by Regina Scott
She glanced at John, who gave her an encouraging smile. She knew he wouldn’t let anything happen to Peter.
“Very well,” she said, and she offered Peter to Harry.
Harry took him so carefully her son might have been made of fine crystal. “You’re safe, little fellow,” he murmured, meeting Peter’s inquisitive look.
Peter frowned at him, but he didn’t raise a fuss.
“Go on,” John urged her. “I’ll come for you if he needs you.”
She nodded, excused herself from the others and hurried into the house. She knew John would be as good as his word. He’d come for her if Peter needed her.
But what concerned her was how much she was coming to need John.
* * *
John stood on the porch, watching Harry hold Peter in his arms. He was such a solemn baby, studying those around him. What was he looking for? What did he see?
“He’s too quiet,” Tom said, eyeing the baby. “Is he sickening?”
Harry frowned and peered closer. Peter stared back.
“He looks fine to me,” the big logger declared.
John told himself to be patient. They didn’t have eight nieces and nephews. Harry and Tom didn’t even have little brothers and sisters to go by. Dickie, the oldest of seven siblings, at least had an idea of how to deal with babies.
He, however, looked the least comfortable. As Peter uttered a belch that made Harry’s brows go up, Dickie took a step back.
“Babies get sick all the time,” he said. “Then they make you sick. That’s how I got the measles last winter.”
An idea beckoned, but John couldn’t quite make himself follow where it led. It would be all too easy to scare off these would-be suitors by claiming Peter had some dreaded disease. But that wasn’t fair to Tom, Dickie or Harry.
Of course, John wasn’t feeling all that charitable at the moment. He’d come over to the house with the express purpose of escorting Dottie to worship, hoping to further the connection they’d been building, especially after last night. That kiss had been impossible to forget. But then he’d found Drew’s men clustered around her. He couldn’t convince himself any of them was the right man for her.
“Never had much interest in babies,” Tom said. “But I guess I better get used to it if me and Mrs. Tyrrell reach an understanding.”
He sounded as if having Peter around was a bother rather than a blessing. That tore it. John peered down into the baby’s face as well, earning him a smile from Peter.
“Is that a spot?” he asked, lacing his voice with concern.
“Where?” Harry demanded.
At the logger’s troubled tone, Peter’s lower lip began trembling.
“There,” Dickie insisted, shoving a finger toward the baby’s cheek. “I see it, too. Could be cow pox or chicken pox or one of those other splotchy things.”
Peter reached up and grabbed Dickie’s finger. Dickie yanked away as if he had been attacked.
“Nah,” Harry scoffed. “He’s fine, I tell you.”
Dickie moved back. “I’ll just meet you at the house.” He turned, jumped off the porch and hurried across the field.
Tom shook his head. “Coward. Getting sick now and again would be a small price to pay for a wife as pretty as Mrs. Tyrrell.”
As if he disagreed, Peter scrunched up his face and turned red.
“What’s wrong with him?” Harry demanded. “What do I do?”
John was fairly certain he knew. “He’s fine. Give him a moment.”
With a sigh, Peter relaxed.
Thomas wrinkled his nose as if it itched. “Smell that? Funny scent, like sour milk.”
Harry stared down at Peter, horrified. “I think it’s him.” He thrust the baby at Tom. “Here, you take him.”
Tom scuttled back out of reach. “Not me. Call Mrs. Tyrrell. It’s her baby.”
John intercepted Peter, afraid that Harry might drop the lad the way the logger was shaking. “I’ll take him. Maybe you two should wait at the main house with Dickie.”
Neither Tom nor Harry argued with him. They were across the yard and into the trees before John could promise he’d bring Dottie along as well.
Peter wiggled in his grip, clearly uncomfortable.
“It’s all right, little man,” John told him, heading for the house. “I have some experience in these matters.”
He met Dottie coming out the door. She’d put on the blue-and-purple dress she’d worn when he’d first met her, and he was honored to think she’d chosen her church clothes that day.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, seeing him with Peter. “Where are the others?”
“They went ahead,” John said. “And there’s nothing wrong a clean diaper won’t fix.”
She reached for her son. “I’ll take him.”
John eyed the pretty dress with the purple bows running down the front. “Why don’t I change him this time? You can supervise to make sure I do it to your liking.”
She raised a brow but led him into the house and bedchamber.
He’d been sleeping in that room for years, and she hadn’t changed anything other than to add her trunk and the cradle, yet somehow it felt warmer, more welcoming than he remembered. Even Brian seemed to think so, for he was curled up in the center of the quilt and only opened an eye long enough to confirm it was someone he knew coming to disturb his sleep.
“Sorry, old fellow,” John told him before shooing him off the bed to make room for Peter.
Nose in the air, Brian stalked off to the nether parts of the house.
Dottie brought John a clean diaper, and, in short order, he removed the soiled one, cleaned Peter with a cloth Dottie provided and put the baby in a fresh diaper. The whole time, Peter gurgled happily, reaching for his toes as often as he could as if finding them fascinating.
John finished pinning the diaper in place and stepped aside to let Dottie pick up Peter.
