by Mimi Milan
Jonathan ignored her—completely accurate—accusation and cleared his throat. “Speaking of my children, where is Olivia? I spotted Owen out back with the Mayfield boys, but my daughter was nowhere in sight.”
“Why would she be?” Ms. Potts demanded, her hands still on her hips. She was not going to let him off the hook that easy. “She was doing as a good little girl should be doing—helping me fix your breakfast.”
Oh, if only Regina were around to hear such a declaration. She had been raised with the notion that women of means did not go around doing what many considered menial tasks. That sort of thing was best left to servants and such. It had been the only reason he had employed Emily to begin with. Then Regina was gone and he realized that he actually needed the maid in order to keep the household running. How was it that he never realized how much his wife actually accomplished when she was alive? She had managed all the household responsibilities in his absence.
He cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose that’s far better than what the boys are doing. Why are the Mayfield children here anyway?”
“Why do you think? They accompanied their parents.”
“Their parents?” He finally realized what she was insinuating. “You mean they’re here? As in, right now?”
“That’s what I done told ya when I knocked on the door the first time. Of course, you’d have known that… if you hadn’t been imbibing.”
Jonathan bit his tongue. There was no point in arguing with her. The woman was right. He shouldn’t have been drinking at all—and how he had managed to polish off an entire bottle of whiskey in one night was beyond him. He had no one to blame but himself for sleeping in so late and failing to pay Emily. Now he was going to miss breakfast, too.
He dug around in one pant pocket and then the other before pulling out a few bills. He thrusted them at her. “Here. No proper Englishman can eat scones without cream.”
She rolled her eyes at him, but thankfully kept quiet. Normally, she would have chastised him for holding to such a silly notion. He was as American as his father as was the man’s mother. However, none of them had ever been able to completely shake off the ways their ancestors had brought with them to “the new world.” Scones with cream was one of them, and Ms. Potts should just be thankful he wasn’t of the mind for the Devonshire sort. The very idea of her reaction of him requesting such brought a smile to his face, and he knew for the frown that settled onto hers.
“Smiling like a cat who caught the mouse.” She shooed him away. “Go on and see to those patients of yours and leave me to get to my work, too.”
He headed towards the door, calling over his shoulder. “Just don’t forget the cream.”
“Just you don’t forget when you’ve got a glass bottle around.”
Jonathan Edwards ignored the remark, but promised himself he would do better. He would drink less and spend more time with his children. It shouldn’t be such a difficult thing to do. In fact, it wasn’t really that difficult at all—minus the fact that they reminded him so much of his wife. His mind started to fill with the similarities they all shared, but emptied just as quick when he walked into the front parlor that served as a waiting room for his patients.
He held his hand out to the woodsman waiting with wife in tow. “Mr. Mayfield, how are you today?”
“Oh, I’m doing right fine. It’s this one here causing all the trouble.” The man thumbed back to his wife. “Seems she come down with something. Wouldn’t be surprised if she got it from one of them filthy Injuns she’s always consortin’ with.”
Jonathan cringed. While he had something of a score to settle with one of their people himself, slang was something he simply couldn’t condone. A man could be gentlemanly in the way he went about things and still take care of business. Besides, it served as too much proof for lack of education. He supposed that was a reason to not judge Robert Mayfield to harshly. The man was a dutiful woodsman and worked hard for the Arroyo mill. For as well as he could chop down a tree, though, he could hardly do much else. In fact, Jonathan was sure he could recall a time or two when he had seen Mrs. Mayfield settling up their bill at the local mercantile. Math was apparently a sore subject for the man.
Then again, so was language.
Robert Mayfield continued his mutterings about what he thought of the local Miwok tribe—none of the accusations remotely true. Jonathan had seen several members of their tribe in town before. They looked far from “filthy.” If those were the individuals Mrs. Mayfield associated with—which was probable if she was trading with them—then it was highly unlikely she would have caught an illness from one of their peoples.
