Stephanie Mittman

by A Heart Full of Miracles

  “She’s bearing up all right.”

  “And you?”

  “Me? A piece of me dies with everyone I’ve ever lost. There’s not much left.”

  “You can be so morbid, Seth!” she scolded. “On a brighter note, I heard that Callie Jean Evans had a little girl. I don’t suppose you get reborn with every child you deliver, do you? No, that would be too cheerful for you.”

  “I told you I wasn’t a cheerful man,” he said.

  “Well, do something about it,” she said.

  “All right. I’m very happy that Mrs. Evans has another healthy baby, but I can’t help hurting for Mrs. Denton. Let me wrap this hand back up in clean gauze.”

  “Backward again,” she said, thrusting her hand out so that he could see to it. “It goes: ‘While I can’t help hurting for Caroline Denton, it is wonderful that Callie Jean has another healthy baby. And this one a girl! With two big brothers she’ll surely be a pampered little thing, won’t she?’”

  “I suppose,” he said, concentrating on squeezing her hand just so and then wrapping it so that it would stay that way.

  “About that letter, Seth?” she asked. “It would only take a minute. I’d do it myself but—” She held up the hand he had just bandaged.

  “All right,” he agreed. “I suppose you’ve written down a few things for me over the years. It won’t kill me to write one letter for you.”

  She smiled at him. It might, she thought. If Miss Winnie was right, it just might hurt like the dickens.

  “It’s to Armand,” she said when they’d settled at his desk and he had taken out a clean sheet of paper and dipped his pen and stood at the ready.

  “The boy you know from St. Louis?” he asked.

  She laughed politely. “He’s not exactly a boy, Seth. He’s nearly as old as you. Well, a little younger.”

  Seth grimaced.

  Abby’s toes curled with pleasure.

  “And the man isn’t married yet?” Seth asked.

  “Tragically,” she said quickly, “his first wife died. It took him two years to get over it, but when we met again, he says the darkness lifted for him.”

  Seth grunted.

  Abby tapped her boots together.

  “Dear Armand,” she dictated. “It’s a French name, you know. I do so love French. Everything sounds so romantic in French, n’est-ce pas?”

  “C’est possible.”

  “Why, I had no idea you spoke French, too,” she said. “Okay, so then do a fancy flourish after his name. I usually turn it into a rose, but … well, just a line like you put there will be fine.”

  Seth tapped the end of the pen against the desktop.

  Abby tried not to wiggle victoriously in her seat.

  “My good friend Dr. Hendon is writing this down for me because I have injured my—”

  “I’m not a secretary,” he interrupted her. “You’ll have to go slower.”

  “My … good … friend … Dr…. Hendon …”

  “I got that part,” he said. “‘I’ve injured my—’”

  “Foot. Just kidding. You know what I did. Why don’t you just tell him and tell him not to worry, I will surely be fine.”

  A definite humph escaped his lips.

  “Do you mind doing this?” she asked innocently. “I mean because Armand is interested in me?”

  “Are you interested in him?” He didn’t look at her but played with his inkwell and pen as if it weren’t working perfectly fine.

  “Oh, I was before he got married, you know,” she said. “Now? Well, he is quite a kisser, and I am twenty years old and a woman does need to make plans. Especially a woman whose family refuses to talk to her because she—”

  “Are you saying that it’s my fault, and out of some sense of obligation or responsibility, I—”

  “Fine. Write that I miss him terribly,” she snapped back. “And underline ‘terribly.’ Tell him that no other man has ever made me feel as cherished as he has and that through the long cold days of winter the memory of his kiss has—”

  His hand stopped and he looked up at her. “Don’t you think that’s laying it on a bit thick?”

  “When you write a love letter, you write what you want, all right?”

  “Are you writing a love letter?” he asked. “With me holding the pen?”

  “Would you rather I didn’t?” she asked, praying that he would say so, holding her breath for his answer.

  “Write whatever you like,” he said. “I’m up to ‘No other man.’ What came after that?”

