by Paige Tyler
“One night we heard a noise in the woods. Just a bit o’ a noise, now mind ye. But that’s the worst kind. A squirrel or rabbit will make lots o’ noise, scrambling through the dead leaves, but when there’s almost no noise a’tall, that’s when ‘tis far more dangerous. Me Da an’ I went out wi’ loaded guns, our hearts in our throats, and we found a’ Indian Miss in childbirth.
“Da carried her back to our campfire. Me mither tried to comfort her, lettin’ her know by our deeds that we meant her no harm. And I delivered her wee bairn meself, tho’ I was but a lad of twelve. I held her in me arms, just a filled wi’ wonder, until me da insisted I give her back to ‘er mother.
“But she didn’t want nothin’ ta do wi’ the babe. She spat on the ground, and left, tho she was weak from th’ ordeal. Da didn’t want ta keep th’ babe, neither, afeared it would be too hard on me mither. But she refused to leave her ta die. So she gave her t’ me. I became her papa and mama that night, though I was no more ‘n twelve.”
Morgan wiped at her tears. “That is such a touching story,” she murmured. “But why do you suppose her mother did that? I can’t imagine hurting our baby. I love him or her so much already.”
Jack lifted his shoulders in a small gesture. “Mayhap she would ‘ave felt better if the bairn had been a boy. But I figure it had more ta do wi’ Kate only lookin’ half Indian. Her mama must have been hurt, like Hannah.”
“Why did you name her Kate?”
Jack chuckled. “I dinna. At least, not at first. I called her ‘Snub Nose’ for months. Then me Da said she needed a right better name. So I thought about it a lot. Father McDougal told me about a holy Indian woman, Kateri Tekakwhitha. I named her that. It just got shortened to ‘Kate’.”
Morgan was growing sleepy, but every now and then a sharp jab in her back would wake her up again. It seemed useless to try to sleep, and she was enjoying the moments of shared intimacy with her husband. They didn’t talk enough. The marriage act was wonderful, but she felt there had to be more to a marriage than that.
“And Hannah?” she prodded.
Jack shuddered, reliving the nightmare again. “Poor girl. I dinna know how she’ll get through this.”
“Tell me about her? Please? When we get her back-” Morgan couldn’t think about any other options. “When she returns, it may help me to understand her better.”
“She was me fourth. Her Da was a brute of a man. A scrawny little weak-kneed miner. It were just him and his daughter an’ a half-dead donkey, roaming through the hills hoping t’ strike it rich. Only ever’ bit of gold dust he found bought more whiskey.
“I found ‘em in me woods up by th’ falls. The girl was screaming as he whalloped her wi’ his belt. Not the leather end, neither. But the buckle. It tore her legs, which were all bloodied, and scarred, like it weren’t the first time he’d beaten her.
“Now a father ‘as a right to train up his child. But it seemed t’ me he was doin’ it out o’ hate an’ not a sense o’ right. An’ she was just a bit o’ a girl, doin’ all th’ cookin’ and washin’ and mendin’. I stole her from ‘im. She’s th’ only one. The others was all given t’ me rightly, but I just tol’ him I was takin’ her, an’ if he set one foot upon me land agin’, I’d shoot it off fer him.”
Morgan smiled wistfully. “It’s a pity you didn’t just shoot it off anyway.”
“Nay,” he said sadly. “A gun is a poor way to end a fight.”
“Aye.”
They observed a moment of silence, but before he could slip back into depression, Morgan demanded another story. “Tell me about Lee.”
And so the night passed into day. She learned that Lee’s father was a pioneer, heading further west. He had three strong boys, and Lee. He hated his crippled child, couldn’t even bare to look at him, but his wife had a soft spot for him. When the mother died on the trail, he buried her and left Lee by the grave to die. A miner found him by chance and took him to Weston Corners, where Jack rescued him. Lee was five years old then, near starved to death, and he looked at Jack as his hero. Morgan figured the boy hadn’t changed much in the past four years.
She learned that Bridget was also abandoned, but her father had loved her. He’d showed up at Jack’s door one night, an empty shell of a man. Life had been too hard, and he was giving up. He had buried his wife and two sons following an outbreak of typhus. Bridget was no more than three at the time. Although solemn faced and silent, she quickly blossomed under Jack’s attention.
