The Midwife. Carolyn Davidson

sighed. “I know what you want, Mr. Havelock. At the risk of being too bold, I must tell you that I am not available for such a thing.”

      “My intentions are otherwise, Leah,” he said quickly, a blush climbing his cheeks, turning them even more rosy than the wind had done.

      She blinked, mouth open and mind wiped clean as he denied her accusation. “Otherwise?” she said after a moment.

      He nodded, edging closer to her. “I’d like to come calling on you, ma’am.”

      “I thought you were courting Kirsten Andersen,” Leah said bluntly. Her hand waved distractedly. “No matter. I’m entirely too old for you, Mr. Havelock, and too busy to waste either my time or yours.”

      “Will you at least dance with me Saturday night?” he asked hopefully.

      She nodded quickly, willing to promise that small boon, if only he would leave her house with his clean underwear and work clothes.

      He smiled eagerly, counting out the money he owed her, managing to squeeze her fingers as he placed the coins in her palm. “I’ll plan on it, Leah.”

      She shut the door behind him and leaned back against its cold surface. Now if he were only taller, with wide shoulders and the hands of a…She shook her head. The image in her mind was forbidden to her, the features of Gar Lundstrom taking form behind her closed eyes.

      Never in her almost thirty years had she found herself in such little control of the thoughts and desires she lived with daily. Garlan Lundstrom had done nothing, said nothing, to insinuate himself into her mind. And yet he dwelt there.

      She bent her head. From the very first time, over a year ago when she’d seen him in church, she’d felt a yearning for the man and scolded herself all during the long walk home. He was married.

      And she was Leah Gunderson, wash lady to most of the bachelors in town. Not that that was anything to be ashamed of. On top of that, she was fairly skilled in the art of healing, enough so that she had been called upon to sew up cuts and set broken bones.

      Her skills as a midwife were not known to the townspeople, and never would be, she had decided from the first. The doctor who tended the new mothers was old and beyond his prime, content to let the widow lady on the back side of town care for the odds and ends of healing that came her way.

      Yet Leah mourned for the disuse of those abilities she had learned in her young years. She’d visited women in all stages of labor with her mother, Minna Polk. She’d helped with birthings from the time she was sixteen. And then called herself a widow in order to set up her own practice.

      A single woman could not deliver children. There was a stigma against it that forbade such contact. Young girls were supposed to be innocent.

      Innocence. Sometimes Leah could not remember the meaning of the word.

      

      Laundry came first, as always, and the soup kettle was moved to the back of the stove so Leah could heat wash water in the copper boiler. She scrubbed on her board in between cutting up her store of vegetables for the kettle on the stove. The day was waning by the time she reached the bottom of Orville Hunsicker’s laundry basket, and Leah hurried now to complete her mission to the neighbor who depended on her kindness.

      The soup was a bit thin, but Mrs. Thorwald was most appreciative in any case, tasting each spoonful with appropriate murmurs.

      “You are such a joy to have right next door,” she said sweetly, her spoon scraping at the bottom of her bowl. “You’ll never know how much I appreciate your company, dear.”

      Leah smiled, ashamed of her impatience, as she watched the old lady enjoy her soup. “I’m happy to help out,” she said, pleasantly enough. Her mind raced ahead to the pile of washing she had yet to hang in her kitchen tonight. It would be dry by morning, and she would iron it before noon.

      “Do you have any more of that salve you gave me to rub on my chest, dear?” Peering up at Leah, the wizened old woman’s eyes were rheumy and her mouth trembled.

      A pang of guilt struck Leah. “Of course, I have. I’ll just run home and bring it back to you, Mrs. Thorwald.” She rose and eyed her soup kettle. “Why don’t you just keep the rest of the soup, and I’ll take the kettle home to wash.”

      Mrs. Thorwald’s eyes brightened, and the widow nodded eagerly. “It’ll be just the thing for my quinsy, won’t it, dear?”

      Leah donned her boots and coat and let herself out the front door, walking on the path to the gate to her own yard. The sun had gone down, and dusk had settled while she sat in the widow’s kitchen. Beneath her feet, the snow was too deep to attempt crossing the yards.

      “I feel I’ve adopted a grandmother,” Leah muttered to herself, stomping up the stairs to her house. And that wasn’t all bad, she admitted silently. It was just that some day, she yearned—

      “Mrs. Gunderson.”

      The voice was dark, deep and richly resonant. It halted her in her tracks, one foot on the porch, the other on the top step. From the shadows beneath the steep roof, a tall figure stepped forward, and Leah watched as one long arm reached up to scoop the wide-brimmed hat from his head.

      “Ma’am?” That single word held the power to set her heart beating almost double time, and Leah pressed her palm against her chest.

      “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

      Leah made her way slowly, carefully, to her door, her legs trembling as she turned to face Gar Lundstrom. “You only startled me, Mr. Lundstrom. I was thinking about my neighbor. About her quinsy, actually.” She peered up at him. “What can I do for you?”

      “I’m not sure, ma’am. I was told you might be able to help, since the doctor is…indisposed,” he said carefully.

      She leaned forward. “Are you hurt? Have you sustained a wound?”

      He shook his head. “No, it’s not me, ma’am.” He stepped closer and she caught sight of his face, strained and anxious in the twilight.

      “What, then? Your boy?”

      “My wife. She is about to give birth, and she needs help. The women in the store have told me you are learned in the art of healing, and I thought—”

      “I don’t deliver babies, Mr. Lundstrom,” Leah interjected forcefully. “I can sew up a cut or give herbs for some ailments, but babies are the business of the doctor.”

      “He’s—”

      “Yes, you said. Not available.”

      He stepped closer, and his dark eyes burned with an intensity that stopped Leah’s breath in her throat. “I’ve driven my team hard to come back to town, ma’am. I fear to leave my wife alone longer.” He reached to grip Leah’s arm. “I need you to come with me. Surely you know about birthing babies. There is no one else to ask.”

      “Doesn’t your wife have any women friends?” Leah asked, her voice hopeful.

      He shook his head. “She doesn’t leave the farm much. Only to church, when she’s able, and to the store.”

      “I haven’t seen her for quite some time.” Leah tried to remember the last occasion.

      “She’s been in bed most of the time. For months,” Gar Lundstrom said tightly. “She’s not been well.”

      “I can’t do it,” Leah told him, tilting her chin and gritting her teeth as she faced him.

      His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “You must. There is no one else. My wife needs your help.”

      She shook her head even as her heart raced in response. How could she turn this man away, knowing that, as they spoke, his wife was probably in the throes of labor, alone in a farmhouse, miles outside of town.

      Gar Lundstrom’s