He picked up the sleeping Henry and, nodding for Sam to come along, walked into the bedroom back of the parlor. He peeled back the covers with one hand as he lay the child gently on the bed. The boy stirred but instead of waking lay limply against the pillow. While Caleb removed the boy’s boots worn so thoroughly the leather was split clean through, Sam leaped up on the bed and, after a glance to his master for permission, curled himself into the boy’s side. Caleb tucked in the covers and laid a hand, surprisingly gentle for one so large, on the boy’s forehead to check for fever.
“You take good care of him, dog, you hear me?” Sam thumped his tail and laid his muzzle on the child’s chest.
Back by the stove matters had taken a turn for the worse. Johanna clung to the arms of the chair, trying to regain her feet.
Caleb leaped to her assistance. “Please, you could fall and hurt yourself.”
“Have to lie down,” she panted. “The baby is ready to come—n—o—w.” The final word turned into a wail. She collapsed on the pallet and continued to pant, the contractions seeming to roll over and through her body with ruthless intensity.
When Caleb checked to see how she was progressing, he literally caught the baby as it slithered onto her soaked petticoats.
“Oh, dear God above, now what?”
The infant let out a yell fit to scare the wind howling in the chimney.
“Well, will you listen to that.” Caleb cradled the squalling red baby in his cupped hands and stared at her as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. He looked up to see Johanna watching him.
“You have a baby girl, ma’am, Miz Carlson. And she sure does have a hearty pair of lungs. All the rest of her appears intact, too.”
“You—you need to cut the cord.”
“All right.” He looked around for a place to lay this now quiet mite.
“Put her here, on my chest.” The woman patted the spot.
“But you’ll get all—I mean—well, she’s a bit messy, you know.”
“If’n you got a clean towel, lay that down first since my dress ain’t the cleanest.” Was that a twinkle he saw in her eye?
The sheriff felt his confidence return. “‘Course. That’s what I was thinking to do.”
Laying the baby face down on the woman’s belly, he took the bit of rag he had torn and tied the cord off and severed the membrane. Now the little one was on her own. As if unhappy with that situation, she squalled again, already turning her head in search of sustenance.
Johanna groaned again as another spasm racked her body and expelled the afterbirth.
“Good. There, there, ma’am. You are doing just fine.” Caleb cleaned up the mess as he spoke, doing all in his power to help his patient and yet not embarrass her. There should have been another woman present in this intimate task, or at least the doctor.
Poor lady would probably never be able to look him in the eye again. At the thought, his heart clenched as if caught in a huge hand. Must be he was mighty lonely this Christmas night to be worrying about whether this poor woman would want to see him again or not.
Calling himself all sorts of names, he brought out the strips of old sheet he’d torn up, folded a square patch to put over the baby’s umbilical cord, and tied it in place. Next he folded a larger square around the infant to keep her warm and laid her in the crook of her mother’s arm.
“How about if I clean her up later?”
Johanna nodded. “Sheriff, that would be just fine. You’ve done far more than you’ll ever know.” In spite of the weariness that pulled at her eyelids, she smiled up at the man kneeling beside her.
“She’s so beautiful.” Caleb touched the tiny fingers curled into a fist. The baby opened her hand and wrapped her fingers right around the end of his. At that moment Caleb lost his heart, giving it over to that bit of humanity whether he wanted to or not.
“I believe we should call her Angel,” he whispered as if anything louder would break the spell. “That is, if’n you want to.”
“I believe that would be right fine.”
“Angel what? She needs more of a name than that.”
But the woman and child had both fallen asleep, breathing peacefully in the lamplight.
“Well, I’ll be.” It was some time before Caleb Stenesrude could tear himself away from the picture on the pallet. As he wrapped his tired body into a quilt, he whispered into the night, “Dear God, please let me hear if one of them needs me.”
Chapter 2
He awoke with a start.
