“What did happen, exactly?”
Armstead shook his head. “’Twas a terrible thing. Matilda and Elias, they lost a baby stillborn over a year ago and had high hopes for their second. Well, one night last March, Elias came knockin’ on our door, asked me to go for the doctor. Matilda was in labor and carryin’ on something awful. I went for Doc Edson—truth be told, I still regret it.” He met Adam’s gaze frankly. “But I didn’t know what else to do. My Rachel and I, we heard late the next morning that Edson tried to cut the baby out of her.”
“My God.” Adam’s gut tightened. That procedure was dangerous in the best hands, and in incompetent ones—he could only imagine the result.
Peter grimaced. “Well, both Matilda and her baby died. The doc left not long after. I guess he knew he risked being run out of town if he stayed much longer. Elias just couldn’t seem to take life out here anymore without his wife. He up and sold his homestead, then headed back east only a few weeks ago.”
Adam stared. “Really? What did you say his name was?”
“Skinner, Elias Skinner.”
Skinner. Had that been the name Clark—Lark—mentioned as the former owner of the Nielsens’ new land? “His homestead wouldn’t be a couple of miles or so northeast of town, would it? With a soddy and a well on it?”
“Sounds like it.” Anthony frowned. “Why?”
“I believe I may know the people who bought it, that’s all.” Adam reined in his curiosity and wiped his hands. “Thank you for telling me this, Mr. Armstead. I am truly sorry for this tragedy in your family.”
“Well, thanks for fixin’ me up today.” Armstead flexed his bandaged hand. “Feels better already. What do I owe you?”
“Please, nothing for today. But if you get a chance to give a good testimony to anyone, I would appreciate it. Take care to keep the wound clean, especially if you change the dressing. I’d like to see you again in a week. Is there anyone who might take over your chores for a few days?”
“Well, I’ve got three boys, including young Carl out there.” Anthony tipped his head toward the window, where they could see the youngster still sitting on the wagon seat, slapping flies and holding the horses calm. “But haying season is a hard time of year for a farmer to take his ease.”
“Just do the best you can.” Adam saw his patient out the door, giving a friendly wave to the boy before he shut it. He blew out a breath before turning back to Jesse. “Well, between you and Mr. Armstead, it’s been an educational morning.”
“What are you g-going to do?” His nephew shifted his feet.
“I don’t quite know. Pray, for starters, I suppose.” Adam lifted the bowl of bloodstained water.
“Uncle Adam? C-can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” He’d clean up, then see about their supper, as the sun was lowering. And maybe somewhere along the way, he’d get some insight as to what to do about this mess.
“Miss Lark asked if I’d c-come to work for them. They need help haying the prairie grass and s-some other things. She said they’d p-pay me too.”
“I see.” Adam stepped out the back door and tossed the water on the struggling daisies by the stoop, then stepped back in. “Do you want to?”
His nephew hesitated, then nodded. “I don’t have m-much to do. S-sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself.” A vulnerability sheened his eyes.
Adam set down the empty bowl, guilt pinching his chest. How long had it been since he’d really talked with his nephew, much less asked after his heart? The boy had been passed from relative to relative most of his life, his wishes seldom consulted. Adam and Elizabeth had vowed to do better than that. And here he was, caught up in his own problems, whether business or matters of the heart.
He leaned back against the examining table. “If you want to do it, of course you should.”
“But I thought . . . you m-might not want me to.”
“Why not?”
Jesse shrugged. “You aren’t too happy with the Nielsens lately.”
Perceptive young man. Adam’s neck heated. “That needn’t enter into this. I’m sure they’ll be fair to you.” Even if they hadn’t been honest with him.
“Maybe you should t-talk to her.”
“Who?”
“Miss Forsythia.”
“I’d rather not speak of her.” The words came out harsher than he’d meant. “Now, go see what you can find in the store for supper. I’ve got to finish cleaning up this mess.” Minor though it was.
The weight of guilt intensified after Jesse left, shoulders slumped. And that was Adam’s fault. Lord, what’s the matter with me? He pressed a fist to his forehead.
His stomach suddenly rumbled for one of the Nielsens’ open-fire suppers they’d shared so often on the trail, the laughter and woodsmoke and sweet fellowship over bacon-flavored beans and corn bread. Without a kitchen in their rooms, he and Jesse had subsisted off ham and cheese and salt-rising bread from the store, albeit bought under Mrs. Jorgensen’s disapproving nose.
He missed their friends. But he didn’t know how to fix this.
Yes, you do, whispered a Voice he knew well.
But did he have the courage?
The bell’s pleasant jangle on the door of the Jorgensens’ store stirred memories in Forsythia’s heart as she stepped inside with Robbie. As did the mingled scent of crackers, pickles, leather, and new yard goods. She breathed deeply, suddenly aching for their family store back home, no doubt thriving under Anders and Josephine’s care.
“Can I help you, Miss Nielsen?” Somber as usual, Mrs. Jorgensen looked up from behind the counter.
“Good day. I was actually wondering if
