by Amelia Rose
Chapter 6
Mrs. Barnett lived in a small house off the main street in Gold Hill, close enough I was able to walk to it, even after my visit with Annie. Suddenly feeling like a peddler, I hesitated on the front walk. What was I planning to do, walk in and announce my fees? Demand she place herself in my care, for her good and my own, and then tell everyone about the miraculous midwife come to town?
I stood looking at the house, small and painted white, with neat blue shutters and hollyhocks growing up before the windows. There wasn't much money here. Times were growing hard throughout the silver region, but it was more evident in this house than in Mr. Longren's, which had been built when the mines were producing and was scrupulously kept up.
Mr. Barnett worked in a bakery and, from what Annie had told me, a great deal of his paycheck ended up in the saloons. But that was gossip and I would learn for myself, and it was no reflection on Mrs. Barnett either way.
I had peaches, which weren't charity but a gift, and eggs and a loaf from Annie she said to claim was being repaid. I also had skills Mrs. Barnett might need and I would offer them if it seemed appropriate. Surely it wasn't too unusual for a midwife new to town to seek out those who might need her services.
Fortified, I let myself in through the gate, wound between the lavender and sweet pea that edged the walk, and went to the door.
Mrs. Barnett was small, with skin like porcelain and eyes as blue as those of the Longren brothers. A tumble of small children billowed out the door when she opened it and began chasing each other through the flowers.
"Mind the sweet pea," she called, then smiled at me. "May I help you?"
I blushed again, feeling foolish. "I'm Maggie Lucas, Margaret Lucas. I just arrived in Gold Hill and I don't know anyone yet and I wanted to meet some of my neighbors." And I chose you because you're expecting but please don't ask why I chose you, because it sounds so dreadful.
She didn't. Instead, she smiled widely and said, "You're a midwife! I heard! Everyone is talking. People come here every day, but far more menfolk than women and I'm so glad to make your acquaintance. Please, come in, I can't move easily just now." She laughed and moved back into the house and I could see her clearly then, and understood her inability to move. She was days from childbirth. "Would you like to leave the basket? The children won't bother it."
"It's for you," I said, and then, "Well, the peaches are, and the rest of the contents," and with her smile I felt at ease, stepped through the wooden door and followed Gloria Barnett into her kitchen.
By the time I left Gloria Barnett's home, I'd met her children, a handful of cats and chickens, and been promised baking and eggs in return for anything I could do when her time came. I'd also made a friend. Gloria Barnett was open, friendly and happy and, despite wanting to take nothing away with me, I left with a loaf of fresh bread and a bunch of spinach I didn't think she could afford to give away.
In Boston, I might not have had many women to see through their time, but at least those I attended were strangers. Asking for money from friends would be difficult or impossible.
Sunshine woke me my third morning in Gold Hill. I'd gone to bed late the night before after starting pie dough and canning peaches after returning from Gloria Barnett's house. The tasks hadn't seemed so fearsome when I started but, by the time Hutch had gone off to his bed, leaving Matthew, much improved but still on the davenport, the kitchen looked like someone had slaughtered a peach tree in it. Every surface, including most of the surfaces attached to me, were covered in peach juice and sugar and, though I tried to convince myself that Hutch was right and everything would still be there come morning, I'd been unable to leave the formerly pristine kitchen in that state and had stayed up even later, cleaning by lamplight. As the morning sun heated up the bedroom, I realized I was sore from walking to the Barnett's house and back and from riding to the mine. My arms were sore from cutting peaches and canning and cleaning for half the night.
My heart was sore with confusion, for an easy conversation had sprung up with Matthew as I canned before Hutch got home. Too easy, perhaps; more so because I couldn't see Matthew, but only called to him from the kitchen where I worked. I was attracted to him, and although I thought what I was already feeling for Hutch in light of all the letters (and maybe because he was to be my husband) was more emotional, what I felt for Matthew was more exciting, breathtaking and definitely trouble.
Sitting up and stretching, I realized that Hutch would be long gone by now, off at the mine without breakfast and, if I remembered the dying sounds of the grandfather clock that had woken me, he'd be back for midday meal before I could get anything hot fixed.
The thought was enough to send me reeling out of bed, which I made in a hurry. I splashed my face clean, promising myself a bath that evening because I was still sticky in places from peach juice. I brushed my hair and cleaned my teeth and stared into the tiny mirror on the wall, wishing it would show me all of my face at once. I'd have Virginia send me the mirror from my room at home. I needed to write to her, and I needed to send her the recipe Gloria Barnett had shared with me but, first, I needed to get together a meal and make up for lost time.
I whirled out of the room and down the hallway, my boots creating a racket that couldn't have been missed, came fast around the staircase, using the newel post to spin myself through the door into the sitting room, where I fetched up hard against Matthew, leaving him rocking on his feet.
I caught him before he fell back, providing just enough support to stop him hitting the wall behind him or tripping on the piano no one here played. My hands caught his biceps, sending heat rushing through me. His hands came up around my forearms, keeping him upright, steadying himself—and me.
"Are you alright?"
We asked it at the same time, each looking closely at the other for signs of injury, and then we both laughed at about the same time, relieved and embarrassed.
"Where's the fire, Miss Maggie?" His good humor restored, and also, apparently, mobility.
"It needs to be in the kitchen," I said. "I'm late!"
I would have started for the kitchen but he still held my wrists, his hands warm and strong, easily circling my arms. I looked down at them, knowing I should protest, knowing he should have let go by now. Knowing he knew to let go. Knowing that he would realize I hadn't protested.
I met his eyes again and tried to speak.
Outside on the road, a carriage passed and the spell broke. Matthew took two steps back, releasing my wrists. He didn't look directly at me but said, "My leg is much improved. Probably I should be home again tomorrow at the latest."