The room had turned chilly, no doubt fueled by the draft that sneaked across the floor and worked its way in through the quilt he’d wrapped around himself. The kerosene lamp he’d left with the wick on low now flickered feebly, the wick burned down too far.
What had awakened him?
Caleb threw back the covers and, after getting to his feet, made his way to the table, first to wind the wick higher and then to the stove to add more wood. The harder he tried to be quiet, the more the stove lids rattled and the wood banged against the sides of the fire box before flaring in the remaining coals. As the wood caught, he set the round lids back in place and dusted off his hands.
He listened and nodded. That’s what it was, the quiet. The wind no longer moaned and whistled at the eaves, demanding entry like a frothing beast. He looked over at the pallet of quilts where mother and babe slept. Rubbing a calloused hand across his forehead, he thought back to the birthing. Gratitude for the ease of it made him clamp his jaw. What if the baby had been a breach birth or born dead? He shook off such morbid thoughts. That was over and done with. Now he only had to deal with a newborn baby, a woman who looked like she needed more than one night’s sleep and a month of good feeding, and a little boy who wouldn’t—or couldn’t—talk.
Might be easier to take on a bunch of cowboys at the end of a long trail ride. The thought made him rub his forehead again. What was he gonna do with them? They couldn’t stay here, in the house of a widower, without chaperones. Why, if Mrs. Jacobson down at the Mercantile got wind of this tidbit, she’d hang them out to dry in every home in Soldahl. He wouldn’t be able to walk down the street without people whispering behind their hands. And what would this do to Mrs. Carlson? No, this wouldn’t be the way to introduce her to the community.
Besides, he had no time for a boy and a baby.
At that thought the baby mewled, a tiny sound that called forth every caring instinct he never knew he had. The utterly helpless cry flew straight across the room and, like an arrow, sank into his heart.
Angel, that’s what he’d named her. If the little family moved on he would probably never see her again. He wouldn’t watch her grow and laugh and play.
He cleared his throat.
“I am awake, Sheriff, there is no need for you to try so hard to be quiet.” The soft voice came through the dimness.
“Yes, ma’am. Is there anything I can get for you?”
The mewling changed to whimpers.
“No, thank you. I will nurse this one here and . . .”
“Does she need dry diapers?”
“Yes, I’m sure she does. Have you some here?”
“Just pieces of that sheet. She’s wearing part of it now.” Caleb left his place by the stove and fetched the folded pieces of cloth. He handed them down to the woman who had rolled on her side. “You need some help?”
“Yes.”
He could tell the admission cost her dearly. He knelt beside the pallet and, unwrapping the sheet turned blanket, removed the soiled article. Then, after refolding a small square, he tucked it between the twig-like legs and wrapped the baby tightly in another piece of sheet.
“You do that like you’ve done it before.” She shifted her gaze from the bundled baby to the man who now sat back on his haunches.
“Not much different than wrapping a package in brown paper.” He resisted the urge to touch the questing rosebud mouth with the tip of his finger. “I’ll let you be now.” He got to his feet. “You need anything
now, you just call out. Hear?”
“Yes, Sheriff.”
Caleb crawled back into his quilt to give her the privacy he sensed she needed. The rustling of moving bodies and fabric, punctuated with Angel’s demand for food, painted pictures on the backs of his eyes. Pictures of Harriet and the times she’d nursed their sons. Pictures of warmth and love. Even at only a few hours old, Angel nursed with determination. He could both hear and feel it. Caleb folded a hand under his head and kept a sigh to himself.
What a Christmas Eve this had been. Christmas morning was only a few hours away. Surely he had something in the house that might be given as a present to the little boy. He wracked his brain.
No toys. No child-sized clothing. All the gifts still lay under the tree at the church so he hadn’t even an orange or a candy cane. He turned to his other side. Some of the townsfolk had dropped off presents of food—a ham, chocolate cake, julekake—to thank him for helping them at one time or another. He catalogued the things he had set in the pie safe. All well and good but no gift for a small boy who looked as if he hadn’t had much in his young life.
