Gold Rush Baby

by Dorothy Clark

  “He can have solid food now, Viola. But I want him to continue to drink a lot of water. And he may begin moving his good arm a bit now. But only up and down slowly.”

  “All right, Doctor.”

  The covers were pulled up over his chest and shoulders. Soft hands tucked them under his chin—her hands, with that same faint hint of roses clinging to them.

  “Give him the pain medicine with his meals, even if he says he doesn’t want it. He’s a stubborn cuss. But if you appeal to his godly side, he will come around.”

  “I shall remember that, Doctor. Now, if there is nothing further, I will go and tell Hattie she does not need to fix any broth for Mr. Stone, that he will share our dinner.”

  Thomas opened his eyes, watched Viola walk from the room, then fastened his gaze on Jacob Calloway. “You have a lot to answer for when I get out of this bed, Doctor. I do not want Viola subjected to such tasks again.”

  “Threats? Tsk, tsk.” Jacob smiled and picked up his bag. “Remember your profession, Pastor Stone. Brotherly love and all of that.”

  “No need to concern yourself, Jacob. If you do not ask Viola to do any more nursing tasks all will be well. And if you do, I will love you the whole time I am pummeling you.”

  “You’re not smiling, Thomas.”

  “No. I’m serious, Jacob. The sight of my bandages upsets Viola. I do not want her subjected to that again.”

  “I see.” Jacob narrowed his eyes and studied him. “Methinks thou doth protest too much. The question is…why?” He lifted a hand in farewell and walked out the door.

  Why?

  The question hung suspended in the empty room, bald and begging to be answered. Thomas closed his mind to its challenge. He looked out the window, lifted his gaze beyond the trees in Viola’s backyard, to the mountains that enfolded the town of Treasure Creek, and thought about the prospectors climbing the Chilkoot Trail in search of gold. How foolish those men, thinking happiness rested in possessing the precious metal or the things it could buy.

  Viola slipped the bottle from between Goldie’s lips, blotted away the sweetened goat’s milk pooled at the corners of her tiny mouth and rose from the rocker. She knelt on the floor, kissed the warm, soft cheek and laid Goldie in her cradle. The baby’s eyelids fluttered, opened, slid closed again. Viola smiled, drew the blankets up, then sat back on her heels and looked at the handmade cradle. Goldie would soon be outgrowing it. As soon as she could leave Thomas to Hattie’s care, she would go to Tanner’s and look through the catalogs and order a crib for the baby.

  She glanced toward the bed to check on Thomas, found his gaze on her and suppressed a shiver. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

  “I didn’t want to say anything. I thought I might wake the baby.”

  There was sadness in his quiet words. And in his eyes. Or was she imagining it because she knew about his child? She rose, shook out her long skirt and crossed to the bed. “Goldie sleeps quite soundly for a baby…I think. I’ve no experience with babies.”

  “From what I’ve seen, you’re very good with her.”

  “Thank you.” She reached up and tucked a lock of hair Goldie had pulled free back under her snood. “Would you like some water? Or perhaps some bread and butter? It will be a while until supper, and you must be hungry after having only broth since you were…wounded.”

  “No bread and butter. But I will have some water please. And no spoon. Now that I am permitted to move my arm, I can handle the glass myself.” He grinned, chuckled. “Foolish of me to feel that is such an accomplishment. I’ve been feeding myself for years now.”

  She stared at him, taken aback by the deep, rumbly sound of his chuckle, the warm, fluttering response in her own chest. Dengler, and the men who visited her in his house, never laughed in a pleasant way. Nor did his thugs. Their laughter was cruel. The urge to smile died. She poured Thomas’s water and handed him the glass—hovered nearby while he drank it, lest he start to spill.

  “Thank you.” He held out the glass.

  She stared at it, empty now, with nothing to spill if he grabbed her wrist.

  “Is something wrong?”

  She glanced at him, met his gaze and shook her head. “No, nothing.” She snatched the glass, drew it away from his hand. “Would you like more water?”

  “Not now. What I would like is for you to sit down and rest.” His gaze swept over her face. “You look tired. I’m afraid you’re exhausting yourself caring for me.”

