Butterfly Garden (7 page)

With his kissed hand shaking, Adam speared a bite of turkey, but not before Sara saw the raw fear in his eyes, and she stilled. Big, bad, Mad Adam Zuckerman, afraid of his children?  More afraid than they were of him?  But why?

* * * * *

Adam did not much like Christmas. Never had. Neighbors visited on Christmas, which, as a boy, meant he’d had to stay inside, under his father’s steely eyes, where, for some reason, he made one mistake after another, and paid dearly later for each.

No. He did not like Christmas.

Especially not this one.

Before Adam could register the sound of carriage wheels on the drive, someone was opening the outside door. And before Sara could rise, that interfering English doctor was entering Adam’s room.

The
English
smiled at Sara in a way he had no right to do, while he rubbed the cold from soft hands with trim fingernails, hands that had never worked the sweet moist earth. “Ah,” he said, unbuttoning his coat, examining their Christmas meal. “In time for dinner. Just as I planned.”

Sara laughed and stood to take his coat. “As you always plan.”

Adam’s growl did not begin to express his anger. Not only did The
English
embrace and kiss Sara, but Lizzie, Katie and Pris jumped from their chairs and lined up for kisses too. His girls.

Adam bristled. “What do you mean by—”

“Thanks, don’t mind if I do,” The
English
said with a wink, making Sara giggle.

Adam could not believe it. Practical, determined, headstrong Spinster Sara had giggled. “Sara, you know how the Elders feel about your consorting with The
English
,” Adam said. “Mind, now, no good will come of such a friendship, no nor of that midwifing nonsense, either.”

The
English
laughed.

Sara did not.

Adam guessed it would take more than his threats to turn her away from the man. Adam’s stomach tightened and what little appetite he had, fled. She must really like the doctor, then.

“I taught Sara midwifing, Adam, and we became ... friends.”  The
English
cleared his throat, looking embarrassed, and Adam enjoyed his discomfort, though he did not care to examine it. Was there something more than friendship between them?

“It was Sara who talked me into settling here in Walnut Creek,” The
English
went on. “So the community would have a doctor.”

“Except they won’t call him for birthings,” Sara Said. “So I became a midwife.”

“They won’t call you either,” Adam muttered. “Except Roman, for strangers, and everybody knows he’s—”

“You called me,” Sara said, “for Abby.”

“I did n—”  Adam swallowed. “Roman talked me into it.”  Adam did not want her to know that he’d thought of calling her only after Abby died. Yes, he should have called her to deliver the baby, but how was he to know Abby would need help after three easy births?  If only she’d told him she was in trouble; he had been right outside her door. He shivered, thinking of Abby’s miscarriage the year before, which she had made seem so natural and unimportant.

He would have called Sara if he realized, but ifs were poor and painful company, he knew very well. And why Sara should have a good opinion of him, he did not know, because that was already water over the dam.

Sara shook her head as if Adam’s silence was proof of his witlessness and her low opinion. “Jordan, do sit down and share our Christmas dinner.”

Adam grumbled about people with no more sense than to barge in on dinner, and after Sara told him to be quiet, he brooded while the girls took turns showing The
English
the dolls Abby had stitched and the quilts from Sara. He was surprised when Lizzie said the cloth in Sara’s little quilts were from Mommie’s dresses, sorry he hadn’t noticed that, himself, and ashamed for the first time ever, that it was not to their father his girls flocked, but to a stranger with city words and gold buttons on his coat.

Sara called their little blankets ‘memory quilts’ and asked each of his girls to tell a ‘smiling’ story about their mother that the cloth squares made them remember. While they did, Adam had to remind himself why they could not come to him, that Spinster Sara must leave and take them with her — for their own good.

Having Sara around was confusing him, poisoning his resolve. “When can I get out of this bed and get on with farming,” Adam demanded of the man who was rocking a fussy baby girl he had no right to soothe. “And when can Sara take my girls home?”

The
English
raised a brow. “Your girls are already home.”  The medical man shook his head gravely. “You’ll need Sara’s care for weeks and weeks.”

“Weeks!” Adam and Sara shouted together, and with the same troubled pitch.

