Farmer's Daughter Romance Collection : Five Historical Romances Homegrown in the American Heartland (9781630586164)

by Peterson, Tracie; Davis, Mary; Hake, Kelly Eileen; Stengl, Jill; Warren, Susan May

  Together, they watched as first Luke, then everyone else, dipped a spoonful of the thick syrup and hurried away, dropping the contents on a patch of hard snow a little ways off. Luke picked up his newly hardened piece almost right away and bit into it, his eyes closed with obvious enjoyment as he swallowed.

  “This is the sugaring-off.” Rosalind nudged him forward. “Go ahead—they’ll all keep coming back for more until there’s none left at all. Believe me, you’ll want to try some for yourself.”

  Shrugging, Ewan stepped forward, waited for Luke to scurry away with his third helping, and loaded his own spoon with the hot, gloppy brown mixture. He went back to where Rosalind waited with her own portion and mimicked her as she flipped the syrup onto the hard-packed snow.

  Almost immediately, the syrup froze into a hardened disk. Ewan picked it up and bit into the crunchy sweet that’s cold flavor melted on his tongue. He started walking back to the pot before he finished the last bite of his first taste of the treat. He ignored Rosalind’s laughter as he returned to her side with a heaping spoonful of the goop and eagerly flipped it onto the snow. He couldn’t ignore her when she snatched his sweet from right under his nose.

  “Thank you, sweetheart.” She bit into it with relish. “So thoughtful of you to fetch more for me. Very gentlemanly!” she called as he tromped off once again to scrape the last spoonful from the very bottom of the pot as everyone watched.

  Everyone but Arthur and his wife. Ewan noticed that Arthur began coughing as the day wore on and kept putting his hand to his head, as though in pain. He’d seen Mrs. MacLean rubbing her husband’s temples to comfort him, but he grew pale.

  “Mam and Da are going home.” Rosalind pinched the folds of her skirts. “Da has a headache he says is worsening. I heard him coughing…. I hope he isn’t taking ill. Perhaps some extra rest will do the trick, and that’s why Mam is taking him home for now. I’ll need to keep a close eye on Luke. The days are warmer, but the nights bring a harsh chill as the sun sets.”

  “You’re good to care so.” He led her toward the fire. “And we’re finishing up the boiling. ’Twill be done soon.”

  After the work ended, they all gathered around the fire in the waning light to share stories and laughter. Rosalind prevailed upon Ewan to tell more of his railroad legends, and he had to search his memory to find one worthy of the occasion.

  “Ah. I’ll tell about Mr. Villard’s special train.”

  “Mr. Villard? The railroad owner who ran the Last Spike ceremony?” Jakob Albright frowned.

  “The same one. And funny enough, this story—which has been sworn to me as true—takes place on the ride up to Independence Creek for that very ceremony.” Ewan paused for effect, watching to see that he had everyone’s attention before he began.

  “Well, Mr. Villard brought his wife, their babe, and the babe’s nurse along to be a part of his triumph. After a stop in St. Paul, Mrs. Villard made the appalling discovery that all the babe’s linens were soiled—there were none clean in the hamper. Obviously, this just would not do. She notified her husband of the problem.”

  “Seems to me,” Marlene’s father, Dustin, commented, “that they should have packed enough of the linens to begin with.”

  “Or been responsible enough to do a wash,” harrumphed Delana Freimont. “You’d think between the mother and the nurse, one of the two would have taken care of the matter long before.”

  “Aye,” Ewan agreed. “But the fact of the matter was that they were stopped in St. Paul wi’ naught but a hamper full o’ soiled linen. Mr. Villard ordered the hamper be rushed to the Pullman laundry service, where it would be washed and returned before the train even pulled out of St. Paul.”

  “ ’Tis good to own a railroad, I see,” Gilda cackled. “To have your high and mighty wife send her laundry to the workers!”

  “Now, I never met Mrs. Villard personally, mind,” Ewan continued, “so I can’t speak as to how hoity-toity a miss she may or may not hae been. But whichever the case, as the train made its way toward Helena, the distraught nurse came before her mistress and whispered that the hamper was nowhere on board. The whole thing had been left behind in St. Paul after all.”