  “No other man has ever made me feel cherished, wanted, held dear—”

  “That’s not fair,” Seth said. “I do hold you dear. Just not in a way that could lead to—”

  “Marriage. Yes, you’ve made that very clear.” She pretended it didn’t matter, but knew he was probably seeing right through her, and so she added, “I don’t like it. What I’m doing to Armand, allowing him to be my second choice, is not admirable. But then I suppose that I’m really his second choice, and unless you’ve changed your mind …”

  “Does he really make you happy?” Seth asked her, leaning over the desk to put his hand atop hers. “Do you smile with him and laugh and go for walks in the park and talk about children and—”

  He seemed to wish it so, even though it meant that he would lose her. And if he wanted so much to lose her, then so be it.

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s actually very glad I’m so young so that if things work out between us we can have lots and lots of children. And it’s good that he’s already sown his wild oats and gotten over his wife’s death and that he likes to laugh along with me.

  “Of course, it wasn’t easy for him at first, but seeing him smile, knowing I’m the one who can bring that smile to his lips and take away his pain—”

  “Then I’m happy for you, Abidance,” Seth said solemnly.

  “Me, too,” she said. “Though I do wish it could have been you,” she admitted softly.

  He looked beaten and tired, but he smiled at her all the same, those two dimples of his twinkling sadly at her. “So do I,” he said, patting her hand. “So do I.”

  Ansel’s pity was written all over his face when Abby got back to the Herald. He shook his head at her as if to tell her that the smile on her face didn’t fool him one bit.

  “I see you’ve a clean bandage,” he said, coming to help her off with her coat.

  “I stopped in at Dr. Hendon’s and he took a look at it. He says I’m healing slowly. It feels as if I’m doing everything slowly these days,” she added as she fished her glasses out of her pocket and awkwardly attempted to get them in place with only her good hand.

  “Let me help you,” he said, hooking the wires over her ears and looking into her pale face. “You look awful, Abby. Not that I’m surprised. This whole thing with the doc is taking too big a toll on you. I believe it’s making you sick.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Actually better than fine.” After all, she had a plan in motion, and nothing made a body feel better than a plan.

  “Are you eating?” he asked. “You look skinny as a quill pen to me. And what about sleeping? You’ve got smudges beneath your eyes.”

  “Ansel, stop it now. I am eating, I am sleeping, I am feeling just fine.” Her words probably would have been more convincing if she’d been able to resist sighing after them.

  “Are you still having those headaches?” he asked, like a dog with a bone who just wouldn’t let go.

  “My head doesn’t hurt nearly as much as my heart,” she said. “I suppose my conscience is pinching, too. And all of it serves me right, as usual.”

  “What have you done now?” he asked, chucking her under the chin affectionately, as if he’d forgive her anything.

  “Can you keep a secret? And pinkie-swear you won’t tell a soul, especially Seth?”

  He leaned back against the counter and gave her a long stare before saying, “It’s been a long time since I pinkie-swore.” With a smile on
his lips, he kissed his pinkie finger and held it up in the air. “What have you done now?”

  “I told Seth I had a beau in St. Louis who was madly in love with me.”

  Ansel’s lips were trembling as he tried to hold in his laugh.

  “I could have,” she said defensively. “Anyway, I made him write a love letter for me since I couldn’t write it myself.” She dug into her reticule and produced the letter, which she tossed into the wastebasket beside the counter.

  Ansel fished it out. “But this is to Armand,” he said, looking at the address.

  Abby shrugged. “I don’t know any other men in St. Louis,” she explained. “So I borrowed him.”

  “Borrowed?” Ansel asked, his eyebrow rising.

  “Well, I’ll give him back to Anna Lisa when I’m done with him,” she said. “Or I’ll just say it’s an incredible coincidence that both her fiancé and mine are named Armand.”

  “Both Armand Whiting? That would be quite a coincidence,” he said, trying not to smile.

  “Oh, no. Mine is Whitiny,” she said so seriously she thought he almost believed her. “That’s not a g there, though I can see how you’d make that mistake.”

  “Really, Abby, who is going to believe that?” he demanded.

