After the Storm (3 page)

He was bidding them good night from the doorway when he heard a furious fist banging on the front door. He frowned. Who would be knocking on the door at this hour? At this time of year, when the beginning of the workday came so early, people stayed close to their homes.

“Go to sleep,” he said when Lottie popped up with a curious grin. “In the morning, I'll tell you who's calling.”

“But—”

He laughed. “If the caller is for you, I'll let you know.”

“And if it's for Dahi?”

“He'll be the first to know.”

The girls' giggles followed him out onto the narrow landing. Glancing in to see Brendan blow out his light, Samuel hurried down the stairs.

He tried to shake off his uneasiness but knew callers at this hour usually brought bad news. The last time someone had come out here after dark was to let him know about the diphtheria outbreak in Haven.

Thunder sounded like the tolling of doom. Shaking off his grim thoughts, he tried to persuade himself that this visitor was probably the minister or Alice, coming back to retrieve something they had left behind. He glanced into the parlor, hoping to see a glove or an umbrella.

Nothing but his treasured books and paraphernalia he had brought from Cincinnati. Including that ugly fountain. He was no longer sure why he had insisted on bringing it along. Self-flagellation had never been his idea of a good time.

Samuel opened the door, just as a fierce gust of wind drove rain through it. He did not get wet because someone was standing on the other side. A woman, he realized in astonishment when lightning flashed to give a hint of her appearance. A woman he did not know. Her dark gown was so tattered it flapped in the wind. She held her skirt to her by pressing a small bag against her leg.

“Is this Samuel Jennings's house?” she asked, her voice slurred.

Had she been drinking? He grimaced. There were tales of the drifters who looked for work during the harvest. They worked until they had enough money to buy liquor for a drunken spree. “Yes. Who are you?”

“Are you Samuel Jennings?”

He frowned. “Yes, but who are you?”

The woman opened her mouth. No sound emerged, and she wobbled like a feather tossed about by the storm. Her bag fell to the porch and popped open, revealing a hint of something lacy inside it. He caught her as she collapsed. Her face pressed against his chest, her heated breath rapid and shallow through his shirt.

Was she ill? If so, he could not allow her into the house where she could infect his children.

“Miss?” he asked softly. “Miss, can you hear me?”

She groaned, and her head lolled across him so heavily that he knew she had lost consciousness.

Samuel did not hesitate. He could not leave her with the rabbit on the porch in a thunderstorm. If he put her in the parlor—and kept his children away from her—she might recover without passing on whatever was afflicting her.

Lifting her senseless form into his arms, he was astounded to discover she must be almost as tall as he. Her kerchief had concealed the top of her head in the darkness. As her arms dropped along his, her ragged shawl drew back to reveal a worn gown that once might have been black. It was now a dull gray. Over it was a white apron, that was, in spite of the rain, unblemished and starched. Had she put it on just before she knocked? That made no sense. But then, neither did her swooning in his doorway.

He kicked her bag into the house, so it would not get soaked, then carried her into the parlor and placed her on the sofa. A small sound came from her when her head touched the cushions. It could have been a moan or a sigh of relief. Her eyes remained closed, and her face was almost as pale as her apron. Pulling the blanket off the chair, he draped it over her.

Now what?

No one had ever taught him what to do when a strange woman fainted in his arms. Determined to find out if she was liquored up or sick, he put the back of his hand against her forehead. He yanked it back. She was as hot as the inside of a stove. What sort of fever had she brought with her? He needed to get Doc Bamburger out here, if the doctor had recovered from nearly dying after his own bout with diphtheria.

Samuel turned to go into the kitchen to see what he could find to make a posset to draw out the fever but halted when he saw Brendan standing in the parlor doorway.

“Brendan,” he ordered, “stay away. She's sick and—”

The boy ran toward the sofa.

Samuel caught him and lifted him off his feet. Setting him down by the door again, he asked, “Didn't you hear me?”

“Yes, I heard you, but—” He struggled to escape from Samuel's hold.

