The Midwife's Secret (3 page)

She braced the handle of her bicycle, replaced her fallen packages—including a big turnip—and with barely a glance to him, tore off down the main street of town, through the people and horses on Banff Avenue.

Well, he hadn’t made a friend out of her. But that wasn’t the point, was it?

Two women, bundled in spring cloaks, gaped in amazement as Amanda passed. Children pointed to her bicycle. Keeping her head held high with dignity, she rode across the steel bridge. She turned up Hillside Road where the forest was so thick that trees didn’t have room to grow wide, so they grew tall instead to reach the sun.

When he glanced down at the deed again, he braced himself. It was like a bad dream. Was he this close to losing everything he owned? And Clarissa, too?

And now, not only was he missing fourteen thousand dollars, but he had a sopping backside, as well. If Amanda hadn’t fallen over… He glanced down at the mud. What was that peeking out of the wet earth? He picked up a piece of crudely cut leather. The shape of five toes were firmly grooved. A makeshift insole.

He gazed toward the massive mountains, searching for
her, but found an empty trail. The rain had washed the snow from the lower slopes and the southern ones were covered with yellow sun lilies. When he thought again of her glancing at Clarissa’s blasted note, heat pounded through his muscles. How much had Mrs. Ryan read?

And why would he care what a stranger thought?

W
hat was she supposed to do about Tom Murdock?

Amanda’s breathing grew labored as she pedaled uphill. The sound of wheels swooshing through grass echoed off the mountains. Imagine! He’d ripped her deed right out of her hands. Landsake’s, it wouldn’t help him. Yesterday on her arrival, she’d visited the land registry and
her
name was written in the ledger.

She thought of his note and bristled. Normally she’d never read another person’s mail, but it’d fallen right beneath her nose. She didn’t recall it word for word, but it went something like: “Dear Tom, I’ve decided to spend the summer with my family in Calgary. I’m taking this evening’s train. Yours, Clarissa.”

It was written on pretty stationery with fancy handwriting, and he’d turned tomato red when he’d looked at it. Nothing would cause a man to turn that red unless Clarissa was a woman he was involved with. Well, they didn’t seem particularly close, as it was only signed
Yours,
not
Affectionately Yours
or
With Love.

Hard to imagine that coldhearted man passionately involved with any woman. William had been in the beginning, but it hadn’t lasted. They were in love, she’d thought.
Happily married homesteaders on their ranch just west of Calgary, trying hard to make ends meet and planning for a large family. Maybe if he’d paced his feelings, his love for her would’ve endured. The way a man’s love was supposed to endure when he said his vows. In sickness and in health.

She’d heard William had remarried quickly; that his new wife was already in her eighth month. Amanda had silently forgiven him two months ago, when she’d decided to move from her family’s home in Calgary to Banff and not let her anger eat her alive. There were more important things she could do, helping other women through the same horrible loss. If she could ease their burden, then she figured what had happened to her would somehow all make sense.

Dismounting her bicycle, she peered through the faraway pines and glimpsed her dilapidated shack, its chimney smoke rising above it, a welcome sight after her rough morning.

“Howdy, Missus Amanda!”

Laughter from the six smallest O’Hara children next door reached her. They froze beside their log cabin as soon as they caught sight of her. You’d think she were from another star, how awed they were by her bicycle. Pigs grunted in their fieldstone pen and chickens clucked in scattered directions. The children’s dirty, smudged noses and exuberant waving brought a gush of warm, wonderful feelings. She waved back.

She was almost healed, she recognized with pleasure. That sudden stab of pain when she glanced at boisterous children was almost gone. And yet…other times, in her deepest thoughts, mostly during nighttime when she yearned for sleep but it wouldn’t come, those same questions assailed her.

Did it make her less of a woman because she could no
longer bear any more children herself? Did it make her less of a woman because the one sweet baby she’d had, had come into the world stillborn?

Of course it didn’t, she knew in her logical mind. But sometimes, in her illogical heart, she floundered. What kind of woman did it make her, when her husband had left her, divorced her, because of her inabilities?

Exhaling softly, she turned onto the dirt path, leaned the bicycle against the big spruce, then removed her store-bought items. She hadn’t held her baby and that was her greatest loss.

Eighteen months ago, the people helping in the delivery, including her loving grandpa, thought it would be kindest to protect Amanda from that anguish. Placenta previa, they’d declared. Her placenta had partially covered her cervix. During delivery, Amanda had lost her baby as well as her uterus. Later, she’d learned that the little infant girl had taken two small gasps, then was gone. Amanda hadn’t even seen her face.

