The Widow's Suitor
Autore
Rose Ross Zediker
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Chapter 1
An intense pain snaked around Cora Anderson’s bulging middle, squeezing out her breath. She grasped a straight-back chair for support. Bending into the pain, her white-knuckled grip shook the chair until a snap crackled through the room. The once-sturdy back slat wiggled loose in its groove under the pressure of her hold.
The baby was due in April, not March. Her labor pains came on fast and hard. She tamped her scream down to a throaty whimper. Gradually, the pain subsided to mild discomfort. She’d have only a few minutes before the next round of labor began.
Cora bowed her head, knowing full well one should come before the Lord on bent knee, but under the circumstances she hoped the Lord would forgive her this one transgression.
“Most merciful Father, help me bear the pain of childbirth. Please get Bertha home before the baby comes. Amen.”
Bertha should have returned from delivering the railroad men’s laundry before lunch. It was half-past noon. Cora knew her mother-in-law often took the long way home, making a stop at Hank’s grave on the other side of the homestead. Their loved one’s death had changed Bertha, made her bitter. Yet, despite Bertha’s ill-tempered disposition, Cora had never wanted to see her mother-in-law as badly as she did at this moment.
The cookstove began to remove the chill from the one-room house. At the first sign of labor, she’d stoked it well so that when the baby came it wouldn’t catch a chill. Cora fanned her face with her hand. Although she’d prefer opening a window to let the cool spring air in, she had to think of her little one’s needs.
She lifted her seamless one-piece apron and used the edge to wipe her sweat-dampened face. Where was the bucket? She’d been on her way to fetch water to boil when she’d almost succumbed to the last pain. The bucket lay on its side by the stone fireplace Hank had lovingly built in their home.
The familiar sorrow embedded in her heart intensified. They’d planned to spend the winter evenings in front of a roaring fire. But then Hank took sick and didn’t live to see the first log lit.
“Lord, be with me.” Cora whispered her plea between breaths.
Most days the house seemed small and cozy, and so much better than the sod shack they’d lived in their first four years homesteading. It was just one square room with a loft built in the corner for Bertha’s bedroom. Today, the pain made the room seem double in size.
The faint clip-clop of horse’s hooves sounded outside the house.
Bertha was home! Hope lifted her heart and relief flooded her aching body. She regained control of her normal breathing pattern and took a tentative step toward the bucket. Her shaking legs protested. Two steps away from it, a knock rattled the wooden door, echoing through the stillness of the large open room.
Why was Bertha knocking?
The door vibrated harder with the firm rapping. “Hello.” A male voice called through the door.
A niggling of pain weakened her already trembling legs. She had to get to the door before the hurt spread through her body.
Taking short, quick steps, she tried to race the impending pressure of the next labor pain. She reached the door. Gripping its frame, a white-hot cramp seized her body, kneading the air from her, much as she worked the weekly bread dough.
Push, push, push. She fought the natural urge.
Cora leaned her shoulder against the doorframe. She gritted her teeth until her jaw twitched, trying to keep the sound of her pain inside. Her hand tremored with weariness, which made it difficult to twist the glass doorknob. After two attempts, the door sprang open.
A young man in a dandy suit held a pillowcase in his left hand. His brown eyes widened as he searched her face.
Not Bertha. A customer.
She greedily sucked in air.
“Are you Cora Anderson?”
She nodded. The simple movement jarred her tormented body. Dare she unclench her jaw? Would she be able to speak or would the pain scream from her? She wrapped her right arm around her belly, the worn cotton calico fabric of her dress wet with perspiration, dampened her apron front.
Confusion settled on the handsome stranger’s face. He smoothed two fingers over his coal-colored moustache. She had to try to talk, be polite. She couldn’t turn a customer away. She and Bertha needed to take in more washing and ironing if they wanted to stay in their home, prove up their western South Dakota land. She wasn’t going to let Hank’s hard work go to waste. Bertha and this baby were the only family she had left, and she planned to keep them together in this home.
“M...m...may.” Agony stuttered her words. Her stomach muscles clamped hard. Convulsing pain bent her over, twisting her body into the open door. Her knees buckled. Unable to bear her own and the baby’s weight, she fell forward toward the wool-clad gentleman.
For a brief moment their eyes met. Fear flitted through the stranger’s dark irises before Cora succumbed to the pain. Her eyes fluttered shut.
Her body thudded against something solid. In an instant she floated through the air, wrapped in secure arms.
Had she died during childbirth? Was Jesus holding her tight on the way to Heaven?
Her body relaxed at the thought of her Savior and the certain reunion with her beloved Hank.