“What about Rebecca?” Morgan asked, yawning. It was time to dress, but she ached all over, and just couldn’t think about facing the new day yet.
“I know nothin’ about her. One day a man came, holding her hand. He gave her ta me and left, wi’out speakin a word.”
“He didn’t talk, either? That’s strange. Since she doesn’t talk.”
Jack shrugged sleepily. “I dinna know that he couldn’a talk, only that he dinna.”
“Still, it’s mighty strange. Ow!”
Instantly Jack sat up, tense and alert, all signs of their sleepless night lost in a face filled with concern. “Be it time?” he whispered.
“Ow! Oh, yes! Ow! It must be!” she gasped. She hadn’t thought it would come all at once, though. Pain ripped through her, like her belly was closing in on itself, suffocating her. It held her for what felt like forever, then suddenly stopped, only to return a moment later. “Ow! It hurts! It hurts! Get the doctor, now!”
“There may n’t be time, wife,” Jack said softly, caressing her forehead. “How long ‘ave ye felt the pain?”
“Just NOW!” she shouted, as it ripped through her again.
“Nay. It must have begun last night, when ye couldn’a sleep. Did ye feel a might poorly?”
Morgan couldn’t remember. Maybe. All she knew was that she was going to die, and her husband would never forgive her. Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her face. “I’m scared,” she gasped.
Jack gave her a tender smile. “‘Tis nuthin’ ta’ be afraid of, me love. Just try to breathe. Don’ fight the pain. Breathe through it. Here, hold me hand, and squeeze it when it hurts.”
He talked to her, and somehow, through the fog of her torture, she heard him. A gentle, quiet voice. The pain was excruciating, but that voice became her anchor.
A kiss brushed against her forehead. She clenched his hands, nearly breaking his fingers. Breathe, he told her. Once, when a particularly brutal cramp struck, he shouted at her, threatening to turn her over his knee if she didn’t breathe. The pain passed, and she had a few moments to rest.
“I must look, me wife,” he said then. “Ta see if ‘tis nearly time.”
He turned down the covers and put his fingers near the opening of her womb. He nodded, a quick grin flashing across his worried features. “‘Tis nearly done,” he promised. “But ye kinna push the babe out yet.”
She didn’t know how long she stayed there, locked in her pain, judging time only in seconds, the seconds between the pain. She was exhausted, and felt like giving up, but Jack wouldn’t let her. He was kind when she needed his kindness. He threatened to whip her when she felt she was losing the battle. He comforted her in the moments between the pain. At one point he turned her to her side so he could massage her lower back, where it felt like someone was chopping on her spine with an axe. Still, the seconds ticked by. Still Jack told her it wasn’t time, although she didn’t know how she could go on much longer.
Jack’s face grew more worried. He tried to hide it, but she knew him too well not to see the tension creasing the corners of his lips and eyes. Finally he bolted from their bed, and spread the quilt in a straight-backed chair, lining it with all the pillows he could find. He scooped her into his arms and plopped her there. Morgan screamed. She hurt too much. She didn’t want to sit up, but as soon as he let her go, she felt something inside sink lower and the pain shifted. The spine-chop ended completely. She gazed at him with pain-glazed eyes and managed a limp smile.
“‘Tis better this way, me hus
band,” she gasped, mimicking his speech.
He grinned back. “‘Tis more natural,” he admitted.
Morgan just noticed then that they were both completely naked. They usually slept like that, but they never paraded around the room without their clothes. Not in a house with five children. A different sort of pain stabbed then, worry and fear and longing for the children, wondering how they were doing, if they were being taken care of. But then her own suffering returned.
It was different, though. The pain seemed to progress. She wanted to push in the worst way. She felt like if she could just push, it would all be over. She gasped, drawing in deep gulps of air, feeling almost faint.
Jack’s fingers delved inside her again. A grin split his face. “Go ahead ‘n push, love!” he shouted.