  Ewan noted that Luke slipped away from the fire, and, after a short while, Rosalind followed after him. Unwilling to draw attention to their absence, he finished the railroad legend.

  “So Mr. Villard ordered that an engine and car should be found immediately and made to follow their train at all speed to bring his wife the hamper of linens. And so the special train, not weighted by a heavy load, sped o’er the tracks and managed to overtake the Villard family before they reached Helena.

  “Flushed wi’ the triumph of his idea, Villard watched the gleeful nurse open the hamper…and find naught but the same soiled linens.”

  Gasps and laughter sounded around the fire as everyone speculated on who Mr. Villard blamed for the entire affair and what they ever did about the baby. Who could imagine a special train sent to fetch a baby’s laundry—and that laundry not done?

  Ewan, for his part, searched the darkness beyond the perimeter of the fire, trying to find Rosalind and Luke. As they still did not appear, a frisson of tension shot down his spine. After such a fine day, surely nothing is wrong?

  Something was very wrong. Rosalind could feel the unease as a palpable thing while she searched for her younger brother.

  “Luke!” She whispered, at first, loathe to make a scene and embarrass him. Holding her lantern aloft to better see her way, she kept on. Darkness pressed in around the modest light, throwing shadows wherever she turned. “Luke!” she called more loudly after he still had not answered.

  He knew better than to wander off into the woods alone—especially in the dark. He could fall or find himself in a much worse predicament. After a harsh winter, predators would be more aggressive. Luke should still be within earshot, but Rosalind heard no answering call to soothe her frayed nerves.

  Lord, there are dangers out in the wild, but Luke faces even more. ’Tis growing colder by the moment. I’ve not checked in on him since before the sugaring-off. Please, do not let him be in trouble. For the first time in my memory, Luke’s made it through the winter wi’out a severe illness. Now that spring is upon us, ’twould be cruel for his weakness to sicken him. Guide my footsteps and help me find my brother. Let him be safe.

  “Luke!” Praying fervently between calls, she stopped and listened. There it was—the shallow rasp of Luke’s breathing. She turned toward the sound, her lantern’s light showing her brother sitting on the cold ground, his back against a tree.

  “Rose.” He gave a game smile. “I’m all right.” But the words came out hard and fast—forced.

  “No, you’re not.” She knelt beside him and threw her cloak around them both. I’ve heard him speak like this afore—when he’s holding his breath, trying to push back the coughing. “Don’t fight it, Luke. ’Twill go easier if you don’t try to hold it back.” She stood, pulling him to his feet.

  Guided by the lantern light, she kept a slow pace, careful not to overexert him. He coughed and rasped and coughed in spite of her best efforts. Luke needed to be where the air was warm and where she could get a hot drink down him to ease his throat and breathing.

  “When did the tightness begin?” She kept her voice steady, not accusing or angry or frightened. “How long?”

  “The sugaring-off.” His words ended in a horrible hacking that shook his entire frame.

  Of course. Breathing in the cold air, then hurrying to eat frozen sweets would bring this on. And I was too wrapped up in Ewan to think of it. I didn’t watch Luke as closely as I should.

  “Why did you not say so?” Rosalind couldn’t bite back the question. Did it seem I would not care if he needed my help?

  “I didn’t—” Coughs interrupted his answer, and they stopped mere yards away from the boiling fire. Finally, they subsided. “I didn’t want to miss any of the fun. And”—he glanced sideways at her—“I didn�
�t want you to miss any of it either.”

  “There will always be opportunities for fun!” She hugged him tight around the shoulders as they kept walking. “Don’t you know that you’re more important than any combination of sweets and stories? You’re my brother and you always come first.”

  “Sorry.” The piteous mumble wrung her heartstrings as they stepped into the flickering light of the big fire.

  “Rosalind! Luke!” Ewan hurried over to greet them. “We were beginning to worry about you.” He hunkered down to peer at Luke. One look obviously told him her brother wasn’t well, because he scooped the boy into his arms before addressing everyone.

  “ ’Tis been a long day, and I’m as tuckered as Luke, here.” He spoke loudly enough to hide the sound of the boy’s ragged breathing. “So I’ll be taking Rosalind home, now. We wish you all a pleasant night. I hope t’ see you again soon.”

