The Love Knot

by Karen Witemeyer

  “It is, to an extent.” Shaw drew his leg up and balanced his ankle on his knee. “Emma and the aunts started Harper’s Station as a place for women to get a fresh start, no matter their reason. Females escaping abuse. Widows or unmarried women on their own with no way to support themselves. Even ladies who simply wanted a chance to prove themselves in a trade dominated by men. This is a place where they could be safe while earning a living and contributing to a community that accepted them. But it’s changing, little by little. It’s really not a women’s colony anymore. First Emma and I married. Then Ben and Tori Porter hitched up. Grace and Helen both found husbands and left town. Ned Johnson’s already in his teens, and there are other boys who will outgrow their mama’s apron strings before much longer.

  “The town is changing, and Grace’s gift will allow us to preserve the heart of our mission well into the future. Emma intends to break ground on the Grace and Amos Bledsoe Home for Women next month.”

  “Sounds like a worthy endeavor.”

  Shaw grinned. “Yep. My Em’s already got plans for the place, endowments set up with her investors, the works. She’s not one to let an idea or a dollar sit idle.”

  “I heard that, husband,” a decidedly feminine voice called out as the back door opened. Both men scooted their chairs out and got to their feet. Emma Shaw swept into the kitchen, a wide smile on her face and a familiar youngster cradled in her arms. “It’s poor manners to discuss one’s wife when she’s not around to defend herself.”

  Shaw wrapped an arm around the lively brunette’s waist and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Not if I’m payin’ you compliments, angel.” His gaze moved to the babe. He lifted a hand to touch Liam’s back but never quite made contact. The uncertainty clouding his eyes shocked Pieter. The marshal had oozed confidence since they’d met outside the clinic. Why would an infant lay him low?

  “Isn’t he the most precious thing?” Emma held Liam up in front of her, grinned at him, and jiggled him gently until he grinned back. “Here. Hold him.” She extended her arms.

  Malachi Shaw lurched backward and waved her off. “No way, Em. I don’t know anything about babies. I’ll probably tangle his booties in his bib or something.”

  “Nonsense. It’s easy. He’s already holding his head up. All you have to do is support his middle. Pretend you’re holding a puppy or something.” She advanced on him, turning a giggling Liam around to face him as she went. “Come on, Mal. He won’t bite. He might drool on you, but big, strong man that you are, you can handle it.”

  The marshal shot Pieter a silent plea for help.

  Pieter shrugged. “Hold him under his arms and bounce him on your knee. He likes that.”

  Shaw narrowed his eyes in a message that obviously declared Pieter a traitor, then tried one more time to step away. Only to run into the wall.

  “Take him, Mal.” Mrs. Shaw’s voice was softer this time. “You need the practice.” Only then did Pieter notice the roundness at her waist. “You’re going to be a great father. Trust me.”

  “But my old man—”

  “Was a drunken lout, I know.” She pressed Liam into the marshal’s chest and waited until his hands slowly came around to clasp the baby’s sides. “You’re nothing like him. You’re going to love our child so much that your heart will nearly burst, and everything else will take care of itself.”

  “Except the diapers,” Pieter said.

  Shaw’s wife laughed at that and turned to Pieter for the first time. Striding away from her husband despite his panicked gaze, she offered Pieter her hand in greeting. “Thank you for delivering such a delightful new citizen to Harper’s Station. There hasn’t been this much excitement in town since Amos Bledsoe’s bicycle order arrived.”

  Pieter shook her hand, her kindness instantly putting him at ease. That and the fact that she didn’t seem to need him to contribute anything to the conversation.

  “Claire gave me permission to get in some practice time with the baby while the two of you talk.”

  Pieter straightened. “Talk?”

  Mrs. Shaw nodded. “She’s waiting outside for you.” She tipped her head toward the door she had entered from a few minutes ago.

  Pieter didn’t wait for any further explanation. He dipped his head to Shaw’s wife, grabbed his hat off the table, and made a beeline for the back door.