What had she looked like? What would seven and a half pounds feel like to cradle in one’s arms? Amanda had never paid deliberate attention before, holding other people’s babies, but it wasn’t anything she’d take lightly anymore. She hiked the muddy turnip into her arms. Would seven and a half pounds feel like this?

The rhythm of her breathing faltered. Too light.

She hoisted the sack of flour into her arms. Like this? Her throat ached. A touch too heavy. And Ten Pounds was clearly stamped on the burlap.

“Amanda, is that you?”

Amanda cleared her throat. “Yes, Grandma.” Composing herself, she stepped into the clearing and bid good morning.

Dressed in dark clothing, in mourning for her husband
for another two months, Grandma flung a gray braid over her dumpling figure and smiled. She’d taken a chair into the sunshine and was working on her rag rug, an idea she had to earn them extra money. A fire blazed beside her—and the shotgun that protected them from marauding wolves and black bears.

Amanda couldn’t bear to mention bad news. She would use her last three hundred dollars to build the cabin, despite Tom Murdock. William had left her with nothing. He’d taken the ranch, the cattle, the quarter section land, even her two dogs. And because he was an old friend of both law practices in Calgary, legally she hadn’t stood a chance.

She also had her grandmother to support, despite the small inheritance Grandma, and the rest of the family, had received after Grandpa’s fatal stroke. For the past five years while Grandpa had trained Amanda in his home, she and her grandma had spent most of their days in the pleasure of each other’s company. Now the two women preferred to live together. Besides, Amanda’s mother and father were busy tending to the rest of the family—Amanda’s brother, and sister, and all their new babies—to tend to Grandma, so it’d worked out for the best.

“Howdy, honey. Did you meet Mr. Finnigan?”

Amanda slid her packages to the ground. “He’s out of town. I met his partner, Mr. Murdock.”

“Did he quote you a fair price?” Grandma’s plump nose spread wider as she smiled, and Amanda realized how lucky she was, still to have her grandmother, to have this land, to have the sun shining on her face.

Amanda would shoulder the burden of Tom Murdock alone. “Mr. Murdock is busy with other projects, but there are two other builders in town. I’ll visit them this afternoon.”

Two nights later Graham Robarts burst into the sawmill, startling Tom.

“What the heck are you doin’ workin’ so late?” asked Graham. “It’s after ten o’clock.” Short and blond, dressed in a fringed deerskin coat, he cast long shadows on the wall as he passed by the scattered kerosene lamps. Although a constable in the North West Mounted Police, he came dressed in civilian clothes as Tom had requested. It would arouse fewer questions.

Squatting beside the kitchen cupboard he was building, Tom tapped the cornice moulding into place. “If I get these cupboards finished by the end of this week instead of next, I’ll
almost
be able to make payroll.”

“Are these for the big hotel?”

“Yeah.” Finer furniture had been ordered from Quebec and Europe for the hotel’s public spaces—reproductions of English masters—but Tom was contracted for the everyday furniture for the kitchens, cleaning areas and staff quarters.

“Can’t you get your men to help you?”

Tom towered over his friend. “That would compound my problem. I’d have to pay them extra for their time. If I work alone, I can speed the payments coming in.”

“You can’t work both mornin’ and night. And when’s the last time you ate anything?”

Tom blinked his tired eyes. “If I don’t make payroll, my men will lose their jobs. Eleven out of fourteen have wives and children to support. You know Donald O’Hara? On top of his eight, he just told me he’s got another one on the way.”

The friendly wrinkles at Graham’s eyes faded with concern. He was a good man, Tom thought, a childhood friend who’d grown up with him back east, halfway across the continent in the big city of Toronto. Where Tom and his
father had practiced carpentry, Graham and his were in the police force.

“All right,” said Tom. “Give me the bad news. What did you find out about that Ryan woman?”

“It’s clear to me that the deed is binding.”

The words caused Tom’s body to sink. He picked up a piece of sanding paper and began rubbing. Deep in his heart, he knew that already. He’d known it two days ago when he’d checked the land registry, and then again when he’d reread the article of signing privileges in his partnership agreement with Finnigan.

“I’ll do everything I can to find Finnigan,” Graham vowed.

Clenching his jaw, Tom dug the sandpaper deeper into the wood. “The sawmill was nearly paid off. Tourists about to arrive, Banff about to expand. Lots of business for everyone.”
And me, about to get married to a woman I loved.

“Let me open an official file, Tom. Press the charges. We’ll get Finnigan.”

Tom sighed. Opening an official file meant opening his wounds to the world.

When he shrugged, Graham removed his jacket, picked up a rag cloth and tin of linseed oil, then began varnishing one of a dozen clock shelves. “How’s Clarissa? How’s she takin’ this?”

Tom scowled. “She’s not around. She left.”

Graham squinted. “Aw, hell, I’m sorry.”

