Midwife of the Blue Ridge (31 page)

propped his left hand against the tree trunk, leaned in, and

aimed his stream to burn a hole in the soft loam at the base of the

oak.
Sweet relief!

Streamers of fuzzy daylight penetrated the canopy of leaves

overhead. Tom watched a doe and her speckled twin fawns graz-

ing on greenery in the misty distance.
August already.
Knee-deep

in summer and he had yet to acquire a single pelt for trade.

Tom shook the last draibles of urine into the dirt and scam-

pered back to his bed. Maggie turned on her side, cuddled under

the wool skirt they’d used for a blanket. Tom curled up behind

her so they fit together like two spoons in a tinker’s basket. He

closed his eyes and breathed deep the wonderful smell of warm

woman and fornication—a fine way to start any day.

The night spent between Maggie’s legs had left him more than

well sated. She groaned and wriggled her backside, squishing up

against him. Tom closed his eyes and ticked off the days left for a

summer hunt.

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Blevins

No sense goin’ for deer this late, but I can yet deliver one

good-size cargo of beef . . . DeMontforte’s set up near the lick at

Sweet Salt Creek.
Tom could still catch up with the Frenchman.

He rolled onto his back and kicked off the wool skirt.
At war

with Pontiac, the British are bound to pay top dollar for wild

beef, tongues, and tallow . . .

“Time to wake, Maggie.” He ran a finger down the buttons of

her spine and tickled the two dimples at the small of her back.

Maggie batted his hand away.

Buffalo are fattest at summer’s end anyway. Low on lead and

powder, though—I’ll talk to Duncan.
Tom pinched Maggie on

the bum. “Wake now, laze-a-bed.”

“Ow!” She elbowed up, blinking through a storm cloud of

hair hanging over her face.

“Day’s a-wastin’.” Tom pecked her on the cheek and jumped

to his feet. Scurrying around to gather the clothing strewn about

the campsite, he tossed Maggie her shift. It floated down to land

draped over her head.

He laughed. “C’mon, Maggie, get dressed.”

But Maggie didn’t budge. She just sat under her shift in a

sleepy daze, much like a little muslin ghost on a morning haunt.

“Really, Maggie.” Tom gave her a nudge. “We ought t’ get

back afore they all wake.”

Maggie tugged at the fabric, her head popped through the neck

hole of her shift, and she slipped her arms into the sleeves. Tom

tied a soft leather strap around his waist. He tucked one end of his

breechclout up through the back, pulled the loose end between his

legs, and threaded it under the strap at the front, adjusting fl aps

front and back. He liked for his clout to fi t snug in the straddle.

Maggie stood and gingerly picked her way across the campsite

to retrieve her bodice hanging in a tree, wincing at every step.

Tom bent to pull on his leggings. He glanced up grinning and

waggled his brows. “Sore?”

“Aye . . .” Maggie blushed a bit. “Yer enough to wear a woman

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
219

out after one round, much less three . . .” She smiled and

smoothed wrinkly, dew-damp muslin over her flat stomach. “I’ll

not be surprised t’ find ye planted a babe in me.”

Tom shot upright. “Naw . . . you think?”

“Ye never know—we’ve been awful busy . . .”

“I hope not.” Tom pulled his shirt over his head and maneu-

vered arms through voluminous sleeves. “Seth would have me

hunted, flayed, and nailed to the stockade wall for target practice

if I up and left you with a bellyful.”

Maggie slipped into her bodice, looking at him as if he had

just licked all the butter from her bread. “Yer leavin’?”

“Yep—summer hunt—I’ve put it off far too long.” He strapped

the tooled leather belt over his shirt, sliding the sheaths for knife

and tomahawk to sit comfortably on his hips. “There’s no coin to

be made lollygaggin’ in Roundabout.”

Maggie stepped into her skirt and pulled it up over her shift.

“I’ve been thinkin’, Tom . . .” She kept her eyes downcast, tying

a slow knot at her waistline. “Seth might be inclined to sell ye my

paper, now that Naomi’s birthed her baby . . .”

“Yep.” Tom gathered his moccasins and sat on the ground.

