And indeed she did. In Emma-like fashion she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him just as the rain began again. Neither of them noticed.
Sunday morning after chores and breakfast, Matthew followed Emma around the cabin, watching her, stealing an occasional kiss, exchanging secret smiles. He was a happy man. Happier than he ever thought possible, and he wanted to be certain Emma was happy, too.
“I’m taking you to church this morning,” he declared.
Her hands stilled on the towel she was folding. “Oh, Matthew, I don’t think so. But if you want to go…”
“You once told me how much you enjoyed worshipping with other believers and how much you missed it after Jeremiah died. I think it’s time we went together as man and wife.”
“But the people…” Her throat convulsed, trepidation in her voice.
“I’ve made a few friends, Emma, and most of the folks are decent. Jimmy O’Dell’s the main one who keeps the trouble stirred up. The others just follow along.”
“I don’t want to upset anyone.”
“Once people see you, get to know you again, they’ll realize their mistake.” Seeing her misgivings, he pleaded, “Please, Emma. If we’re going to live and prosper here, we have to find a way to get along with these folks. Both of us—not just me. You’re so brave about everything else. Why won’t you face this town and make them stop this nonsense?”
“I don’t know….” She gnawed at her lower lip, clearly weakening.
Matt knelt in front of her, grasping her hand. “What if we have a child together? Wouldn’t you want him to be accepted?”
Wonderment lit her face at the possibility, and she capitulated. Drawing in a deep breath, she said, “I’ll wear my new green dress.”
A dozen or so worshippers had already gathered by the time Matt and Emma arrived wearing their matching green. Tipping his hat repeatedly, Matt wove his bride into the church, nodding and smiling, receiving cold looks in return. Beneath his guiding hand, Emma trembled, though she smiled serenely at all she passed.
Matt’s pulse thundered. He prayed desperately that he hadn’t made a mistake in bringing her here. What else could he do? Somehow he had to give her back her dignity. Searching the gathering for Maureen or Lucas Winchester, he found instead Jimmy O’Dell bearing down on them, his face livid.
“What is that daughter of the devil doing in the house of God?” He shouted so loud, every head in the building turned to stare. Except for a few murmurs of agreement, the place fell quiet.
“I’ve told you repeatedly, O’Dell, Emma is mentally sound. She has as much right to attend church as you do.”
“Mentally sound, you say?” Jimmy whirled toward the crowd. “You hear that, folks? This stranger comes waltzing into town and tries to tell us our business. Well, I think we got something to say about that, don’t you?”
His statement was followed with rumbles of assent. “Yeah. Sure do. You tell ‘em, Jimmy.”
“Too many people have seen her do crazy things.”
“I say she’s moonstruck. Barney Adams saw her dancing in a full moon, singing and waving her arms. The next week his good cow died.”
Emma stood in the middle, eyes wide, clinging to Matthew’s hand. A bearded man in overalls parted the tightening circle.
“She’s a witch, if ye ask me.” He pointed a finger at Emma. “Seen her myself sneaking around Floyd Anderson’s place in the middle of the night just about the time he got hurt. I figure she hexed him.”
Matt seethed inside, wanting to tell the real reason for Emma’s surreptitious visits to the Anderson place. But when he looked to her for permission, she shook her head in denial. Filled with both frustration and admiration, Matt kept quiet.
The fine churchgoers didn’t.
“Mr. Tolivar, you seem to be a good man, hardworking. I’ve seen the things you’re doing to that farm, and I admire you. Your dealings here in town are honest, and we’ve come to respect you. But when it comes to the widow, you seem blinded, unable to accept that the woman is unbalanced.”
“She’s evil, all right.” This from a squat man with tobacco-stained teeth. “I was there when she chased the undertaker and Parson Jeffers off her place, screaming like a banshee.”
“She claimed Jesus came to see her.”
“What’s wrong with you people?” Matt cried. “Emma was sick with grief then. She’d been locked up in that cabin with her dead husband and child without help. Can’t you have a little compassion?”
