I’m sorry, Steven. I tried my best.”
Steven Halpern stared at old Doc Willowby and shook his head in mute
denial of the terrible truth.
“Jane was too weak. I did all I could, but it wasn’t enough.” Doc handed him a small bundle and murmured, “It’s a girl. She looks to be healthy, but she’s a tiny slip of a thing. They are when they come early like this. Keep her warm, and try to feed her watered-down cream with sugar added to it. Do you have any bottles?”
Steven looked blankly at his housekeeper. She nodded, but he didn’t even feel a flicker of relief.
“She’ll need to be fed every other hour. Give her an ounce each time for the first two days, then two or three ounces after that.”
“I can’t do this.” Steven thrust the baby back, unable to even look at her.
“You have to. She may not make it, but you owe it to Jane to try.” Doc gently slid the baby back into his arms. She’d begun to wail. “I’ll let you comfort one another.”
Doc left, and Steven walked over to the window. Rain pelted the pane. Every last angel in heaven had to be weeping to create such a storm. Stunned as he was, he couldn’t even join in. He drew a shattered breath and looked down, ready to hate the child who had cost him his sweet Jane; but she was such a tiny mite, he couldn’t dredge up such an ugly emotion. A fluff of dark down covered her head, and her lips puckered. He’d never seen anything as small as her hands. She accidentally found her fingers, sucked on them for an instant, then let out a small mewl of disappointment.
The next morning, the baby gummed the bottle nipple. Her cry was a tiny bleat of woe. Steven stared at her then looked at Mrs. Axelrod. His housekeeper carefully turned the baby around, gently patted her back, and said, “Things are ready. Tom’s gathering the hands.”
Steven rose from the leather wingback chair and slowly crossed the floor. The planks rang with each step. He had to go out there and lay his wife to rest.
Everyone waited while he built up the nerve. Jane had been a dainty woman, a lady of refined taste and delicate sensibilities. Out of respect, Steven scraped the mud off of his boots on the porch steps before heading toward the grave. By the time he reached it, his boots were caked again, but he was too numb to notice.
“Preacher Durley wasn’t in town,” Mark said, “so we’ll all just recite a psalm and Mrs. Axelrod can pray.”
Steven kept his eyes trained on the plain pine box and nodded. Jane deserved something far nicer than that pitiful coffin. He’d failed her all around. She’d felt puny since the day she told him he was to become a father, so he hadn’t detected any difference in her these last few days. Still, he should have sent for Doc Willowby sooner. Maybe then he might have been able to save her once her laboring began.
“The Lord is my shepherd,” the men about him began. He wanted to shout at them. Why did they talk about a shepherd when they were laying his wife to rest on a cattle ranch? “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” No man walked there—he was dragged through, and the ground was covered by millions of jagged stones of memory that caused his soul to bleed.
Steven didn’t hear the rest of the recitation, the hymn, or the prayer that followed. He stared at the gaping hole in the dirt and tried to convince himself this wasn’t real. Mrs. Axelrod pulled him from his thoughts when she put the baby in his arms. “Go on back into the house,” she ordered. “Mark will make sure things are finished up here.”
He trudged over to the porch and had to muster courage before going inside. The fragrance of Jane’s lavender perfume lingered in the parlor. It sharpened the edge of his grief. Mrs. Axelrod steered him to a chair and pressed another bottle into his hand. “Best try to feed her. She sounds hungry.”
Twenty minutes later, Steven said worriedly, “She’s only swallowed once, and she choked on it.”
“I’ll make up another bottle and use blackstrap molasses instead of sugar. Maybe that’ll work.”
Throughout the day, they tried in vain to get the baby to eat. Her wails grew weaker. Steven raked his hand through his hair and stared out at the new grave. He could not bear to think Jane was there. Even worse, he couldn’t imagine failing her by letting the child she’d died to birth falter and die, too. “We have to do something,” he rasped.
Lena Swenson let out a cry of outrage. She ran from the soddy with Lars’s old rifle. Sorely tempted to aim true, she paused a second then lifted the muzzle into the air and fired. The rifle recoiled and slammed into her shoulder. It hurt terribly, but not as bad as the sight of the cattle still standing in her cornfield, happily munching away.
