The Midwife's Secret. Kate Bridges

reached for his saddle horn, about to swing up, but stopped himself. He turned around. “The other two builders didn’t really agree to your help, did they?”

      A nervous smile fluttered over her lips. “Not exactly.”

      His lips curled as if on the edge of laughter. “Didn’t think so.”

      As she turned to leave, he tapped her shoulder, reminding her again how long it’d been since she’d been touched by a man.

      “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I still go by a handshake.”

      With a rapid thud of her pulse, she pressed her hot, wet palm into his slick, hard grip, trembling at the thought of what tomorrow would bring. What on earth was she agreeing to, with this forceful man?

      Chapter Three

      Why did Amanda Ryan keep cropping into his mind? The next morning, Tom stood shaving above the washstand, twisting his jaw into the air to scrape beneath it, and while he should’ve been planning ahead to the day’s work, he thought of Amanda’s strength instead. Moving to Banff without a man, caring for her grandmother, hauling her well-worn treasures into the tumbling shack. Not four days in town and she’d already tended to her first two patients, Ellie O’Hara, and the tinsmith’s daughter.

      In the barn, while he watered and fed his work horses, he thought of her independence. The sheer physical stamina it required to pedal a bicycle uphill when he was certain no other woman in town even owned a split skirt. Hell, no other woman in town lived alone in the countryside without a man to help her.

      And while the early morning sunrise reflected into the sawmill and he listed instructions to his foreman, he thought of her again. He looked beyond her drab clothing, the hidden pile of thick hair, the pale, indoor complexion, and wondered how long ago she’d lost her husband. How had she lost him? Who had been the messenger who’d come to tell her he’d died? Had she wept for days? In whose arms had she sought comfort?

      Questions he shouldn’t have been asking of a widow he’d only met.

      He should have been thinking about his mortgage payments and his problems with Finnigan and Clarissa. He’d just lost Clarissa and he should’ve been thinking more of her. But then, what else was there to think about? Graham was checking on her in Calgary, and there was nothing Tom could do but wait to hear.

      In the meantime, he had a cabin to build.

      When he pulled up to Amanda’s shack in his horse and wagon, Wolf wagging his bushy white tail and Donald O’Hara sitting beside him ready to help, she was tossing a shovel of dirt onto the fire. Her hesitant smile brought color to her face and a youthfulness to her appearance.

      She was ready to get started on the hard work, plowing ahead with her life, with or without her husband. It filled Tom with a healthy dose of respect.

      “Top ’o the mornin’ to ya, ma’am,” said Donald, jumping off the wagon into the spring dew.

      “Good morning,” she shouted as Tom hopped off. Wolf bounded through the trees, barking at a groundhog. There were plenty of mountain animals for him to chase, and he gloried in it.

      At the sound of their voices, a flock of swallows—hundreds of them—rose from the trees, sailed into the air, stretched their pointed wings and in unison, tilted their bodies into the wind. A magnificent sight.

      With a gloved hand, he readjusted his hat and glanced back at the other two. Donald was busy unloading pick axes and shovels. Amanda was cupping a hand over her eyes, gasping in delight at the birds. She looked like a washer woman, bundled in a long wool skirt, with gray collar peeking out of a checkered flannel shirt—obviously a man’s.

      Her late husband’s? Her late grandfather’s? Something about her expression held Tom’s attention. Her oval face was pale but proud, her nose straight, her curved, parted lips turned upward. When she turned back and caught his eye, he noticed again the sky-blue clarity of her eyes, and the sadness trapped there. What was she so sad about?

      Why should it interest him so much? He averted his gaze and got to work. It was getting warm and he removed his tan suede coat. The sheepskin collar and lining might be necessary during the nightly freezes and morning chill, but not in the soaring sixties and low seventies of the day.

      “I’d like it built right over here.” She indicated the top of the property, at the edge of the one-hundred-foot clearing. Jagged mountains framed her intriguing silhouette.

      He sauntered to where she stood and braced his hands on his hips. “It’s a good location. Rain will drain down to the river, so the cabin floor will remain dry. It’s close to the road for safety and convenience. And if we clear the six trees to the Bow River, you’ll have an unobstructed view of the water.”

      He almost groaned as he said it, knowing at one time he and his father had planned a similar location. Pa no longer remembered. And as for Tom, well, he’d buy himself another pretty—prettier—piece of property.

      Amanda gave such a huge sigh of contentment, his eyes followed the movement of her breathing down to her chest. A nicely rounded swell that she was hiding beneath shapeless clothing. He muttered to himself and glanced away.

      After smearing the stinky concoction Amanda had given them on their skin for protection against the blackflies, Tom grabbed the two-man saw.

      “Let’s start with the big cedar.” He indicated to Donald. Although Donald was a good ten inches shorter, he was a muscular man who walked with a spring in his step and who easily took direction.

      Amanda pulled on her leather gloves and Tom moaned. So she was serious about helping. Glancing up, he caught Grandma exiting the shack, dressed in a workman’s shirt tucked over her dark dress. A quake of alarm bounced through him. Both of them planned on helping? It wasn’t women’s work, not even for younger Amanda, but certainly not a woman as old as Grandma.

      Donald stopped. “Sweet Jesus O’Grady,” he muttered. “You’re hirin’ women now, are ya?”

      “It’s not my idea,” Tom declared.

      “And a good mornin’ to you, too,” bellowed Grandma in good humor. “You can both close your mouths now.”

      How old must she be? Tom wondered.

      “Sixty-two, since you’re lookin’ at me like that. But I’m not a weak old woman. I was splittin’ logs and cordin’ wood long before you arrived in your mama’s cabbage patch.”

      “Don’t worry about us.” Amanda brought out her own shovel. “We’ll clear the raspberry bushes and the juniper shrubs. We promise we’ll stay out of your hair.” She lifted her chin and met his gaze.

      Was he supposed to allow women to help him? He was ashamed to see them work so hard. They should be sitting out in the sun and knitting, or mending clothing. But as much as he ached to have the final word and say no, a deal was a deal.

      So while the men cleared the clump of green cedars, the women transplanted raspberry bushes to the far side of the shack. Amanda seemed to take pleasure in the company of Wolf, scratching behind his furry pointed ears and patting his luxurious double coat.

      “Why, you’ve got two different colored eyes,” Tom heard her murmur to the dog. “One blue, one brown.”

      Near lunchtime, Grandma waddled off to the privy. Amanda slid off her gloves and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. “It’s time for lunch. I’ve got some stew.”

      Just then, Ellie strolled around the corner with a picnic basket, obviously thinking of lunch, too. “The children have eaten and the three oldest girls are hangin’ the laundry. I thought we might go fer a picnic by the river.”

      Tom stumbled forward. For cryin’ out loud, this wasn’t a social call. This was difficult work, and if he accepted one invitation, the woman might appear every day. “I don’t think so. I brought an apple and a slice of ham, and I’ll