Morgan pushed. She paused for a breath, then pushed again as though some internal clock were telling her when to do so. She no longer felt terrified. This was the most natural thing in the world, new life springing from the love of a man and a woman. Soon it would be over, and she’d hold her own sweet baby in her arms.
Still Jack encouraged her. He could see the head now. It would be a redhead, he told her. Relax, he warned, as the shoulders poked through, and then with a final push, he caught the baby, bringing the wet, slippery little thing to his chest as he cradled it proudly.
“‘Tis a girl!” he shouted. “Ye’ve given me a girl! Kin ye see what a sweet bairn she is!”
Morgan wept tears of joy. Her husband, tall and muscular, covered in sweat and not a stitch of clothing, fairly dancing before her with a tiny, crying naked bundle of baby flesh in the safety of his arms. She laughed and she cried, all at once.
Jack reluctantly gave her the baby to hold, while he tied the chord with a bit of string. Morgan held the tiny rosebud mouth to her breast, crying still as she felt the baby’s first tug on her nipple. Jack cleaned up after the birth, then opened the hotel door and shouted down the hallway, still dressed only in blood and sweat.
“Bring water for a bath! Me wife’s done had ‘er baby!”
The shout was carried down the hallway, and shortly a maid appeared with a copper tub and a pitcher of water. She didn’t come in until Jack wrapped a sheet around his hips and covered Morgan with the quilt. More maids came with more water. Morgan was too tired to bathe, but Jack carefully helped her into the tub. He washed her, then tenderly laid her in a freshly made bed. He bathed their daughter and put her next to Morgan’s breast, and spent the rest of the day simply staring at them.
Morgan slept the clock around, waking only briefly when their daughter cried, but returning to sleep when Jack put the baby to her breast. The next morning though, she had no choice but to put on a nightgown and bed jacket, for the other hotel guests were eager to see the new baby. They came in groups of two or three, each with some small gift to share. A sweater set, a baby gown, a stack of flannel diapers. A cradle, some blankets, even a white satin christening gown. Morgan was overwhelmed by their generosity, these people who were strangers to her.
“We’ve all heard your story,” one woman said simply. “And we think it’s horrible, the way the court has broken your family apart. We want to do everything we can to see you reunited. The world needs more people like you!”
“I grew up in a foundling home,” another woman replied. “No child should have to do that.”
“We took up a collection for you at our church,” a young minister added. “Please take it, and use it to help get your children back.”
Morgan was overwhelmed by their kindness. After Weston Corners, she didn’t know that such people existed west of the Mississippi. Jack surprised her by not refusing the money. She knew he was proud, but perhaps his time in prison had taught him humility. They were interviewed by a reporter, and their story was spread across the news. So much so, that their lawyer managed to end their case outside the courtroom. Before little Laura Beth was a week old, her brother and sisters were returned.
“I can’t wait to go home,” Hannah whispered.
“Me, too,” Morgan agreed. “What about now?”
“Nay,” Jack said sternly. “‘Tis too soon for the bairn to be out. We’ll wait a month an’ see.”
“More school,” Lee groaned.
Bridget giggled. “I’ll help you, if you like.”
Lee hated it that Bridget, who was two years younger, was in the same grade with him. He ended up missing the last month of school anyway, as he underwent the first surgery on his legs.
Finally spring dawned, bright and beautiful. All threat of snow had melted away and blooms filled the warm air with their fragrance. Bees were busy flitting between the blossoms, storing up honey for next winter. Jack grew impatient to be home again. “Me sheep will ‘ave had their lambs by now,” he grumbled.
The wagon wouldn’t hardly hold all their possessions - the new things donated to them for the baby, and later for the other children as well. Barrels of clothing, some too big for any of them to wear yet, and all of it fair enough to save. Jack grumped about having to build another storage shed just to hold all the stuff, but he never once said they couldn’t take the charity donations.
Jack packed it all carefully, then made two beds on top, one for Morgan and one for Lee. Morgan bristled against Jack’s overbearing protective streak, but she did enjoy lying down on the journey, watching the clouds in the sky, with Laura Beth sleeping in the crook of her arm, and a jar of starter for more home-baked bread.