“Hank.” She stopped floating when she called his name, coming to rest on something soft and comforting.
“No, ma’am, the name’s Luke.”
The deep male voice cut through her fog-filled mind.
“Saint Luke?”
“No, ma’am. No one’s ever thought I was a saint. My name is Luke Dow.”
His voice sounded muffled, distant. Darkness threatened her consciousness. In her weak state she tried to fight against it. The pain enveloped her, fogged her mind.
The sharp clang of iron meeting iron disturbed her dreams.
Cora opened her eyes. Bright sunlight filtered through the wide-open door, illuminating the rough rafters of the ceiling. She ran her hands over the knobby string knots of the tied quilt on her bed. She hadn’t died.
A shadow filled the entry. “I’m putting a kettle on to boil.”
The man, Luke, shoved the door shut with his foot. The motion, combined with the heavy bucket, threw off his balance. His bowler hat slid askew on his head, revealing dark wavy hair.
Her breath came in pants. She turned her head in the direction of the cookstove. Luke poured water from the bucket into the kettle she’d placed on the stovetop.
He turned, centering himself between the kitchen and the bed. His brown eyes swam with concern. “Is someone coming to help you?” His gaze dropped. He twisted the toe of his boot. Eyes still downcast, he gave his head a small jerk. “I think it’s almost your time.”
Shame burned through Cora with the awareness of her soaked skirt. Another splitting pain roiled through her and she called out for Bertha. She clamped her teeth together. Nodding quickly, she turned her face away from the stranger who was seeing her in this intimate condition.
All of her muscles tightened. She closed her eyes, forcing tears out of the corners to trickle down her cheeks.
Push, her muscles commanded her body. She fought the urge. The pressure within her gained strength, ripping through her body, cutting her in two. Torrents of pain sucked at her consciousness.
Luke hovered over her. Concern etched his features, confirming her fear. This wasn’t normal. Something was wrong. She was dying.
Shame forgotten, she reached out a hand to him. His large hand engulfed hers. A scream echoed through the room. With all her might, she squeezed his rough flesh. Anything to hold her soul in this world until Bertha arrived home. She wanted to die in the arms of a loved one, as Hank had died in hers.
Cora waited for this round of labor to run its course, become a quiver of discomfort. Instead, another wave of cramping began. Every muscle in her body followed the pain’s command, squeezing and pushing down to rid her body of its discomfort.
She closed her eyes. The pain increased, her pounding pulse dulled her hearing. Somewhere from far away, she heard someone call out, “What have you done to Cora?” before giving up her fight, and letting the torrents of pain wash her into a black abyss.
* * *
“What have you done to Cora?” A stout woman banged through the door. The heaviness of her footsteps beat out her anger on the rough-hewn floorboards.
Luke dropped Cora’s fragile hand like it was a hot branding iron searing his palm and jumped from the edge of the bed where he sat, hoping to be a comfort to the poor girl. Muscles limp, her hand thumped on the feather mattress.
“Nothing.” Luke despised the defensive whine in his voice. He’d done nothing wrong. The older woman should thank him for staying and caring for the distressed young woman. “She collapsed in my arms. I think it’s her time.”
Using all of her girth, the woman pushed her calico-clad body between him and the bed.
“It’s not proper, a stranger seeing a woman this way.” She quickly pulled a worn quilt from the end of the bed, covering Cora’s water-stained skirt.
She turned to face Luke. The stiff ruffle of her wool bonnet brushed his moustache and the tip of his nose when she tilted her head to look him in the eye. Her narrowed-eyed stare and stern expression reminded him of a prairie rattler prepared to strike. He stepped backward. Once adequate space separated them, he met the lady’s icy stare.
Sturdy arms folded in front of her, she broke eye contact. She looked him up and down. “I know all the people in the area, because there aren’t very many. Who are you?”
“Luke Dow. I came to...” His eyes darted to the doorway. The long-forgotten pillowcase holding his dirty clothes lay lifeless and limp on the porch, similar to the sweet young woman on the bed. What did it matter why he was here? A person would think the woman would be happy someone stayed with her daughter, who seemed to be badly in need of attention, unless...
Dread shivered through him. He nodded his head toward the bed. “Is she dead?”
The older woman, who must be Bertha, cocked her head toward the bed. “She’s breathing.” A deep sigh heaved her chest. “What should be a joy has turned into a burden.”
Her puckered mouth made her look like she’d swallowed a spoonful of powdered alum.
