Strong and Stubborn (36 page)

“Worse, much worse.” Doc shook his head as he whispered his assessment of Arla's condition. “Her pulse is over one hundred thirty beats per minute, and the white coating of the tongue is darkening. You'd best say your good-byes while she's awake.”

Cora gave a mute nod, unable to muster any further response. She drew a bolstering breath as the doctor took his leave. For two days she and Martha had watched over Arla, bathing her with cool cloths, giving her water, coaxing broth down her throat. Almost insensible with the fever, Arla no longer protested when Lacey and Naomi took turns through the night so Cora could close her eyes.

“We failed.” She looked at Martha now, stricken afresh by their inability to avert the tragedy. “What can we do for her now?”

“The same as we have been. Pray, keep her as clean and comfortable as possible. But for now, I need to find Mr. Lawson and tell him he won't get another chance to say good-bye to his sister.” Martha's lips tightened in disapproval, adding a few more lines to those already creasing her cheeks. “Doc will have given Arla something, so bring her Dorothy. Let her hold her daughter one last time so the happy memory can ease her heart on the way to heaven.”

Blinking back the tears she'd seen mirrored in Martha's eyes, Cora grasped the banister and pulled herself onto the first stair. Every step seemed so much harder than before, weighted with sorrow unalloyed by hope. They'd fought for Arla's life and lost. Cora might have been better able to accept the failure if it didn't wear the face of her friend and shape the fate of her beloved baby girl.

She pushed open the door to see her friend propped up against a multitude of pillows, draining yet another glass of water. Arla's hand shook as she replaced the empty cup, knocking it against the side of the table and then the top before managing to set it down. After being insensible with fever throughout the night, an ice bath that morning had revived her to an almost miraculous degree. For a moment, Cora thought perhaps Doc read things wrong, that they'd lessened the fever boiling Arla's blood enough to give her a chance.

“Will you bring me my Dorothy?” Face flushed and eyes bright, she looked like a happy young mother as she asked for her daughter. But the flush warned of fever regaining its stronghold, and Arla's bright gaze looked wide and glassy rather than joyous and alert. One hand pressed against her swollen abdomen as though holding back pain, and her breaths sounded sharp and shallow between each of her words.

“Of course.” Cora crossed the room, lifted Dorothy from the bassinet Lacey ordered weeks in advance, and straightened the tiny white cap frilling across her forehead. She cuddled the tiny bundle close, drawing comfort from her sweet warmth as she returned to the bedside. A few rearranged pillows helped provide the support Arla couldn't manage so Cora could tuck the baby into her mother's arms.

“Precious.” Arla snuggled close to her daughter, rewarded with a gummy little yawn as Dorothy snuggled back. “Such a blessing.”

“Yes she is.” Looking at the baby, Cora couldn't help but share her mother's smile. There, in Arla's arms, lay a blessing to believe in. The miracle of life lessened the disappointment of death, if only just enough to help a grieving heart hold faith.

Arla's shoulders sagged, and Cora hastily slid another pillow beneath her friend's forearm to keep the baby supported. She wouldn't take Dorothy away unless Arla asked her to. That tiny daughter wouldn't know many moments in her mother's arms, so each second became something to cherish, blanketing a soon-to-be-orphaned child in the knowledge and depth of her mother's love. When Dorothy grew, she'd hear the words, be told by friends and family how Arla adored her—but this moment, this half-formed memory, could be hidden in her heart forever, an underlying certainty every child needed.

“Thank you.” Arla's whisper drew Cora's gaze from Dorothy. Her friend's flush had deepened even in that short a time. “For helping me. For helping bring my daughter into this world so I could hold her even a few times.” Tears rendered them both silent for a while.

“I wish I'd been able to help more,” Cora finally burst out.

“Will you?” More than tears and fever brightened Arla's gaze. The hand not supporting Dorothy reached out, fingers curling in Cora's sleeve. “Will you help my daughter? See that she's fed?”

“I already took care of it.” She patted her friend's hand then enclosed it with her own. “The nursemaid came this morning, Arla.”

She blinked, her gaze unfocused for a moment. “Good.” Arla blinked a few more times, obviously fighting against the medicine. She grimaced, knees drawing toward her stomach as if to ward off a sudden wave of pain. Arla curled herself around Dorothy until the spasm stopped. Then she cupped her daughter's cheek, pressed a final kiss to her forehead, and lifted Dorothy. “Will you take her, Cora?”

“Of course!” Cora gently accepted the fidgeting baby and unwound the top blanket. Even such a short time with her mother made Dorothy overly warm, and fussing gave her a moment to collect herself. She shifted in her seat so Arla could look at her daughter as she drifted off into peaceful rest. “See? She'll be just fine.”

“Thank you. My brother can't take her.” Arla's hand clutched hers again as she fought to finish before sleep claimed her. “But I can rest, knowing you have Dorothy. I trust you, Cora. Like … a sister.”

Cora suddenly realized what her friend meant. “Wait, Arla!”

But her friend's grip already went slack, Arla's eyes drifting shut as she whispered, “Trust you … with Dorothy. Take care of her… .”

I
've taken care of everything!” Charlotte sashayed into Naomi's workshop the next afternoon, eyes alight with triumph and mischief.

Too tired after helping look after Arla through the night and distracted by the knowledge that their efforts weren't succeeding, Naomi didn't understand what her sister meant. At least not until Charlotte moved aside and began ushering lumbermen into the room.