  “I’m fine.” She turned away from him, uncomfortable and tense. Why did he say things like that? She put the glass on the table and reached to close the curtains.

  “Would you leave the curtains open please?”

  She lowered her hands, looked at him. “You do not want them closed so you can sleep?”

  He shook his head. “No, I have slept enough, and I like looking outside. It makes me hopeful. There is nothing like God’s sunshine to cheer you up.”

  His smile was warm, friendly. It increased her discomfort. Thomas did not act like the other men she had known, which made her very uneasy indeed. She didn’t know what to expect from him. She went to the rocker and picked up the jacket she was mending for Ezra Paine, freed the threaded needle from the fabric, where she had stuck it for safekeeping and took another neat stitch in the row, repairing the slash in the sleeve. A knife slash. Now she understood that. She glanced at the ridge of scar tissue on the edge of her hand. She was familiar with things like knife cuts and bruised flesh. But not with a man who considered a woman’s needs. How was she to respond to such remarks from Thomas Stone? What was she to think…to believe?

  “How long have you had Goldie?”

  She jerked, pricked her finger—not hard. There was no blood. She resisted the urge to put the stinging fingertip in her mouth and took another stitch. “It will soon be two months.”

  “I’d heard she was left on your doorstep, but figured it was just a rumor.”

  “No. It’s quite true.” She stilled her hands, looked down at Goldie. “There was a knock on my door one night, but when I opened it no one was there. Only the cradle on my stoop, with Goldie wrapped in her blanket fast asleep, a bottle, a few items of clothing, the small poke with two gold nuggets and a note from her father asking me to care for her until he returned.”

  “So her father is a friend.”

  She glanced at him, then looked down and resumed sewing. “No. I was only newly arrived in Treasure Creek at the time. I had no friends.”

  “You had one.”

  Did he doubt her word? She frowned, looked up.

  He smiled. “God chose you to watch over the baby.”

  You wouldn’t say that if you knew my past. She shook her head, as much to rid herself of the thought as to deny his statement. “I hardly think it was God.”

  “I’m certain it was.” His gaze held hers. “The Bible says, ‘When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.’” He smiled. “God is simply using your heart to love Goldie, and your hands to care for her.”

  It was a lovely thought. One she might even believe, if she hadn’t been forsaken. Of course, God’s word might not apply to a fifteen-year-old girl cast penniless and helpless onto the streets of Seattle when her parents died. Bitterness rose, soured her stomach. “Perhaps you are right, Mr. Stone. But if that is true, the Lord will have to help my unbelief. Now, I must go see how Hattie is coming along with supper.” She set her sewing aside, checked to be sure Goldie was sleeping and hurried from the room before he could ask another question about her past.

  Chapter Six

  “Here’s dinner.”

  “Hattie, I told you to call and I would come get his food.” Viola put down her sewing, rose and reached for the plate. “You didn’t have to carry this in.”

  “I wanted to see how your patient is doin’.” Hattie ignored her outstretched hands and walked to the bed.

  Viola flexed her empty hands, frowned and hurried after her. Hattie was s
o outspoken and unconventional, there was no knowing what she might say or do. And the way she had been smiling…

  “You’re lookin’ some better, Thomas.” Hattie tipped her head, studied him. “Seems like you might even live.”

  Thomas grinned, gave an audible sniff. “I think I might—once I get whatever you’re holding that smells so good in me.”

  Hattie gave her pleased chuckle. “It’s beef stew. Beef’ll help you get your strength back fast.”

  His stomach rumbled.

  Hattie laughed, looked up at Viola. “Better feed this poor man afore he perishes.”

  A frown wiped the smile from Thomas’s face. “I’m sorry I can’t feed myself, Miss Goddard.”

  “I’m certain you will soon be sitting up and doing so, Mr. Stone.” She reached for the plate. It was pulled back. She jerked her gaze up to Hattie’s face.

  “Well ain’t you two all niminy-piminy!” Hattie snorted, looked back to Thomas Stone. “What’s wrong with you two calling each other Thomas and Viola is what I’d like to know?”

