by Amelia Rose
Chapter 10
The town was bustling. Ladies shopped. Unemployed gentlemen came and went from saloons. Shopkeeps and bartenders plied their wares. I nodded to a few familiar faces and kept a cautious ear for whispers or gossip. There was none.
Instead, there was the grocer, a florid man with a round, dumpling wife, who said his youngest daughter, married now to a cowboy and looking forward to her first, would surely love a visit from the resident midwife. Then he thanked me for my care of Mrs. Barnett and added some extra bacon to my packages.
"Thank you for your kindness," I said, shifting the bundles and aware of the people pressing around me in the store. "I'm afraid I'm also looking for some information. Mr. Hutch Longren is looking for his brother, who's gone missing from his employment these last few days."
There was a crash from the back of the store and a red-faced young woman stepped forward, blonde hair in disarray. She was already apologizing, clutching a bottle of whisky and reeking of it. The grocer's wife murmured yes, that was fine, of course she could pay for it over a few weeks and had she cut herself? She bustled to tend the girl, whose wide eyes found me.
"Matthew Longren?" she said. "Matthew's missing?"
I would have reached for her, trying to calm her, but the packages got in the way, so I ended up saying "Shh, shh, he's just not showing up, hasn't been at work but no call to fear something has happened to him."
Though from the gleam in her eye, I got the idea the young woman meant for quite a few things to happen to Matthew, but I didn't take the time to ask her how she knew him—I could, of course, guess. She was young and beautiful. The store filled up before I had a chance to say anything else to her.
I continued through town and my search remained the same. There was talk, indeed, and a great many people I'd never met I was now meeting; they all seemed to know me. But the talk was kind—grateful for what I'd done for the Barnetts—and welcoming.
That was the good news. The bad news was that no one had seen Matthew.
I almost went to the mine after getting back to the house. I was prevented by the distance I'd have to go, by the desire not to saddle a horse or make the wagon work for me, by not wanting to go all that distance just to hear the same thing from Hutch: No one had seen him for two days.
Instead, I put away my purchases, weeded and gathered in the garden, then walked the mile to Annie's house and did the same things in her garden. Then I walked back and fixed midday meal and waited for Hutch to come back with news.
Before midday, someone else came to the door. As before, running footsteps announced the visitor and, when I looked out, a carriage stood in the road. It was covered and fancy and driven by two horses, and my heart beat faster with a sense of panic, having no idea who had come or why.
"Mrs. Longren?"
It was just easier to say yes than to explain.
The man on our porch looked like a servant, the house manager type I might have seen in Boston. He had obviously come from one of the mansions where the Mackays or another rich family lived and he wore a morning coat despite the heat of the day, which had beaded sweat on his forehead.
"How can I help you?" I asked. I still held a peeling knife in one hand and a potato in the other. My hat was off, my jacket removed, I was in shirt sleeves, rolled up, and not ready to receive visitors or attend anyone.
"You're needed," he said. He looked half inclined to turn and bolt back to the carriage right then, sure that I'd follow. "My employers, Mr. and Mrs. Bradleigh. She's in terrible straits. She's expecting and it's been hard and now she's—something is wrong." He looked at me then, serious, frightened and overheated.
"I'll get my bag," I said and didn't ask him in, but didn't close the door.
I ran through the house to the back porch off the garden, where I had left my basket when I returned from seeing to Mrs. Barnett. As I ran I reviewed, I had whisky to clean mother and child and any equipment I might use. I had bandages and gauze, I had everything I could imagine needing.
The stove wasn't yet lit, which was good, the food not yet cooked, which was not. I left a hasty note for Hutch that there was bread and peaches and cold chicken in the cold storage. I left word of where I was going and the time and that I'd be back.
And then, I ran.
The Bradleighs did live in one of the mansions that wound up the hill and overlooked the town. Here, there was a small river snaking down into the desert and poplars and cottonwood gathered round. The family owned considerable acres, all of it fenced and whitewashed and dotted with carefully tended flowers and shade trees. The garden in the back would be fantastic; I could see the tops of the corn over the fencing.
The carriage stayed in the drive, abandoned, the horses stolid and unmoving. I followed the black-coated servant fast through the yard, up the wide front steps and into the shady, cool house.
I could hear her the minute we entered. From upstairs in the house, a woman was screaming.
"I need clean water," I said to the black-coated man, who was trying to precede me up the stairs. "I can find her myself. Go, get me water."
I'd want to clean myself before and the mother and child after, in more than simply whisky. The servant gave me a single uncertain glance before he headed away, presumably to heat water, and I ran up the stairs, my skirts hampering me, my breath catching.
It was bad. She was in the room atop the stairs, a huge room, brutally sunny in the early afternoon and far too hot for her comfort. Her face was red and contorted; her black hair damp and sticking to her skin. She'd bunched bedclothes into both hands, her knuckles white, and she sat up against the headboard, screaming.
There was already blood in the bed, already evidence of trouble beyond her wounded screams. I went promptly to her, bent over her on the bed, moving aside two frightened looking women who might be anyone—friends, sisters, neighbors.