“I’ve been reckless—thoughtless.” He shook his head and tugged

a moccasin onto each foot. “Next time we lie together I’ll be cer-

tain to pull out before—” He looked up. Maggie stood over him

with her bodice half laced, tears welling up in angry eyes.

“Next time!”
Pulling hard on her bodice strings and securing

them firmly in a double knot, she added, “There willna be a

‘next time’—and dinna fash over my belly—if I need to, just like

yer old friend Bess, I can stop a thing afore it has a chance to

start.” She marched off toward the clearing.

“Bess Hawkins? Now, what’s that s’posed to mean?” Tom

hurried to secure his moccasins and leaped to his feet. He loped

after her, catching her by the arm at the forest edge. “Maggie!

Wait! If Bess has fed you some nonsense about me . . .”

She jerked from him and swiped at the tears spilling down her

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cheeks. “Nae worries, Tommy, for a midwife kens the ways . . . just

as Bess willna be fettered with yer by-blow, neither will I.”

“Come now, Maggie . . .” Tom tried pulling her into his arms.

“You don’t believe . . .”

“Bugger off!”
Fierce as a gut-shot she- bear, Maggie pum-

meled and slapped him away. She rapped herself on the head

with fisted knuckles. “I’m such an addlepated eidgit. Ye but

crooked yer finger and I came a-runnin’—fell flat on my back

with legs spread—no better than a prostitute. Worse—for I wa-

ger Bess at least gains a shilling or two for her trouble.”

Tom groaned. “Ahh, Maggie, you know it’s not like that be-

tween us.”

“Then tell me, Tom—g’won an’ tell me what is there betwixt

us”—she poked a finger into his chest—“other than yer ready

cock!”

Tom winced at her crude assessment. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Why not? If I’m t’ play whore for ye, I should speak like

one.”

Two deep furrows formed at the bridge of his nose. “You

know damn well why I can’t buy your contract. I’ve no home—

how am I supposed to keep a wife and children in fire and corn

when I’m off on a hunt eleven months o’ the year?”

“Aye—yer nobody’s fool, are ye?” Maggie sniffed and folded

her arms. “Yer a canny fella . . . aye . . . why bother
buyin’
the

cow, when ye can sup the milk for free?”

Tom’s blue eyes narrowed. “
Goddamn it, Maggie.
I care for

you and you know it.”

Maggie’s face crumpled. “Then why’re ye so eager to leave?”

“Summer’s almost over.” His shoulders rose and fell in an ex-

asperated shrug. “Prime deer season’s passed me by and I’ve

naught to show for it.”

Her shoulders slumped and she could not stifle her tears. “I

will miss ye so.”

“Ah, Maggie,” he soothed. “I promise thee, I’ll be back as

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
221

soon as I earn a bit.” Tom took her by the hands and tugged her

into an embrace. They stood for a long moment entwined in each

other’s arms.

In a voice quiet and small Maggie said, “I could go with ye on

yer hunt—be yer helpmate—cook, tend t’ the camp . . .”

Tom pulled back and looked down at her as if someone had

poured a horse dose of vinegar down his throat. “A woman on a

hunt? Are you daft?”

Maggie pulled him tight and pressed her cheek to his heart-

beat. “I dinna ken if I can bear the worry, not knowin’ if yer

dead or alive . . .”

Tom heaved a sigh and rested his chin atop her head. “I’ll be

back soon. You’ll see.”

“I’ve a notion.” Maggie spoke into his chest. “Seein’ how

summer’s almost spent as it is, why not claim acres—like men

do—claim yer cabin right . . .”

“Oh no!”
Tom threw up his hands and took a step back.

“But we wouldna need much.” Maggie stepped toward him,

hands outstretched. “Clear a bit of land, build a small cabin—a

cow—I could keep a garden . . . earn some coin catchin’ babies.”

“No, no, no . . .” Tom shook his head with vehemence. “I’m

no settler. I wander the wilderness to earn my living. That’s how

it is—that’s just how it is.”

“Aye . . .” Maggie sucked a deep breath through clenched

teeth. “Well, ye can wander intae hell and fry in yer own lard for

all I care.” She doubled over with fists to her middle as if she’d

been kicked in the gut and ran to the station.