  Chapter

  7

  Claire pushed away from the paddock fence when she saw Pieter exit the station house. Her heart ached with yearning at the sight of him. She still loved him. Desperately. But she wouldn’t pledge her life to a man until she was certain of him. Just look what had happened to her mam. She’d tied herself to a jolly man with wanderlust in his veins and ended up far from home, chained to a drunkard who spouted ugliness at his own kin as if they were the enemy. Her mam never spoke ill of her da, but every time he drank away his earnings or lost his temper with one of the girls, Claire could see the heartbreak and regret in her mam’s eyes.

  Marriage was a leap of faith, and Claire wouldn’t be makin’ the jump blindfolded.

  Pieter’s eyes sought her out, then lit up when he spied her near the barn. His long legs ate up the distance separating them in a flash, yet once he was in front of her, he said nothing, just crushed his hat in his hands.

  “Is Liam all right?” Claire scuffed her foot on the hard-packed ground, her gaze dodging away from Pieter’s.

  “Ja.”

  That was it? Just one word? Well, of course. This was Pieter, the master of concise expression. Although he had strung together a pretty impressive set of words during their cart ride. Words she was still processing.

  She nodded her head toward the road behind the barn. “Walk with me?”

  Pieter nodded and shoved his hat back on his head. His hands hung free at his sides as he strolled beside her, but she didn’t fit her palm into his as she’d done when they were courting. Touching him would scramble her brain, and she needed to think clearly. Eventually his right hand clenched into a fist. In the next breath, he shoved it into his trouser pocket as if the enforced emptiness pained him.

  Guilt pricked her conscience as they meandered past the garden, but she remained resolute. They couldn’t simply pretend like nothing had happened and go back to the way things were before. They had to find a new way.

  A way that entailed getting past a big, ugly knot.

  However—Claire speculated, her mind taking a more hopeful turn—a seamstress couldn’t sew a garment without first knotting the end of the thread. Joining two pieces of fabric required an anchor. Their anchor might be different than what it once was, but one knot didn’t mean their future was destined to be a tangled snarl.

  After they passed the church and the new house Malachi was building for Emma, Claire guided Pieter through the adjoining field to a lopsided oak tree that had been struck by lightning at some point years ago. One large limb had been sheared off and lay on the ground. The wood had decayed somewhat but still maintained enough solidity to serve as a bench. Claire settled on one end, then invited Pieter to join her.

  His jaw twitched as if he wanted to refuse, but, as usual, he held his tongue.

  Claire turned her face up to him. “Please.”

  He blew out a breath, pulled his hand from his pocket, and lowered himself to the log. His knees poked up like twin mountain peaks in front of him. He rested one arm across them and waited.

  Swallowing the urge to continue protecting the tender places inside, Claire steeled herself to say what needed to be said. Pieter had bared his heart to her. She must do the same. “I still have feelings for ye, Pieter. Those ne’er died, despite my best efforts to bury them.”

  His eyes slid closed as if he were savoring the words, and when he turned to face her, a hint of a smile played at one corner of his mouth. She shook her head, trying to warn him there was more to come.

  “Lovin’ ye’s not the problem, Pieter. It’s the trustin’ part that’s holdin’ me back.”

  S
ome of the warmth left his eyes, but he nodded in understanding.

  “Before me da started drinkin’, I thought him the grandest man in all the world. He was so tall and strong and had a knack for makin’ me laugh. As much as I hated leavin’ Ireland, I trusted me da and followed without fear. I knew he’d always keep me safe. Until the day he lost his job at the docks and came home three sheets to the wind.” Claire paused to steady her voice. She clutched her hands together in her lap and bit her lip.

  “He staggered home, angry, sour, and smellin’ like a brewery. He started yellin’ at Mam, and I tried to fix it by gettin’ between them. Not the best choice. But ye know how stubborn I am. I held me ground and told him to stop bein’ mean. He slapped me. Right across me face.” She lifted her hand to rub her cheek, the memory of the sting fresh and sharp. “It hurt like the dickens, but it was the pain to me heart that cleaved me in two.”

  Pieter sought out her gaze, his eyes mournful yet fierce. “I’d never raise a hand to you, Claire. I’d sooner cut off my arm than strike a woman.”

  “Ye don’t understand.” She lowered her hand from her cheek. “When I saw ye with that woman in Rochester, it was a slap to me face. Just like the one me da delivered. It stung like a searing fire.”