"How long has she been laboring?"
No one answered me at first. I put my hand on the woman's head, letting her know I was there, trying not to shock her. Her eyes opened and she stared at me, panting. I reached to feel her pulse, which raced, and said again, "How long?"
"No more than an hour," one said.
Good. That was good. "Where's the doctor? Are there any nurses in this town? Another midwife?" Anyone who could help me; fear was hammering my own heart now. I'd only attended one troubled birth and it had ended well but my mother had been with me.
Now, I was alone.
"The doctor has been sent for," one of the women said. I hadn't looked closely at either. They were young and pale and had only been in the way. "He's over in Virginia City today."
I muttered a curse. "How long ago did someone go?" I was surprised when the laboring woman answered.
"My husband left here not quite an hour ago. He's looking for Doctor Horton. He will be back within the hour."
Likely he would, but much could happen in that time and if there'd been another midwife nearby, someone would have said so.
"I'm Maggie Lucas," I said. "I'm a midwife."
"I've … heard … of … you."
I nodded, already working. Already shooing away the women, taking the water from the servant to wash, filling the room with the unpleasant reek of spirits and reaching for the woman.
She was bleeding again, her head thrown back in pain. From what I could tell, the birth was breech, and the afterbirth was coming first. I bit my lip and started to work.
She fought. She accommodated every direction. She managed not to cry out. At the end, she said her husband's name and laid back on the bed, still.
The room smelled of hot salt and whisky, sweat and grief. The child was a boy. I washed him and bundled him into soft blankets, covered his face and laid him on the foot of the bed to attend to her.
The bleeding stopped not too long after. Apparently, the baby had pressed against something that forced the blood faster and harder from her. I bundled squares of cloth and watched her, but the blood had slowed and now ha
d stopped.
When the horses tore into the yard, she was breathing harshly, a raspy sound, and was half conscious. I wasn't certain I'd done her any good, stopping the bleeding. There was a chance she'd spend several days in pain and die anyway.
But now, the doctor was come, footsteps on the porch and on the stairs and the men coming into the room, her husband, tall, pale and handsome, going to her side at once, taking her hand. I couldn't hear them from where I stood in the hall, but I could see his shoulders slump with the news and then I saw him gather himself, reaching for her, holding her even as the doctor pushed past me to start his own work.
I went downstairs and accepted a glass of sherry and a plate of apples and cheese from the cook, a round, motherly woman who bustled at me and said I had no doubt done everything I could, that sometimes things like this were meant to be, that she had a good life, Mrs. Bradleigh did, and other children, and would I like more to eat?
She was kind, but I was frightened and I just wanted to go home. It was farther than I wanted to walk and later in the day than I'd anticipated. I asked if the servant who had brought me would take me home and I took my leave.
The rest of the day passed like a dream. Nightmare slow, the hours spun out, full of bright sunlight. There was nothing I could concentrate on, not letters, not sewing, not my wedding dress or my wedding. I wanted my sisters, Virginia especially. I missed my mother fiercely. Her wise counsel would have been most welcome. Even my father, taciturn as he'd become, would have had some words for me. I walked to Annie's house and went through her garden but there was nothing that needed doing. I walked back home and paced, Hutch's mannerisms rubbing off on me.
I'd left Mrs. Bradleigh in the care of Dr. Horton, who surely knew more than I. I'd done everything I could for her, but the child had never once breathed. My mother had told me there were births that couldn't be salvaged. Children died. Mothers died. I could only use what I knew to try and save them, get help when there were doctors available.
"I did all that," I said aloud. So why did I feel so wretched?
Late in the afternoon, I started supper, laying out greens and choosing the meat, firing up the stove in the already over-hot house and putting in a roast. My head ached and my back hurt and my spirit was low. With nothing else to do, I finally took myself down the hall to the hot room that faced west, where the yellow curtains hung still; no breeze to stir the sage-scented air. I took off my boots and my outer dress and lay atop the bedclothes, watching a fly move around the room and telling myself I'd just rest until my head ached less, until my eyes didn't burn so.
I woke when Hutch leaned over the bed and kissed me gently. I started up, heart racing, then clutched my clothes close around my shoulders. This seemed too sudden and strange, having him here. The movement sent the headache raging and I lay back again, staring up at him, remembering the nightmare hours of the day and the nightmare-filled sleep I'd had.
"Are you sick?" he asked.
"No. I'm … I've … I'll get up and fetch supper. You must be hungry." The light had faded beyond my windows.
"Don't be silly. I'm not asking you to fetch my supper; I'm asking if you're ill. Do you have a headache?" He made motions for me to move over on the bed. Confused and still uncomfortable, I ignored them, so he walked around the bottom of the bed and approached from the other side, sitting gently so as not to disturb me.
He stretched out on the bed, gathering me to him so my head was cradled on his shoulder and chest, then awkwardly brought up the arm I was partially lying on and began to dig his fingers into my neck and shoulders.
The pain ebbed almost instantly and was followed by intense pleasure. Just being held made the tension slide from me and his hands, warm and strong, kneaded the muscles I'd held rigid from fear and anguish all afternoon.
