BOOKS BY DOROTHY GARLOCK
After the Parade
Almost Eden
Annie Lash
Dreamkeepers
Dream River
The Edge of Town
Forever Victoria
A Gentle Giving
Glorious Dawn
High on a Hill
Homeplace
Hope’s Highway
Larkspur
Leaving Whiskey Bend
The Listening Sky
Lonesome River
Love and Cherish
Loveseekers
Midnight Blue
The Moon Looked Down
More than Memory
Mother Road
Nightrose
On Tall Pine Lake
A Place Called Rainwater
Promisegivers
Restless Wind
Ribbon in the Sky
River Rising
River of Tomorrow
The Searching Hearts
Sins of Summer
Song of the Road
Sweetwater
Tenderness
This Loving Land
Train from Marietta
Wayward Wind
A Week from Sunday
Wild Sweet Wilderness
Will You Still Be Mine?
Wind of Promise
Wishmakers
With Heart
With Hope
With Song
Yesteryear
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Dorothy Garlock
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Grand Central Publishing
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First eBook Edition: April 2010
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ISBN: 978-0-446-56904-0
Contents
Copyright
A Long Time Gone
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Epilogue
This book is lovingly dedicated to
Kelly and Jason Brubaker
and Baby Bru
A Long Time Gone
All the flags were waving
All the band’s music blared.
I took her in my arms
And said how much I cared.
I promised her that I’d return
(Though not like this… )
When I took her in my arms
For a good-bye kiss.
There are no flags a-waving
After eight long years.
There is no music playing,
No sound of long-dried tears.
I’ve come for just a glimpse
Of the girl I left behind.
But she must never see me
To that I am resigned.
For I was lost a world away.
I’m not the man she wed.
The face she loved no longer mine,
The man she knew—is dead.
—F.S.I.
Chapter One
Carlson, Minnesota—October 1926
RACHEL WATKINS wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand while absently moving a strand of her coal-black hair from her green-flecked brown eyes. Though the early October day carried the crisp chill of autumn, the inside of Will and Clara Wicker’s small home blazed as if it were the hottest day of July; water boiled in a cast-iron pot on top of the wood-burning stove and candles flickered in every corner, their meager light sending faint shadows dancing across the walls.
“Oh, Rachel… it hurts…”
Clara Wicker lay on her back in the bed, one thin-boned hand spread across her enormous pregnant belly. All of the color had drained from her thin face except for the dark purple circles under her eyes and her bitten, red lips. Her blonde hair, slick with sweat, was drawn back from her face. Beads of moisture stood out on her forehead. Her eyes were closed tightly and her breathing was shallow. Not particularly pretty, Clara’s face was now a mask of agony.
“It’s to be expected,” Rachel comforted her.
“Ohhh!” Clara answered, her cry almost a moan.
“It’ll be over soon.”
Gently, Rachel wiped the sweat from Clara’s pain-chiseled face. Looking around her, she took inventory of all that she would need to bring the young woman’s first child into the world; the extra sheets that had been prepared for the birthing, a nightdress, towels, clean rags, and a dented bucket for water. Everything was as ready as it could be.
“You sure you know what you’re doin’…’bout birthin’ and all?” Will Wicker asked from where he meekly stood at the head of his wife’s bed, his voice little louder than a whisper. He nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the next, his small, dark eyes flickering back and forth from Clara to Rachel, never lingering for long. His filthy fingers, the fingernails caked with dirt, twitched uneasily as he rubbed one thin hand over the stubble of his bony jaw. His clothes hung loosely on his small frame, just as sweaty and soiled as the body they covered.
How did Clara allow this man to lie between her legs?
“I do,” Rachel answered simply.
“Wouldn’t it be better if your mother was here?” Will followed.
“I’ve already told you that she couldn’t make it.”
“But don’t you think… that…” he stammered. “You know… given that…”
“There isn’t time for this.” Rachel took a deep breath, trying to settle her growing dislike for the man. From the moment she’d been summoned to the Wickers’ ramshackle house at the far outskirts of town, she’d hoped that Will would simply accept that she was every bit as capable as Eliza Watkins of bringing a newborn child into the world. Instead, he’d eyed her warily from the moment she’d set foot in his home, as if she had come to harm instead of help. So far, he had contented himself with a few derogatory comments. She hoped that was the way it would remain.
