Lydia glanced back at Joe, who was examining Magna and paying no attention to Hans, although he couldn't have helped hearing the exchange.
“Not this time,” Lydia replied quietly. “Magna is in trouble, Hans. She could die, and so could the child. You must cooperate with the doctor and with me. Now, go and do as I say. Please.”
The big man hesitated for a long, suspenseful moment, staring at his writhing, feverish wife, and Lydia repressed an urge to scream at him in frustration. She knew now it wasn't Magna's well-being he was so concerned about, but her virtue, and under the circumstances, that was plainly appalling.
Joe raised calm eyes from his suffering patient to Hans's face. He didn't speak, and yet his message was plain enough.
Hans turned around and left the room.
“We'll have to take the baby,” Joe told Lydia, smoothing Magna's sweat-dampened hair back from her forehead. “The poor little mite isn't going to make it without help.”
Lydia closed her eyes for a moment, then drew a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “All right. Is there ether?”
“In my bag,” Joe said. “Sit with Mrs. Holmetz while I go and find more water to scrub up again, will you please?”
Asking was only a formality, Lydia knew. She'd already approached the bedside and taken Magna's work-worn hand in both her own. “The hurting will stop soon,” she said to the half-delirious woman, hoping the promise wasn't a lie.
“My little one,” Magna gasped out. “Please don't let my little one die.”
Lydia forced back the tears that burned behind her eyes. This was no time to fall apart. “We'll do everything we can,” she said.
When Joe returned with the kettleful of hot water, he poured it into the basin on the battered chest against the wall and washed again, the strong yellow soap he used filling the stale air with the smell of some antiseptic. Clean again, he took a pad of folded gauze from his bag and laid it on Magna's pillow. Then he handed Lydia a brown bottle.
“Have you ever administered ether before?” he asked.
Again that mental shift occurred, and Lydia was back in the horrifying din of a Civil War field hospital. “When we had it on hand, yes,” she answered, carefully pulling the cork from the bottle. Most of the time, nurses and surgeons had simply had to do without the medical supplies they needed; the conflict had turned out to be so much bigger and more brutal than even the most pessimistic doomsayers had predicted.
Lydia turned her attention to Magna, moistening the gauze carefully and laying it over the patient's mouth and nose. Joe, in the meantime, had tossed back the covers and raised the woman's nightdress to her waist. Her distended belly flexed as the life within struggled to be born.
Please, Lydia prayed silently. She never allowed herself a more specific request when interceding for a patient; in her view, only God could know who should live or die.
As Magna began to breathe in the ether and relax, Joe cleansed her stomach with an alcohol solution and brought a scalpel from his bag. Lydia watched approvingly as he washed the instrument in antiseptic.
By the time Hans had returned with the requested pots and sheets, Lydia had finished putting the patient under anesthesia and replaced the blood-soaked bedding with a plain blanket.
A figure appeared in the bedroom doorway, filling it, but to Lydia's relief, it was Brigham who stood on the threshold, not Hans.
Joe began the incision, after a glance at the visitor. “For God's sake, keep the happy husband out of here until we're through,” he said calmly.
Brigham nodded, his look lingering on Lydia for a moment, and then turned and left the room.
Lydia gave Magna more ether to breathe. The smell of blood was thick in the room, coppery and pungent, and she swayed slightly on her feet. Still, her attention didn't waver.
With the outer incision finished, Joe began the inner one, his hands steady and deft as they worked. “How's her breathing?” he asked.
“Regular and a little shallow,” Lydia reported. She could hear Brigham speaking calmly to Hans in the other room, the sound accompanied by the clatter and clank of pans being put on the stove. Just knowing her husband was so near, even if they were estranged, was a comfort to Lydia.
Joe reached inside Magna's stomach and pulled out a small, bluish infant covered in blood and a powdery substance. “Hello, little one,” he said gruffly, clearing the tiny mouth with his finger.
The baby girl gave a weak little mew, like a newborn kitten, and Lydia held her breath. A second later the child began to squall.