The doctor cleared his throat. “Yes, well, let’s take a look here. Shall we?”
He motioned for the Mayfields to follow him into a room attached to the parlor, which served as his clinic.
“I’ve not been here before,” Mrs. Mayfield said with a soft Southern accent. She removed her shawl and sat in the chair offered her. “It’s quite lovely.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. I suppose it is.” Jonathan glanced briefly around the room. It was quite a simple setup compared to the rest of the house. Plain pine served for most of the furnishings—a pair of chairs, his desk, the small bed with a straw mat wrapped in cotton linens, a table with his medical supplies, his degree on one wall and several oil paints done by his wife on the other. He stared at the paintings for a moment, their wilted waterlilies proof of an impressionist hard at work. Despite Regina’s disappointment with her work, he was sure Monet would have been quite pleased.
“So, whatcha thinks wrong with her?” Mr. Mayfield’s booming voice cut through Jonathan’s musings. How was it possible for a man of such small build to project so? A couple of inches short of six even and of modest build indicative of one who never worked a field in his life, Jonathan did not consider himself such a large man. Yet Mr. Mayfield—who was even shorter and slenderer than he—still somehow managed to speak at a decimal that could wake the dead should such magical nonsense have existed.
Jonathan cleared his throat again, momentarily wondering if he himself wasn’t coming down with something. “I’ll not know until I examine her.”
“Well, do what you must. Keep it within reason, though. I’m not looking to drop a fortune on doctor fees. Ain’t my fault she’s decided to go and get herself sick.”
The doctor clenched his teeth, restraining the urge to give the man a good tongue lashing. He highly doubted Mrs. Mayfield had gone out and purposely picked up an illness, but he knew his words would likely fall on deaf ears. The man didn’t appear to be in the mood to see reason. So, he turned his attention to his patient.
“Do you mind if I feel your forehead?”
Mrs. Mayfield shook her head and removed her bonnet, clutching it in her lap along with the shawl, and the doctor was able to see the little beads of sweat along her hairline. He picked up a clean cloth from his supplies on the table and dabbed at the crown of her head before briefly placing the back of his hand to it. “Yes, you are slightly feverish. Will you please open your mouth and stick out your tongue? I need to get a look at your throat.”
The woman did as instructed, allowing Jonathan to observe her inflamed tonsils.
“Have you been coughing much?”
“Only a little, sir.” She said. “Mostly, I’ve been having some difficulty keeping food down the past two days. I mean, it ain’t come up. Feels like it wants to, though.”
“Do you believe you could be with child?”
“With child?” the man asked before his wife could respond with little more than a shake of her head. “Well, that would be right fine so longs it’s a boy. Could always use another hand to help out. Don’t need no girls, though. Everyone knows they’re useless. Pretty to look at, but utterly useless.”
Before Jonathan could rebuke the man for his crass words, the door suddenly swung open and Jonathan’s six-year-old daughter, Olivia, came dashing into the room.
“Daddy, daddy!” The c
hild cried out, her auburn hair a tangled mass of leaves and twigs.
“Olivia, darling, what’s wrong? You look frightful.”
“Looks like she tangled with a coon,” Mr. Mayfield interjected.
“It wasn’t a coon,” Olivia declared. “It was the boys!”
“My boys?” Robert Mayfield asked.
“Uh, huh. Henry and Jacob grabbed my arms while Bobby put dirt in my hair!” The child wailed again, summoning Ms. Potts.
“Child, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for ya.” She took hold of Olivia’s hand. “I’m terribly sorry, Doctor Edwards. I’ll get her cleaned up and take her with me to do the buying.”
She rushed Olivia out of the clinic.
“Maybe a girl or two would have softened the boys up,” Jonathan muttered. Mr. Mayfield’s cheeks burned as red as a ripened strawberry, but he wisely remained silent as the doctor finished his examination. “You shook your head earlier. Are you sure you aren’t expecting?”
“No, sir.” The woman blushed. “I count my days.”