Yeah, so was Tom. He thought Clarissa Ashford would be his wife. Originally from Ottawa, she’d moved with her folks to Calgary when they’d opened their jewelry store. When they’d visited Banff last summer, she bumped into Tom at Ruby’s Dining and Boarding House, and extended her visit. She was a woman who laughed readily, enjoyed
an intelligent conversation and was eager to start a family. Tom’s family. Maybe a son or two Tom could pass the sawmill down to, or a daughter Tom could teach how to ride, or how to appreciate a fine piece of furniture. Hell, had he lost that dream, too?

Clarissa had accused him of working too hard, of ignoring her. She thought he spent too much time worrying about his brothers and father, and not enough about
them.
He ran a hand through his sleek hair and wondered. Was she right?

If he didn’t change his ways, she’d threatened, she’d leave and head back to Calgary. At first she said she wanted to help Tom and Finnigan expand their business. And how many times had she told them, with that teasing smile of hers, she couldn’t decide which one of them was smarter….

Hold on a minute. Tom’s gut squeezed. She wouldn’t have… She couldn’t have been part of Finnigan’s leaving.

Tom’s palms began to slide with sweat. “If you open an official file, how confidential can you keep it?”

“Just between me and the sergeant, if that’s what you want.” Graham studied his friend. “Why don’t you ask for Quaid’s help?”

“My brother would just hit the roof. You know how everyone panics in my family. Soon as there’s a possibility of something going wrong, they panic. They panicked about Pa, didn’t they?”

When they’d decided to move West three years ago to start the sawmill, Pa was as energetic and quick-minded as a twenty-year-old. But very soon, he began the forgetting spells, and it was Tom who’d taken over the business, who looked out for Pa. The rest of the family wanted him to live with someone—a nurse or guardian—while they com
pleted their studies, but Tom insisted on Pa’s freedom. Pa wasn’t an invalid.

Even so, Tom didn’t blame his family. They were scared. They loved their father and wanted the best for him. But it all washed to the same thing. Tom’s family and his men all depended on Tom. Yesterday he’d carefully raked through the bills, looking for ones he could hold off paying. Gabe’s Toronto law tuition could wait until the end of August. For Quaid’s medical instruments, Tom would try for a credit note from the bank. As for Pa’s horses…well, shoot.

“What are you going to do about Miss Ryan?” asked Graham.

“I’ll go back and talk to her.” He prickled with the thought of having to go back to beg for work. “If she hires me, I’ll insist on a down payment. That’ll make the rest of payroll for the week.”

“What can I do?”

“Use your leads to find Finnigan.” Tom glanced up from screwing hinges. He had to be careful how he worded his next request, for there were some things he couldn’t share with Graham. “Find out if Clarissa’s all right, back with her folks. Then check on Amanda Ryan’s background. I’ve got this feeling…Mrs. Ryan’s hiding something.”

“They’re blackfly bites, and all over his arms. No wonder Willy’s scratching,” Amanda said, helping the four-year-old boy off the worn, wooden chair. “Ellie, rub this calamine lotion on it twice a day, and bring your boy back in two days.”

Morning sunshine poured through the shack’s open door, around the six children, the damp, dirt floor, the tiny alcove of Amanda’s narrow bed, then Grandma’s in the
other corner. The rain had left three days ago. The crisp mountain air smelled of budding trees.

Ellie O’Hara squinted at the homemade canning jar full of calamine. Her curly red hair streamed down her shoulders. She patted her four-month-pregnant belly in a loving, absent way that reminded Amanda how she’d once done that herself. Amanda swallowed and glanced away, but was very happy to help.

She’d taken a quick liking to her neighbor, who’d moved from Ireland ten years ago but still spoke with her beautiful brogue. “Aye, I was worried it might be measles.”

“Thank goodness it’s not, not in your condition. You’ve got to take care of yourself, too. Please go to the apothecary’s and get those grains of iron. That’s why you’ve been tired lately. Ask your older boys—Pierce, especially—to lift the heavy things. The smaller children will help you, too, won’t you?”

A chorus of yeses and laughter filled the cabin. Amanda swooped them all outdoors, a mix of pigtails, freckles and scruffy woolen clothing.

“Hello!” A man’s voice boomed through the tall spruces, startling everyone.

She quaked with apprehension when she saw Tom Murdock, sitting high in the saddle of his chestnut mare. He tipped his cowboy hat. When his questioning eyes sought Amanda’s, she tingled with warning. Placing a hand on little Katie’s shoulders, Amanda adjusted her kerchief over her long loose hair, then tugged her apron. Why did he always make her feel self-conscious of what she was wearing? And why was he here? To return her deed, she hoped, and not to argue further.