. After all, we’re the old folks now.”

  Looking stunned, Mercy nearly dropped her plate.

  Enoch steadied the dish and whispered, “It’s been six weeks since your surgery. I’ve thanked God for every one of those weeks.”

  She gasped and thrust her plate entirely into his keeping. Popping up, she babbled, “I forgot something!” and ran off.

  Visually, he followed her until she exchanged a few words with Velma, then slipped behind a group of women and disappeared. It might be something minor—food left in the oven, a milk pitcher too close to the stove, maybe even a glass of water for Sydney. Only Mercy didn’t return. After a considerable lapse of time, Enoch ate all the food from both plates.

  Hope Stauffer came over. “Let me take them plates from you. Sure does my heart good to see a man with a hearty appetite.”

  Much as it galled him, he asked, “Have you seen my wife?”

  “No, but she ought to be done botherin’ any time now.”

  “Botherin’?”

  “Like the tradition.” Clearly gathering from his expression that he didn’t understand, Hope glanced about and lowered her tone. “You know. For weddings. ‘Something old, something new, someone bothered with something blue.’ Sydney bothered for me, then I bothered for Mercy.”

  “I see.” Enoch shouldn’t have been surprised that Hope had her own twist on the old expression.

  “In Gooding, the last bride bothers for the next,” Hope finished. As she beamed and dashed off with the plates, Enoch’s mood lightened.

  Taylor came over and sat with him. “When Mercy comes back, she can sit on your lap. I’m not budging.”

  “Fine.” The notion appealed greatly to him.

  “Skyler could learn some tricks from Mama Richardson about herding people. That woman has four plans and as many contingencies to make sure as many unmarried women as possible are present to catch the bridal bouquets.”

  “Stop sounding so disgruntled. It’s to spare Linette’s feelings of being the only one.”

  “Dance with me,” Karl said from behind them, curling his beefy hand around the back of Taylor’s chair. If ever there was a possessive move, surely that qualified. He’d just staked his claim. Again. Taylor kept trying to treat Karl like a pal, and he’d have none of it. Others wouldn’t notice, but Enoch knew his twin felt flustered. He found the whole situation vastly amusing.

  “Thank you, Karl, but no. It wouldn’t be . . . right. I need to remain professional.”

  Karl’s tongue slid inside his cheek. “Now normally, I think a man should take a woman’s refusal gracefully.” Assurance filled his tone as he looked to Enoch for support. “In this case, I think the lady just needs a little coaxing, don’t you?” He came around, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet.

  “Apparently coaxing works,” Enoch mused.

  “I’m sorry, Doc Enoch,” Grandma said as she stopped in front of him. “Did you say something to me?”

  “No. Just talking to myself.” He grinned. “I’ve solved a problem.”

  “In this case, I think the lady just needs a little coaxing.” Enoch echoed Karl’s words, but with completely different intent as his hand curled around the cool brass bedroom doorknob. He wrenched it and pushed open the door.

  Mercy let out a squeal and whirled to face the far wall. “Go away. I . . . I’m not dressed yet.”

  Enoch entered anyway and shut the door. “I’ve seen you undressed. Do you think Parson Bradle mixed up the names in the wedding to stop everyone from gawking at Linette?” As he spoke, he shed his coat and vest while heading toward the armoire off to the side.

  Turning in response to his moves, she bowed her head and fumbled with the hooks on the corset’s busk. “I don’t know. Please, Enoch. Give me a few minutes.”

  Swiftly hanging up his clothes, he winced at the pain in her voice. “Sweet pea, I vowed a lifetime. Don’t ask me for a few paltry minutes.”

  A man who took off his shoes intended to stay someplace, so he did just that, and whimpers spilled out of her. She gave up on the corset and tried to fight her way back into her shirtwaist while he unbuttoned his own shirt. He stopped behind her and kissed her nape.

  Clutching fabric over the place where her left breast had once been, she ordered, “Leave me alone and give me some privacy. Please.”

  Spirit. Good. He could handle that far better than tears. She’d decided to fight? Fine. “Why should I?”

  “Because—just because.” Defiance straightened her spine and tinged her voice.

  “If that’s the best reason you have, I’m staying.”

  “I want my robe.”

  I don’t want you to have it. Making concessions could be wise, though. With it on, she’d be comfortable
enough to turn and talk face-to-face. Coax her, he reminded himself. Just one tiny step at a time until I can actually gain ground. “I’ll get it for you. It won’t fit over these, though.” He tugged at the puffy sleeves on her shirtwaist. He held the robe out as a screen while she made the necessary changes in wardrobe.

  Robe on, she sat in the rocking chair—the one place he couldn’t get close enough to easily touch her since she had it going to and fro at a good clip. “You owe it to me to leave me alone.” The rocker went faster. “I requested it, and that’s reason enough.”

  Two could play at being implacable. He pulled down the covers. “I’d say your logic escapes me, but there is no logic involved.”

  “There is, too!” The rocking chair didn’t go at much of an arc, but she had it swaying at breakneck speed. “It’s a dying request.”

  Whoa. He jerked the rocker to a stop. “It sure is. That request just died, because you aren’t. Do you hear me? Taylor is honest to a fault, and she gave you a prognosis that you’ll have a normal life-span. I’m not going to spend the next fifty years married to a woman who expects to keel over dead any minute.”

  “She can’t be sure.”

  “So you’ve decided to give up? The only things you can be certain of are that you are God’s child, I love you with all my heart, and someday all of us will die.”

  “But you’ll be left with Heidi. Our marriage has been nothing but a disaster for you from the start.”

  Anger surged through him. “You won’t leave me with Heidi. Even if the Lord does take you before He takes me, I’ll feel lucky to have our daughter. God blessed our marriage. Every day has been a miracle to me, and I won’t have you desecrate it by saying I feel otherwise.”

  She tore her gaze away, then bowed her head. In a hushed voice, she choked out, “Ugly. Deformed—”

  Immediately pressing fingers to her lips, he interrupted. “Beautiful. You’ll always be beautiful to me. Nothing could ever change how I see you or feel about you.” His fingers slid from her lips, down her neck, and carefully lower. She stiffened and tried to stop him, but he pressed his hand against the flat plane of the left side of her chest. “I enjoyed your breast, it’s true. But now that it’s gone, when I hold you, I’ll be much closer to your heart.”