The Mountain Midwife (29 page)

Hunter looked at her instead of the road that dipped and curved and dropped away to a valley far below on his side. “Did you not see her for a while?”

“Not as much as usual.”

“No calls or texts?”

“Almost every day.”

“Then isn’t it her responsibility to have told you?”

“I should have known. Just like I should have realized Mary Kate is so scared of not having any money she’ll work herself into early labor at best.”

“You can’t do everything for everyone, you know. You’re not even supposed to.”

“And then there’s that girl who gave birth at my house. I failed her—”

“Ashley, are you listening to me?” He wanted to touch her, to gain her attention. On that road, he dared not distract her further than with dialogue. “Who appointed you God in charge of everyone’s life?”

“No one, but—” The road widened onto what looked like a genuine state highway.

“Why didn’t we take this out here?”

“This way was faster.”

“Hmm. Can we take the long way home?”

“Sure. Are you all right?”

“I keep hearing my family, the McDermots, telling me I could be in danger.”

“Danger is always possible, but I doubt it. She probably wouldn’t keep calling you for this long if she’s just scamming you.”

She dropped her hand onto his and squeezed. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

And if something bad did happen, she would hold herself responsible.

That, if nothing else, nearly made him change his mind about continuing on their quest. He didn’t want to risk burdening her further. He wanted to protect her from harm and hurt. He wanted to remove the hurt she was already feeling. He wanted to know what made her think she needed to carry the burdens of the world on her slender shoulders.

And he had added to those burdens with his pursuit of an anonymous woman claiming to be his mother.

He opened his mouth to tell her to go back, forget finding the woman, but she had already shot across the highway and started up another hill, a gentle one that fronted a precipitous drop into a valley, through which ran a bright ribbon of water.

“The New River,” she said. “It flows north.”

Hunter merely nodded.

“Once upon a time, the Brooks family ran a ferry across.” She turned south but gestured north. “The Tollivers and Brookses also owned a lead mine. They’d have made a fortune during the War Between the States if Confederate money had been any good.”

Hunter just looked at her in awe. “I can’t imagine having that kind of a history, roots that deep in a community.”

“But apparently you do.”

He shook his head. “I can’t comprehend having roots here. Or roots at all. I’ve never been much of one to think about history. My work looks to the future. We build tunnels to connect people to one another, to improve communication, to move commerce more smoothly and economically from one point to another. This place seems to divide with these ridges and roads and hollows keeping people apart.”

“I never think of it that way.” She pouched out her lips in an enticing way, an unconsciously enticing way. Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel. “I am in these hills so much, I feel like everyone’s connected.”

“You are the connecting glue, Ashley Esther Tolliver.” Unable to resist touching her, making a connection with her, he smoothed a lock of her hair away from her face, loving the silkiness, the warmth. “You are what connects people to one another here. You bring the women together for your clinics and you travel from one home to another.”

“That’s such a sweet thing to say. I never thought of it that way. I just do my job and care about others’ needs.”

“That’s just it—you care.”

And with that, a missing piece in his life fell into place.

“My work is about people in that I make life easier, or at least travel easier. But I really have nothing to do with them in the building of the tunnels or the aftermath. It’s isolating.”

“I’d hate to be isolated.” She slowed the Tahoe at the junction of two roads and glanced his way. “This is the road on the directions. Are you absolutely sure you want to go?”

“We’ve come this far.”

“That’s not really an answer.” She drew to the side of the road and waved a minivan, of all things, around them, then faced him, her hand closing over his. “We can keep driving on this road and go back to town. You’re under no obligation to find this woman, since she can’t be your mother.”

“Perhaps not, but I can’t imagine turning back now would make me feel like anything but a coward.” He flipped his hand over and laced his fingers with hers. “It’s easier with you here. Thank you.”

“I’m glad I am here with you.” She disentangled her fingers
from his and put the Tahoe in gear again. An ancient SUV pulling a trailer passed, and she pulled onto the road, flipped on her blinker, and made the turn onto a well-maintained gravel road.

That road turned into one less well maintained and of a tar-and-chip paving. A third road was little more than a track climbing up a hill, then dropping into a hollow.

And at the bottom of the hollow sat a building that looked like a trailer had sprouted a couple of rooms on its sides like growths. Propane tanks huddled against the side of one extension, and a chimney grew from the other. The entire building looked as though a high wind would bring it tumbling down into a yard that was mostly dirt, maybe a vegetable garden in the spring, but mostly barren earth scratched by half a dozen hens. Beyond, trees rose with majestic beauty, guardians over such ugliness.

Hunter’s fingers curled around the door handle, unable to move one way or another. He was paralyzed in his seat, staring, feeling sick to think people related to him—or anyone—lived like this.

Ashley unlocked the doors, but she didn’t move either. “They’ve got dogs. Let’s make sure they’re chained up.” She tapped her horn.

No dogs came charging around the house. No sign of life stirred inside the house.

“I should have checked one more time for messages from this woman.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, knowing he was simply delaying. “Or not. No signal.” He returned the phone to his pocket and opened the car door. “I don’t see any dogs coming, so we may as well get this over with—if anyone is home.”

But of course someone was home. Who left home with a fire burning high enough for smoke to issue from the chimney? The minute he stepped from the Tahoe, he saw a blind twitch at one of the windows.

“We’re being inspected,” Ashley said.

She leaped to the ground. “I’m ready anytime you are.”

She had left her pocketbook in the car. Hunter hesitated a moment, then pulled out his wallet under cover of the door and slipped it into the console. “I’m ready.” Ashely locked the doors.