The
English
seemed to struggle with a smile, but he grew serious too quickly to be certain. “That leg’s got the worst kind of break,” he said, which Adam knew to be true. And yet, in his rioting gut, despair was the least of his emotions.

He closed his eyes, almost dizzy. Sara was staying. She was staying. His girls were staying. For a while, at least. Weeks. A long time. Too long.

Not long enough.

They heard another carriage come into the yard, and everyone, even The
English
, stopped to listen. This time, as should be, Sara was allowed to go to the kitchen door and open it. Then Bishop Weaver was entering Adam’s room. “
Guten morgen
,” he said. “Blessed Christmas.”

The first thing the Bishop did was give Lizzie, Pris and Katie a handful of wrapped treats. “Christmas sweets from Mrs. Weaver,” he said. “Mondel schnits and Peanut Mojhys.”

A raised brow from Sara, and the girls put the candy by their plates and went back to their dinner. Adam could not believe Sara made them mind with just a look when Abby had always needed to shout.

Bishop Weaver rocked on his heels and surveyed the room with an eagle eye. Adam imagined a dozen breaches of their rule of life. Non-attendance at Christmas Service for a start. Consorting with The
English
. Remaining in bed when chores called. Worse, an unmarried woman in the room with him in bed. Adam hardened his features and thought about ... the baths.

The Bishop nodded. “You are broken in many places, Adam, the good doctor tells us. But not your head, says he. That’s too hard to break. So you need a nurse.”  The Elder looked at Sara.

She swallowed and gave a weak smile. “He is a cranky patient.”

The
English
chuckled and took baby Hannah, who was working herself into a good and loud show of temper, into the kitchen. Adam’s girls followed, grabbing their candy before they left. Adam wanted to swear, for many reasons.

Bishop Weaver sat in the rocker Sara indicated and nodded at her. “And how do you manage to care for this big ox?”

Adam fisted his hands. In other words, how closely goes this care?

Sara swallowed. “He needs to eat, of course, to get strong again, so I cook for him and the girls. Someone has to bring him his food when it’s ready. Sometimes I feed him, if it’s soup. He can’t balance his broth and hold a spoon at the same time. Sometimes the girls help with that. He cannot get up to tend the fire or keep the house warm, as you can see, so I do that too. I mix unguents for the cuts and brew teas for the pain and swelling. I change his bandages and fetch him the Bible and Martyrs Mirror to read.

Adam grunted. His reading tastes had not run to the holy books, farm catalogues and newspapers more like.

“Sometimes, he asks me or Lizzie to read—”

“Sara, you are unmarried,” the Bishop said, interrupting her. “So I beg you will not be insulted by my question—”

The Bishop hesitated and Adam thought, ‘here it comes.’

Their high holy leader encompassed them both in his stern look, then he narrowed his gaze on Adam. “Who tends to your more ... er ... basic needs, may I ask?”

You may not. Might as well ask if Sara took care of his hard need, damn him. Silence held Adam hostage for more beats than he cared. A glance at Sara and she at him, and without a blink he made a decision she approved, and how he knew, he wasn’t sure, but he did. Adam shrugged. “You know Roman. He’s here every day. Mostly so nosy he can’t stay away, but a good and generous neighbor all the same. He does what he must.”

Bishop Weaver chuckled. “Ya, I know Roman. Into everybody’s business, but a good heart.”  The Bishop slapped the arms of his chair and stood himself up. “Well, got to visit the rest of the afflicted. See you on Second Christmas.”

Sara didn’t even see the Bishop to the door. She stood staring at Adam, him staring back, while The
English
said their good-byes for them and let the high Elder out.

The doctor playing host angered Adam, but right now it hardly mattered. He had as much as lied to his Bishop, and Sara had gone along with him by not correcting the impression. They had lied, sinned, together, and in complete knowledge of what they were doing. “This is best,” Adam said.

“Yes,” Sara whispered.

The
English
returned, not the least bothered that another man’s daughters trailed him like ducklings to the pond. He grinned and rubbed his hands together. “What say we go sledding to celebrate Christmas.”

Adam was annoyed by the ducklings’ delighted whoops.

“Sara too?” Katie asked, jumping up and down.