Some of the women softened and made murmurs of understanding. “Losing a child’s a hard thing. Any of us would be sick with grief.”
“Yes, and you have other children, other family to comfort you. Emma had no one, nothing left at all.”
The church was quiet for a moment, and Matt thought that perhaps he’d convinced them. Surely the folks could see that Emma was no threat to anyone. But Jimmy O’Dell wasn’t finished. “I want her out of here before my wife arrives,” he cried, shaking his fist at Matt. “She’ll mark my unborn child.” He turned to the shocked crowd. “And if she does, the fault will belong to all of you for letting such as her live in this town.”
Barely controlling his temper, Matt shoved the fist aside. “You’ll mark it yourself with your own ignorance.”
Wrapping Emma in his protective embrace, Matt shouldered his way out of the church and into the wagon. Fury, hot and dangerous, emanated from every pore as he slapped the horses into motion, leaving the good citizens of Goodhope in his dust.
“Matthew, please don’t be so angry. It’s all right. Truly it is.” Voice husky with emotion, she lay a hand on his stiff forearm. Her obvious pain infuriated him even more.
“You’ll never convince me of that, Emma. Someday they’ll reap what they’ve sown, and I, for one, will be glad.” As town disappeared behind them, he slowed the team to a walk. Tall, dry buffalo grass waved in the fields beside the road, and yellow sunflowers nodded their giant heads. For once Emma did not exclaim about their beauty. They rode in silence most of the way home, hurt pulsating from her, remorse filling him. The big red barn came into sight, then the chimney, before Emma spoke again.
“What if they’re right?” She stared off into the wheat fields, eyes unseeing. A frown creased her brow. “What if there is something basically bad about me?”
“Don’t be foolish.”
She turned to him, tears glistening on her lashes, and the sight tormented him. Why had he made her go? He’d vowed to protect her, and instead he’d escorted her into the lions’ den to be devoured.
“I know nothing about my mother or father, Matthew,” she continued sadly. “Perhaps I was born in an insane asylum or to a streetwalker.”
“None of that has anything to do with who you are.”
Tears trickled down her face as her voice rose in sorrow. “Doesn’t it? It’s all in the blood, they say. Maybe mine is just bad.” A sob broke from her throat. “Bad blood. That’s what they call it.”
“Emma, no.” He’d never seen her like this—weeping, heartbroken. He chastised himself anew for subjecting her to such cruel treatment. Pulling the team to an abrupt stop beside the barn, he turned to her. But before he could draw her sobbing body into his arms, she leaped from the wagon. Chickens squawked in protest as she whipped past, scattering them with her new green skirt as she rushed into the barn. Heart heavy, Matt released the horses and followed after her. He met Emma hobbling out of the barn door, her new skirt drenched in blood.
“Emma!” He rushed to her side. “What happened?”
Her face pale and tearstained, she struggled to regain her composure, but the droplets of moisture on her lip and forehead reflected her intense suffering. “The scythe. I fell.”
“Let me see.” Behind her thigh, a deep gash bled profusely. “Hold your hand over it. Press hard.”
“I’ve ruined my new dress,” she groaned.
“I’ll buy you another.” Matt scooped her into his arms and charged toward the h
ouse, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs. What would he do? How should he handle this? There were no other doctors anywhere around, and Emma needed medical care.
He started for the bedroom.
“Not on the bed. I’ll ruin the quilt. The floor is fine.”
Relenting, he laid her on the floor in the kitchen. “Now let’s look at this better.” Pushing away the cloth, he examined the wound. “It needs stitches.”
She groaned then set her face in determination. “Many’s the time I’ve stitched a horse or a cow. Once I even stitched up Jeremiah. This is no different. I can do it. Boil a thread and a needle.”
Matt did her bidding, all the while fighting an inward battle. His mind fought him, but his heart dictated what must be done. When the supplies were ready, Emma sat up, twisting toward the lacerated skin.