“Well?” he asked. “Do I pass muster, General Tyrrell?”
“You’re a very handy fellow to have around, John Wallin,” she replied as she tugged on Peter’s shirt to cover his toes. The baby frowned as if wondering where his feet had gone.
But John couldn’t help noticing that something sparkled on Dottie’s cheeks. Had he made her cry again? Now what had he done wrong?
“Please don’t cry, Dottie,” he said. “I wasn’t trying to interfere.”
Her son in one arm, she put her other hand on his. “You didn’t interfere. I know it may sound silly to you, but sometimes I cry when I’m happy.”
It didn’t sound silly, but it did sound odd to him. “You’re happy with me?”
“Very,” she assured him. “It’s wonderful to have help.”
Help. A friend. Well, he was that if nothing else. He turned to go rinse his hands in water from the washbasin in the corner. “I’ll try to stop by more often. I forget—my brother’s wives all have my brothers for help. It’s just you and Peter.”
She started walking toward the door, faster than he expected. Did she think they were late for services? While his family had a general time they started worship, he knew they’d wait until he and Dottie joined them. That could change once the church was finished. Their minister might have a more stringent idea of when things happened on the Lord’s Day.
They set off across the field, and John purposefully slowed his steps. Not Dottie. She kept moving, her gaze darting to the trees as if she expected something huge to come thundering out of them.
“Did one of them tell you he saw a bear on the way over?” John asked.
Dottie clutched Peter closer. “No. Did you see a bear?”
“No,” John told her. “Or a cougar, or even a cranky cow. So it might be safe to walk at a normal pace.”
She drew in a breath and slowed her steps. “Sorry. Perhaps I’m just eager for services.”
Perhaps. Or perhaps he hadn’t made it clear last night that she was safe. For all he knew, she’d been scared of what else might happen since the day she’d become a widow.
“When did Peter’s father die?” he asked.
When she didn’t answer, he glanced her way. She was rocking the baby as she walked, head down and shoulders tight.
John put a hand to her elbow. “Is Peter all right? Tom and Dickie thought he might be getting sick, but it seemed to me they were just afraid of babies in general.”
“He’s fine,” she assured him, relaxing her hold enough that he could see Peter’s face gazing up at him. The boy bubbled a greeting as if he hadn’t seen John in days instead of a few minutes.
John touched Peter’s head, feeling the downy hair against his palm. “Good. For a moment there, I thought I might have hurt him.”
“You couldn’t,” she murmured. “You’ve been very good to us, John. I feel as if you and I have been friends for years.”
She had no idea she was heaping coals on his head. “I hear that a lot,” he said, dropping his hand.
She frowned. “And you sound saddened by the fact. Why? I think it admirable that you are a friend to all.”
Admirable? Perhaps. He turned his gaze to the path ahead as it pointed toward James’s claim, trees crowding on either side. “Well, I’ve been told there is a category of gentleman a lady considers a friend and a category of gentleman she considers courting. I seem to be confined to the friend category.”
She picked up her skirts with one hand to step over a root in the path. “Is that such a terrible thing? Friends can be valued.”
He grimaced. “Nothing wrong with being a friend, unless you were hoping for more.”
“Ah.” She cast him a quick glance, then focused once again on the path. “I suppose every woman has an inner image of the perfect husband. I imagine some prefer shoulders as broad as Harry Yeager’s or a fortune as deep as I hear the Denny family has amassed. I think it more important that a man be steady, supportive, reliable. And that he provide for and protect his family.”
His family would attest to his steady, reliable nature. His farm was sufficient to provide for a family of six or more. And he certainly had the desire to protect her and little Peter from whatever life brought them. But he couldn’t believe it was so simple. Surely Catherine, Rina and Nora had wanted more from a husband. They’d chosen his brothers.
“What of ambition?” John persisted. “Drive? The passion to succeed?”
“Those can be commendable,” she acknowledged, shifting Peter in her arms as they started down the hill past James’s cabin. “But they can also be a hindrance to a loving family. I know men more interested in their businesses than their wives and children, husbands who put their needs first at all times.”
There was a tremor in her voice. Had her husband been that way? Had he worked himself to an early grave? Small wonder ambition meant so little to her.
“So, is that what you seek in a husband?” he asked, leading her into the main clearing. “Someone steady, someone willing to give all for family?”
She paused as they left the trees, as if just as loath to share their time with others. “Yes, John, I think I could be very happy with a husband like that, whatever else his situation.” She tugged Peter’s shirt down as if to avoid John’s gaze. Very likely she was a little concerned about what she’d just confessed.
It was a simple criterion, but one that would not be easy to meet, he guessed. Indeed, he found it hard to picture the brash Harry, the self-centered Tom or the shy Dickie rising to the occasion.
The question was, could he?
Chapter Eleven
Dottie wasn’t sure what to expect of a worship service at Wallin Landing, especially when a pastor had yet to join the community. The church building wasn’t even finished. Beth had told her that John and James had been taking turns painting the interior and setting in the steps to the front door in the last week. Besides, church services had been solemn occasions back home, a time to dress in your best and contemplate the sermon the pastor would give. Though the loggers and John were certainly dressed finer than they usually were, she had a hard time seeing them sitting piously in a pew.
