Midwife of the Blue Ridge (34 page)

heart tripped and knocked against her breastbone and a pocket

of air pushed from her lungs in a soft
unghh.

Seth didn’t seem to notice. “Naomi’s passing will be an awful

shock for him when he comes back.”

“If he comes back.”

“Och, Tommy always comes back.”

“Aye . . .”—Maggie tucked a tendril behind Battler’s ear—

“but maybe not this time.”

“Ahhh, Maggie.” Seth straightened his spine. “What d’ye

do?”

For a moment she cursed herself for opening the door to her

problems, burdening overburdened Seth with even more worry.

But she could see he seemed to perk up, his face suddenly not so

dour.
Tendin’ t’ other people’s troubles can free ye from yer

own.
That’s what Hannah used to say. Maggie had to admit, liv-

ing over the last seven days, dealing with Naomi’s illness, death,

and burial, she’d had scant time to give Tom Roberts any deep

thought, other than to wish him back.

“Why don’t ye tell me what happened.” Seth squeezed her

hand.

“Ye ken we had a terrible row the morning after celebrating

Alexander’s birthing . . .”

Seth nodded. “’Twere but a sennight ago, but it seems like

ages and ages, na?”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
239

Battler shifted in Maggie’s lap, leaning his damp cheek to rest

against her bosom. “I was awful harsh with Tom tha’ day.”

“A wee quarrel willna keep Tom away.” Seth attempted a

smile. “I’ve never seen a man so lovestruck. He’ll be back. Tom

lives for the chase and he’s determined t’ have ye.”

“Aye—and he did—” Maggie peeked through lashes at Seth.

“Ye ken what I’m sayin’?”

“Och, lass . . . I warned ye . . .”

Maggie held up her hand. “The deed is done.”

“Aye. True . . . water under the bridge, eh? Tell me, what did

yiz quarrel over?”

“Well . . .” Maggie wound and unwound one of Battler’s curls

about her index finger. “I took it hard when he balked at the no-

tion of our havin’ a baby together . . .”

“Baby! Yer not . . . ?”

“Na . . . but when I suggested he should buy my contract from

ye . . .”

“Och! Ye didna?”

“Aye—I did. Then I mentioned he might claim acres and build

us a cabin, and he lit up like a pine-pitch torch.”

“A cabin!” Seth groaned. “Sweet-talkin’ a man who pants for

the hunt with visions of being harnessed to a plow . . . what on

earth were ye thinkin’?”

Maggie tapped her forefinger hard against her head.
Dop-

dop-dop.
“Thick as a church door.”

“Listen to me, Maggie, I’ve followed in his tracks and I ken

better than you the life he leads. Tom has no fear of going be-

yond maps to live in the open-uncertain for months on end, but

when the bed’s too soft and food’s too regular, he grows uneasy.

Babies and cabins!” Seth shook his head. “Yiv sent him intae the

hills for a good, long time.”

“Wait, I have yet t’ tell ye the worst of it.” Tears bubbled over.

“I saw them—him and Bess Hawkins—together.”

“Together?” Seth waggled his brow.

240 Christine

Blevins

“Aye—well, kissing.” The telling was as painful as the seeing.

Maggie felt as if she might vomit.

“Och, Maggie, if ye ask me, Bess Hawkins is not the least of

yer troubles with Tom. She means nothing to him. She never did.

At best, she was handy.”

“Handy . . . I was handy as well. It was verra easy for him to

leave me behind, and that’s truly what put the ache in my heart.

The bastard. But no matter how hard I try t’ hate the man, I

know I’ll never love none but him. I love him.”

Seth pulled Maggie under his arm and she bent her head to rest

on his bony shoulder. “Taming a man like Tom to the marriage

bed is like training a wolf to eat from the palm of yer hand—

possible, aye—but takes yards of time and gallons of patience.”

“Ye think?”

“Naomi always thought Tom’d leave off his wild tracks for the

right woman.” Seth gave her a squeeze. “I’m certain he loves ye

true, and in the end, true love tends to overcome reason of the

mind.”

The blockhouse door creaked open. Susannah stepped out,

her wooden cup gripped in one hand, sleepy Alexander nestled in

the crook of her arm. Wearing a crisp linen cap, Mary followed

along carry ing her rag-doll baby in the exact fashion.