“I’ll need you to bring me the water when it’s time,” she told him.
“Don’t worry ’bout me none,” he answered. “Ain’t no—”
Before Will could say another word, Clara moaned in pain as blood-tinged water gushed from between her
legs and formed a puddle around her feet on the mattress.
Sensing Clara’s panic, Rachel did her best to settle the pregnant woman. “Don’t worry about the water,” she said calmly. “We’ve got plenty of rags and oilskins to keep things dry. This happens to every woman when giving birth to her child.” Covering Clara with another clean sheet, she grabbed a pair of rags and tucked them between the woman’s legs to catch the remaining fluid.
“I’m… I’m sorry…” Clara struggled to say.
“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about,” Rachel said with a soft smile.
At a sudden rustling behind her, Rachel turned to find that Will had moved from the head of the bed and quickly shuffled over to the ramshackle home’s lone window, as far away from his wife as he could get without going outside. The look on his face was one of utter revulsion and horror. Clearly, the sight of Clara’s body preparing to give birth, readying itself to finish what had begun when Will had planted his seed inside her nine months earlier, had completely unsettled him.
“That there… that there…” he stuttered, “ain’t… ain’t right!”
“Will… Will… don’t…” Clara struggled to say through the vicious waves of pain that washed over her, one shaking hand stretched toward her husband, desperately urging him to return to her side.
“I can’t, Clara,” he answered with a shake of his head. “I just can’t.”
“Help her!” Will shouted at Rachel.
“I’m doing all that I can,” she answered as calmly as she could.
“Maybe Doc Clark is back,” the man kept on. “Maybe he can do this!”
Clarence Clark was Carlson’s new doctor, having recently arrived from the state college. For many years, the town simply made do without a full-time physician, relying instead on the folk knowledge that had been brought from the Old World, mostly a mixture of Norwegian and German home remedies. Though Dr. Clark was a young man in his early thirties, he had proven to be an excellent caregiver and was well respected. If not for an emergency in his wife’s family that had taken him from town, he would have been where Rachel now sat.
“We don’t need Dr. Clark’s help,” Rachel said, her eyes never leaving Clara.
“Then we should get your mother,” he insisted. “She’ll know what to do!”
“She can’t help us,” Rachel answered curtly.
“But she’d know—”
“We don’t need her!”
Though Rachel had remained calm through Will Wicker’s suggestion that she needed Clarence Clark’s help, she bristled at the insinuation her mother was more capable than she. Before the doctor’s arrival, Eliza Watkins had been the midwife for the birth of nearly every child in Carlson. Her opinion had been sought for every sort of illness or condition, even those outside of childbirth. But then Mason Tucker had gone off to war…
And everything had changed!
Nowadays, Eliza Watkins almost never left her room in the house she owned with her brother, Otis. She contented herself with fretting incessantly about those unfortunate enough to get too close, working herself into fits of worry. She agonized over the slightest sign of a cold, the hidden danger of a flight of stairs, or the tiniest of cuts. To combat these imaginary threats, she hid herself away. Even now, in Dr. Clark’s absence, she couldn’t bring herself to help. Instead, the burden once again fell to Rachel.
As a child, Rachel had never been her mother’s favorite; that honor had always belonged to her older sister, Alice. Where Alice had been fawned over, eagerly encouraged to follow her dreams, Rachel had forever been second fiddle. When she’d been told what to do, there was no other expectation than for her to agree. Thankfully for the Wickers, she’d watched her mother deliver babies so many times that there was little that could surprise her. They were in safe hands. In the end, it seemed that everyone now depended upon her.
Her mother, her uncle Otis… and especially Charlotte.
“Look at me, Clara,” Rachel encouraged.
Hesitantly, the pregnant woman’s eyes fluttered open and stared into Rachel’s face, not seeing her, but using her voice as a point on which to focus her mind while her muscles knotted and pulled. Her voice cracking, she answered, “It… it hurts, Will… Rachel…”
“It won’t be long, Clara,” Rachel soothed.
“Is she supposed to be hurtin’ like this?” Will asked from the far corner, his voice finally returning after Rachel’s rebuke. He looked at them over his shoulder, as if he couldn’t bear to bring his full attention toward the bloody, unsettling sight. “It don’t seem right.”