“She's sick, and I don't want you near her. I don't need you getting sick, too.”

“I know, but—”

“So go back to your room and to bed. I'll tend to her. When she wakes up, I'll find out who she is and contact someone to come and get her.”

“But, Samuel—”

“Off to bed, Brendan.”

The boy planted his feet, his gaze rocking from Samuel's face to the woman on the sofa. “No.”

“No?” Never had Brendan disobeyed him like this. “Brendan, I think you should go to your room.”

Grabbing Samuel's sleeve, he said, “No. Let me stay! Please.”

He frowned, noting how the boy's thin chest was heaving as if he had tried to lift a tree out of the ground. “Why do you want to stay here where this stranger could—”

“She's not a stranger.”

“What?”

Brendan looked up at him, his mouth working. Through a sob, he said, “She's my mother.”

Two

“Your mother?” Samuel wanted to believe he had heard wrong.

Brendan slipped past him and rushed to the sofa. Kneeling, the boy put his hand over the woman's and leaned his head against her arm. Tears ran down his cheeks. He wiped his sleeve under his nose as he sobbed.

Watching, Samuel could not think of a word to say. A condition Theo, his onetime partner in their Cincinnati law firm, would have found unbelievable. Samuel had always prided himself on being able, when he chose, to speak his opinions in any situation. He had been wrong, because his mind was blank now.

As Brendan untied the kerchief on the woman's head and lifted it off to dab it against her rain-soaked cheeks, red hair fell down over her shoulders. It was the same vibrant shade as the children's. Beneath summer freckles, their skin possessed the same pale coolness of hers. Only a few freckles decorated her nose and high cheekbones. Had she had as many freckles as Megan when she was a child? Or was that an inheritance from their father?

Samuel gripped the back of the closest chair, recoiling as if someone had struck him in the gut. Mother? Father? These kids had come to Haven on the
orphan
train. If they had parents, what had they been doing on the train?

“Brendan?” He was unsure which question to ask first.

“They said she was dead.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve again. “They said she was dead.”

While Samuel fished his handkerchief from his pocket and held it out, Brendan continued to stare at the woman. The sound of soft footfalls was Samuel's only warning before Megan pushed past him to stand behind her brother. Lottie wrapped her arm around Samuel's leg and stuck her thumb in her mouth, a sign she was as agitated as her weeping siblings.

Brendan took Megan's hand. She stretched out her other hand to touch the woman's cheek. When the woman groaned, Megan whirled in panic.

“What's wrong with Mama?” she cried.

Samuel stepped forward, with Lottie clasping his leg. “She has a fever, so she must be sick. You need to stay away from her until we find out what's wrong. If she has diphtheria—”

“No!” cried Brendan, jumping to his feet. “Don't say that, Samuel! Mama is here! Mama is alive! She's not going to die now.”

Taking the boy by the shoulders, he bent to look directly into Brendan's eyes. “She's very ill, Brendan, but she's here and out of the rain now, and we'll do all we can to make sure she gets better.”

Brendan threw his arms around Samuel's shoulders and pressed his face against Samuel's already drenched shirt. Looking past the boy, Samuel held out his hand to Megan. The little girl clutched it as if she feared being sucked away by the storm.

Over their heads, Samuel stared at the motionless woman on the sofa. He stepped forward and motioned for the children to move aside. For a long moment, they just looked up at him. Then, glancing at each other and sharing some message he was not privy to, they edged away.

“Brendan,” he said quietly, “I know it's still storming, but the worst of the lightning seems to have passed. Will you take the wagon into town and bring back Doc Bamburger … if he's well enough to come? Tell him it's important. Otherwise, I wouldn't call him out on such a night.”

The boy ran out of the parlor without answering. The front door slammed against the wall as he threw it open.

On the sofa, the woman mumbled something.

Samuel did not try to figure out what she was saying. In her fever, it could have been anything or nothing of importance. What
was
important was getting her quarantined somewhere away from the children.