  “Who has to?” she asked. “I’ll just drop his name now and again, just with Seth, who won’t know any better, and then he’ll fall in love with me and I can give Armand the boot.”

  “You’re as crazy as the rest of the family,” he said, but it seemed less an accusation than permission to go on with her plan.

  “I had to do something,” she said. “Or he’ll never realize that he loves me, Ansel.”

  “Well, at least that explains that very strange note of congratulations you had me write to poor Armand. ‘ I won’t believe that you know how happy I am for the both of you if you fail to write me back right away!’ I thought you were just being your eccentric little self.”

  She put her hands against her temples and pressed. “Please don’t call me little, Ansel. I feel older than ma’s bedroom slippers and just as worn out. He pushed me so, I just had to tell him that I’m practically engaged! And was he jealous? No, he was just sad, as usual. Sometimes I wonder why I love him at all. I see stars and he sees clouds.” She gave Ansel an apologetic little smile, and added, “Oh, but when I do make him smile, make him see the sun and the stars, oh, Ansel, I feel as if I’ve moved mountains, I’ve conquered foreign lands.”

  “Your Dr. Hendon is a mountain, all right. He’s immovable. And you’re right about foreign, too. Sometimes I wonder if we speak the same language.”

  “Well, I’m not giving up. I intend to tickle every jealous bone in his body.”

  “Abby, he just may not want to love you,” Ansel warned her, putting his hand on her shoulder.

  “Well, aren’t you the brightest flame in the candelabra?” she asked, shrugging him off. “Of course he doesn’t want to love me. But I aim to make him do it anyway, or die trying.”

  “You could be just setting yourself up for heartbreak. Why go trying to attract some hornet to your hive when you’ve got two honeybees buzzing around?”

  “I’m not looking for honeybees. I’m not some flower, Ansel, and I don’t need some bee to come around and pollinate me, for heaven’s sake! I want Seth, not just any man.”

  “Well, you may not be looking for an alternative, but one wouldn’t be so bad, you know. Get your mind off the good doctor and all.”

  “I don’t want my mind taken off Seth, and if I did, I could do it myself. I don’t need some—”

  “Don’t look now, but whether you need one or not, there’s one headed your way.”

  Abby spun around just in time to see Frank Walker come into the office, a bunch of leeks in his hand. He held them out to her like a bouquet.

  “Know how you like these for your soup, Miss Abby,” he said politely, nodding at her and looking over at Ansel for encouragement.

  “That sure was nice of you,” Ansel said, glaring at Abby until she repeated his words. “Have you ever had Abby’s potato-leek soup?”

  “I can’t say as I’ve had the pleasure,” he said, just as Seth walked in the door. The Herald was getting busier these days than Walker’s Mercantile after the fruit train arrived from down South. “But I do hear it is as special as … well … as …”

  “Dr. Hendon,” Abby said as icily as she could. “To what do we owe the honor?”

  “I think you ought to make some of that soup for Frank,” Ansel said as though Seth hadn’t even come in the door. “For one thing, he did bring you the leeks, and for another, he’ll be sure to save you the best ones off the train if he gets a taste of your cooking.”

  “Abby’s potato-leek soup?” Seth asked. She could almost see his mouth water.

  “Frank here brought me some leeks,” Abby said sweetly. “So I thought I might make him some soup.”

  “You gonna start giving out numbers, like at the butcher shop on Fridays?” Seth asked.

  “We don’t have to give out numbers,” Frank answered, though Abby was quite certain the question was not for him. “And Miss Abby’d never need one,” he added shyly.

  “She still can’t use her hand.” Seth lifted Abby’s hand as if he owned it and pointed out the bandages to Frank, though anyone could spot them from half a block away.

  “That healing okay, Doc?” Frank asked, and Abby could see Ansel eyeing Frank approvingly. Oh Frank was nice and good and kind, and not bad looking in a gangly sort of way, even missing his front tooth. But he didn’t make her heart race, didn’t make her knees weak, didn’t make her breath stop right in her chest at the very sight of him. And when he touched her, like helping her out of a buggy, or down some icy steps, it was like her pa or Ansel helping her—she was never sorry when he let her go.

