A Most Unsuitable Match (38 page)

Sam shook his head, nodded at the doctor, tousled Patrick’s hair, and retreated to wait in the commons for Edie Bonaparte to open her door. The minute she did and offered him a good morning, Sam said, “R-ready to go. With . . . you. Home.”

Edie looked him over. “What’s happened?”

Samuel shrugged and tilted his head toward the dining room. Edie headed that way. He heard her greet the diners. She lingered awhile. When she came back to where Samuel sat huddled at one of Abe’s rustic outdoor tables in the cool morning air, she handed him a mug of coffee and said, “I understand what you think you’re seeing, but I don’t think you should give up.” She retrieved a shawl from her room, then returned and sat down across from him. “I am right, aren’t I? You do love her?”

Samuel nodded.

“Well then.” Edie smiled. “As I just said. Don’t give up.”

He shook his head. “Noth . . . ing . . . to offer.”

“That’s not true.”

He tapped his chin with his open palm. “A preach . . . r . . . who . . . c-c-an’t—”

“You’re getting better every day.”

He looked toward the dining room. “She . . . doesn’t . . .” He stopped. “He’s b-better.”

“You’re wrong.” Edie’s voice was firm. “The one who loves
most
is the one who’s
better
.”

Sam frowned. “He l-oves.”

“As a friend, yes. As a mother for Patrick, of course. But, Sam, Fannie deserves to be loved with the passion I see in your face every time you look at her.” She leaned forward. “Listen to me. I know what I’m talking about. There is nothing noble about being too much of a coward to tell someone the truth.” She broke off. Sat back. “Just risk it, Sam. Tell her. Let
her
decide.”

He searched her expression. What did she mean . . . she was speaking from experience? What was it about Fannie . . . He looked toward the dining room and then back at Edie. And he knew. Suddenly, the puzzle pieces fell into place, and he knew. He put his hand on her arm. Swallowed. “You s-see . . . me love . . . her. I . . . w-watch . . . n . . . s-see . . . you . . . love . . . h-her . . . too.” He patted her arm and held her gaze. “E-Edie . . . are . . . y-you . . . F-Fannie’s . . . real ma?”

Edie pulled back. She looked away. Her hands clenched in her lap. She sat so still it almost seemed she had stopped breathing. Finally, she took a deep breath and gave a short, half-hawking kind of laugh. She swiped at the tear trickling down her cheek. “Well . . . what d’ ya know.” She cleared her throat. Her voice was husky when she said, “It seems I’ve lost some of my skill as an actress. I’ll have to be more careful.” She brushed at the tears now spilling down her cheeks. Nodded. “Yes, Parson. As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Tell m-me . . . how . . . why.” He smiled. “Good lis-ner.” For a moment, he didn’t think she was going to take him up on it, but then, Edie began to talk.

“Eleanor and I were always rivals. When Louis chose her, I took it as a personal challenge.” She paused. “I’ve already told you that I’m not a nice person, Sam. But compared to when I was twenty? I’m a saint. Back then, I just wanted conquest. And when it came to Eleanor, I wanted revenge. I pretended to be interested in someone else. Hubert Vandekamp. But that was just to give me a reason to be around Louis. They were in business together . . .” She stopped again.

“When I found out I was expecting Louis’s child . . . well. By then Louis and Eleanor had been married for long enough that they’d learned there was little hope Eleanor would ever be able to have children. And Louis desperately longed for children. When I realized, once and for all, that he would never love me, I had to get away. I convinced myself that loving the baby meant giving it a home with a loving mother and father. Because she loved Louis, Eleanor agreed to raise the baby.”

Edie rocked back in her chair. “People thought of Eleanor as cold. Can you imagine the kind of love it took for her to raise Louis’s and my baby as her own?” She shook her head. “Eleanor loved deeply . . . but she never forgave me. She forbade me to see Fannie. The last time I tried, Fannie was fifteen. I went to the house when Fannie was gone. Eleanor . . . well. There was quite a scene. I left town, but I continued writing letters, even though I knew Fannie might never see them.”

“Un . . . tilll . . .”

“Yes. Until this spring when Eleanor died, and Fannie found them.” Edie reached for Sam’s hand. “Don’t make my mistake. Don’t give up on yourself. Or her.” She swiped the last of her tears off her cheeks. Stood up. Staggered . . . and seemed in danger of fainting.

Sam moved to steady her, and that’s when he realized Fannie was standing in the doorway of the lean-to kitchen. And the look on her face told him she’d heard every word Edie just said.

Lord, I cry unto thee: make haste unto me;
give ear unto my voice, when I cry unto thee.

P
SALM 141:1

Edie reached out, her tone pleading. “Fannie . . . I’m so sorry . . . oh . . . please . . .”

Fannie held up both hands, palms out.
No. Don’t.
She backed away. Into Abe’s kitchen. Leaned against the worktable, gripping the edge with both hands to steady herself. She felt sick with a jumble of emotions she couldn’t control. Shock. Amazement. Denial. And finally, anger. Anger so hot it melted through all the other emotions, burned away the nausea and sent her reeling into the dining room. But Patrick was there, too, and so she stopped in her tracks and waited for Edmund to look her way. When he did, he jumped to his feet and came to her side. She folded into herself and collapsed against him, burying her face in his shoulder as she murmured in his ear. “Edie . . . I heard her talking to Sam. . . . Edie Bonaparte is my
mother
.”