  Pieter straightened. “Claire, I . . .”

  “I know ye’d never strike me,” she hurried to clarify, the wounded look in his eyes tearing at her conscience. “Ye’d never turn to drink like me da did, either. But, Pieter . . . Da shattered my illusions of him when he hit me, and you shattered my illusions when ye cozied up to Josephine Ellmore.”

  Pieter’s throat worked as he swallowed. “I’m just a man, Claire. I’m not perfect.” His quiet voice prodded her spirit. “Any man placed on a pedestal is doomed to fall eventually.”

  “Aye. Women, too.” Inhaling a shaky breath, she reached for his hand where it dangled from his knee, and clasped it gently. “I let ye down, too, Pieter. I know it. I ran when I should’ve fought for the man I love.”

  He turned his hand and laced his fingers through hers. Warmth spread up her arm and into the cold recesses of her heart.

  “I forgive ye for what happened in Rochester,” she said, dropping her gaze to her lap. Coward she might be, but he would weaken her resolve with those soft, love-filled eyes of his if she gave him the chance. “But I’ll not marry ye until I trust ye.”

  “Then I’ll just have to prove myself trustworthy.” He tightened his grip on her hand, and she felt the promise traveling from his skin to hers. I won’t let you down again.

  Her heart already believed him, but her stubborn Irish mind still needed convincing. “Time will tell,” she said as she slid her hand from his hold and stood. She rubbed her palm along her skirt, but she couldn’t erase the impact of his touch. The effects lingered. Warming her skin, fluttering her pulse. Slowly, she curled her fingers into a fist. “Time will tell.”

  Later that evening, after settling Liam down for the night in the basket she’d borrowed from Addie, Claire left her small room at the back of the clinic and went to the kitchen to fix herself a cup of tea. Dressed in a cotton nightgown and wrapper, with a pair of thick stockings on her feet, she laid the Bible she’d brought with her on the table before padding over to the stove. She moved the kettle to the left side of the hob, where the stove emitted the most heat, then pulled out a chair and slid onto the sturdy wooden seat.

  No single day in the entire course of her life had brought as much change and emotional upheaval as this day. Not leaving Ireland. Not abandoning school to work in the embroidery shop. Not even that dreadful day in Rochester. She felt as wrung out as an old petticoat on washing day. One more tug, and she just might tear to pieces.

  Only she couldn’t afford that luxury. Not with Liam depending on her. The little lad needed her, and deep in her heart, Claire suspected she might just need him, too.

  Leaning her forearms on the table, Claire finally gave in to temptation and folded. Her shoulders slumped, her spine sagged, and her neck wilted, letting her head plop onto the leather Bible resting on the table.

  What if I’m not strong enough?

  The insidious thought wormed past her defenses to burrow in her mind. She’d always been the strong one. The one the family depended on. Never afraid to roll up her sleeves and do what needed to be done. But a babe? She might know how to tend to his physical needs after taking care of her younger sisters as they’d come along, but being a mother? That was different. More important. Easier to get wrong.

  Pieter could help. He wanted to be involved in Liam’s life. But after the fiasco with Stanley Fischer, she’d vowed never to marry a man simply to make her life easier. So where did that leave her?

  Confused.

  Exhausted.

  Overwhelmed.

  Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee.

  Her mam had quoted that verse from Psalms whenever one of her girls complained about hardship or cruelty or the injustice of people treating them poorly just because they were Irish. Mam probably clung to that verse in order to deal with Da, as well. Claire could think of no other way her mam could endure all she had without leaning on the Lord.

  Now that same verse rose to encourage Claire. She curled up from the table, one vertebra at a time, until her face hovered above the Bible lying between her arms. She reached for the cover and thumbed the pages. She didn’t recall the precise reference for her mam’s verse, but she knew it was from one of the Psalms.

  She opened to chapter 28, and while she didn’t find the verse she sought, another leapt from the page to grab her attention.

  The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in him, and I am helped.

  Trust. It always came back to that, didn’t it? Claire ran her finger over the word at the heart of the verse. The Lord possessed all the fortitude she could ever need, and he offered her an abundant supply—offered to be her strength and her shield through all the upheaval she faced. Yet she wouldn’t be helped unless she trusted him.