Doctor Edwards nodded, but said nothing more. He realized the comment had gone over Mr. Mayfield’s head, and that the man’s wife was subtly saying she wanted no more children. Not that Jonathan could blame her. She had an overbearing husband and four boys who would most likely take after him. Why risk making it five just for the hope of a girl to call her own?
The doctor mentally shook himself. Their personal affairs were honestly no concern of his. He had to focus on the matter at hand. “No other symptoms?”
“No, sir.”
“And you don’t know of anyone else who may be sick?”
Mrs. Mayfield seemed to turn the question over in her mind for a moment. Her face finally lit up. “I did see Araceli Arro—I mean, Santiago. I keep forgetting she’s married now.”
“Was she sick when you saw her?”
“Maybe not sick per se. However, she did state she was feeling a little under the weather. I supposed it might have something to do with the babe she’s carrying.”
“Lord, doc. Tell me that ain’t contagious.” Mr. Mayfield’s eyes popped wide open.
Jonathan didn’t know whether to laugh or chide the man for such silly thinking. He opted for a straight face instead. “No, it is not.”
“I didn’t think so. See, I know how them Mexicans are because I work for Señor Arroyo and know how he is. I’d say the Arroyo family is definitely a good step up from them dirty savages—almost as good as you or me. Naw, if she got sick off someone it’d be them that roll through town, bringing whatever diseases they’ve got with them.”
“I would venture to say it’s the other way around,” the doctor responded. “There have been reports of small pox and such breaking out in the forts and then later spreading to the surrounding tribes. Although, that’s not the main concern right now anyway. We should be focusing on making sure your wife gets better. That’s what any good husband as yourself would do—especially if a wife is a good helpmeet.”
Mr. Mayfield stuck his chest out with unearned pride. “Yes, of course. Sarah’s wellness is what matters here. I mean, she is going to be well. Isn’t she, doc?”
An alarmed look crossed the man’s face. Maybe the man wasn’t as ignorant as Jonathan originally thought. He obviously understood that life would be much more difficult without his wife around. Useless indeed. Perhaps that would teach the man how to hold his tongue.
“I’m sure it’s nothing too serious,” the doctor finally replied and turned back to Sarah. “It’s probably something you ate or maybe the heat. Drink yourself a nip of whiskey to burn out the fever, put some skunk oil on your chest if the cough gets worse and get yourself some rest. Those are doctor’s orders.”
The last bit was flung out towards Mr. Mayfield; delivered with a pointy look. If Sarah Mayfield was indeed coming down with anything, then the last thing she should be doing is running herself ragged around that ramshackle home they called a ranch. He remembered the time the midwife had been away in another town, leaving Jonathan as the one to help deliver Sarah’s youngest son, Samuel. The house had been little more than one large room—a good number of the logs half rotted away. It was something Jonathan couldn’t fathom. How in the world was it possible for Robert Mayfield to build others fine log homes while he lived in one of disarray?
He didn’t ask, instead accepting a small bottle the man pulled out from the oversized back pocket of his trousers.
“I ain’t got but so much paper on me this week. How about we settle up like men? This here’s my special batch. It’ll send ya to Heaven and bring ya back down again, feeling right as rain on a hot summer day.” Robert grinned like a lucky poker player.
Jonathan was fairly certain he didn’t need any kind of drink with that kind of potency. Still, how could he refuse the man’s payment?
“Thanks.” He shook the man’s hand and escorted the couple to the door.
“I’ll go fetch the boys,” Mrs. Mayfield said.
“Don’t bother yourself. Remember what the doctor said about getting your rest? I’ll get them myself.”
For a moment, Jonathan was impressed with the man’s response—until he opened his mouth to call for the boys and hollered loud enough for half the town square to hear him. It had certainly done the trick, though, even if at nearly the cost of Jonathan’s hearing. In ran a brood of boys, with a young Samuel toddling in behind them.
“Yes, pa?” the eldest, Bobby, asked.