  With Rosalind’s nod, he started out. She carried the lantern; he carried the more precious cargo. Even nestled against Ewan’s warmth, Luke’s coughing grew steadily worse before they reached the house.

  “Mam!” Rosalind pushed open the door and rushed inside, dragging a chair as close to the roaring hearth fire as she dared. She hurried to put on a kettle of water while Ewan deposited Luke in the chair.

  Mam took one look at her son’s pale face, heard the labored breathing, and pulled out a warm quilt to wrap around him. She pulled off his gloves, chafing his hands as she knelt at his side. “How long has he been this way?” Her question sent another pang of guilt through Rosalind as she brewed the tea.

  “He says his chest started feeling tight after the sugaring-off.” Rosalind spoke for Luke, as he fought for breath. She scooped out some of the eucalyptus leaves and peppermint that had always helped to ease his coughing before and prayerfully would again.

  “Why didn’t he come wi’ us when his da felt poorly?” Mam’s face fell. “I should hae checked on him afore I took your father off.” She smoothed back Luke’s hair. “I’m sorry, son.”

  “No.” Rosalind choked on the words as she finally handed over a mug of steaming tea. “ ’Tis my fault. You left him in my care, but I didn’t realize aught was amiss until he left the fire and did not immediately return to join us.” She bowed her head. “I went after him and found him trying to stop the coughing.”

  “You weren’t holding it in, were you?” Mam turned a harsh gaze on Luke as he breathed in the warm steam from his mug. At his sheepish nod, she sighed. “That always makes it worse.”

  “Aye.” Rosalind sat wearily on the settle, beside Ewan. “As I brought him back to the fire, and then on to home, he worsened.”

  “ ’Tis true.” Ewan frowned. “I carried the lad and could feel it as he found it harder and harder to draw breath.”

  “You did what you could.” Mam sat back on her heels. “Thank you, Ewan, for helping Rose bring him home. Now we keep him warm and propped up, and hope that ’twill pass quickly.”

  Please, Father, Rosalind prayed as Ewan took his leave. Please let this be a short episode. Do not let him worsen but instead feel better. Let Luke be well again come morning. Amen.

  Chapter 19

  Four mornings later, Ewan knocked on the MacLean door, carrying a brace of freshly caught rabbits. Wi’ Arthur and Luke on the mend, nothing will go down half so good as hot rabbit stew—best thing to bring a man back to his feet. When Rosalind, eyes heavy with dark circles, opened the door, his smile vanished.

  “What’s happened?” He shouldered past her, dropping the skinned game atop the wooden table. An unnatural stillness filled the house for a brief moment before both Arthur and Luke broke into coughing spasms, the sound shattering the silence.

  “They were doing better.” Rosalind’s voice came in an exhausted whisper. “It seemed as though they were on their way to recovery just yesterday. But come nightfall…”

  “Fever came upon them both.” Gilda, rocking more erratically than Ewan had ever seen, spoke up. “Their breathing labored…the coughing racks their bodies. Nothing helps.”

  Ewan sat heavily on the settle, running a hand over his face. For two days after he’d carried Luke home, Rosalind and Kaitlin had tended to Arthur and Luke night and day. Only yesterday it had seemed they’d turned the corner and the worst of it had passed. But now…He stared helplessly to where Rosalind stooped by Luke, propping him up on cushions to ease his breathing.

  “When they’re more upright, they take in more air,” she explained as she noticed him watching. “That and the heat and the tea are all we can do for them. Mam’s asleep now after staying up all night. They were improving—” She broke off in a stifled sob that wrung Ewan’s heart.

  He walked over to where she slumped by the hearth and fell to his knees. With his arms wrapped around her, her weary head nestled against his shoulders, she wept. Ewan prayed.

  Lord, put Your hand on this home and Your children wi’in it. Bring healing to Arthur, ease to Luke’s lungs, and rest to the women who’ve worn themselves weak with worry. This illness is more than we alone can handle, Father. We turn to Your wisdom and mercy, and seek Your blessings upon those we hold dear.

  He stroked the soft strands of Rosalind’s hair that had come free from her braid over the long night. He listened as her sobs quieted, until her breathing came long and deep in the even cadence of sleep. He shifted slowly, so as not to wake her. He swept her into his arms in one smooth motion and looked up at the loft ladder, where her bed must be.