  As Ansel, Seth, and Frank discussed how her hand was healing, Abby studied each of them, one after the other. In fact, she couldn’t seem to get more than one of them in her line of vision. There was no question she was going to need new glasses, she thought, and quickly took them off to look, if not see, her best.

  “Put your glasses back on,” Seth said with a shake of his head, as if she were a foolish child.

  “Abby, you need them,” Ansel said. “You look just fine in them.”

  After she complied, Frank dipped his head back some and studied her in her awful wire rims. “They make your eyes look even bigger, Miss Abby. A body could get lost in eyes that big.” And then, because with her glasses back on she could see it quite clearly, she watched Frank Walker blush.

  And she didn’t miss, either, Seth’s obvious discomfort as he went digging in his overcoat pockets and then finally found what he was looking for in his inner pocket.

  “Next week’s column,” he said. “‘Household Emergencies.’”

  He held it out to her, but Ansel reached over and took it. “I’ll have to set it, with Abby’s hand still not healed.”

  “It certainly is taking a long time,” Frank Walker said, looking accusingly at Seth. “Didn’t you sew it good?”

  Abby had to cover her mouth with her good hand not to laugh at the indignant look Seth gave Frank.

  “Well,” she said, deciding that having three men concerned about her welfare was a lot more enjoyable than she would have suspected, “if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ve got to bring an ad over to Emmet Sommers and make sure I’ve got the wording right.”

  She took her coat, but only threw it over her arm. The looks she got from the three men in the newspaper office would surely keep her warm halfway to Emmet Sommers’s farm.

  Seth hated mollycoddling his patients. Not the truly sick ones, of course. Those he would stay up with all night, if necessary.

  “There is simply nothing wrong with your chest,” Seth said to Ella Welsh. “Not as far as I can see.”

  Ella’s laugh was throaty and inviting. “Well, it ain’t flowery, but I’ll still take it as a compliment.”

/>   “I meant medically,” Seth said.

  “Then why do I feel such a pain over here?” she asked, toying with her left breast and looking at him with big round eyes that he supposed were meant to look innocent. “Is it just heartache?”

  He nodded. “I suppose that’s it,” he agreed, turning away from her and writing something in her file to signify that the examination was over. “You can close up your buttons now.”

  “What would you suggest I do for my heartache?” she asked, and the muscles in his neck tightened and he rolled his shoulders to ease the cramp.

  “I’d suggest that you go on home and give yourself a few more days to get over Mr. Panner’s death. Treat yourself to a nice warm bath. Sleep late. Let yourself grieve a bit. It’s hard, and it takes a long time to get over someone’s death.”

  “You still missing that sweet little sister of yours?” Ella asked.

  “I’m over my grieving,” he said.

  “Sure you are,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “But if you ever need to grieve with someone else, Doc, come on out to the house.”

  Hold your breath till I get there, he thought unkindly. But all he said was that he thought he heard someone out in the waiting room. He opened the door just in time to see the flash of skirt exiting his outer door. He had no time or need to wonder who she’d been—there, on his desk, were a pair of snow shoes and a rifle rustier than an old gate.

  “Something funny, Doc?” Ella asked, and Seth realized that he had laughed out loud.

  “Not at all,” he said, shaking his head.

  He’d have to be careful what he said to Abidance Merganser. First the gold-panning supplies, and now the trapper’s goods. Apparently she was making a habit of taking him at his word.

  ANSEL HAD HIS ARM AROUND EMILY’S WAIST AS he escorted her into the grange hall. A pang of jealousy hit Abby right in the pit of her stomach. Maybe she was wrong to pursue a relationship with Seth Hendon. Maybe she was wrong about the importance of love. After all, Ansel wasn’t in love, yet he had a mate for life, a partner, someone to share the good things and the bad with, someone to grow old with, someone to dote on.

  Frank Walker was willing. Emmet Sommers was willing. Well, Emmet Sommers was willing to be someone’s partner all right, but it looked like it was Patience who might be parking her slippers next to Emmet’s one day, if the way they were sitting beside each other on the back bench was any indication. And that was just fine with Abby.