“Take one of these rags,” Rachel told him, holding a swatch of cloth out for him, “and dip it into the water bucket, then use it to wipe the sweat from her brow.”
“I—I can’t,” he said with a shake of his head.
“Stop asking questions and complaining about things you know nothing about. Clara and I need you to do this one simple thing,” Rachel commanded, the fire in her heart momentarily bubbling to the surface. “We need to make her as comfortable as we can. Whining about how this looks isn’t going to do her any good.”
“I’m not whining,” Will countered, succeeding only in reinforcing Rachel’s accusation. Still, his resolve to stay away from his wife’s side wavered. Slowly he made his way to where Rachel knelt, snatched the rag from her hand, and clumsily dunked it into the bucket. Making his way to the bed, he began absently to wipe it across Clara’s blazing forehead.
“Just try to keep her cool,” Rachel furthered.
“I’m here, Clara,” Will softly reassured his wife.
“Oh, Will!” she exclaimed before another pain came and went as rivulets of water ran down her red cheeks.
“It won’t be long now, Clara,” Rachel said confidently. From her experience at her mother’s side, she could see that the Wickers’ new child would soon make his or her entry into the world. “If you need to holler right out and loud, don’t you hold yourself back. Even if they hear you over in Cloverfield, you just rear back and shout. Take hold of the sheets and push when I tell you to. That’s a good girl…”
Clara’s body shook as agonizing contractions washed over her, leaving her with little control of her mind or her body. Her shouts rose in intensity, filling every space of the small home. Still, she did as Rachel told her, pushing her small body to expel its burden.
“Clara! It’s coming!” Rachel shouted from the end of the bed. “I can see the top of its head!”
The pregnant woman’s eyes opened wide. “Will!” she screamed.
“I’m here, darlin’,” Will answered, his eyes searching his wife’s face, his unease nearly completely forgotten. “You just keep pushin’… let it come. Don’t hold yourself back from the hurtin’.”
“Listen to him!” Rachel added.
Just as her mother had taught her many years before, Rachel let a sense of calmness wash over her; this was a time that required both a steady heart and hand. Everything about the birth of Clara Wicker’s baby seemed normal, but any delivery could go wrong in an instant. Still, she knew that she would do anything in her power to make sure nothing happened to either mother or child. Placing the palm of her hand on the hardened mound of Clara’s abdomen, she waited for another contraction.
“Ohhh… oh, it hurts!” Clara bellowed as heavy pain assailed her.
“Push, Clara! Push!” Rachel urged.
Clara did what she was told and her child arrived. The head came free and then, a mere blink of the eyes later, the shoulders. Rachel waited for the final push, then gathered the baby to her. She reached for the linen string, tied two heavy knots on the umbilical cord, and cut between the knots to s
ever the cord. The baby was covered in birth blood. She grabbed a towel and cleaned the child frantically, pressed by the realization that something was wrong; the tiny chest was not moving, the eyes were sealed shut.
“Rachel… I don’t… I don’t hear anything,” Clara gasped.
“Is… is somethin’ wrong?” Will added.
Refusing to become distracted, Rachel gave no answer, her mind racing over her mother’s many lessons before alighting on the answer. Quickly, she hurried to the dented bucket of well water and plunged the newborn infant into the cold water up to its neck. She poked her finger into the child’s mouth when it gasped. “Breathe!” she whispered fervently. “Breathe!”
“What’s happenin’?” Will insisted, stepping away from his wife’s side.
“Stay back!” Rachel barked. She knew that there were people who depended on her to do the right thing, to take care of what was precious to them and keep it safe. Her entire adulthood had been spent doing just that. She wouldn’t fail now.
Suddenly the tiny chest heaved, and the little mouth opened and drew air into the lungs. The resulting scream was both fierce and tiny, but it sounded like the sweetest of church music to Rachel’s ears.
“It’s… it’s not dead or nothin’?” Will asked cautiously.
“No, by God!” Rachel laughed. “Listen to that scream!”
Crossing the room, Rachel placed the tiny bundle of flesh on a towel. She rubbed the baby briskly, moved its tiny arms and legs, then turned it over and rubbed its back until all of its skin had turned a healthy pink. He was both full and fit.
“You’ve got a beautiful baby boy,” she told the new parents.