  I dare not climb it wi’ her in my arms. Even were there no danger of bumping her head or worse, I’d not risk waking her.

  “When she wakes, she’ll take pains not to close her eyes for a scant moment, lest she sleep again,” Gilda warned. “Lay her on the settle, so she can catch whatever rest she’s able. Poor lass hae worn herself to a frazzle, helping her mam tend everyone these past days. The false hopes o’ yesterday stole what strength she had left.” The old woman kept rocking, her gaze flitting from one family member to the next in an unceasing vigil.

  Ewan nodded, easing Rosalind down onto the furniture so gently she scarcely stirred. He pulled a crocheted afghan over her to keep her as comfortable as possible. That done, he stood, trying to think of ways he could help her—help them all.

  Heavenly Father, when I was a wee lad, I caught ill in such a way. Mam did all the things Kaitlin and Rosalind have already seen to, but something tickles the edges of my memory—a warmth pressed to my chest, the strong smell making my eyes water. What kind of poultice did she use when all else failed to make me well? What made me feel better, though I disliked it? I remember thinking I’d never get rid of the smell…of what? What was that scent?

  He looked at the shelves full of baking supplies, spices, teas, and herbal remedies. Nothing fit the memory. Ewan paced back and forth—from the hearth, to the table, and back again—keeping his distance from Rosalind for fear he’d wake her with his heavy tread. He passed the kettle, the pot, the skinned rabbits, and the door to the root cellar more times than he could count, vainly trying to recall Mam’s treatment.

  Hearth…rocker…table…root cellar door. Luke beside the hearth, stirring with fever. The rhythmic rocking of Gilda’s concern. The scrubbed wooden surface of the table. The metal ring of the root cellar door—the root cellar!

  He grasped the metal ring and heaved upward, descending into the cool darkness beneath without stopping to grab a candle. Without a light, he groped around, searching for the answer that had plagued him all morning.

  There. Ewan’s hands closed around the burlap sack and he followed the light back into the warmth of the house. He cautiously shut the cellar door, mindful not only of Rosalind’s sleep but of Gilda’s avidly curious gaze.

  “Onions?” She peered in disbelief as he shook some onto the table. “You had a sudden hankering for onions, of all things?”

  “I remembered an old remedy my mother used when I was young an’ fought to breathe.” He grabbed a knife and began chopping t
he pungent bulbs. “I could only recall the strength of the scent—how much I disliked it—but that it worked. She chopped onions, boiled them down, and wrapped the mash in flannel. Than she placed the hot poultice on my chest, changing it out for new whenever the old one cooled.” Ewan kept his voice low even as he chopped. “ ’Twas the only thing that finally worked. I thought it might do the same for Arthur and Luke. They’ll reek of the stuff for what seems like ages, but ’tis more than worth it.”

  “Aye.” Gilda’s rocker gave a final, protesting creak as she got to her feet. “I’ll put some water on to boil and then help you. If they must be replaced when they cool, we’ll need a great many of those onions.” She worked as she whispered, and Ewan slid the first batch of chopped pieces into the heating water.

  The two of them worked quietly, the only sounds the soft bubbling of the onions, the snick of their knives, and under it all, the horrible rattling gasps as Luke tried to breathe.

  Rosalind lifted her head from the settle, blinking to find herself there. How did I…Oh no, I must have fallen asleep! Yet another instance of her failing to take proper care of Luke, and now her da. She swung her feet to the floor, tossing the afghan over the back of the settle.

  “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” She bustled over to where Luke lay, half propped up on a mound of pillows. “You should hae woken me.” She looked pointedly at Ewan. “You know that.”

  “Aye.” He plopped a steaming poultice on Luke’s heat-pinkened chest. “I knew you’d want me to hae woken you. ’Tis why I didn’t.” With maddening calmness, he took another poultice to where Da lay on the great bed and changed it out.

  “What are those?” Rosalind wrinkled her nose as she processed the pungent odor rising from the flannel packs. “Onions?”

  “Aye.” Grandmam stirred a pot. “Your Ewan remembered a remedy his mam used when he was but a lad.”

  “To a certain point.” Ewan gave a wry grin. “I knew she made a smelly poultice, which eased the ache in my chest, but try as I might, I couldn’t recall what she put in it.”