Father, Caleb prayed, You sent me these wanderers so now I have an extra request. Since they are here, could You provide a gift for the little fellow? You know I can’t come up with an idea. And while I’m at it, thank You again for keeping that little Angel and her mother safe. Please keep Your angels guard over us. You seem to like babies born at this time of year. Amen.
He lay snug in his quilt, one of those that his wife Harriet had made so lovingly. Strange how something she made could still bring him such comfort, let alone warmth.
As soon as first light turned the blackness outside to dark gray, he rose and added wood to the fire. After pulling on his boots and bundling up, he then headed for the barn to do his chores. He always thought better in the barn anyway.
With his head butted up against the cow’s warm flank and milk streaming into the pail, he mulled over what to do next. By the time he’d poured milk in the pan for the barn cats, fed the chickens, tossed hay into the horse and cow mangers, and refilled the animals’ drinking buckets from the barrel of water, he knew what he had to do. What time would Gudrun Norgaard be ready to offer him coffee and advice? Even if it were Christmas morning, she always knew what to do with angels and strays. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d conferred with her and, knowing the way of the world, it probably wouldn’t be the last.
He caught himself whistling on his way back to the house. The rooster finally got himself awake enough to greet the dawn that still struggled to be seen through the lowering clouds. The temperature had dropped along with the wind but at least the blizzard was over for now. He could still smell snow on the breeze along with wood and coal smoke as the people of Soldahl fueled up their fires for breakfast.
He had someone to cook breakfast for too. That thought lent a spring to his step that seemed positively un-Caleb-like had anyone been watching.
Sam met him at the door and scooted outside as soon as he opened it. By the time Caleb put the milk pail on the table, the dog yipped to come in. “Taking your duties with that little fellow mighty serious, aren’t you?” The man only had to hold the door a second before the dog was through and, with a quick tail wag and a whine over his shoulder, Sam headed for the bedroom.
Caleb nodded in approval. Sam was smarter than he gave the critter credit for, and that was saying something. He left the pantry along with his boots and coat and padded into the kitchen. The coffeepot gurgled on the back burner. The floor where the pallets had been laid was swept clean. And there wasn’t a human in sight.
They’re gone! The thought caught him like an unexpected blow from a barroom brawler. But the sight of the boy’s ragged muffler strewn across the horsehair sofa’s arm eased his anxiety. She must be taking care of the boy.
Should she be out of bed? What did all this effort cost her?
On the wall by the front door, the carved walnut clock, his only legacy from his grandfather, chimed seven times. He’d go talk with Gudrun as soon as he fed his guests. Maybe she had some flannel or something that could be turned into diapers for Angel. Maybe Mrs. Hanson would know where some necessary things would be. Between Gudrun Norgaard, the grand dame of Soldahl, and Mrs. Hanson, her dedicated housekeeper, they knew about everything that went on in these parts.
His mind played with the words as, under his breath, he whistled the opening bars of ‘Away in a Manger.’”
“You sound in a joyful mood.” Her soft voice startled him so he clattered the black-iron skillet on the top of the stove.
“Oh, I am at that. Merry Christmas and good morning.” He looked at her more closely. “Are you sure you shouldn’t be lying down? I mean, like, you had that baby not very many hours ago.” His fluster had attacked his tongue. Why should an itty-bitty woman like this make him stutter? When he faced a gang of drunken field hands he felt like he could conquer the world!
“I—I thank you for your concern, but me and mine, we must be on our way as soon as possible.”
“On your way! Woman, you just had a baby, we just had a blizzard. Looks to me like another is right on its heels and it’s cold enough out there to freeze spit before it leaves your mouth.” Caleb rattled the pan and shoved it off to the side. “Sides, I’m just readying up some breakfast for us. You do think you could stay long enough for a meal?” He could hear the sarcasm but seemed unable to stem it. What in thunder was so all-fired important she had to run off like this?
