The Midwife. Carolyn Davidson

would give much to be rid of.

      

      The nightmare was back for the first time in months. Perhaps having Karen to love and care for had kept the dream in abeyance. The dark was more friendly these days, holding memories of sweet infant scents and the familiar sound of her rocking chair as it moved against the floor.

      For a while, the terror of death had seemed far removed from Kirby Falls, Minnesota. As far away as the streets of Chicago. As far as the ornate house in which Sylvester and Mabelle Taylor lived. That house of horror where a baby boy had met his fate at the hands of his evil mother.

      His head tilted to one side, his breath forever stilled, his tiny, perfect body…

      Leah drew in a deep breath, closing her eyes against the vision she saw. Awake or asleep, this night would hold the memory of death, and she’d as well accept that, she decided.

      Her robe brought warmth to her chilled body as she donned it, her slippers adding to the comfort. The banked fire in the stove needed only a bit of kindling to bring it to life, but Leah added a good-sized chunk of firewood for extra measure. She ladled water into her coffeepot and poured beans into her grinder. The pungent odor rose as she turned the handle and inhaled deeply, comforted by the familiar scent.

      She settled into the rocking chair, one foot pushing at the floor, setting her in motion. In her pocket, the letter rustled and she drew it forth, the contents already committed to memory.

      Anna Powell, neighbor and friend, the only person who had knowledge of Leah Gunderson’s whereabouts. Her fervent assurances had rung true. She’d not divulged anything. But she’d been questioned by an impressive-looking man from a detective agency.

      Garlan Lundstrom’s proposal had come at a perfect time. How better to cover her tracks than to change her name, Leah decided. A woman named Gunderson would no longer exist in Kirby Falls. Instead, on a farm outside of town, married to a prosperous farmer, a woman called Leah Lundstrom would live in peace. With the protection of a husband, perhaps even a man like Sylvester Taylor would find it difficult to pursue her and berate her for a sin she refused to own.

      As that thought lodged in her mind, Garlan’s daughter announced her displeasure—most likely a wet diaper—from the next room. Leah rose quickly, a smile replacing the somber cast of her face, her steps light as she made her way by moonlight to where the baby lay.

      Covers kicked aside, plump legs and dimpled fists waving in the air, Karen Lundstrom was a sight to behold. Beneath the window, she was bathed in moonbeams, her rosy cheeks pale in the absence of sunlight. Leah scooped her from the basket and held her against her breast.

      “Hush, little bird. Shh, shh, sweet one! Mama has you now.” Her whispered words of comfort stilled the babe, and Karen gurgled her delight as Leah carried her back to the kitchen. The lamp on the dresser was lit quickly, and the table served dual purpose as Leah stripped the diaper and replaced it with a fresh one.

      A soft lullaby eased the babe into sleep in short order, and yet the rocking chair continued to move in its prescribed motion. Not until the sun was fully risen in the eastern sky did Leah’s head tilt against the high back, her eyes closed in slumber.

      

      The farm wagon wore a coat of paint, an unheard-of thing so far as Garlan Lundstrom knew. Red enamel covered the weathered wood, and upon the board seat a leather-covered pad had been nailed into place, providing a comfortable cushion for driver and passenger. More than one pair of eyes followed the wagon’s trail as it wended a path down the main street on Saturday morning. Atop the seat, Garlan Lundstrom and his son sat, the boy waving proudly at each passerby.

      “Pa, they really like our wagon, don’t they?” Kristofer’s feet kicked at the front of the wagon, keeping a rhythm with the slow trot of his father’s team of horses. A glance of reproof halted the contact of toes against wood, and he grinned cheerfully. “Sorry, Pa. I was just excited about pickin’ up Miss Leah and all her stuff today. It sure took a long time for Saturday week to get here, didn’t it?”

      Gar nodded, his color high as he withstood the knowing glances of the townspeople who watched his progress. Painting the wagon had probably been a foolish gesture on his part, but the old wagon had looked so shabby, and the red paint had been handy, left over from the barn raising last year.

      And Kristofer had been adamant.

      Gar lifted a ready hand, answering a like salute from Joseph Landers, standing outside his cabinet shop, sawdust apparent against the dark trousers he wore. There was always about the man the fine scent of freshly cut wood. A clean smell, Gar thought.

      The sun shone brightly, and the men who sat beneath the wide porch in front of the hotel fanned themselves with pieces of newspaper and an assortment of brightly printed paper fans, red roses vying with the garden of Gethsemane for the preferred design.

      The hotel door opened as the wagon passed by, and Lula Dunbar stepped to the sidewalk. Her hand lifted in greeting, then a stunned expression seemed to hold it aloft and suspended, bringing her to a halt. Her mouth half-open, she turned her head to watch as Gar drove past.

      “Well, I never…” he heard her say, her words sharp and crisp on the summer air.

      “I think Mrs. Dunbar likes our red wagon,” Kristofer said cheerfully, wiggling on the seat as if he could barely stand the inactivity.

      “Yah…I noticed,” his father answered glumly, halting before the general store. He slid to the ground, several seconds after Kristofer’s feet had found their way into the store.