“It’s time we get on out of the good doctor’s hair.”
“Speaking of which,” Mrs. Mayfield interjected, “I think you may owe him an apology for what you did to Olivia.”
Mr. Mayfield cleared his throat. “Uh, yes. That’s right. Apologize to the man.”
The boys all turned to him and did as instructed. Jonathan had a good mind to tell them that it wasn’t him they should be apologizing to, but his daughter. She was long gone with Emily, though. No point in making a mountain out of a molehill. He smiled at the children. “Thank you. I hope you boys will all have a happy, healthy day.”
A young chorus of “thank you” sounded and the Mayfield family took their leave, permitting Jonathan a moment to gather his thoughts as he walked back towards his study. He stared out the window, watching his son run around the yard with a stick in hand, pretending to take out some imaginary foe. He smiled and then made his way to his desk in two quick strides, flopping down into the plush leather seat. There was plenty left for him to do—files to look over and visits to patients who couldn’t quite make it into town. He wouldn’t be able to get to any of that until Ms. Potts returned, though. Owen may have been eight years old now, but he still wasn’t of the mind to leave him unattended quite yet—not after all the children and Regina had been through.
Jonathan looked down at the bottle still in his hand, the amber liquid blurring until it reminded him of his wife’s flaming red hair. He popped the top off the bottle to inhale the sickly-sweet aroma of peach shine and shrugged.
What harm in a small nip?
Chapter 2
When the sun sat low in the sky, hugging the horizon—creating amber bursts of flames through the peace of evening. That was Kela Tukumu’s favorite time of day. It made sense, too. It was the proof of pending night, and that was the time owls came out. Although, perhaps that wasn’t the best way to look at it since the literal translation of her name was “Snowy Owl,” and no one had seen one of them in many years. So, why should Kela come out of hiding at all?
To keep Eta Noochoo from growing angry with her.
That was reason enough to leave her perch on the sycamore. Grandmother was a kind woman, but she was not someone to disobey. She would find no problem in giving the greater portion of the evening meal to one of the dogs (a curious animal the white men had brought with them when they settled into the area). Kela could almost hear the explanation now.
“At least the animals sit and stay.”
Kela stopped swinging her legs
and adjusted the bow hanging off one shoulder and her suta hanging from the other, ensuring that none of the arrows would fall out as she swiftly climbed down the tree. It was not her fault if she didn’t want to do like the animals and other women—spending their time gathering acorns to grind into meal for their husbands and children, or make clothing from the deer hides the men brought back from their hunts. She wasn’t even remotely interested in learning how to make bone earrings and shell necklaces; wooden bands for her wrists and such. Although, she did appreciate all those things, and had a very beautiful bracelet herself. It was not where she placed all her importance. She was far too busy concerning herself with the welfare of her people—even though some of them did not want her help.
“Hulawwa lupu!” One of the women shouted at Kela as she walked past a small campsite. The woman stood by her cone-shaped hut that was covered in tule and earth, as her young daughter roasted deer meat over a spit. The dark-haired child, who was a miniature image of her mother, was already being trained for womanhood. In a few short years, the girl would be ready for marriage. The woman waved a hand over all she had. “Heṭeeyakkas´ ganung wene?”
Kela ignored her and walked on. She neither cared for being greeted as “tall girl” nor being taunted with the question of whether she, too, made good medicine. It wasn’t Kela’s fault if the Creator O-let'-te saw fit to make her taller than all the other women… and not being a servant to a man didn’t make her any less of one. It wasn’t as if Kela had asked to become the next shaman. She had been chosen for the task.
Kela mentally numbered off a few more responses, but didn’t dare speak them aloud. It would serve neither her nor the tribe if she could not gain their trust. She needed that if she were to become the next shaman. So, the best course of action was to quietly go about her tasks and training until the time came when her services were needed. Then the tribe would see how valuable she was and they would stop pressuring her into settling down into “the ways of a woman.”