  “I’m so used to relying on meself,” she whispered into the dim room, “on my own strength, my own abilities. ’Tis hard to trust another with my troubles. Even you.” She pressed her palm to her chest. “Help me,” she pleaded. “Help me trust ye more.”

  The hiss of the kettle brought her back to her surroundings. Claire opened her eyes and pushed to her feet. She collected a large mug from the cupboard and pulled out the tea tin. Wrapping a towel around her hand, she reached for the kettle’s handle, only to jerk her hand back when a sharp rap sounded on the front door. Her heart pounded at the unexpected sound.

  Afraid the knocking would wake Liam, she scooted the kettle to a cooler part of the stove, then hurried to the door. Taking a moment to tighten her wrapper, she held the collar closed at the neck, then eased the door open a couple inches.

  “Yes?”

  “I need Maybelle. All my young’uns are ailing something fierce.” Beulah Clark, a new resident living in one of the poorer houses on the outskirts of Harper’s Station, wrung her hands, her countenance even more haggard than Claire’s. “Please, miss. I don’t know what else to do for ’em.”

  Claire glanced back toward her bedroom, where Liam slept . . . and sighed. There was nothing for it. What needed to be done, needed to be done. Hadn’t she just asked the Lord for strength? She guessed he’d decided she needed to practice leaning on him right away.

  “Maybelle’s out at the farm.” Another new resident had come to them six weeks ago, heavy with child. Betty had taken Susannah under her wing, eager for a new girl to cluck over after Helen left to marry her Pinkerton. Susannah had gone into labor right after supper tonight. Maybelle would be busy with the birthing until well after dawn. “Give me a minute to dress,” Claire said, “and I’ll come.”

  “Thank you, miss. Thank you.”

  Claire nodded. “Go on back to yer little ones. I’ll be along in a blink.”

  Beulah thanked her one last time, then scurried
away, her lantern lighting her path. Claire closed the door, hurried to her room, and changed into a loose-fitting calico dress that wouldn’t require a corset.

  A mother’s worst nightmare—a sick child. Or children, in Beulah’s case. She had three. Darting a glance toward Liam, Claire’s heart squeezed. Such a precious, fragile life. She whispered a prayer for the Clark children, then gathered the bag Polly had sent her and restocked it with diapers, Liam’s bottle, and two clean gowns.

  “Sorry, me darlin’, but duty calls.” Claire gently eased the baby basket off the floor, careful not to disrupt the sleeping babe. “Aunt Emma will take good care o’ ye while I’m away. There’re other children needin’ me tonight, but I’ll be back soon, me love. Have no fear.”

  She moved quickly through the house, stopping by the examination room to grab the doctor’s bag she always kept packed and ready. Next to the medical bag was a small barn lantern. She lit the wick and fit the globe into place. Then, with the baby basket in one hand and the medical bag, baby supplies, and lantern in the other, she made her way to the station house.

  Bertie Chandler, one of Emma’s aunts, answered Claire’s knock and gladly took charge of Liam.

  “Don’t you worry about a thing, now,” Bertie said as Claire tried to give her advice about everything from changing a nappy to milking the goat. “Between Emma, Henry, and me, this little man will want for nothing. You go on and help poor Beulah. We’ll take care of Liam.”

  Something pinched Claire’s chest as she turned to leave. How had she become so attached to the boy so quickly? Liam had been in her life less than twenty-four hours, yet he’d already taken up permanent residence in her heart.

  Hesitating, she pressed a kiss to her fingertips, then touched them to his forehead. “Mam’ll be back soon, love,” she whispered. Then she pivoted away from the door, held her lantern aloft, and strode down the road with purpose. The faster she tended to the Clarks, the faster she could return to Liam.

  When she reached the ramshackle house that served as the Clark home, what she found made her heart sink. Three children, aged four to ten, shared a bed. Each was feverish, coughing, and covered in a red rash that could mean only one thing—one of the most infectious diseases in existence, and one that could prove fatal to infants and adults who’d never developed an immunity. Adults like Claire.