With a resigned sigh, Matt took the needle and thread from her fingers. “You can’t reach back here. I’ll do it.”
Tear-darkened lashes lifted toward him. “Can you sew?”
“Yes,” he said tersely. “Now lie down on your belly and let’s get this over with.”
Bits of hay clung to the torn edges of skin, and he frowned at them, concerned about infection. After a thorough washing with soap and water, he took up the needle, working quickly, efficiently, aware that every needle prick brought her pain. Though she never complained, halfway through the procedure, she twisted her head around and watched him. Six years without practice fell away as he neatly pulled the tissues together and sealed them in a long straight line. His hands remembered what his mind had tried to forget.
“That should do it,” Matt said as he clipped the last thread and wiped alcohol across the wound. At her sharp intake of breath, he grimaced, grabbed his hat, and fanned at the row of stitches. “Sorry. We don’t want that to get infected.”
“It’s all right.” Not waiting for a bandage, she rolled over and sat up, pulling one of his hands into hers. “Where did you learn to sew like that?”
When he remained silent, she turned his hand over and stroked the fingers. “These aren’t a farmer’s hands.”
“They are now.” He pulled away.
Clear amber eyes demanded the truth. “But they haven’t always been.”
“No.” Avoiding her gaze, he began gathering the bloodied supplies, tossing them into the washbasin.
“You’re a doctor,” she said simply, guessing the truth in her guileless way. “A doctor.”
Apprehension flickered through him. He wasn’t a doctor. Not anymore. “That’s all in the past now.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t still be trying to hide the facts. Did something happen? Did you dislike the work?”
Turning his back, he carried the basin to the table and stood staring at the cabin wall, remembering.
“I loved it. And I was good. So good and so confident that I thought I could fix anything and anyone.” He pulled one hand wearily down his face. “I was wrong. I couldn’t save the two people who mattered most to me in the entire world. My wife and baby.”
She wasn’t shocked, as he’d expected her to be, just full of compassion and understanding. “And you feel guilty.”
“Yes.”
“So you’ve punished yourself by leaving the profession you love. By hiding from God’s call on your life.”
“No!” But hadn’t he? He shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“Then it’s time to stop, to lay down your guilt. Your skills are needed, desperately needed, right here in this town.”
Even if he could lose the guilt and fear that plagued him, he’d never considered practicing medicine in Goodhope. He faced her, incredulous.
“How can you even suggest that I help anyone in that town? After the way they’ve treated you, they all deserve to suffer.”
Emma started awkwardly to her feet, shaking her head. Rushing to assist her, Matt pulled her upright.
“When Jesus came,”—she said, holding Matt’s hand against her heart— “everyone rejected Him. He had reason to hate them, to punish them. Yet He loved them so much—even those who crucified Him—that He prayed for them as He died.”
Gripping her shoulders, Matt couldn’t decide whether to shake her or hold her. “But they hurt you.”
“Yes, they did. But I have you, and I have Jesus. That’s all I need to be happy.” Arms wrapped around his waist, Emma pressed her head against his heart. “I want you to be happy, too, Matthew. I don’t think you ever will be until you can forgive yourself and resume your true life’s work.”
Dread rose in him like a sickness. He couldn’t go back. Another failure would be the end of him.
Matt clasped Emma tightly against him, holding fast to the strength she offered. “I’m a farmer now, Emma. That’s enough for me.”
But the words rang false even to his own ears.
Chapter 6
Aflock of geese winging its way southward caught Matt’s attention as he labored in the field north of the house. He tossed a pile of fresh-cut hay into the wagon bed then leaned on the pitchfork, gazing upward. A year ago, he wouldn’t have cared about a flock of birds, but now he could enjoy the sight, thanks to Emma. The geese were the very kind of thing she loved. He thought to go and tell her about them, but before he could, the cabin door burst open and Emma rushed out.
“Did you see them, Matthew?” she called, pointing to the heavens. “They’re waving at us.”
Shading her eyes against the blue-gray glare, Emma hopped up and down, waving back at the honking geese.