But John didn’t lead her to the church. Instead, he headed unerringly for the cabin in which he and the loggers were living.
“Until the church is finished,” he explained as they neared the door, “we hold service here for our family and the crew.” He paused with his hand on the latch. “Be warned—we’re a lively bunch, but everyone settles down once service starts.”
He opened the door to chaos.
The chairs and benches from the table had been arranged in the middle of the room facing the stone hearth, but no one was sitting in them. Dottie glanced from one group to another, identifying people she’d met. Catherine was kneeling near the hearth, talking with a girl of about six who kept shifting on her feet, her pink skirts swinging, as she watched three boys about four or five years of age chase each other around the room, with Beth in hot pursuit.
Nora had corralled another set of three children, one of whom was just beginning to walk, if his unsteady steps were any indication, and was attempting to settle them on the rug in front of the chairs. A tall, lean man, who looked a bit like James, stood in the opening of the chairs as if to keep the children from straying.
A regal woman with hair a shade lighter than Dottie’s was standing next to the window with James, a girl of about five who was nearly as elegant at their side. By the look in James’s eyes, he wanted to run with the boys Beth was chasing.
Tom, Dickie and Harry were pressed up against the stairs at the far side of the room as if determined to fend off barbarians. As she entered, Harry nodded in Dottie’s direction, Tom crossed his arms over his chest and Dickie bowed his head and scurried to the kitchen.
John’s brother Drew waded into the center of the room and put two fingers to his lips. The shrill whistle made the elegant little girl clap her hands over her ears and the three boys pause in their game.
“Seats,” he said, eyeing the boys. “Now.”
They glanced at each other, then ambled over to find a spot on the rug. Beth, smiling gratefully at her oldest brother, followed them and took a chair. The boys were still wiggling when John led Dottie to a spot near the side. He nodded to the archway in the wall to her right.
“Use the kitchen for Peter if you need to.”
He thought of everything. “Thank you.”
Tom plunked himself down next to Dottie and leveled his gaze on Peter and then on John. “He looks fine.”
John shrugged. “What can I say? Babies are resilient.”
“Was something wrong with Peter?” Dottie asked, glancing between the two men, then down at her son, who was gazing around, seemingly fascinated by all the movement.
“Apparently not,” Tom said. “But I’m beginning to think there’s something wrong with this whole situation.”
Before she could question him, the tall man who had been helping Nora stepped up to the hearth. He raised a violin and set it under his chin. This must be John’s brother Simon, the one she’d heard playing the other night. Dottie leaned forward, eager for the music. Around her, the others took their seats. John drew up a chair on the other side of her.
Simon played two hymns, the tunes familiar. Dottie remembered the words from her childhood and sang along with the others, sopranos blending with tenors and underscored by Drew’s bass. When Simon lowered his instrument with a tender smile that transformed the stern lines of his face, James moved up to take his place and led them in a surprisingly sweet prayer of thanks. Dottie waited to see who would bring the sermon, guessing it would be Drew. He was the acknowledged l
eader, after all.
Instead, John rose from her side and went to the hearth.
“We are reading in the book of John today,” he said. The girl who had been standing with Catherine giggled, then covered her mouth with her hands.
“It’s a very important book,” he assured the children, who were clustered in the middle of the semicircle of chairs.
“Did you write it, Uncle John?” one of the boys asked.
“No, silly,” the elegant girl scolded. “Jesus wrote it.”
“Well, not quite,” John said with a smile. “It was written by a man named John. He was Jesus’s good friend, so he knew a lot about Jesus. Let me read some of what he wrote.”
He pulled a Bible from the mantel. The black leather cover was scratched and torn in places, the gilt nearly gone from the edges of the pages. Since the Bible Dottie had found at John’s house had been his mother’s, this must have been his father’s. Beside her, Tom leaned back to listen, and Peter turned his face to John.
“‘So Jesus came again into Cana of Galilee,’” John read, “‘where he had turned water into wine. And there was a certain nobleman, whose son was sick at Capernaum.’”
Just like the school children earlier in the week, John’s nieces and nephews quieted to listen to him. There was something about his voice, a conviction, a strength. Even Tom stilled as if he was paying attention, and Dickie peered out of the kitchen.
“‘When he heard that Jesus was come out of Judea into Galilee,’” John continued, “‘he went unto him, and besought him that he would come down, and heal his son: for he was at the point of death. Then Jesus said unto him, “Except ye see signs and wonders, ye will not believe.” The nobleman saith unto him, “Sir, come down ere my child die.”’”
Dottie shivered. How desperate the nobleman must have been to go to a man of another faith for help. She knew something of that feeling of helplessness. She glanced down at Peter, but the baby’s gaze was all for John.
“‘Jesus saith unto him, “Go thy way; thy son liveth.” And the man believed the word that Jesus had spoken unto him, and he went his way. And as he was now going down, his servants met him and told him, saying, “Thy son liveth.”’”
