Bryant Nathaniel became a Westin.
* * * * *
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Keep reading for an excerpt from AT ODDS WITH THE MIDWIFE by Patricia Forsythe.
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At Odds with the Midwife
by Patricia Forsythe
CHAPTER ONE
FEET SLAPPING THE PAVEMENT—right, left, right, left—Nathan Smith pounded down High Street, turned west onto Main Street and took the hill that led out of town. He hadn’t been this way yet on his thrice-weekly runs, but there had been a time, when he was eighteen, that he couldn’t seem to take this hill fast enough. Driving the new SUV his dad had bought him for graduating as valedictorian, he’d gunned the engine, eager to leave Reston behind. Waiting for his university classes to start in the fall hadn’t even been an option. He’d enrolled in some summer courses so he’d have an excuse to leave days after graduation. He’d sped down Main Street until it became Highway 6 and, since then, had kept his subsequent visits home both rare and short.
He couldn’t quite believe he was back. His return to Reston had been challenging, not to mention exhausting. There were times he questioned why he’d come back, but he knew the answer. Guilt was at the top of the list, followed closely by its companion, shame.
He forced his mind to veer away from that. Even though it was the truth, if he focused on it for too long, he would never move ahead. In the project he’d started it was critical to keep going forward. There were more problems than solutions, many issues he didn’t yet know how to solve. Somehow, his nighttime runs on the quiet streets helped him see his way forward. Something about the rhythm of his feet, the focus on his breathing as he ran through the cool spring evenings, helped him make sense of the daily complications of his life and the Herculean task he’d taken on.
The full moon lit his way as he ran along the pavement, then he swerved to the edge when a car came by. He waved, not because he knew the driver, but because it was expected in this rural pocket of the world. Some bred-in-the-bone habits never died.
Half a mile out of town, he crossed the bridge over the Kinnick River and slowed to a walk as he caught his breath. He’d given up his running schedule when he’d sprained his ankle a few months ago and now, when it started to ache, he knew it was time to slow down or take a break.
As he fast walked past the old Kinnick Campground, he glanced to the left and saw a light. Pausing, Nathan stood, panting lightly and using the tail of his white T-shirt to wipe away sweat as he gazed into the darkness. The camp was deserted. The Whitmires, who had owned it during his growing-up years, had left town. He’d heard they’d come in to some money. The camp, with its private, well-stocked lake, where they had once hosted hikers, birders and fishermen, had been abandoned for the past fifteen years, though he was sure the local citizenry fished the lake as if it was public property.
Nate frowned at the overgrown bar ditches on each side of the road. He wasn’t sure he’d take the chance of fishing in the small lake. Weeds that had been beaten back for decades while the Whitmires were in residence had eagerly taken over the property, providing hiding places for field mice, bobwhite quail and the snakes that fed on them.
Whoever was at the campground now wasn’t of the four-legged variety, though.
“Squatters,” he murmured. He knew they camped out anyplace they could find, usually tucked back in these mountains, where they could grow marijuana, operate stills or cook meth. If that’s what these squatters were up to, he couldn’t imagine why they’d want to be this close to the highway. Of course, it was entirely possible that they were either crazy or desperate. He reached for his cell phone to call the police, but quickly realized the signal, always spotty in this area, was nonexistent tonight. He was going to have to find a better cell-phone service. It was critical for people to be able to get in touch with him.
Annoyed, he started to run again, but had taken only a few steps when he cursed under his breath and turned down the rutted lane instead. He couldn’t walk away from this situation—another lifelong Reston habit. Approaching slowly, he glanced around. In the glow from the full moon, he could see that someone had been working on this place. He stopped and sniffed the air. Fresh paint. That wasn’t something squatters would do, so maybe new owners had taken residence. That conclusion didn’t turn him around, though, but drew him forward.
He’d always thought there was something about the smell of fresh paint that promised a new beginning, a positive change. Change was something desperately needed in this town.
The Whitmires had lived in a small century-old log cabin that Ben Whitmire—who’d renamed himself Wolfchild—had updated and renovated by hand. Nate had never been inside, but his mother had described it as “primitive.” He also remembered an old tale about the place being haunted but didn’t know what form that haunting took.
Someone had cleared the weeds and brush that had no doubt grown up around the door and piled it into a massive stack for burning, or maybe to be picked up by the county and turned into mulch. Abandoned tires had been repurposed into planters with some kind of spiky plants growing in them. He applauded the use of the tires. It was better than having them end up in the landfill.