He took a slab of bacon out of the pie safe and eggs from the pantry and assembled his fixings on the table. He started to cut the bacon and instead turned to the stove. Fetching two mugs off the warming shelf, he poured coffee into both and pointed at the rocking chair. “Sit.”
She sat.
He handed her a mug and, wrapping both of his hands around his own, stood by the stove, lightly resting his haunches on the edge of the reservoir. “Thank you for making the coffee.”
“You are welcome.” Her voice came, as wooden and stiff as long woolen underwear off a winter clothesline.
“Now the way I see it . . .”
“What makes you think you see it at all?”
“Excuse me for sayin’ this, but you show up on my doorstep in the middle of a blizzard, have a baby on my floor . . .”
“It wasn’t exactly on your floor.” She threw back her shoulders almost indignantly.
You are handling this like a hard-headed Swede. Caleb could hear his father’s voice as if he were right in the room.
Caleb figured he’d better listen. “Now, I meant no offense, ma’am, but please, let me help you. The Good Book says to welcome strangers, might well be angels unaware.”
“An angel I’m not.” A spring thaw might be setting in.
“No, but that little one is and you’d sure be risking her life if you set out now.” He spoke gently, like he did to all wounded and desperate creatures. Man, she sure could manage to rile him up. He studied the conflicting emotions as they drew maps on her face. When she lifted her chin and met his gaze, he knew she’d made a decision. He sure as heaven hoped it was the right one.
Chapter 3
“I will stay.”
Caleb felt his breath leave in a whoosh. He hadn’t been aware he was holding it. To cover his flash of jubilation, he raised the mug to his mouth and took a swig. Even after being out of the pot this long, the rich coffee scalded the back of his tongue. He could feel the heat clear to his gullet.
“Are you sure this—my being here with my family—will not cause you hardship?”
“No, not at all.” A vision of Mrs. Jacobson in full sail flashed across his mind. Dear Lord, forgive this slight untruth. “Not at all.” He returned to his bacon slicing and carefully laid the slabs in the pan, making sure the slices were evenly spaced. As if that mattered. When the bacon sizzled to his satisfaction, he sliced the bread and proceeded to set the table.
Finally, when he looked over at Mrs. Carlson, she wa
s resting peacefully in the chair, eyes closed, her cheeks two red circles on an otherwise pale face. Mayhap he should stop by and see the doctor on his way back from Gudrun’s. Wouldn’t hurt to have him check her and the baby out.
Where was her husband? If she’d been a widow, wouldn’t she have said so? Where had she come from and how long had they been on the road? The thoughts sizzled through his mind, like the grease that danced in the frying pan.
The click of Sam’s toenails alerted him. Caleb looked up to see Henry stop in the doorway. A wet path down one cheek gave mute testimony to the tears shed, but not a sound had come from him. Caleb knew he would have heard the child crying. Sam whimpered.
Mrs. Carlson jerked alert in her chair. “Oh, Henry, come here.” She reached her arms out to him. Giving the man standing at the stove a wide berth, the slender child rushed into her arms.
“I ain’t goin’ to bite you, son.” Caleb kept his voice easy. That wasn’t just shyness he recognized in the look the boy threw him. That was out and out fear. Nigh on to terror. “There’s a slop bucket out on the back porch so’s he don’t need to use the privy. I ain’t shoveled a pathway out there yet.”
“Thank you, I found it earlier.” She kept her arm wrapped around the boy, as if to shield him.
“There now, you can come up to the table to eat or I can bring it to you there.” Caleb took a plate off the warming ledge and slid two fried eggs onto it. He added bacon, wished he’d thought of frying the leftover potatoes, and looked up at his guests.
Henry was glued to his mother’s shoulder, staring at the plate of food as if he’d never seen such bounty.
“Can you manage the chair? I can put a pillow on it.” He put the plate down and did as Caleb suggested without waiting for his mother’s approval.
Dakota December and Dakota Destiny Page 2