She fired once more then took off her apron and paced into the cornfield.
Though she whirled the fabric in the air and slapped one of the huge black beasts, Lena reaped no reward for her effort. One cow turned, gave her a baleful glare, and continued to munch on the cornstalk.
Lena smacked the animal again and accomplished nothing more than making her hand sting. She had no choice: She hastily saddled up her old plow horse and rode in. She started herding the strays from her corn when two men rode up. “Your cows are eating my corn!”
“The fence was down,” one drawled. He kneed his mount forward and forced another cow into motion.
Lena waved her hand at the trampled crop. “What about my corn?”
The second man knocked his hat backward on his head and swiped his sleeve across his damp forehead. “Hot as it’s been, that stunted crop wasn’t going to come to much.”
“I still counted on it!”
He shrugged. “Your man can come reckon with the boss.”
Lena reared back. Her horse danced to the side, and she struggled to handle her mount and emotions. “He is dead.”
“No, ma’am. Mr. Halpern ain’t dead. It was his wife.”
Lena looked back up at them. Her voice shook as she clarified, “I didn’t know of that passing. I was speaking of my own Lars.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You mean you’re a widow woman? Out here all on your lonesome?”
She sat straighter in the saddle. “No, I am not alone. I have a son.”
“We didn’t get word of the death or the birth.”
Lena looked back at the soddy. “Please get your cows out of here, or I’m not going to have any corn left at all.”
“Yes’ m.”
She lightly tugged on the reins and rode her horse back to the barn. It took very little time to unsaddle him; then she went back to the soddy. Johnny was wailing, so she picked him up and jounced him on her shoulder.
Not having seen another soul in a long time, Lena desperately wanted to visit. She looked about and strained to think of what she could offer as refreshments to the men before they left. She had a few ounces of coffee beans left. Johnny sat on the table as she tossed the beans into the grinder and spun the handle.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes!” Lena scooped Johnny into her arms and stepped back into the bright sunlight. “I was going to make some coffee. You’d like to stay and have a cup, perhaps, ja?”
His leathered face creased into an apologetic smile. “Sorry, ma’am. What with us burying Mrs. Halpern this mornin’, we don’t dare lollygag. That’s a mighty fine- lookin’ son you’ve got. Big.”
“Thank you.” Lena’s maternal smile froze as Johnny twisted in her arms and started to nuzzle a button on her bodice.
The cowboy cranked his head away and stared over at the corn. “I’ll say something to the boss. Might be a few days before he decides what to do.”
“I understand.” Lena hastily hoisted her son up to her shoulder. “Thank you for coming to fetch the cows.”
“We’ll repair the fence.”
“Please give Mr. Halpern my condolences.”
He turned back, stared at her for a long count, then glanced around. Lena suddenly felt ashamed of her homestead. The crops were pitiful. With the wheat shriveling and corn heat-stunted, she’d be lucky to have enough food to
get her through next winter. Last night’s downpour, though welcome, wouldn’t be enough to turn the tide. Her garden looked bedraggled. Had she even combed her hair today? She couldn’t bear to see the pity on the stranger’s face, so she dipped her head and busied herself with patting Johnny’s back.
“Ma’am, you have my condolences, too.”
His raspy tone nearly ripped away the thin veneer of self-control she’d developed over the solitary months. Tears welled up, but she blinked furiously to keep them at bay. Unable to speak for fear of dissolving into a fit of weeping, she bit her lip and nodded.
“I’d best be going.”
After he left, she went inside and put away the coffee. There wouldn’t be more until next year. No use wasting it on just herself when it was really too hot to enjoy a scalding cup.
Johnny nursed; then she settled him in the wicker basket and carried him out to a shady spot by the barn. “Boris, guard.” Her hound lay down, and Lena picked up an ax. She needed to chop firewood for cooking and heat for the approaching winter.
She’d already found a lightning-struck tree and hacked sections of it into manageable pieces so the horse could drag it back to the homestead. Since she wouldn’t need to haul water today, this was an opportune time to take care of stocking the woodpile.