“Home improvement squatters?” he questioned, even though he was quickly talking himself out of the idea that unauthorized people were on the property. He followed the path around the cabin to the back, where the light was coming from. When he turned the corner, he could hear music that sounded like some kind of wind instrument caught in an endless loop. It was as though the same few bars were playing over and over, with an occasional flat note thrown in for variety.
Wincing at the repetitive sound, he glanced around to see a floor lamp set up outside the back door with the cord snaking inside. It cast a soft glow on the surroundings—and on what looked like a woman digging a grave.
The sight rocked him to a stop, and although she hadn’t seen him, Nate stepped behind a blossoming crape myrtle to see what she was doing.
A large, rectangular patch of sod ha
d been turned over and she was busily breaking up the chunks of dirt, smashing into them with the side of the shovel blade. Too shallow for a grave. He shook his head at his own morbid thoughts.
As she worked, she sang words he couldn’t understand. They were out of rhythm with the music he could now see was coming from a tablet computer set up at the base of the lamp.
The woman had curly red hair that flowed down her back and lifted when a breeze happened by. She wore cutoff jeans with black rain boots and a yellow tank top that revealed toned arms, streaked with dirt.
He needed to let her know he was there, but he was enjoying the sight of her working.
Turning around and leaving before she saw him was certainly an option, but now that he was here, he wanted to find out what was going on and, more importantly, who she was.
“Hello,” he called out.
She didn’t respond.
“Excuse me. Hello.” He took a few steps forward, but she still didn’t answer. Now he could see potted plants lined up, ready to go into the ground. She was planting something. At night.
Thinking that she might be hard of hearing, Nate stepped forward, reaching out a hand to wave at the moment she tossed the shovel aside and bent to pick up one of the potted plants lined up at her feet.
The woman turned her head, saw a hand coming at her and exploded.
Grabbing his arm, she stepped forward to throw him off balance. Then she swept out her foot to knock his feet out from under him.
Nate landed on his left side with a whoosh of breath. His hand slammed down on the sharp edge of the shovel blade, shooting pain up his arm.
The girl grabbed the shovel away from him with one hand and jerked earbuds from her ears with the other. She let them fall and they dangled from the MP3 player attached to her waistband as she moved back several feet and held the shovel out in front of her like a weapon.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want?”
“I—I saw...” Nate stopped to catch his breath.
“You saw what? A woman alone who might like some company?” She tossed her head to get her hair out of her face and moved from one foot to the other, ready to do more damage. “Well, you guessed wrong, buddy. As you can see, even though I’m alone here, I can defend myself just fine.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” He rolled onto his side to sit up, but when he placed his cut hand on the ground, pain raced up his arm. Breath hissed between his teeth as he fell back.
“What’s wrong?’ she asked, finally seeming to realize he was hurt. “Do you need help? I can help you if you don’t try anything funny.”
“I can take care of it myself,” he answered testily. “As long as you don’t knock me down again.”
Dropping the shovel, but making sure it was within reach, she came down onto her knees beside him. She slid her arm under his shoulders and helped him into a sitting position.
Nate held up his hand and tilted it toward the pale glow from the lamp.
“Oh, that’s a pretty bad cut,” she said. “You must have hit it on the edge of the shovel.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“And you’ve managed to grind dirt into it.”
He couldn’t see her face clearly since the light was behind her, but Nate imagined she was giving him an accusing look.
“Yeah, well, that sometimes happens when a crazy woman throws me to the ground.”
“Crazy? I was defending myself!”
“I was only trying to get your attention.”
“Why? So you could scare me to death?” She got to her feet and stepped back to watch him stand up, too.
“I saw the light and thought someone was up to no good.”
“Yes, someone was. You!”
Nate tried to smother his temper. “I thought someone was trespassing.”
“Again. You! This is private property. My property.”
He paused, staring at her, then walked around her so that she would have to turn to keep an eye on him. When the light hit her face, he recognized her. The red hair—though he didn’t remember it being quite this red—almond-shaped green eyes, the heart-shaped face.
“Bijou?” he asked.
“Do I know you?” She frowned at him.
“Nathan Smith,” he said.
Surprise flared in her eyes, followed by a fleeting emotion he couldn’t name. Embarrassment? Dismay? She lowered her eyes so he couldn’t read her expression.
When she didn’t say anything else, he went on, “I thought your parents had sold this place.”
“No. It’s always stayed in the family.” She gave a small shrug. “Obviously, no one kept it up.”
He glanced around. “This is a lot of work. What are you doing back here, Bijou?”