H

“
Och, Maggie!
Ye gave me such a start. Yer like t’ give a body a fi t

of apoplexy.” Ada clutched her bulging apron with one hand, and

calmed her palpitating heart with the other, and unloaded the

breakfast fixings carried in her apron onto the table. “What are ye

after anyway, hunkered there like a fox at the henhouse door?”

Maggie looked up from where she sat on the ground next to

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the cookhearth, knees bunched to her chest. “Sorry . . .” She

swiped her snotty nose on her sleeve, planted her chin on her

knees, and continued to stare at the smoldering ashes.

Ada tossed a few sticks of fat pine on embers left from the

night’s bonfire, fanned them to a blaze with her apron, and

added a pair of split logs. She settled a hand on Maggie’s shoul-

der. “Ye appear poorly—are ye comin’ on yer courses?”

For a moment Maggie thought to throw herself into Ada’s

arms and weep into her comfy bosom. Ada could stroke her hair

and curse all men, and Maggie could cry and cry and cry. She

shook her head. “I’ve a wambly stomach is all.”

“Poor dearie. I woke a bit sour as well—tipped one tankard

too many—we’ll both feel better with a bit of breakfast in our

bellies, aye?”

Maggie wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting alone in the

empty fortyard, hugging her knees, rocking and sobbing—long

enough for her head to ache from having no tears left to spill—

long enough for Tom to come and fi nd her.

But he didn’t.

Too long.
She pushed up to stand on her feet. “Can ye use a

hand, Ada?”

“Aye. Fetch a kettle of water for tea.”

Maggie traversed the distance to the water barrel on rickety

legs. She had danced on the wind for a few wonderful days, only

to be slammed into a storm- tossed sea, to struggle with all her

might to keep from being pulled into its murky depths. The only

way to survive was to forget. She must forget about the life she

imagined sharing with Tom. Those dreams were lost to her.

Lost.

The kettle in her hand swung to and fro in halted momentum

as she stalled in her tracks—immobilized by the impossibility of

it all. She would never be able to forget the pure rapture of her

body joined with Tom’s, moving in concert.

Never.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
223

Heart filled with woe, Maggie lurched forward. She peered

with tear-swollen eyes into the near-empty water barrel and was

struck by her dark reflection. She didn’t recognize that bitter face

nested in a nasty frizz of hair. She dipped the kettle into the wa-

ter to disperse the ugly specter.

What a complete and utter fool she’d been to give herself over

to a man like Tom Roberts. She hung the kettle over the fi re and

flopped down at tableside. Ada handed her a thick chunk of

toasted bread slathered with honey. Maggie gobbled it down.

“Better, aye?”

“Aye,” Maggie lied, still feeling as hollow and brittle as the

long-necked gourd Ada used to ladle chamomile tea into her cup.

“Aye, a nice cup of tea will work wonders.”

While Maggie sipped her tea, one by one, cabin doors scraped

open. The fort dwellers staggered out, lured from their beds by

the smell of bacon sizzling on the griddle. Maggie helped Ada

dish up bowls of porridge and pour cups of tea. It did her good

to busy her hands—helped to keep her mind from her troubles.

They served breakfast to an ever-shifting group. The Willies,

the Wallens, the Wheelers, and sundry bachelors came and

went.

When Duncan Moon, their lone customer, scraped the last bit

of porridge from his bowl, the women began to clear the break-

fast mess away. Maggie gathered dirty trenchers, bowls, and

cups. Ada heated a large tin basin of water into which she

dropped a scoop of soft soap.

The door to the Buchanans’ cabin creaked open. Arm in arm,

Seth and Alistair stumbled forth. Shuffling to the far end of the

table, they sat across from Duncan in a mutual crabbed squint,

like a pair of hobgoblins caught out in the light of day.

“For shame, Seth Martin.” Ada dealt a stern tongue-lashing.

“Knee-walkin’ drunk ye were last night—as pissed as a mat-

tress.” She shook a spoon in her husband’s direction. “And you,

auld man. Ye ken where I found ye? Behind the smithy! Aye.