Patricia Forsythe - At Odds With The Midwife

The place was warm and inviting, not at all the den of hippie craziness his mother had claimed it to be. Also, it was rustic, but not primitive. Thinking about it now, he wondered why she had chosen that word.

“Come over to the sink,” Gemma commanded and he did as he was told, standing with his hand under warm running water. He was very aware of her gently clasping his hand in her own while she turned it this way and that, keeping it under the stream from the faucet. Nate liked being close enough to catch her scent, which was faintly flowery, no doubt heightened by the work she’d been doing out back.

He was about to ask what she’d been planting when she shut off the water and grabbed a handful of paper towels, which she placed beneath his hand to catch the drips, and directed him toward the table. Its scarred top spoke of many meals eaten by many generations. The chairs were a mishmash of styles, but all seemed to be as old as the table. Nate could imagine previous Whitmires sitting here, eating, talking, laughing. The place had a settled atmosphere. In spite of the modern furnishings, glowing electric lamps and the laptop open on a living room table, he could picture a woman in a long dress coming inside, removing her bonnet and pumping water at the sink to wash up. Maybe that’s what actually haunted the Whitmire farm—the ghosts of hardworking, happy people with established traditions going back generations. He shook his head at the fanciful thoughts. He never lapsed into daydreams like this.

Casting Gemma a wary glance, he ruefully decided that she wouldn’t know if this was out of character for him or not. They hadn’t seen each other in fifteen years.

“This cabin is nice,” he said, watching her pick up a rubber bulb syringe, fill it with warm water and expertly flush his cut with a disinfectant solution. “Your family farmed this land for many years.”

“More than a hundred, but my dad wasn’t interested in farming so he sold most of the farmland and established the campground.”

“But they stayed in this cabin, kept the family home.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” she said, glancing up and giving him the full attention of those remarkable green eyes. “They have roots here that they wanted to maintain. My parents may have been...unusual, but they knew how to create a happy home.”

Nate didn’t answer. For all of their wealth and position, his parents had never known how to do that. From his first memories, their home had been sterile, filled with icy silences. Funny, after all these years, he still never thought of the ostentatious house at the end of Pine Street as his home, only theirs. That’s why it was sitting empty, falling into disrepair. Why he’d rented a small house near the hospital and filled it with furniture he’d bought himself. He had yet to include anything from his childhood home.

“And how are your parents?” he asked. “I heard they had left town, and the campground was permanently closed.”

She gave him a big smile—the expression of someone talking about those she loved. “They’re very well. As soon as I was launched into the world, they took the money they’d inherited from my dad’s family and the sale of the farmland and took off. They’ve traveled the world ever since, helping out on building projects in places in need wherever they can. I see them a couple of times a year here in the States, or I go wherever they are.”

“It sounds...idyllic.”

Gemma laughed and her eyes lit up. “It sounds like what a couple of middle-aged hippies would do, but don’t tell them I said that.”

“I doubt that I’ll ever see them.”

“You might be surprised.” She lifted his hand and examined it closely for debris, then, apparently satisfied, she carefully positioned a bandage over the cut. “This is their home, after all.”

“Are you going to be here long?” Maybe she’d go out to dinner with him. There were no decent restaurants in Reston, but Dallas was only a couple of hours south and he knew there were plenty of fine dining places there. Besides, if she was as competent a nurse as she appeared to be, he might have a job for her.

“I’m back permanently.”

“Really?” More and more promising, Nate thought. “Is your nursing license current?”

“Of course.” She tilted another smile at him. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Afraid I didn’t bandage your hand right? Remember, you were on my property without being asked, while I was busy working.”

Deciding he’d better change tactics, he asked, “What were you doing out there, by the way? At first I thought you were burying a body.”

“Planting herbs.”

“In the dark?”

“It’s not dark. There’s a full moon, which is when these herbs must be planted.”

Maybe she wasn’t as different from her parents as he’d thought. “Oh? What kind?”

“Blue cohosh, for one.”

He frowned. “It grows wild all around here. You only have to walk into the woods and pick it.”

“I’d rather have it close by and if I grow it myself I can ensure the quality.”

She was watching his face carefully. Nate felt as if he was trying to communicate in an unknown language.

“And you need these for cooking?”

“No, for pregnancy, labor and delivery. Tincture of blue cohosh stimulates labor.”

Nathan went very still as those words sank in, the facts lining up before him as if they were printed on the very air.

“You’re a midwife.” His tone was flat.

* * *

GEMMA WHITMIRE STARED at the sudden stiffness in his face, the way his brown eyes had narrowed. Alarm bells clanged in her head, but she spoke calmly. “Yes, I am.”

“And you’re planning to open a birthing center?”

“Yes, in your father’s old offices next to the hospital.” She lifted her chin, held his gaze. There had been a time when she would have backed down, apologized, tried to explain her position. Those days were gone. “Exactly as you plan to establish a family practice and reopen the hospital.”

“Not exactly.”

“Both facilities are for people’s health.”

“No, the hospital cures people and keeps them well—”

“Fortunately, giving birth isn’t an illness.”

Their eyes met—hers defiant, his resolute. Gemma’s heart sank as she imagined the swirl of objections that were about to come at her. She’d heard them all before, fought them all before. Somehow, it was disappointing to know she was about to hear them from Nathan.

She hadn’t recognized him at first when he’d startled her and she’d thrown him to the ground. He’d been a small, skinny guy in high school, with dark hair worn long in defiance of his parents. He must have grown a good six inches since she’d seen him last, topping out at six feet, with wide shoulders and muscled arms. His hair was cut short, probably for the sake of convenience. But those eyes hadn’t changed. Deep-set and steady, they looked at her as if he was trying to see into her soul.

She had admired him when they were growing up, and had a major crush on him by the time they were in high school. She’d been crazy about his good looks, his serious gray eyes and the way his thick brows came to a slight peak as if he was gently surprised by life. Whereas the other guys she’d known had been jocks or cowboys, he’d been focused and smart. Apparently, he still was.

But he was also wrong.

“Giving birth is fraught with risks. Risks that are best handled in a qualified medical facility.” His voice was firm, as if he thought that stating his case strongly would have her immediately caving.

Not a chance. “Giving birth is a natural process, which women have been handling very well for quite a while now.”

“That’s true, but why take risks with women’s lives when excellent medical facilities and qualified personnel are available?”