“I could ask the same of you, Nathan, and the name’s Gemma now. I changed my name the minute I turned eighteen.”
“What did your parents, Wolfchild and, um, Sunshine, think of that?”
She reached up and pushed her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ears. “They realized that I was old enough to make my own decisions and they apologized for having given me a name that wasn’t cosmically suited to my personality.”
Nate hid a smile as he flexed his shoulders. He’d forgotten that her parents talked like that. They had been well-meaning oddballs in this community, but they hadn’t minded being out of step with everyone else in town. He hadn’t thought their daughter was very much like them, seeming to be more conventional—focused on school, friends and small-town life.
“Bijou is French for Jewel,” he pointed out, his gaze touching on those bright green eyes and richly colored hair.
“I know.”
Lifting his uninjured hand, he rubbed his left arm. He was going to be sore and bruised in the morning. “I’m guessing you chose Gemma since Wonder Woman was taken.”
One corner of her mouth tilted up as she lifted her eyebrows at him. He remembered that expression from years ago.
He held up his mangled hand. “Is there somewhere I can wash and bandage this before I head home?”
“Come inside. I’ll bandage it for you.”
“I’m a doctor. I can do my own bandaging.”
“I know that, and I’m a registered nurse, so I’ll do the bandaging. It’s my house and they’re my bandages.” Gemma paused to pick up the tablet and shut off the music.
Nate decided not to pursue the who-will-do-the-bandaging? argument. From what he’d seen so far, he would lose, anyway.
“That was...interesting music,” he ventured. “But you weren’t listening to it?” He didn’t have a very active imagination and didn’t know why she would listen to one kind of music to block out another.
“It’s Tibetan music. Frankly, I can’t stand it because it reminds me of the time my dad insisted we all needed to learn to play the zither.” She shook her head, a small smile on her lips. “Carly is absolutely convinced it’ll help the plants grow.”
He frowned. “Carly? Oh, yes, Joslin.” He vaguely remembered the two of them had been best friends, along with Lisa Thomas. Glancing around at her family’s property, he realized she had done what he couldn’t—kept her ties to their hometown.
“Come on,” she said briskly. “Let me look at that hand. It’s rude to keep the nurse waiting.”
Giving her a thoughtful look, he followed her inside. A nurse. In spite of her prickliness, this sounded promising.
“Don’t touch the door or the facings,” she said, pointing to what he could now see was a bright blue, glistening with newness. “I just painted them.”
“I know. I smelled the paint.”
While she scrubbed her hands at the sink, then bustled about, setting out a basin, a clean towel, disinfectant and bandages, Nate looked around the co
zy cabin.
The living room held a dark blue sofa and chair with a huge, multicolored rug in the middle of the floor. A rock fireplace, probably original to the house, dominated one wall. A few sealed boxes were piled one atop the other along a wall, and a stack of paintings and photographs waited to be hung. A doorway opened onto a hallway, where he assumed the bedrooms and bathroom were.
The place was warm and inviting, not at all the den of hippie craziness his mother had claimed it to be. Also, it was rustic, but not primitive. Thinking about it now, he wondered why she had chosen that word.
“Come over to the sink,” Gemma commanded and he did as he was told, standing with his hand under warm running water. He was very aware of her gently clasping his hand in her own while she turned it this way and that, keeping it under the stream from the faucet. Nate liked being close enough to catch her scent, which was faintly flowery, no doubt heightened by the work she’d been doing out back.
He was about to ask what she’d been planting when she shut off the water and grabbed a handful of paper towels, which she placed beneath his hand to catch the drips, and directed him toward the table. Its scarred top spoke of many meals eaten by many generations. The chairs were a mishmash of styles, but all seemed to be as old as the table. Nate could imagine previous Whitmires sitting here, eating, talking, laughing. The place had a settled atmosphere. In spite of the modern furnishings, glowing electric lamps and the laptop open on a living room table, he could picture a woman in a long dress coming inside, removing her bonnet and pumping water at the sink to wash up. Maybe that’s what actually haunted the Whitmire farm—the ghosts of hardworking, happy people with established traditions going back generations. He shook his head at the fanciful thoughts. He never lapsed into daydreams like this.
Casting Gemma a wary glance, he ruefully decided that she wouldn’t know if this was out of character for him or not. They hadn’t seen each other in fifteen years.
“This cabin is nice,” he said, watching her pick up a rubber bulb syringe, fill it with warm water and expertly flush his cut with a disinfectant solution. “Your family farmed this land for many years.”
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