Joe tied off and cut the cord, then turned the baby over to Lydia to tend and called to Brigham for hot water and sheets.
Brigham immediately appeared with the requested items, but when he glanced at Magna, he went completely white under his woodsman's tan, and Lydia honestly thought he was going to collapse. He pulled himself together, however, and left the room without a word.
While Lydia happily bathed and wrapped the Holmetzes' baby girl, Joe quickly closed Magna's incisions with neat sutures. She carried the infant out to the kitchen, where Hans waited anxiously. To her disappointment, there was no sign of Brigham.
“I'd like to introduce you to a very pretty young lady,” Lydia said, tenderly lifting the blanket so that Hans could see the baby's face. “This is your daughter, Mr. Holmetz.”
Hans's grizzled features softened as he studied his child. “Magna?” he inquired, his tone raspy.
“She survived,” Lydia said carefully, knowing only too well how many things could go wrong in the next few hours. “She'll need special care, you know, because we had to take the baby surgically.”
Hans met Lydia's steady gaze with a glower. “What?”
Joe came out of the small bedroom and stood in the doorway, his clothes blood-spattered. In a few brisk, no-nonsense words, he explained what had been done and the reasons for it.
Somewhat to Lydia's surprise, Hans subsided, although he was a much bigger man than Dr. McCauley. He sat down on a makeshift chair and held out his enormous arms. “I hold baby,” he said. “You please see to Magna.”
Lydia surrendered the infant and raised her eyes to Joe, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
Returning to the bedroom, Lydia gently bathed the still-unconscious woman and replaced the bedding with the things Brigham had brought. The image of her husband's wan, shocked face did not leave her mind for a moment.
Hans came in, tenderly placed his baby in Lydia's arms, and bent over Magna to kiss her forehead. Lydia forgave him for his earlier reluctance to let a doctor see his wife undressed.
“This one we keep,” he murmured to Magna.
Lydia's throat tightened. She knew the Holmetzes had lost several babies in the last few years. She held the sleeping infant close to her breast and tried to will some of her own strength into the little body.
Joe appeared in the doorway where Brigham had stood earlier, and, although he looked weary, he glowed as though a lantern burned behind his skin. “I'll send Frodine over to look after Mrs. Holmetz and the baby,” he said, ignoring Hans and addressing himself to Lydia. “You'd better get some rest.”
Lydia sighed. She probably looked a sight, all right. She hadn't slept the night before, and assisting with the birth of a child was physically and emotionally exhausting. She nodded. “Yes, Doctor,” she said softly, with a smile.
He watched her for a moment, then turned and walked away.
About fifteen minutes later Frodine arrived, looking flushed and excited. Her dark eyes sparkled as she showed Lydia her slate board, on which she'd carefully written the name ETTA in block letters.
“It's my new name,” she said in a trilling whisper, setting aside the slate and reaching for the baby. “From now on, I'm Etta. Frodine is gone forever.”
Lydia smiled. “All right,” she agreed. “Etta.”
Since it soon became clear that Joe had already given Etta detailed instructions, Lydia stumbled back to her cottage, took off her clothes in the pri
vacy of her small bedroom, and gave herself a sponge bath. Then she put on her nightgown, crawled into bed, and immediately lost consciousness.
Polly stood on the porch of the general store, the moist wind whipping tendrils of dark hair against her cheeks, her eyes fixed on the mail boat as it came into port.
A ramp was put in place, and two men in rough clothes stepped onto the wharf, each with a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. They wore hats, so Polly couldn't make out their features, but it didn't matter. Neither one of them could possibly be Devon.
She turned, wiping her hands on her apron, and went back into the store.
The business was taking shape. She had a coffee grinder now, and cheese and books and calico to sell, among other goods, and every time the bell on the fancy cash register chimed, Polly felt hopeful. Even if Devon never came back—and she prayed he would—she was building something for herself and her baby.
In the privacy of the store, she stood behind the counter and turned her back to the door, pretending to examine the tins of crackers, beans, oysters, and other selections on the shelf while surreptitiously raising the hem of her apron to her eyes. The wind howled and shrieked around the sturdy walls of the unpainted building, and rain began to pound at the roof.