  Viola stiffened, stared at Hattie’s artless expression. So that was what she—

  “Nothing at all, Hattie. If Miss Goddard agrees.”

  A smug expression, quickly erased, swept over Hattie’s aged face.

  Viola masked her displeasure, met Thomas’s gaze and gave him a polite nod. “That will be fine.” She reached out and took a firm hold on the plate. Hattie relinquished it with a sweet smile.

  “I’ll take Goldie out to the kitchen with me, Viola. So’s you won’t have to worry about her whilst you’re feedin’ Thomas.” The elderly woman turned to the baby, scooped her up and marched out the door.

  Viola watched her leave, wishing she had never come and that the past few minutes had not happened. Thomas and Viola. So cozy and friendly. Well, she had no intention of befriending Thomas Stone. And now, thanks to Hattie, it would be difficult to resume that polite distance she had so carefully maintained. She put down the plate and spread the towel over the quilt, careful not to meet Thomas’s gaze, then lifted the plate.

  “I think I can manage the bread.”

  She nodded, handed him the piece of bread and butter resting on the rim of the plate. “I apologize for Hattie’s comment, Mr. Stone. We—”

  “Thomas.” He took a bite of bread.

  She took a breath. “As I was saying, we do not have to use our given names.”

  “Mmm, real food. Tastes good!” He looked up, met her gaze, held it. “No we don’t. But continuing to use formal address seems rather foolish in these circumstances.”

  “Yes, but—”

  He shook his head. “No ‘buts,’ Viola. You agreed.”

  A tingle skittered through her at the soft way he spoke her name. It intensified when he smiled. She looked down at the plate, confused by the reaction.

  “You don’t want to get us in trouble with Hattie, do you? She strikes me as a lady to be reckoned with.”

  “So I am learning.”

  He chuckled, and that odd, warm little flutter happened again in her chest. She pushed at a piece of meat, held her face expressionless. She was a master at that.

  “How long has she lived with you?” He took another bite of bread, then lowered his hand to rest it on the bed.

  More questions about her past. She held back a frown. “Since her husband died.” She stabbed the bite of beef and held it to his mouth. “It’s a little over a month now.” She chose carrot and potato for his next bite. Swiped it through the rich gravy. When she looked up from the plate, she found him studying her, his face sober.

  “Did you know Hattie before you came to Treasure Creek?”

  “No. I met her at church.” Her words were curt, her tone cool. She offered him the bite of vegetables to stop him from talking.

  “So you had only just met when she was widowed?” He accepted the bite, chewed slowly.

  “Yes.” She stabbed another piece of beef, uncomfortable with his steady perusal.

  “Yet you took her in.”

  There was something warm in his voice…approval? Whatever it was, she didn’t want it there. She nodded, gave him a cool look. “I only did what anyone would do.” She added onion and held out the piece of meat, wishing she could leave the room.

  He nodded, fastened his gaze full on hers. “That’s good to know. Who else offered?” He took the beef.

  She stared at him, feeling as if she had somehow walked into a trap. “Well—”

  “I can answer that…no one else offered to take me in.”

  Viola stiffened. Had Hattie been eavesdropping? She turned, shamed by her thought, as Hattie stepped through the doorway with Goldie parked on one well padded hip and a plate in her other hand.

  The elderly woman glanced up at her. “I know you don’t like me talkin’ about your kindness, Viola. But it’s true just the same.” She came and stood by the bed, looked at Thomas. “The others in the church were talkin’ about what to do…about takin’ up a collection so they could help me pay my week’s rent at the boardinghouse. Then Viola just up and offered me a home with her. It was a real blessin’ when she took me in. Me bein’ penniless and all, I’d soon have been on the street.”

  “Hattie—”

  Scraggly, gray locks of hair dangling from her disheveled bun swayed as Hattie shook her head, jutted her chin out. “I ain’t gonna hush, Viola, ’cause it’s true and you know it. I ain’t sayin’ the others don’t have kind hearts, ’cause they do. But you…well…you showed me real Christian love, and I ain’t forgettin’ it. And I ain’t gonna keep hushed about it neither!”