“Good mornin’.” Susannah transferred the baby into his fa-

ther’s eager arms. “See if you can get him to bring up a bubble—

I need to slake my thirst. Do you think there’s any o’ that

sweet-balm tea left, Maggie?”

“Aye . . . but it’s bound t’ be cold by now . . .”

“No matter.” Susannah took her daughter by the hand and

they strolled to the cookhearth.

Seth dabbed the corner of the blanket to the drop of bluish

milk trickling from Alexander’s mouth. He hoisted the baby to

his shoulder and pressed his nose to the newborn’s copper-downy

head and breathed deep. “Susannah’s got the right of it. A baby

is a tonic—the very smell of him fills my heart with hope.”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
241

Maggie smiled. “Lucky ye dinna have to send him away t’ be

nursed. Susannah’s misfortune is yer son’s saving.”

Susannah and Seth had bartered a mutually benefi cial arrange-

ment. She agreed to move into the Martin homeplace and wet-

nurse Alexander. In exchange for this costly service, Seth agreed

to harvest the Bledsoe corn and round up the remaining Bledsoe

livestock to pasture in his field. In the fall he would butcher and

process a Bledsoe hog in addition to his own. Susannah and her

daughter were thus guaranteed sustenance and the protection of a

man for the time it took to wean Alexander to cup and soft food.

Seth watched Susannah circumnavigating the hearth in her

quest for tea, the knife wound in her side giving her cause to take

care. “That woman is a rock, is she no? She suffers my sorrow

times fi ve. How does she bear it?”

“She may seem rock solid, but mind, every night, when the

lantern’s dimmed, I hear her weep into her pillow and whisper

her children’s names one by one. Like t’ break yer heart.”

Seth shifted the baby to cradle in his arms. “He’s the spit of

Naomi, na?”

“Alexander has his mam’s ginger hair for certain and her sweet

features as well,” Maggie agreed. The baby suddenly belched

loud. “But he definitely has the Martin forthright disposition.”

Battler giggled, slipped down from Maggie’s lap, and sidled in

to stand beside his father. He pressed endless smacky kisses on

his sleeping brother’s cheek and jostled him by the hand. “Zan-

der’s a baby,” Battler said with a knowing nod. “I’m no baby. I’m

a great big lad.”

“Ah no, ye wee rascal—Jackie’s a great big lad—Winnie’s a

great big lass, and Battler”—Maggie reached around and poked

a finger into his soft keg of a belly—“is our wee laddie.”

“An’ Zander’s a wee, wee baby,” Battler asserted, satisfi ed

with his move up in the pecking order.

“I’d best get back t’ packin’.” Seth passed the infant to Maggie.

“Moo cows.” Battler blinked.

242 Christine

Blevins

Maggie heard it, too—the dissonance of multiple bells clang-

ing in the distance. She took a few steps toward the gate. The

clanging grew louder.

“What in the . . . ?” Seth stood beside her and they both

shaded their eyes to see Winnie and Jack with windmill arms

awhirl charging across the cleared fi eld, shouting,
“Da! Mag-

gie!”
The siblings ran up, gulping for breath.

“Indians?” Seth asked.

Winnie shook her head no. “The Mulberries—the whole lot of

’em—comin’ down the ridge trail.”

“Miz Mulberry’s driving beasts . . .” Jack added.

“Mister’s trailing far behind—he looks bad hurt, Da—blood-

ied and limpin’ along . . .”

Seth cast a glance back, spotting his rifl e atop the pile of gear.

“Jack, run tell Cap’n Moon. Maggie! Dinna shilly-shally—come

with me.” He grabbed his rifle and lit out. Winnie took the baby.

Maggie tucked the tails of her skirts into her apron string and

chased after Seth through the field. She could see the Mulberry

family enter the clearing.

Peculiarly capless, with her waist-length hair unbound and skirts

kilted up, prim-proper Rachel Mulberry marched to the cacophony

of cow and goat bells at the head of a ragtag column. Long brown

strands of hair caught on the breeze, flowing about her head like so

many silken ribbons. As Maggie drew closer, she noticed an angry

welt raking a plum-colored stripe across Rachel’s left cheek.