He lifted her into his arms again. Before he could ask, Megan stood on tiptoe and adjusted her mother's head against his chest.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “Megan, get your mother's bag, which is out in the foyer, and bring it to the guest room.”

The little girl regarded him through tear-filled eyes. “Will she be all right, Samuel?”

“Please do as I asked. Then go upstairs.” He looked down at the littlest child, who was watching him with wide eyes. “Take Lottie up with you and say your prayers that your mother will be fine.”

Megan hurried to her sister. Grasping Lottie's hand, she ran into the hall and picked up the bag. She stuffed the lacy clothing back into it and, with Lottie trying to keep up, raced to the guest room at the back of the house.

Samuel followed, trying not to jostle the woman. Not the woman, but Mrs. Rafferty. He murmured his thanks as he met Megan and Lottie by the stairs. Telling them he would come up and get them as soon as their mother woke up, he watched Megan lead her sister to their room.

Samuel looked from Lottie's confused face to the woman in his arms. Had Lottie even recognized her own mother? She had been so young when she had last seen her. He grumbled a profanity under his breath. Why had this woman deserted her children and now obviously come searching for them?

More questions he needed answers for.

He carried her into the extra bedroom. Placing her on the bed, he lit a lamp and set it on the table by the bed. He grimaced when he saw how her wet clothes were soaking into the coverlet. If he left her in those clothes, she could take a chill that might be fatal in her weakened condition. If he started to remove them and she woke, she could cause all kinds of trouble for him. A woman who left her young children to fend for themselves in New York's slums might have come after them only because she had heard they were with him and wanted to extort something from him in exchange for not hurting the children again.

It was not easy to believe that pretty face could hide such a horrible intent. She was not beautiful, but her face, which resembled Megan's would, if she was smiling, offer a warmth that would draw people to her. Was she as stubborn as Brendan? Could she be as silly as Lottie? Were Megan's easily hurt feelings a legacy from her mother?

“What are you thinking?” he asked himself. He should not be letting his gaze linger on her features when he needed to be thinking about other things. Things like getting her out of those wet garments, and things like how stupid it would be to trust her.

He picked up her bag and tilted the contents onto the floor. Nothing but a change of underclothes and another surprisingly clean apron. Not even a hairbrush. Why had she traveled with so little? That was another question he would not get an answer to until she regained her senses.

Samuel drew back her soaked hair and undid her collar, watching her face to make sure she did not come awake with a screech that would upset the children more. A collar button fell off in his hand. Tossing it on the table by the lamp, he hoped the rest would not follow suit. Her dress was ragged from long wear, but he had nothing for her to wear. On the morrow, he would send Brendan to the Baileys' farm and see if their daughter Rhea could bring some clothes when she next came to clean the house.

As he carefully drew the apron and dress from her, she did not awake. But the sight of her curves hidden so sparsely beneath a chemise and petticoat nearly as shabby as the gown awoke something in him that he had not expected. He tried to ignore everything but undoing her shoes and setting them on the floor. His gaze kept slipping again and again to the length of lissome leg revealed by rips in her single petticoat. A sensation he had thought he had submerged for good when he left Cincinnati blasted through him as he put his arm around her waist to lift her enough so he could pull the covers out from beneath her. Her breast pressed against his arm while he tugged the bedding aside. He cursed. He did not want to find her appealing. Not her or any other woman. Hadn't he learned how a woman could use her seductive ways to persuade a man to do just as she wished until she tired of the sport?

His fingers glided up her back when he leaned her onto the pillows again. A simple, commonplace motion, but again the heat spread through him, compelling and demanding.

As he drew the covers over her, he released the breath ready to burst from his lungs. She was certainly not the first woman he had met since he had come to Haven, but none of the others had caused this unwanted reaction. Although the children had not said much about their father, he knew their parents were wed.

So why was he acting like this?

He was spared from having to answer
that
question by a knock on the door. He looked over his shoulder to see Brendan with Doc Bamburger. The doctor was much thinner than the last time Samuel had seen him, but his steps were firm when he came to the bed.