If March intended to go out like a lamb, it had better hurry, Samantha decided. She propped herself up on one elbow and peeped out the window while still cocooned in the warmth of her bed. She let the curtain go and lay back down. It was time to get up, but she didn’t want to.
The comfort of the green and yellow quilt wrapped her in a momentary peace. She’d been seven years old when Mama put the quilting needle in her hand. Her feet hadn’t even touched the floor as she sat beside Rachel Thomasohn. Hunched over the quilting frame, Samantha learned about the family and how the girls were always slight of build. She’d learned how to behave around boys, and about her mother falling in love with her father. It seemed like the past was sewn right into the threads of the Shoo Fly, their first quilt. Samantha stroked a ragged corner. Some of the stitches, probably hers, were breaking loose.
Outside, a plop of snow fell from the roof and hit the ground. The sound reminded Samantha of other March mornings and snowball fights with her brothers. She wished Raymond still lived at home. The three rooms above the mercantile echoed with the footsteps of three people tiptoeing around each other. Raymond would joke the rooms back into being a home. No matter how Samantha tried, she couldn’t muster the effort, and it had been over four weeks.
She shivered as her bare feet touched the cold, wooden floor. Hurrying, she found her slippers. She rid her hair of the rags she’d slept in. Since Mama died, she’d rarely managed a decent curl. She took her day dress from the peg, slipped it on, and picked up her brush. Instead of brushing twenty-five strokes, as Mama had suggested, she did ten before heading downstairs. She wanted to help Cecilia open the store, and then be off to the sewing circle. Lately, it had been her only source of comfort. Not that she dared share her unhappiness with her friends. Mrs. Tidewell would quote a scripture about selfishness and remind Samantha that her father was lonely.
No, Father wasn’t lonely, but Samantha was, and she didn’t know how to rid herself of the feeling. For the first time in eighteen years, Samantha’s prayers were full of muttering what-ifs instead of heartfelt thanks. She never felt better after “amen.”
Hurrying through the main room, Samantha stopped to bury her face in Mouse’s fur. The cat slept—without complaint—in the box Cecilia made for it, right next to the Franklin stove. He meowed now, annoyed at his nap’s interruption. The sound perked Samantha up, taking away a bit of the silence. Father must be at the docks supervising a load. Cecilia would either be downstairs in the store or over at Virginia’s dress shop. Checking the weather out the back door, Samantha saw it was cold enough for snow but not cold enough to beg off fetching the water. She changed from her slippers to her boots. Grabbing her cloak and the water bucket, Samantha headed outside to the community well. In the summer, the green grass and the daffodils encouraged her steps. In the winter, the wind pushed against her, warning her away. Fetching water was her least favorite chore, Cecilia’s, too, which was why the job now daily fell to Samantha. When Mama was alive, they’d taken turns.
Old snow, streaked with gray and footprints, crunched underfoot. Samantha shivered and hurried. The well waited behind Oskar Bedloe’s shop. Perhaps because of her mood, it seemed to regress into the distance as she hurried closer.
Only one other person fought the winter wind. Samantha knew better than to offer help to Charlotte Warner, who drew on the rope to the well. The gray-haired widow pooh-poohed the assistance of others. She claimed the day she couldn’t take care of herself was the day she wanted to go meet her maker.
“Surprised to see you here,” Mrs. Warner said.
“Why?” Samantha sat down on a stone bench to wait her turn.
“You been by to see Betsy?”
Samantha fidgeted with a hole forming in the mitten of her right hand. She needed to mend it, but had forgotten. Like she’d completely forgotten that Betsy’s little sister, Greta, was sick. And that Betsy was torn between caring for her new husband and taking care of a little sister who grew weaker every day.
Like Mama had.
Sickness Samantha could deal with; death had her running scared.
“Has something new happened?” Samantha asked slowly. Betsy was an elbow cousin and almost like a sister at times.
“I saw Doc Stahl’s sleigh go by last night. Didn’t see it return, couldn’t stay awake that long. I hoped you had news.”