With a rifle as long as she was tall strapped over one shoulder,

Rachel carried her delft teapot like a baby and led a string of four

cows tailed to one another. Her two youngest sons sat astride the

bony spine of the lead cow. Not far behind, twelve-year-old Jem

and his younger brother Will whistled and whipped the air with

long switches, herding a trio of uncooperative goats and one

large sow.

When Seth and Maggie met with Rachel, the woman did not

pause in her course. She continued marching stalwart toward the

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
243

station. “Don’t bother with me, Maggie.” She gestured to the

rear. “Go help my Joe.”

Trailing some twenty yards behind, the eldest Mulberry boy,

fi fteen-year-old Jacob, acted as crutch, helping his father limp

along. Joe’s shirt was bloodied so it looked like a full goblet of

Burgundy had been spilled onto it. Leaning heavy on his son’s

not- yet-man shoulders, Joe clutched his side.

“Rachel, what’s happened?” Maggie asked.

“They near beat him to death.”

Maggie ran to help Joe.

Seth fell in alongside Rachel. “Shawnee?”

“No . . .” She shook her head. “Dispossessed.”

Seth stopped cold in his tracks.
“Dispossessed?”

“Removed from the land.” Rachel plodded forward. “He’s

come to stake his claim.” She looked over her shoulder with

weary eyes. “Portland.”

H

The breeze picked up, causing the oilcloth overhead to snap on its

framework. Joe Mulberry lay in its shade, flat on his back on the

communal dining table. “There’s the last stitch.” Maggie snipped

the thread with her shears and dabbed at the gash in his scalp

with a puff of raw wool soaked with a tincture of arnica. She

secured a linen bandage around Joe’s head and together with

Rachel helped him to sit with his legs dangling over the edge of

the table.

“It hurts to breathe,” he gasped.

“I suspect yiv busted a rib or two,” Maggie diagnosed.

“Though it pains ye to breathe deep, ye must. Yer lungs are liable

to collapse with shallow breaths, and collapsed lungs are easily

stricken with lung fever.”

Rachel stroked her husband’s arm. “Listen to what Maggie

says, Joe—breathe deep.”

“Mm-hmm,” he grunted.

Winnie and Jacob Mulberry came carrying a bushel basket of

244 Christine

Blevins

greens between them. “We did like you tolt us, Maggie,” Winnie

said. “Cut the stalks and left the roots.”

“Is it enough?” Jacob asked. “I can get more . . . Winnie

showed me where . . .”

“This is plenty.” Maggie dumped the comfrey greens onto the

tabletop. “Go and fetch me the kettle of boilt water.” She cast a

glance over her shoulder at the snarl of men muttering around the

cookhearth, glaring her way. Now that her patient’s head wound

was stitched and dressed, she would not be able to hold them off

any longer.

“D’ye feel able?” she asked Joe, jerking her thumb toward the

hearth. “That bunch is chompin’ at the bit t’ have a word with ye.”

Joe winced and nodded.

“All right!” Maggie called them with a wave of her hand.

Alistair and Seth strode over, along with Duncan Moon and

Fletcher Wallen, to form a loose semicircle around Joe.

“I still need to poultice and bind his ribs,” she warned, “so I’ll

thank yiz all to keep out from underfoot, aye?” The men nodded

in agreement.

“How d’ye fend, Joe?” Alistair asked.

Maggie said, “I just put fourteen stitches in the man’s noggin

and ye wonder how he fends? Break out the
uisquebaugh
, ye ol’

miser—let him benefi t from a scoof from yer fl ask.”

They all laughed while Alistair fished a flask from inside his

shirt. “Yiv the right of it, Maggie—what whiskey canna cure

there’s no cure for.”

Joe dosed himself with a gulp and Maggie attacked the com-

frey with a heavy cleaver, chopping the large leaves and thick

stems to bits, tossing them into the kettle of hot water. “Help Joe

off with his shirt.”

It took some doing in cooperative effort—Joe could barely lift

his left arm, so stiff and sore he was—but Seth and Alistair man-

aged to slip the bloodied shirt over his head. A whimper escaped

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
245

Rachel’s lips, and Maggie looked up upon hearing a collective

indrawn breath.

Alistair whistled low. “Who did this t’ ye, Joe?”

“Portland’s hired men . . .” Joe panted and pulled another