The ax was big for her hands, but she’d learned to use its weight to her advantage. Lars could have split the wood into pieces with a single blow, but it took her several. Each swing pulled at her shoulders, each blow jarred her; but she did what she needed to, and with each piece she stacked, she tried to think of another hour of winter warmth for Johnny.
Her thoughts turned toward Mr. Halpern. She knew nothing of him at all other than he was a rich rancher. It was a shame he’d lost his wife. Lena knew firsthand how losing a mate tore at the soul. She looked across the yard to the broken fence and prayed, “Dear Jesus, please comfort Mr. Halpern.”
Her gaze fell back on her cornfield. Mr. Halpern’s cows had virtually destroyed her crop. She hoped he was a fair man. Maybe he’d simply settle by sending over two barrels of cornmeal and some canning jars of corn.
“Jesus, You taught us to pray for our daily bread. I’m worrying about supplies for winter. I know I’m supposed to trust You to provide, but I’m so scared. The rain was good, and the wheat might still be a fair crop. After harvest, I’ll have to leave the farm untended when I take it to the mill. Here I am again, fretting. I don’t want to be greedy, Father, but please provide.” She lifted the ax and swung yet again.
Mark tapped on the kitchen door and stuck his head inside. “Mrs. Axelrod?”
“What is it now?” She sighed as she stood over the stove.
“Um, well…” He shifted from one foot to the other and played with the brim of his hat. He held it in front of himself and seemed to find it inordinately interesting. “A small section of the east fence went down in the storm. Half dozen heifers got into the farmer’s corn.”
“Mr. Halpern can’t be bothered with that tonight,” she snapped. “It won’t make much difference. He can make restitution in a few months when he’s not so troubled.”
“I would have thought so, too; but, well, this is different. It’s a widow woman over there. Her man died.”
“She wouldn’t be a widow if her man hadn’t died.” Mrs. Axelrod wearily wiped her hands on the front of her apron. She used a thick cotton pad to lift the heavy cast-iron skillet. Very carefully, she poured tan-colored creamy liquid into a bottle and muttered worriedly, “Death stalks in threes—but I’m doing my best to be sure the third’s not that little babe.”
“I never put any store by that old adage.”
Mrs. Axelrod sighed. “Tell the woman Mr. Halpern will pay up.”
Mark nodded. “From the looks of it, she’s gonna need it. She’s poor as dirt, and she’s got a son, too.”
“We can’t be bothered right now. In a month or two, when the crop would go to market, she and the boss can settle.”
“It wouldn’t go to market, ma’am. From the look of things, it would go right to her table.”
“Are you telling me she and her boy are going hungry?”
“Can’t rightly swear to the fact that she is just now, but I’d reckon she’s pert near close to it. She’s slender as a willow. On the other hand, her babe is fat as a butchering hog.” He watched as Mrs. Axelrod struggled to stretch the ugly black rubber nipple over the glass bottle. “One thing for sure—she may well be struggling at most everything else, but she don’t have to mess with none of that kind of gear.”
Mrs. Axelrod froze. She turned slowly and asked, “Are you telling me the babe’s still a nursling?”
“I believe so.” Mark grinned. “Poor woman turned three shades of red when he started rooting on her gown.”
“Lord be praised! Go saddle up the boss’s horse!”
Chapter 2
Steven heard the ring of the ax before he saw the neighbor woman. He shifted in the saddle and awkwardly clutched his daughter. For such a tiny, lightweight bundle, she was difficult to hold. She’d starve if he didn’t get something into her soon. He wanted nothing more than to be left all alone, but the privacy of his grief fell second to providing for the child Jane had wanted so desperately.
As his horse walked past the crops, Steven judged them to be in grave trouble. She’d been on her own, so the widow hadn’t plowed and planted much. He figured the corn plot to be only an acre, and the wheat wasn’t quite twice as large. The soddy looked like a hovel for beasts instead of a habitation for humans. How can anyone live like this?
He spied the woman. He’d never met her—farmers were a blight on the land, and being neighborly with them went against his principles. She was tall and slender, but her shoulders were broad. He’d expected to see her in widow’s weeds out of respect for her husband, but she wore faded blue calico. Sweat darkened the back of her bodice and made big rings beneath her arms. Mud caked the bottom ten inches of her gown. He’d never seen such a filthy woman. For an instant, he almost turned to go, but the babe in his arms whimpered and reminded him he couldn’t afford to be picky.