Sara’s glance left him, to be turned toward The
English
, and Adam mourned the loss, hating that the doctor’s smile brought Sara’s.

She turned back to Adam. “I’ll stay with Hannah,” she said, and he chose to attribute the loss of her smile to her uneasiness over their shady alliance. They had done more than lie, after all. With a word, she could have dispensed with the intimate side of his care, but uncomfortable as the episodes had become, Spinster Sara did not want them to end any more than he did. And that made him wonder what else the scrapper might want, though nothing could come of it. Ever.

He had killed one woman. He’d not kill another the same way.

“Hannah will be fine with her Datt,” The
English
said, stopping Adam’s heart and tying his tongue.

She will not, damn it. Adam feared The
English
would place the baby in his arms, and he could not bear to hold her again. The day Sara delivered the stranger’s child, he had experienced a need to protect Hannah that nearly broke him — rich, when it was him she needed protecting from. Which was exactly why he had never held any of the others.

“Put her cradle near his bed,” The
English
said. “Looks like they could both use a nap. She’ll wake him, if she needs anything.”

Before long, the sound of squeals and laughter, the girls’, the doctor’s, and Sara’s, carried to where Adam lay. Awake. Mournful. Jealous?

He wanted to be with them. No, he did not.

He wanted Sara out of his life. Did he not?

Adam sighed. He craved freedom from Sara in the same foolish way he craved it from crisp winter frosts that nudged the trees to bud and the sap to flow. Like the elements so vital to life, she nipped at fingers and toes for a time, but the buds and blossoms she encouraged were worth the price.

He wanted to die, but here came his strangest denial, because for perhaps the first time in his sorry life, he wanted to live ... which just about proved him madder than ever.

Adam bent toward the cradle and allowed his new daughter to curl her tiny hand around his finger, another first for him, a dangerous one.

“Sweet Spinster Sara,” he said. “What have you wrought?”

Chapter 5

Five weeks, three days, two hours, twenty minutes ... and eleven baths. That’s how long Sara had been living with him.

But who was counting?

Adam was, ever since the day Roman walked in on one of those baths Adam liked too much, though it was innocent enough. His body could not be blamed for ‘warming up’ to the experience. But Roman had read Adam as clearly as today’s newspaper and knew exactly what the experience did to him. Which reminded Adam that his time with Sara, his baths, must come to an end before he began to like having her around, if that were possible.

Or was it already too late?

When Roman came in on that bath, Sara had been washing his chest. And with his eyes closed, Adam had been imagining a different caress, but Roman’s cough opened Adam’s eyes wider than was comfortable as he regarded Roman’s grin. Roman knowing something that no one else did was dangerous, and always temporary; everybody knew it.

“Ya,” Roman had said with a hearty chuckle. “Way more alive. Chores are done,’” he’d added, whistling his way back outside.

Sara had been stunned by the interruption, and Adam took her hand — Lord, she was soft — and told her not to worry. They stayed that way for a long minute, her hand in his, before he’d growled and told her to finish; he was catching cold.

Since Sara brought his children back, he’d been living in hell, with a taste of heaven thrown in for a teaser.

His splint was still secure and the area around the thigh wound — black, blue, purple — festered more often than not, but Adam wanted the leg healed, so Sara and the girls could go ... most of the time.

He wanted to be alone ... some of the time.

He’d survived a daily visit from The
English
, who played with his children, which they loved, and who made Sara laugh, which Adam hated. He’d tolerated regular visits from Roman, who seemed to be enjoying his plight, despite the fact that it doubled the foolish man’s chores.

Sara’s fussing and scolding made life seem ... interesting, at the least. His girls sang silly songs as they jumped on his bed most mornings. Their giggles when he growled; this too was new and different, and it bothered him ... somewhat. Adam thought he bore it with good grace ... ill-grace, if you listened to Sara, though he tried not to.

What had been a surprise — and not a good one — and still worried Adam, were the Church Elders who’d come the day before yesterday. Oh, they had an excuse. Preacher Schmidt was moving his family to Illinois and wanted to say goodbye. But they had asked too many questions, one of them concerning the location of Sara’s bedroom, of all things, which had made Adam downright nervous. Still did.