Carolyn Davidson - The Midwife

Her family, friends and church blend to make a most fulfilling existence for this South Carolina author. And most important is her husband of many years, the man who gives her total support and an abundance of love to draw on for inspiration. A charter member of the Lowcountry Romance Writers of America, she has found a community of soul mates who share her love of books, and whose support is invaluable.

Watch for her next Harlequin Historical novel, The Bachelor Tax, coming in January. She enjoys hearing from her readers at P.O. Box 2757, Goose Creek, SC 29445-2757, and promises to answer your letter.

The Midwife came into being because of my granddaughter, Rachel, a wonderful young lady who aspires to that profession. When she asked me to write a book about a midwife, I agreed to consider it, and was surprised and delighted when she sent me a brief outline of a story. Although I chugged down a different road and steered in different directions than she, and even though I added characters I thought were important to my book, this is basically Rachel’s midwife story. To her I dedicate the total effort, with all good wishes that her dream will one day be fulfilled.

And as always, to Mr. Ed, who loves me.

Kirby Falls, MinnesotaJanuary 1892

“It’s a pity that such a handsome man should always look so forbidding.” Bonnie Nielsen’s eyes cast a longing look at the man she spoke of.

“He’s married, Bonnie.” Leah mentally calculated her purchases and searched through her purse for coins, spending barely a glance in the direction of the man in question. He stood on the outskirts of a group of menfolk who clustered around the stove in one corner of the general store. His arms were crossed, his mouth formed in a thin line, and he did indeed glower, Leah decided as she favored him with a second look.

Bonnie’s cheeks flushed a becoming pink and she looked up at her customer through a pale fringe of lashes. “All the good-looking ones are. More’s the pity!” Her hands were making quick work of Leah’s sparse selections, and she tied the package deftly as she spoke.

“Don’t you even look at the men, Leah?” Bonnie pushed the paper-wrapped bundle across the counter and accepted Leah’s coins in return.

“It’s enough that I wash their clothes. Why should I look at the men who wear them?” Leah picked up her foodstuffs, then made a liar out of herself as she allowed her gaze to pass over the group of men who were laughing at some private joke as they warmed themselves.

As always, her eyes hesitated, just for the smallest second, on the somber man, the tallest of the group. The one who said little, who seemed drawn to the noisy, friendly men, even though he appeared not to belong in their midst.

Gar Lundstrom. He did look forbidding. Bonnie had it right on the money. And yes, he was handsome, with pale hair that never darkened in the winter, as did her own. His eyes were striking, pale blue beneath dark brows, another puzzle. He should have been fair, right down to his eyebrows. Perhaps the hair on his chest…

Leah closed her eyes, aghast at the thought she had allowed to enter her mind. She’d been too long indoors, spent too many evenings alone, talked to herself too many hours on end.

And always, she kept the vision of Gar Lundstrom from her mind. Only when she caught sight of the man did she allow her thoughts to stray in his direction. But to what purpose? The man was someone’s husband. Hulda Lundstrom was the woman he’d chosen to wed: a small, nondescript woman who seldom came to town, and whose son always remained close at hand when she did venture into the general store.

Lundstrom was no doubt on his way home now, Leah decided, taking care to turn aside as he said terse goodbyes and made his way from the store. The talk resumed around the stove and Leah walked to the door, aware of eyes that watched her progress, her own gaze straight ahead, lest she mesh glances with one of the men who gathered on these winter mornings.

Most of them were married, but there were always, in their midst, one or two bachelors. Several had approached her, the elusive widow, hoping to strike a bargain of some sort.

She closed the door behind her and walked down the wooden sidewalk, her package dangling by the string with which it was tied. Tea, a bit of sugar, and a small piece of bacon weighed little, and cost less, but it had taken most of her cash. If the menfolk didn’t pick up their bundles of laundry today, she would be hardpressed to find money for the rent this month.

Her feet turned up the path to the small house she called home, and she stepped onto the porch, reaching for the doorknob.

“Yoo-hoo! Mrs. Gunderson!” From next door, a fragile voice called her name and Leah halted, one foot already past the threshold.

“Yes, Mrs. Thorwald,” she answered, pulling the door closed, lest the heat escape. “Are you all right?”

“I believe I have a touch of the quinsy, dear,” the old woman answered, barely visible behind the windowpanes, bending low to speak through the narrow opening she’d allowed above the sill.

“I put some soup bones on the stove to cook before I went to the store. I have to find some vegetables to put in with them, and then I’ll bring you a bowl of soup when it’s ready,” Leah promised, knowing that, more than soup, the widow lady wanted companionship. She waved a hand as she opened her door again and stepped into the warmth of her parlor.

The heat from the kitchen cookstove permeated the whole house, each room opening up into another. She could walk in a circle and visit each room within seconds. Leah hung her cloak by the front door and placed her boots on a mat beneath. Then she donned her knitted slippers.

Her skillet awaited, warming on the back of the shiny black stove. She unwrapped the bacon quickly, her mouth watering at the prospect of such a luxury this noontime. She sliced it, then placed the thick pieces in the pan, inhaling the scent as the edges began to sizzle.

A knock at the door halted her while she was pouring water from her teakettle into her favorite flowered cup.

“I’m coming,” she called, her slippered feet silent as she crossed the parlor.

“It’s Hobart Dunbar, Mrs. Gunderson,” the man said loudly, as if he would allay any concern a man at her door might bring.

The owner of the only hotel in Kirby Falls was most circumspect, always careful to remain on her porch while she brought him the big bundle of tablecloths and aprons she washed and ironed with such care. Bleach and starch were commodities he paid extra for, and gladly, since, as he’d told Leah upon their first encounter, his wife refused to spend half a day over a scrub board twice a week.

“Do come in, Mr. Dunbar,” Leah said cordially, waving her hand to usher him in.

As always, he shook his head. “No, no. I’ll just wait right here, ma’am. Close the door. Don’t waste your heat.” And all the while, he stamped his feet and shrugged his ears down into the collar of his heavy coat, until the brim of his hat met with it.

Leah hastened to the room she used as her laundry and snatched up the washing she’d completed late last evening. Wrapped in a stained sheet, the bundle contained sparkling white, heavily starched linens. Even the caps that Mr. Dunbar’s three waitresses wore when they served tables had been ironed and creased, ready to be buttoned at the back when the wearers donned them.

The three women also cleaned the hotel rooms and lobby daily, in between mealtimes, a sign of Hobart Dunbar’s frugality. Even his wife took her turn, standing behind the walnut desk, her lacy handkerchief attached to the front of her dress, her hair curled and pinned, her eyes ever watchful.