Rory Riordan edged in first, instantly making the room feel half its size. Gent trundled after him, unwrapping a sodden scarf and flinging water droplets on everyone nearby. Bobsley bounded in next and rabbited over to the stove, looking very pleased with himself. And, though she couldn't spot him at first, Naomi heard Clump's distinctive, heavy tread bringing up the rear. He shouldered himself between Gent and Riordan, beaming with open enthusiasm.

“Never enjoyed the rain so much as today,” he announced loudly.

“We should have asked about your work before.” Riordan sounded partly apologetic, partly interested, and entirely uncomfortable—as any very large man would feel if surrounded by delicate miniatures.

“You did ask!” Naomi found her voice, if not her wits. “We've spoken of it during several of our walks together, remember?”

“Yeah.” Bobsley sauntered over to the table displaying the replica of Lyman Place. “But picturing things ain't half so good as seeing them. That's why we hopped on your sister's invitation to pay you a visit and maybe lend a hand so long as this rain keeps up.”

“Lend a hand?” Naomi repeated faintly, shooting her sister a look she couldn't even name. Part glower, part disbelief, part plea to fix this awful mess. Needless to say, Charlotte disregarded it.

“Absolutely!” Her sister glided to a stool in the far corner and waved one leather-gloved hand to indicate the worktables. “Just yesterday we discussed how you already know they're strong but wanted to see how they balanced that considerable strength with the other, finer qualities a woman might hope to find in a husband.”

“Such wisdom alongside such beauty.” Gent swept his ever-present top hat from his head, dousing everyone anew with dislodged rainwater. Incidentally, the gesture also revealed sooty black smudges and streams where the water passed through his dyed hair.

Riordan moved away, found himself too close to Charlotte, and shifted back as though he'd been poked with a knitting needle. Clump shot Gent an unacknowledged glare and made a fuss over brushing water from his beloved suspenders. Bobsley missed the entire thing, his nose mere millimeters from the mullioned windows of the Lyman Place model as he squinted, trying to view the rooms beyond them.

“This is no wisdom of mine,” Naomi refuted, hard pressed not to giggle at her gaggle of suitors. Really, it wasn't funny. Lack of sleep and a myriad of emotions were just converging and making her somewhat silly. Though in all honesty, the men's antics didn't help.

She suddenly wondered what Michael would say if he saw their workshop invaded by her earnest, bumbling beaus—and her smile faded. Michael wasn't here, and she didn't know when he'd make it back. And even if Michael were here, he wouldn't be actively seeking her company; he merely accepted her presence as a business necessity.

Then, too, if Michael were here, there would be no interruption. After all, the men respected another man's work—they just didn't consider extending the same courtesy to a woman's work. Naomi remembered how these men tried to take away her tools and bodily lift her from working through the landslide to free Lacey. Their strength lay in their muscles, perhaps, too, in their protectiveness and obvious willingness to help in any little way.

But they were weak when it came to understanding how to approach her, how to respect the woman they strove to win as their life's partner. The thought was downright depressing. One man worked alongside her but didn't seek her hand. Four other men vied for her hand, but her only options would never want to work alongside her.
Charlotte is right… . I need to learn more about them and let them learn more about me. Maybe something can come of this after all!

“Wisdom, whim, or what-have-you, I'm glad.” Clump crossed the room, barely needing to stoop beside Bobsley for the same view.

“Well.” Charlotte regained everyone's attention, gave a dainty sneeze, and said, “I do believe it's an excellent idea for your beaus to prove that they have the patience, creativity, and gentle touch needed to bring my sister's dreams to life. First, in building your dollhouse and later, so you can build your lives together.”

If Naomi saw her sister smirk at that last, maudlin sentiment, none of the men caught on. Whatever game Charlotte played to amuse herself, it seemed to their advantage to follow along. Trouble was, Naomi didn't understand where Charlotte's enmity had gone. Why was Charlotte working so hard to help orchestrate Naomi's wedding? The only explanation she could think of made Naomi cringe.
Does she think I'm still in love with Harry and might try to win him back? After all that happened, he's the last man in the world I'd want … But maybe Charlotte's trying to protect us all from my past mistake
.

She tried to give her sister a reassuring smile as Charlotte slipped from the workroom, lamenting that sawdust made her sneeze. Whatever her reasons, Naomi appreciated that her sister was trying to make her choice easier. Amid so many disappointments, this unexpected alliance—however oddly motivated—warmed Naomi's heart.

Perhaps God did bring her sister to Hope Falls to remind her not to lose her head over the wrong man—but maybe He'd also brought the chance to heal old wounds. His blessings changed things.

Naomi didn't have to force her smile as she approached Bobsley and Clump, still trying to peer through tiny windows. She gestured for Riordan and Gent to join them then placed her hand on the house.

“Let's see what happens when we turn things around.”

No going back
. Braden watched as everyone piled small stones atop Mrs. Nash's grave. Prayers had been lifted, hymns sung, memories shared, and tears spilled over the now-covered ground. Funny how he'd never noticed that people buried these things alongside their loved ones, as though cold earth could actually absorb hot grief.

Her passing had been unexpected, swift, and awful for those who'd grown to know the woman and helped care for her through the birth of her daughter and later the futile fight against her fever. Lawson refused to speak, as though his mouth were a Pandora's box of pain that he couldn't allow to be unleashed in public.