The Midwife's Secret. Kate Bridges

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 completed 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