Edmund pulled her close even as he called to Patrick. “Fannie’s not feeling well, son. I’m going to take her over to the clinic and make a toddy. Would you tell Abe she’s with me?”

The boy’s brow furrowed. “She’ll be all right, won’t she?”

Fannie cleared her throat and managed to reassure Patrick that she’d be fine. She let Edmund wrap her in his coat and guide her toward the clinic. The cold air cleared her head. Still, when Edmund swept the quilt that served as a room divider in his living quarters out of the way and insisted she lie down, she obeyed, happy to let him take care of her.

He stirred up the fire in his stove and stepped into the clinic. Fannie could hear the clink of glass as he removed stoppers from various bottles, and a faint crunch as he worked with mortar and pestle. By the time he’d brewed what he called a “calming tea,” she’d wrapped herself in one of his coverlets and moved to his rocker. When he offered her the steaming concoction, she shook her head. “I feel calm. I’m so calm, in fact, I’d probably be fast asleep if I hadn’t moved over here.” She tucked her hair behind one ear and snuggled deeper into the wrapper.

“You’re trembling.” He pulled up a chair and sat opposite her. “Just take a sip.” He forced a grin. “It’s not nearly as horrific as some of my concoctions.”

Fannie relented, grimacing as the hot liquid went down. “It’s horrible enough.” She took another swallow. Leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “I’ve wondered why Mother didn’t care more. Why she didn’t act like Minette’s mother did. But never in my life did I ever, for one moment think maybe she wasn’t really my mother.” She took another sip of tea. “Even when I found Edie’s photograph and those letters . . . I never thought . . .” She sighed.

“I knew life would never be the same for me after Hannah died. I realized it again when I got Mr. Vandekamp’s letter telling me the house was damaged in a fire . . . but this?” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “My whole life is based on a lie.” She shivered. Edmund motioned for her to take another drink. She obeyed.

Someone banged on the clinic door. Fannie pulled the coverlet closer. “I don’t want to see her. I can’t. I need time.”

Edmund headed into the clinic. There was a commotion. A woman cried out. More commotion and Edmund directed someone to “get her onto the table.”

Fannie cast off the coverlet, set her mug on the table, and went to the door. Edmund looked her way. “Can you heat up some water? Are you—” The woman screamed.

The poor thing. Barely visible in a tangle of filthy rags and yet writhing in pain. “I’ll get it,” Fannie said. Her own problems forgotten, she hurried to grab a bucket and pump some water out back. Back inside, she added fuel to the stove and set a pan of water on to boil. Again, the woman cried out. Fannie hurried into the clinic and to the cupboard where Edmund kept clean bandages.

“I’d just helped her up in the wagon when the pains started,” a man said. Fannie pulled bandages off the shelf. She turned around and recognized him.
Pete.
Edie’s Pete from the ranch.

Edmund looked her way. “You’ve got the water on?” She nodded. “Go get Edie. Tell her I need her help with a delivery. Ask her to bring a nightgown—a clean anything she can spare.”

“But I can—”

“I want Edie,” Edmund snapped, then told Pete to pull his coat off and see to bringing in the hot water. “She’s half frozen. We’ve got to get her warmed up. Where’d you say you found her?”

“Just outside of town. I was coming into town to see about Edie. The girls have been missing her and wondering how things were going with the parson.” He nodded at the woman. “She was stumbling along the trail.”

“Left me—” the woman gasped. “Didn’t know—didn’t want—baby.” She grunted and yelled her way through a contraction. That’s when Fannie saw the blood seeping through the woman’s skirt.

Edmund roared her name. “Fannie! Get Edie
now
!”

She tore out the door.

Samuel was with Edie, who’d obviously been crying, when Fannie charged through the hostelry door and called to Edie, “Edmund needs you! There’s a girl—a baby—”

Edie grabbed her cloak off the hook by the door and ran into the cold morning. Fannie watched her go, then realized she’d forgotten to say anything about a nightgown. Hers wasn’t clean, but it would be better than the rags the poor thing had on. She glanced at Samuel. “I have to get something Edmund was asking for.” She hurried to her room for the nightgown, returning by way of the kitchen in search of Patrick. He was elbow deep in bread dough while Abe and Lamar stood nearby cheering him on.

“That’s it,” Abe said. “All the great cooks in the high-tone cities are men.” He took a pinch of dough. “Another few minutes.”

Patrick groaned in mock protest, but he smiled as he called a greeting to Fannie. “Are you feeling better?”

“I . . . yes. I’ll be fine.” She paused. “Your father’s delivering a baby.”

Patrick made a face. “That means I’ll be here for a long time.”

Abe put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Then you can shape and rise and bake and see this bread through to the end. I’ll make a first-rate bread baker out of you yet, son. You don’t need to see to do bread. You already know how to measure everything. The real knack is how it feels when you’re kneading. That tells you when it’s ready to rise more than anything.” He smiled at Fannie. “You tell the doc not to worry about Patrick. He’ll be busy all afternoon at least. If need be, he can bunk in one of the rooms.”

Fannie nodded. “So, Patrick, we’ll be counting on you for fresh bread for supper.” She turned to go, almost colliding with Sam. “I feel so . . . helpless. The poor thing . . . she’s dressed in rags.”

“Never help . . . less.” He clasped his hands as if he were praying. She glanced at Lamar, including him as she said, “Yes. Please. Please do pray. She was in so much pain. . . .” Fannie was halfway to the clinic when she met Pete headed her way.

“Going after the parson,” he said. “The girl’s calling for Sam. Says her name is Emma.”