Polly composed herself, went to the potbellied stove against the opposite wall and added a chunk of wood to the dying blaze. The air was chilly, and she felt uneasy.
When two giggling bundles of calico and energy burst into the store, she was cheered. Millie and Charlotte stood just over the threshold, dripping wet.
“What on earth are the two of you doing out in this weather?” Polly demanded, but her scolding was good-natured, and the girls knew it. “Get over here and stand by this stove immediately, before you catch your deaths!”
Brigham's daughters obeyed, their hair, skin, pinafores, and stockings soaking wet.
“Papa said we could each have a peppermint stick,” Millie announced, prying her way into a pocket and bringing out two copper pennies.
Polly smiled. Like Devon, she loved these children quite dearly and was always glad to see them. She also knew that Brigham never missed an opportunity to increase her business at the store, even though he was in competition with her, in a sense. She took two candy sticks from the jar on the counter and brought them to her sodden customers, careful to accept the proudly offered pennies with proper respect.
Millie went to the window, leaving a trail of rainwater on the sawdust-sprinkled floor, happily munching on her candy. “The mail boat's in,” she observed. “Maybe there'll be a letter from Uncle Devon.”
The mention of her husband's name snapped against Polly's spirit like the backlash of a tree branch. She glanced through the foggy, rain-speckled glass and sighed. Then she tried for a cheerful expression. “I wouldn't be at all surprised if he wrote to the two of you, or to your father,” she said. Every day she was stupid enough to hope Devon would get off that mail boat when it came in, and every day she was brutally disappointed.
“There're two men coming up the hill toward the store,” Millie reported, while Charlotte remained by the stove, trying to dry her skirts, the peppermint jutting out of one side of her mouth like a politician's cigar. “I suppose they'll want to hire on with Papa's lumber company.”
Charlotte sighed in a fashion so long-suffering that it bordered on martyrdom. “Why else would anyone come here?” she inquired, leaning closer to the fire now and combing her fingers through her wet hair.
Polly smiled sadly at Charlotte's wanderlust. She marveled that the girl couldn't see what she had, right there in Quade's Harbor—a family who loved her, a wonderful home, plenty of fine clothes, all she could want to eat. “Oh, I think this town has things to recommend it,” she said, dusting the counter even though she'd polished it earlier with beeswax.
“Like what?” Charlotte asked. She didn't put the question meanly, for though she was spirited, like her sister, she was neither unkind nor ill-mannered.
Millie answered before Polly could think of a response. “Ask Anna Holmetz when was the last time she had a new pair of shoes,” she challenged. “Ask her about the two weeks their whole family had to live on buttermilk because there wasn't any money for food. Ask her—”
Charlotte flushed, probably having at least glimpsed the error of her ways. “There is more to life than shoes and food, Millicent Quade,” she said haughtily after a moment of recovery. “You don't understand that because you haven't a poet's soul like I do.”
“Pooh,” said Millie, reminding Polly more of Brigham than ever. Though, of course, he probably wouldn't have used such mild language. “‘there was a young woman named Puck—’” she began.
“Stop!” Polly cried.
The little tin bell over the front door tinkled as a man came in, hat slouched low over his face, and set his kit down next to the flour barrel. He was obviously one of the new workers who'd gotten off the boat that day, come to buy tobacco or ask where to go to sign on with one of Brigham's timber crews, but there was something disturbingly familiar about him.
Then he removed his hat, and Polly saw his thick, maple-brown hair, his irreverent green eyes, that smile that cocked up at one side in such a deceptively charming way.
She felt the color slip from her cheeks.
“Hello, Polly,” he said.
Polly gripped the edges of the counter. It was Nat Malachi, the man who had so captivated her when she was an innocent, foolish girl. The man who had brought her to San Francisco and taught her to deceive good men like Devon. The man she'd never expected to see again, outside her nightmares.