With a smile, Matt watched Emma watching the geese. His heart filled with gratitude for this special woman God had sent his way. Her leg had healed well, he thought with relief, in spite of his concerns over infection. That was due in part, he knew, to the care he administered. He’d cleaned and dressed the wound three times a day, finding a measure of satisfaction in the familiar task.
Emma said little else about his abandoned profession, but she watched him with a quiet compassion that was more bothersome than nagging would have been. On the day the stitches came out, she lifted his palms, kissed each one, and said, “God has blessed you with a special gift, Matthew. Healing hands.”
He’d not known how to reply. She’d asked for so little. And yet he couldn’t give her this one thing she longed for.
“Do you love me, Matthew?” she’d gone on, taking his face in her rough little hands.
“You know I do,” he replied almost desperately.
“Yes, you do. But it isn’t enough. You’ll never be truly happy until you give in to God’s calling on your life.”
He’d crushed her to him, holding her against his throbbing heart, knowing she was right. The heaviness lay on him even now as the geese disappeared overhead.
Emma turned his way, blew him a kiss, and started back to the house.
“Someone’s coming,” he called, catching sight of a copper-colored head bobbing through the south fields.
“Maureen!” Emma’s bare feet churned the ground as she flew toward her friend.
Though her visits were infrequent, Maureen came when she could, bringing bits of town news but, most of all, giving Emma her friendship. While they talked and prayed, their fingers would fly: braiding rugs, piecing a quilt, peeling apples. Matthew liked Maureen as much as he disliked her father.
On his occasional trips to town, Matt was forced to patronize the general store, though he dreaded each encounter. Dreaded the arguments with Jimmy. Dreaded the thought of encountering the pregnant Mrs. O’Dell. Dreaded the longing he felt to practice medicine.
The rest of the town had warmed a bit toward him, though few ever mentioned Emma and none invited the Tolivars to social functions. He knew the other farmers helped one another during harvest. There would be husking bees and threshing parties—none of which the Tolivars would attend. He’d even had a talk with the parson, quite by accident, one day outside the blacksmith shop. Parson Jeffers had apologized for the incident at the church, saying, “The
Lord would be displeased if we turn away any who seek Him, Mr. Tolivar. You and your wife are welcome anytime.”
Though his anger toward the austere parson had lessened, Matt had no intention of subjecting Emma to another scene like the last.
Matt resumed the task of filling the wagon with hay, glad that the constant toil kept him from thinking too much. Another fork or two, and he’d head to the barn to unload then start the process all over again. In the distance, beyond the acres and acres of corn and grass yet to be harvested, a spiral of dust rose. Curious, Matt paused in his work again. Two guests in one day?
A horse pounded into the yard, its rider leaping from the saddle and running toward the house.
“Maureen! Maureen! I know you’re in there.” The panic-stricken voice of one of the O’Dell boys carried all the way out to Matt’s hay field.
Maureen came rushing out the door. After a muffled exchange of words that Matt couldn’t understand, she mounted the horse behind her brother and the pair raced away, leaving Emma alone in the front yard.
Something had happened. Something bad. Matt’s gut knotted with dread. Was there a sickness? An accident? Or was it the pregnant mother?
He hadn’t long to wait before the questions were answered. Emma hastened toward him, hair and skirts flying out behind her. Dropping the pitchfork, he rushed to meet her.
“What is it?”
Breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly, Emma pressed a hand to her heart. The anxiety in Matt’s stomach was reflected in her face.
“It’s Kathryn O’Dell. Her baby is coming now.”
“Babies are born all the time.” He wanted to turn away, to run back to Texas or Colorado, anywhere but here with this oppressive sense of duty clawing at him.
“Matthew, please.” Emma gripped his arm. “You don’t understand. It’s too early, and Mrs. O’Dell is so terribly weak.”
“No, Emma.” Shaking his head, he backed away, knowing what she wanted. “Don’t ask this of me.”
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