I nodded, biting one lip. "I'm glad you're recovered," I said. And then, "Will you join us for midday meal?"
I thought he'd decline. I thought it might be awkward. I was afraid he'd felt what I felt or, at the very least, that he knew what I'd experienced even if he didn't share it.
But this was Matthew Longren, whose exploits my mother had probably censored as she read his brother's letters aloud.
"I've smelled peaches since last night. There's pie crust in the cold storage. You'd have to send me away, Miss Maggie."
I'm not inclined to do that, a traitorous voice in my mind said. "I think we can stand your company another day or two," I said, smiling. "Excuse me, I need to get to the kitchen."
He moved from my path, but slowly. But, of course, he was injured.
That's what I told myself.
Hutch was quiet at lunch, eating cold chicken and hot biscuits, and the pie, golden and juicy, drew no comment from him. He ate, responded to anything said to him in single syllables, and excused himself directly after eating, although he didn't leave again for the mine right away.
Matthew joined us, apparently used to his brother's moods. He made enough conversation for all of us, praising the pie and the shining bottles of canned peaches I had yet to transfer to storage. During the meal, I asked him questions I'd like to have asked Hutch, like who had been taking care of
the house and how that person or those people were paid (I would, after all, be the mistress of the house after the wedding and needed to have my own accounts in order and take care of the house myself). I asked about household expenses, what grocer our pantry stores came from, if they bought or baked bread (that one caused Matthew to look at me with vast patience and ask if either of them looked capable of baking). I asked about horses and doctors, and childbirths and received no answers there because none of those things were of interest to Matthew.
Several times during the meal, Hutch looked up, his gaze sharpening as if he meant to reveal what was preying on his mind but, every time, he subsided, cocking his head, pretending to listen to the two of us, who, left to our own devices again, returned to our conversation.
Finally, as the meal ended with the pie I'd prepared, finding myself still wondering what to do with the number of ripening peaches I couldn't possibly keep up with, I asked about the garden and who cared for it.
"I do," Matthew said, surprised. "Though I haven't for a few days." He gestured at his leg as if I might have forgotten. "I have no room to garden. I just have a couple rooms in a boarding house—and I'm good at it. If you'd like to take it over, I understand."
That one I laughed at and explained I'd be more than happy to have him care for the garden as soon as his injury allowed for it.
"Because she has a wedding to plan," Hutch said, abruptly rejoining us from his blue study and then he stood, kissed me chastely on the cheek, nodded to his brother in a vague, already-returning-to-distant-thoughts manner, and headed back to the mine.
"I'll be back there tomorrow," Matthew said, watching Hutch go. He sounded bored and anxious.
"You'll be back there next week," I said, standing to clear the table. "No, sit. Let the leg heal."
It must have pained him because he gave in easily, producing a sketch book and charcoal and working images of the garden as I cleared and cleaned. We didn't talk but, sometimes, when I glanced at him, I sensed he had been watching me.
No matter. I had a wedding to prepare for. Once my place was established and a routine existed in all our lives, surely this sparkling feeling would pass.
I finished the dishes, leaving them to drain, covered the pie, put away the chicken and looked back toward the table.
Matthew had put down the sketch pad and was staring moodily into the yard to the west. I stood behind him, out of his sight, and from where I stood I could see the page open in his sketch book.
The page was covered with studies of me.
I finished the kitchen quickly, keeping my eyes averted from Matthew and his sketches. Once the dishes were clean and the food put away, I left him drawing and went upstairs to finish unpacking. One of the novels I'd been reading before I left Boston tumbled onto the floor and picking it up to find my place, I sank down on the edge of the bed and lost half an hour to The Mystery of Marie Roget. When I surfaced, as if waking from a dream, it was to abandon the book and hurry back down the hall. I needed to go out into the garden and forage for supper, then probably cook again and do some washing while Hutch still had clean shirts. Eventually, my days would fall into a routine but, in the meantime, there was catching up to do.
Taking care as I left the hall and rounded the staircase, I managed not to run into anyone and hurried to the kitchen for shears and a basket, decided to forgo a hat and spun out the kitchen door into the garden.
Only to run directly into Matthew Longren again.
This time, there was no piano to keep him from falling and no wall to steady him if he kept going. He grabbed for my arms and I grabbed for him and we tumbled together down to the hard Nevada dirt.
My first concern was the healing wound on his leg. Falling could have jarred it open, causing him to lose blood again. My second was that he wasn't breathing. I'd landed on him, I thought, and knocked the breath out of him. Trying frantically to remember what to do, I started to force my arms under him, to raise up the small of his back and allow his lungs to relax.
But no sooner had I circled him than I realized he was laughing, so hard he couldn't even attempt to stand, and I pulled back, staring at the madman, a half smile on my own lips … which was quickly lost … because when he met my eyes, his laughter died away.
He looked longingly at me, as if memorizing my face before a journey, then he reached up with one hand, gentling the hair from my cheeks until his fingers wrapped behind my neck and pulled my face down to his.
His lips were sweet. He'd been eating a peach; it had rolled away when we went flying.
The kiss wasn't sweet. It was hard, frightening and full of our need. It was a first and last kiss, there would never be another and I think we both knew it. Something had happened, some connection had been made when we met, some spark kindled, and we were driving it out, sending it away before it could do damage. We were making it possible to be friends, paving the way to my marriage to Hutch.
Just for that moment, we lingered. Matthew on his back between the rows of corn, I still stretched across his chest, my hands on his shoulders, strong and more lean than his brother's shoulders. His hands still cupped my face.
We had just pulled apart, staring at each other, each probably sure what the other was thinking—never again, I'm sorry, you'll be my friend, but he's the man I love/but he's my brother—when Hutch's shadow fell over us.