The curtness of her statement and her expression raised Luke’s hackles. From what he could tell once he entered their home, the young woman, even in intense pain, had tried to prepare for the arrival of the baby. Triangular white flannel lay on the table beside a tiny nightgown and a pastel quilt. The fire in the cookstove had been stoked, and by the placement of the water bucket, her labor had interrupted the chore. Had the older woman no heart, no compassion? She’d left her young daughter alone in her time of need and now, the sweet young woman lay on death’s door.
“Are you Bertha?” Luke’s tone lacked the respect any elder deserved.
“Yes.” Bertha made no attempt at pleasantries. She pulled the strings of her bonnet, untying the bow under her chin.
“She’s been asking for you.” Perhaps knowing she was needed, wanted, would defuse her anger.
Bertha slipped the bonnet from her head. Her tight-plaited black hair, spun with silver strands, haloed around the crown of her head, emphasizing her stern expression. “What are you doing here?”
The combination of his wool suit, the temperature of the room and Bertha’s accusing stare, beaded sweat on Luke’s brow, dampening the band of his bowler where it rested on his forehead.
“I heard you take in washing.” Although he wished he hadn’t. Some of the railroad men had pointed him in the direction of a young widow who charged a fair price for washing and ironing clothing.
A low moan cut through the silence in the farmhouse. Luke stretched to his full height, peering over Bertha’s shoulder at Cora. Sweat beaded on her ivory skin, brown ringlet wisps stuck to her damp face. Pain pinched her eyelids tight, covering her pretty eyes.
Luke kept his gaze on Cora. He guessed she was barely twenty. What a pity she’d never make it through childbirth. Couldn’t Bertha see that? Or maybe she could, but she just didn’t care. If he was a praying man, and he wasn’t, he’d ask God to be merciful and take them both. A child shouldn’t suffer the blame and guilt of killing his mother during childbirth.
Hurt squeezed his heart at the cold realities of the life this child might lead. He set his jaw, dragging his gaze from the lovely young woman to Bertha’s dour expression.
“You heard right. We take in washing and ironing.” Walking past him, Bertha raised an eyebrow and gave a curt nod.
“I put water on the stove.” A silly thing to say, but didn’t women boil water for the birth of a baby?
Bertha’s eyes darted to the corner of the room housing the cast-iron cookstove, verifying his statement. Why would he lie about heating water? Everything about this woman put him on guard.
She removed a white apron from a peg on the wall before hanging her bonnet over the rounded end. She efficiently slipped the apron over her head, tying the strings in a secure back bow.
After a quick survey of the kettle and wood bin, she turned to him. “Since you’re here, you’ll need to do the chores. Neither one of us can tend to them today. You can start by unharnessing the horse from the wagon and brushing him down.”
Defensiveness gurgled in the pit of Luke’s stomach. He’d taken his last command when he’d fled west. Firming his stance, he met Bertha’s narrow-eyed stare, intending to set this woman straight, elder or not. No one ordered Luke Dow around. Not anymore.
He opened his mouth, but at the same time a small whimper came from behind him. He turned. His heart sagged. Pain pinched and twisted Cora’s features just before a scream echoed through the small cabin.
“Get a move on. There’s no call for a man to be present during childbirth.” Bertha shooed one hand at Luke while pushing past him with a dipper of water. “Fill the water trough, and chop us more wood. The woodpile is by the sod house.” She jerked her head toward door. “It shaped up to be a warm spring day. There’s a large brimmed hat on a peg in the sod house. It belonged to my son, Hank, and will serve you better than your citified hat.”
Luke stared at the woman in disbelief. Who was she to question his attire?
“Go on now.” Bertha flipped her hand through the air, dismissing him from the room.
The gall of this woman thinking Luke was there to do her bidding. She was right. He needed to leave. He’d gather his laundry and go back to camp. He turned on his heel. His heavy steps thundered across the floor. Grabbing the doorknob, he threw open the door. Imagine, Luke Dow, a businessman, doing homestead chores.
He crossed the threshold. A high-pitched moan filled the room, prickling his skin, raising the hair on his neck. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder.
Bertha sat on the edge of the bed, one arm under Cora, lifting her head while putting the enamel dipper to her lips. The color had drained from Cora’s face, giving her the pallor of a bleached sheet.
Luke closed the door on the sad scene, his belief in God’s nonexistence reinforced. He removed his hat, raking his coarse wool jacket sleeve across his damp forehead. He hated taking orders. This one time he’d oblige, though, since death seemed to be knocking on this family’s door. Replacing his hat, Luke strode toward the buckboard wagon.
A bloodcurdling shriek sent a cold shiver down Luke’s spine. He glanced toward the house, knowing that had to be the last sound the young woman would ever make.