"I heard what happened this afternoon," he said softly, and kissed my hair before pulling back and continuing to gently knead.
I made a small sound and didn't say anything, but shifted against him so I could look up into his face. He hadn't said anything and the shuttered expression on his face prevented me from asking. At length, he said, "I'm sorry you experienced that."
"Sorry?" I sat up, forgetting I was half undressed, forgetting the pain in my head, which instantly tried to spring back. Fear, my constant companion since returning home, woke promptly.
Hutch stared at me.
"Those people—Hutch, they're rich. I've heard their name before today, Annie told me about the people in this town, the people who own things, the people who can do things. The Sheriff is one of them, he isn't moral, Hutch," though his expression said this was hardly news. "And there's the Mackays and the Bowers and the Bradleighs, there's people who—"
"—Who are every bit as human as you and I and who must obey the laws of nature, and whose children sometimes die in childbed." He tried to pull me back down beside him but I resisted.
"Hutch, the mine … the house … the people talking … and now this? The Sheriff said people are talking and, today, before this happened, when I was in town…" I stumbled, suddenly remembering part of the reason I had gone. "Did you find—?"
He lowered his eyelids, a long slow blink that managed to look irritated. "Very last place I asked. At the railroad."
"The railroad!"
He motioned me to relax again. "He went with Annie to the family ranch."
"Without mentioning it to anyone?"
"He mentioned. Just to one of the men who's drunk more often than not and didn't manage to pass the message on."
So that was one thing, at least. Matthew was safe, not murdered by Jason Seth and dumped in the desert and not hurt somewhere and missing.
"Will he return with her, do you think?" He was, after all, Hutch's partner in the mine, and, besides, I wanted them to reconcile. Once the water was under the bridge, I had hopes and daydreams of family dinners with Hutch's sister and brother and nieces and nephews who were in Gold Hill.
"I try very hard never to guess what Matthew will or will not do. And if your headache is very much improved, I would actually like my supper now." He shifted as if he'd rise from the bed and propriety said I should rise and dress and fetch my husband-to-be his dinner. But propriety said a Sheriff shouldn't be bought and shouldn't work for the highest bidder, that a bank shouldn't sell the lien on a man's house to the highest bidder and certainly not if the highest bidder is a mortal enemy. Propriety said many things that were disregarded every day.
And so, when he shifted, I shifted as well, nestling farther into his arms and moving my face up to his.
"My headache is much improved," I said, laughing a little. "May I show you how much?"
He started to answer, then glanced down at my face. His expression changed from slight confusion to one of pleasure and he dipped his head toward mine, taking my mouth with his.
His kisses were sweet, hot in the still hot room. His hands burned through my underdress as they moved along my ribs, circled my waist.
I moved, propping myself on one elbow, one hand spreading out over his chest, starting to unbutton his shirt. He paused, considered, leaned up and covered my mouth with his again, his top hand sliding down from my waist to my hip, then onto the back of my leg. My body tingled at his touch, burning with pleasure. I pressed my body against his, one foot running up his calf, held apart by his denim trousers.
Hutch left off kissing my mouth, moved to my temples, my ears, licked gently at my neck, trailed kisses down my collarbone, his hands still making magic on my hips, my legs. I ran my hands over his chest, across his flat stomach, linked my arms around his back and whispered his name.
His shirt fell open. His chest was broad, not as tan as his arms, neck and face, but gently furred, the hair on his chest as dark as his dark curls. I ran my hands over him, looking at what I'd only seen in paintings and on statues, followed my hands with my mouth, my tongue, tasting the day he'd had, the sun and dust and sage, the inside of mines.
His hands caress
ed my arms, my neck, my face. He pulled me tight against him, fumbled briefly at my underdress then abruptly set me back from him, sitting up on the bed.
I lay back, staring up at the ceiling, watching the same fly I'd seen earlier.
"You are to be my wife," he said. He sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from me. "I would not presume."
I sat up, draped one arm over his shoulder and pressed against his back. "I give you leave to presume but am grateful for your restraint. It's been such a long day. Still, I wish that we were already wed."
That caused him to turn and look back at me, smiling. With a sudden movement, he wrapped one arm around me and pulled me to the edge of the bed, onto my back, captive in his arms. Ducking his head, he kissed me.
"Soon enough," he said. "And now, was I promised supper?"
My headache having subsided, I moved through the kitchen, finishing supper preparations, mixing the dough for biscuits. Reaching for the salt, I saw the shaker was nearly empty and went searching for a bag of salt I'd noticed before. When I couldn't find it, the stupidity of the search became an obsession topping off a bad day. I went through cupboard after cupboard until I came at last to a small under-bench cabinet I didn't think I'd ever opened. It was in a corner, inconvenient and stuck tight. The idea that I'd seen salt in it before was absurd—I'd likely never seen anything in it, having never gotten it open or found time to care that I couldn't. But tonight, frustrated, I took a butter knife to it and leveraged it open.
And found myself staring at a collection of delicate porcelain tea pots.