Lee didn’t complain at all, although she knew the surgery had been painful. He was a little quieter than normal, and his lips were sometimes pressed together in a thin line, but it was the only outward sign he gave. She hated having to put him through more surgeries, and if he decided not to, she knew she wouldn’t force it.
The journey home seemed long, as impatient as they all were to be back, but in fact it wasn’t much farther to the city than it had been to Weston Corners. Morgan would have to talk to Jack about it, but she never wanted to see Weston Corners again. She didn’t think Jack would give her an argument about it. Surely they could find a market for lamb, fleece, and wool in the city, and maybe even negotiate a better price for it.
The herdsman met them at the edge of the pasture. He was a solemn, silent man, but Jack paid him well from the purse the church people had pressed into his hand. As it was a busy season, surely he’d have no trouble finding other work. Jack fussed a little, that the herdsman hadn’t done things just the way he would have done them, but he counted the new lambs and seemed happy with the figure. Apparently, the herdsman hadn’t lost many.
Lee was confined to bed for a time, which bothered him more than the pain. Hannah offered to help Jack in the pasture, and it seemed to do her good. The warm sun, the open fields, the gentle bleating of the lambs as they called to their mothers… Morgan hoped it would be enough to help her begin to feel safe again.
Kate was indispensable. Morgan hadn’t realized how quickly she would tire, as she tried to resume her chores between nursing and caring for the new baby. Kate let her cook, but did all the cleaning, and when Morgan would awake from a brief nap, she’d often find Kate in the big rocker, softly singing to her new little sister.
A month passed. And then two. Laura Beth learned to roll over, and soon she was struggling to sit up on her own. Lee was able to walk again, with the new braces the surgeon had fitted for him - metal ones that clamped on to special heavy shoes. Jack lined the leather straps with lambs fleece, and Morgan had to sew his trousers a little baggier so they’d go on over the braces, but he did seem to walk a little easier.
Still, not everything was back to normal. Jack had yet to make love to her. True, she was always tired, and she still hurt a little down there, but the pain of childbirth was changing to a different kind of pain. An ache at the change itself. They had been through a terrible ordeal, but they had survived.
And some good had come out of it - for Bridget’s eye straightened, and even the wire frame glasses could not
hide her beauty. Her voice was dropping too, to a more pleasant pitch. Lee was more mobile. And most shocking of all, Rebecca said her first word.
It was whispered tentatively one night, as they were gathered around the fireplace. Jack, the storyteller, was amusing the children while Morgan rocked the baby to sleep. Laura Beth was already sleeping through the night, and Morgan felt like she might just be catching up some herself.
Kate offered to carry the baby to her cradle, where she laid her gently, tugging a small blanket around her little sister to ward of the evening chill. Rebecca sat at Morgan’s feet, staring at her with those wide, vacant eyes. Then she lifted her chubby little arms and whispered, “Mama?”
Morgan was speechless. For a moment she couldn’t even move. Then she grabbed the little girl to her bosom and hugged her tight. “Yes, baby! I’m your mama now,” she cooed.
Rebecca said something else, in a language no one understood. Morgan thought it might be Dutch or German, but she finally realized why the child had been silent for so long. At least partly. Rebecca didn’t understand English. She was an immigrant child, lost in a sea of strangeness, and even though she must have come to understand many words over time, she had felt secure in her silence.
The wide, vacant stare warned Morgan that there had been more to it. Little Rebecca must have seen something so horrible, so violent, that she’d just shut down inside. Morgan prayed that the little girl wouldn’t remember whatever it had been. Perhaps time would heal her wounds, as it seemed to be doing for Hannah.
“Du bist Mama?” Rebecca asked again, pressing her hands to Morgan’s cheeks.
“Yes,” Morgan repeated. “I’m your mama now. And I’m never going to let you go away again. This is our home.”
Rebecca’s lips quirked in a small smile. Then she snuggled into Morgan’s arms, all done talking for the night. Morgan rocked her while Jack sent the others to bed. She rocked her as the logs burned low and turned to glowing embers. Rebecca stayed awake for the longest time, her fingers wrapped tight around a fistful of fabric of Morgan’s dress. Finally, just before dawn, the little girl fell asleep.