The woman stood with her legs spread wide apart and twisted as her arms moved upward in a smooth arc. The ax in her hands almost robbed her of her balance, but she shifted her weight. The ax cut through the air, hit a section of wood, and split it. Both halves fell to the ground. She set down the ax, took up another piece of wood, and positioned it. As she reached for the ax again, a dog growled a warning and started to bark.
The widow woman wheeled around and clutched the ax before her. Her blue eyes were wide in a pale, dirt-streaked face. She stared at him as she sidestepped several yards toward a wicker basket. The dog stood guard over the basket and continued to growl.
“Hello. I am Lena Swenson.”
Her voice sounded husky, as if she hadn’t spoken in several days. Even with her singsongy Swedish accent, it shook a little, too. Steven stared at her and wondered what she thought she was doing, living alone like this. “I hear you’re a widow now.”
She recoiled from his blunt words, and Steven knew the sickening grief his words caused. Her lips thinned and she said nothing, but she shifted the ax in front of herself. Her fingers clutched the handle so tightly, the knuckles went white.
Hackles raised, the dog stood beside her. Its growl took on a sinister pitch. “Call off the dog.”
She shook her head.
He heard a whimpering sound. She cast a furtive glance at the basket. A wail quavered from it, and the color bled from her face. “I think you’d better leave, mister.”
He wanted to. He wanted to ride off and never look back. The last thing he wanted was to place his clean little baby in the arms of this slovenly woman. Most of her silver-blond hair straggled out of an untidy knot on her crown. Jane would have swooned at the thought of such a person ever touching her beloved child. His daughter let out a soft bleat. He had no choice. Either he asked this woman to help, or he’d lose the baby, t
oo.
Steven locked eyes with her, steeled himself with a deep breath, and said, “I heard you might have milk.”
She blinked then nodded. “My cow is fresh.”
He let out a mirthless bark of a laugh. “Not your cow. You.” She didn’t react at all, so he flipped back the edge of the blanket. The baby made a pathetic squeak as sunlight hit her tiny face. “My girl is hungry.”
Lena’s mouth dropped open. She stared at him in shock.
“I heard you had a baby,” Steven continued. “From the sounds of it, he’s aiming to get some chow. Bluntly put, I want him to share with my daughter.”
After a few seconds of silence, he swung down out of the saddle. The bundled baby occupied his left arm. He drew a pistol with his right hand. Lena gasped. “Lady, send that dog off, or I’m going to plug a bullet in him. I won’t have him threaten my daughter.”
“Ruh,” she ordered. “Sitz.” The dog sat and went silent. The woman studied Steven and said, “Boris will not harm you if you are friendly. Put away the gun.”
“I’ll holster the gun if you put down the ax.”
“You must put the gun in the saddle holster and step away from your horse,” she countered.
Steven grew impatient. “Listen, lady—my baby is starving, and you’re acting like we’re trying to swap horseflesh.”
Lena sucked in a deep breath. “Is she sick?”
“No. Hungry.”
“Put her in the cradle in the soddy then step back out. I will go in and feed her.”
He had no choice. The woman was dirty as a pig, but the baby needed something quick, or she’d dwindle. Her crying was pitifully thin, but constant. He’d give in for this one feeding then find another way to take care of matters. Steven pivoted, strode to the soddy, and went inside.
It was worse than he’d expected. Shafts of late afternoon sun angled through the doorway and illuminated walls made of huge slabs of grassy dirt. An iron bedstead took up a third of the space. Fresh splotches of mud dripped down from the ceiling and plopped onto the red-and-blue quilt. A rough table and two rickety chairs, a small three-drawer bureau, and a cradle comprised the remainder of the furniture. The tiniest potbellied stove he’d ever seen took up the far corner. Crates and shelves lined one wall. On them sat jars, crocks, sacks, a few bottles and barrels, and candles. Her poverty stunned him. Steven stood still for a moment then did as she asked. He set his daughter into the cradle and paced back out.
Prairie Romance Collection Page 32