SUV closed up tight, they met at the front of the vehicle and walked side by side to the front door. Hunter knocked. They waited. In the distance, beyond the tree line, at least two dogs barked. From beyond the door panel, the murmur of the TV with a commercial jingle diminished in sound.

Hunter knocked again. “Are we being ignored?”

“I think we’re being checked out.”

The TV volume increased, spilling canned laughter into the afternoon. Then the theme song of an old sitcom filled the air for a few seconds before dying altogether.

Hunter took advantage of the silence to knock again.

“Hold your horses. I know you’re there.” Even through the door Hunter recognized the voice from the phone—whiskey over gravel well smoked. He expected a woman in her sixties to answer the door, now that he knew his relatively young mother was dead and had been for over thirty years.

The woman who answered the door looked old all right, except for her eyes. Her body was shrunken, the skin hanging from her bones in folds like that of someone who had lost too much weight too quickly. Her hair, what she had of it, was a whitish gray, and her skin could have served as a road map of the twisting mountain trails they’d been driving on that week. But her eyes were a startlingly bright blue—a familiar bright blue. The same bright blue that faced him in the mirror when he shaved each day.

If she wasn’t his mother, she certainly could be a relative.

“It’s past time you came home.” Those blue eyes accused him.

Hunter glanced toward Ashley for some kind of guidance, but she had stepped back, giving him and this woman a moment of semiprivacy.

“I’m not sure I am home, ma’am. I don’t even know who you are.”

“Of course you do. I told you on the phone.”

Hunter set his hands on his hips and scowled at the woman. “On the phone, you said you are my mother, but that can’t be true. My mother died over thirty years ago.”

“Honey, I might have one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, but I can assure you I didn’t die thirty years ago.”

C
HAPTER
22

H
IS MOTHER WASN
’
T
dead. Staring at the frail woman in the doorway, the dark room behind her, Hunter felt as weak as she looked, barely strong enough to stay upright. He was sure the concrete slab that served as a stoop was rocking beneath him. He put out a hand, whether to steady himself or grasp the delicate hand of the woman before him he didn’t know.

Beside him, Ashley moved closer and closed her fingers around his. She was strong for all her slenderness. Or perhaps simply having her touch lent him strength. Whatever the cause, her nearness, her support, helped him find his voice, his reason.

“Mrs. Tolliver’s records said you died.” He modulated his tone so he didn’t sound accusatory. “Yet you say you’re my mother. What’s the truth?”

“Ah, Deborah Tolliver. She was a good woman, God rest her soul.” Sheila Brooks—if that was indeed who she was—shifted her gaze to Ashley. “She was a good woman and don’t you ever forget it.”

“But—” Ashley’s fingers tightened on his.

“How do you know who she is?” Hunter asked.

The woman gave him a look that said,
I thought you were bright
, but she said, “She looks like her kin.”

Ashley made a strangled sound in her throat.

Hunter’s conscience pricked him. He was thinking of his own shock, when Ashley’s learning her grandmother must have falsified records was probably a devastating revelation.

“May we come inside?” He peered into the room behind Sheila Brooks. “It’s cold out here.”

“Not too warm in here. I’m low on propane and firewood.” She released her hold on the doorframe and stepped aside so they could pass.

The room was cold. The wood-burning stove in the corner held only a few embers and small chunks of wood. Propane, he guessed, ran the furnace. She might even cook with it. A warm room or hot food? What a choice to have to make when one was so obviously ill.

Or was this indeed a scam to get his attention and financial support? Only one way to find out—stay and talk. Get every answer he could so he would know where to go from there in an independent investigation. Meanwhile, perhaps he could help in an immediate way.

“Do you have firewood I can bring in, or is it gone altogether?” He glanced out the window in search of a woodpile.

“Under the carport.” Sheila—he couldn’t think of her as his mother—sank onto a worn armchair across from the rather new-looking television. “Can’t carry it and nobody’s been here long enough to help since Racey Jean left.”

Not having any idea who Racey Jean was—really, a girl named Racey?—Hunter released his grip on Ashley, immediately feeling
as though he had released hold of a lifeline in a storm, and turned back to the door. “I’ll fetch some.”

“I-I can make us some tea or coffee or something, maybe?” Ashley glanced around as though seeking a teakettle.

His heart eased a little with warmth toward her. No matter what personal crisis she might be facing, Ashley would probably always think of a food, or a drink at the least, to make others comfortable.

“Kitchen’s in the trailer.” Sheila waved toward a corner where steps led up to a screen door.

This living room was nothing more than an attachment directly onto the trailer. They seemed to have created walls from dry wall, but had merely cut a hole to match the trailer door to the room wall. No wonder the house felt like an icebox.

Able to remedy that at least, Hunter escaped outside to find the carport. He hadn’t noticed it when they pulled up. Guessing it was around back, he skirted the trailer, catching a glimpse of Ashley through a small window, opening cabinet doors in search of something. She raised a hand to him, then turned away.

He found the carport. Somewhere in the woods, the dogs howled with a frenzy. He hoped they were attached to strong chains. They didn’t sound friendly.

Piles of wood rested beneath the roof of the carport, keeping them dry from the elements. Nowhere was a vehicle in sight. No vehicle. No cell service. Surely she must have a landline, though he didn’t see any telephone lines. A power line ran toward the road, vulnerable to ice- or snow-laden branches.

Surely this couldn’t be his mother, living like this for over thirty years while he had grown up in luxury. How could the McDermotts leave her like this, take him away and simply abandon their new baby’s mother to such poverty and squalor?