  Hattie cleared her throat, plunked the plate down on the stand and swiped her freed hand across her eyes. “That there’s berry pie for when you’re through with the stew, Thomas. Hope you like it.” She hitched Goldie higher on her hip and hurried out of the room.

  Silence.

  Viola stared down at the plate in her hands, the fork with the last bite of potato and carrot impaled on it, uncomfortable, and uncertain. She was accustomed to censure, not praise. She slid the fork through the last of the gravy and held it out to him, careful not to meet his gaze, hoping Hattie’s interruption had put an end to his questions.

  “You need a bigger cabin, Viola.” He took the bite into his mouth.

  She drew back the empty fork, relieved that he had broken the awkward quiet. “A larger cabin?” She set the empty plate on the stand, picked up the one that held his pie and turned back to the bed. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Goldie…Hattie…and now me.” His eyes held hers, something warm and unknown to her in their depths. “You’ve taken us all in when we needed care and a place to go, Viola. You need a cabin as big as your heart.”

  Viola stood at the window watching the light fading to purple. It was normally nightmares that kept her from restful sleep, but tonight it was—what? She curved her lips in a wry smile. If she knew the answer to the question she would be able to sleep. She let the curtain fall back into place and looked down at Goldie. The baby was sleeping so soundly it wouldn’t be fair to pick her up, but she wanted something familiar, something she understood, to hold on to. She glanced at her sewing basket, but was too restless to sit and sew.

  You need a cabin as big as your heart. She frowned, glanced toward the bed. Why did Thomas say such things? Why had he looked at her that way? Warmth stole through her at the memory. She frowned, rubbed her palms against her long skirt. She wanted him to stop. It made her nervous. But she could hardly tell him she didn’t want him being nice to her. But was he? Or did he use charm instead of abuse to get what he wanted from a woman?

  She shivered, massaged the scar on her hand. He was so different from any man she had ever known. Tears smarted her eyes. If only she could believe him. But she knew better than to do that. Oh, why had she ever offered to take care of him? She wanted him out of her house. And out of her life. He made her afraid in a way she had never been afraid before. In a way she didn’t u
nderstand.

  She wrapped her arms about herself and stepped closer to the bed to study him. There was no danger of his waking. The medicine made him sleep soundly for at least two hours after he took it.

  She skimmed his features. He truly was a handsome man, more so when he was clean-shaven. She looked at his mouth, slightly open in slumber. She had never seen it tight and ugly with anger. She stared at the left side, the one that raised more than the other when he smiled, which was often, even through his pain. His crooked smiles made her want to smile back. They reached his eyes. Those expressive green eyes. She looked up at them, closed now in slumber, his short, thick brown lashes resting on the weathered-tan skin stretched across his cheekbones. She had watched carefully, but had never seen cruelty in his eyes. Only pain, and kindness and—and that…warmth.

  She spun away from the bed and walked over to settle herself in the rocker. It was time to stop her nonsense and get some work done. With the care of Thomas taking her time, she was falling behind in her sewing and mending for her customers. And since she had spent most of her back wages, that she had taken from Dengler’s desk when she left, to buy the cabin and furnishings, she had to earn enough to take care of Goldie and Hattie. But first she must finish the shirt she was making for him. Hopefully, he would need it soon. She pulled the shirt from the basket, then threaded her needle. She had only to make the buttonhole and sew on the button and his shirt would be finished. She slid on her thimble, stared at her wrist. When he had gripped her wrist he had frightened her. But he had not hurt her. Not even when he was dreaming. And he could have. He was strong.

  Thomas woke to a dull throbbing in his shoulder and discomfort in his whole body. Every muscle was aching from his lack of activity, screaming at him to get up and move. He would…if it weren’t for Viola.

  He frowned, stretched the muscles in his legs and drew large circles beneath the covers with his feet. He could cope with the pain in his shoulder. It was his growing admiration for Viola, his increasing attraction to her that held him rooted in bed. That connection he had felt when he first looked into her eyes was getting stronger, and he dare do nothing that might result in a prolonged stay in her company.