Millie and Charlotte, perceptive children both, were staring at the new arrival. They'd obviously noticed that his appearance had startled their aunt, even though she was making a concerted effort to appear calm.
“You'd better run along home, girls,” she said in a voice higher and thinner than usual for her. “Looks like there's a lull in the rain, and who can guess how long it will last.”
“She's right,” Millie said, though she and her sister still looked intensely curious. “Lydia will skin us if we don't have our lessons ready for tomorrow.”
As for Nat, he was just smiling at them, with that crooked grin in place and his hat in his hand.
The children disappeared, and after they were gone, the warm, cozy store seemed to yawn around Polly, dangerous and cold like some cave far under the ground.
“What do you want?” she demanded, taking the rifle Brigham had given her from its place under the counter and cocking it resolutely.
Nat laughed. “Now what kind of greeting is that, after you and I have been apart for so long?” he drawled, starting to round the end of the counter.
Polly shoved the tip of the barrel into the hollow at the base of his throat. “Don't come near me, Nat, I'm warning you!” she hissed. “I'm married now, for real, and I mean to honor my vows.”
He drew back gracefully, holding up both hands about shoulder level, mouth curved into an indulgent grin. He looked around at the tidy displays of canned goods, work boots, bolts of practical fabric, and other items. “This is quite a nest you've found for yourself. I don't blame you for being a little bristly.”
The trembling in her arms and legs abated slightly, and Polly ran the tip of her tongue over dry lips. “The mail boat will stay about an hour,” she said. “When it sails for Seattle, I'd like you to be on board.”
“We don't always get what we want in this life, Pol,” he said, with mock ruefulness. “You sure ought to know that by now.”
Polly stared at the man she'd thought she loved, the man who had used her so shamelessly in San Francisco. “There's nothing for you here,” she said, her palms sweating where she gripped the rifle. “This place is too slow and too decent to appeal to the likes of you!”
He laughed again as a fresh spate of rain clattered against the windowpanes. A few drops dripped down the chimney and sizzled on the hot fire in the stove. “Where is he?” he dema
nded, folding his arms. “Where's this fine, upstanding husband of yours?”
She swallowed. “Never you mind where Devon is. If he catches you around here—and you can be sure I'll tell him just who you are—he'll hang you up for the birds like a chunk of suet.”
“You're a liar,” he replied charitably. Even sweetly. “I heard the whole story in Seattle—you told him he wasn't the first, and he left in a fit of righteous wrath. Isn't that true, darlin'?”
It took all Polly's restraint to keep from flying at him, claws bared, hissing like a wild animal defending its den. “He'll be back,” she said, wondering at the certainty evident in her voice. She'd never been less sure of anything in her life.
“And when he comes through that door, you'll be here waiting for him.” He gave the words a maudlin, cloying sweetness. “Forget that, because it's nothing but an empty fancy. You belong with me, and I'm about to take you upstairs to the bed your fine husband deserted and show you the truth of it.”
Polly could not have surrendered to the caresses of any man other than Devon, but the idea of lying down with this one upended her stomach. “Just take another step toward me,” she breathed, “and I swear by every angel in heaven that I'll kill you.”
For the first time, he looked exasperated. Then he tossed his hat down on the floor in a fit of pique. “Now you're being just plain silly, Polly!” he yelled. “Have you forgotten that I'm the man who took you away from that crazy father of yours? That it was me who taught you to feel real good?”
Color surged back into Polly's cheeks, and she braced the rifle on the countertop, so that the barrel was pointed straight at Nat's chest. “Get out,” she said.
He arched an eyebrow and bent down to pick up his hat. Just as he was straightening, the bell jingled again and Dr. Joe came in. Polly hoped she'd gotten the rifle out of sight before he noticed it.
“Thanks for telling me where to find the boss man,” Nat said, with buoyant good cheer, scooping up his canvas pack and pushing past the doctor to step out into the rain.
Dr. McCauley removed his round black hat and shook the rainwater from its brim, but there was a thoughtful expression in his eyes.
Yankee Wife Page 31