“No.” Samantha clutched her bucket tighter, almost wishing the cold would seep through her mittens so she’d have something to jar her into action. So, Jacob was at Betsy’s again. Since returning to town last month, he’d been away just as often as when he’d been at school. Only once had she seen him at church. The townspeople buzzed about all the good he was doing. It bothered Samantha that she felt the urge to know his whereabouts. It also bothered her how little she’d done to help out Betsy. She’d change that today. “Thanks for letting me know what’s going on. I’ll let you know when I find out.”
“You do that, Girl.” The look Charlotte Warner gave Samantha sent chills down her spine. Samantha had seen that look before. Master Jarrod had used it when he’d caught her letting one of the younger students copy sums from her slate. Mrs. Tidewell had used it when Samantha was nine years old and threw a doll in the baptismal to see if it would float or sink. Father used it last night, when Samantha had sassed Cecilia.
The bucket seemed weighed down by more than water as Samantha trudged back to the store. Little Greta had been bedridden for weeks, ever since Silas and Cecilia’s wedding. Both the Walkers and Jacob Stahl had been called away from the wedding reception almost as they walked in the door. Betsy had missed three sewing circles because of Greta. Clara and Elsa, missed too, when they were helping Betsy. Samantha tried to quell the shame that spread through her. In a town the size of Hickory Corners, Samantha was one of the few too busy drowning in her own sorrows to lend a helping hand with Greta.
Twenty-seven steps it took to get to the upstairs dwelling of the Thomasohns’. In summer weather, Samantha could make it without spilling a drop. In winter, it took more effort. Today she didn’t lose any. And the bucket just got heavier.
“Good morning.” Cecilia’s words were cordial. The hem of her new pink linen dress barely missed brushing the floor. The smell of frying bacon lingered in the air.
“Good morning.” It sounded like a croak to Samantha’s ears. The kitchen table, which had for so long dominated the middle of the room, now resided against one wall. Cecilia’s doing. It looked so small. When the three of them sat there, Samantha felt cramped. Her feet curled in fear of contacting Cecilia’s. Samantha often thought she’d not manage to swallow.
“Your father is still at the dock. I thought we’d eat breakfast then clean up the store a little.” Cecilia dumped the water into the pitcher. She poured two glasses and motioned toward the table.
Mouse curled on Samantha’s chair. Picking him up, Samantha cleared her throat. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go over to the Larkins’ and help. Charlotte said that Greta took a turn for the worse. I’ll imagine Betsy is beside herself.”
Cecilia nodded. “I can start in the store.”
Thirty minutes later, as Samantha marched up the front walk to Betsy’s old house, the thought occurred, The store isn’t dirty and just what is Cecilia starting?
Jacob closed his hands around Greta’s fingers. They were cold and limp. He’d been there for over four hours and couldn’t think of a thing he’d done to improve Greta’s health. Father, this is one of Your precious ones. She is much beloved. I fear that I am too unskilled to help her. Guide me, Lord. She is in Your hands.
“Well,” Betsy encouraged, “what are you going to try now?”
He’d been doctoring Hickory Corners and the neighboring towns for all of a month and already knew that worriers came in all shapes and sizes. There were the weepers: they weren’t much good, as they huddled in the corner and gasped out answers to his questions. There were the gripers: they thought he took too long to get to them. Why they could have died! They spent their time scolding him as he tried to help them and their families. There were also the misers. How dare he act like they owed him something for his visit. Indeed, they’d begun to feel better minutes before he arrived, but since he was there, it would do for him to give an opinion. And there were the helpers: Betsy Walker rated as queen of that list. He figured if he asked her to climb on the roof and sing a ditty, she’d do it if she thought it would help Greta.
“I think you ought to let me take her to Doc’s.”
Betsy’s eyebrows raised. “I can put on another quilt, if you think that will help. You trying to bring on a sweat?”
“No, I just think she’d be more comfortable.”
“Kids, go outside.” Betsy ordered.
The other Larkin children bundled into their winter clothes and were out the door in minutes, too subdued to argue.
“Tell me the truth,” Betsy ordered.
“She’s not getting any better. I want to keep a closer eye on her.”
“What do you think is wrong?”
“I’m thinking it is pneumonia, but it could be typhoid fever.”
Betsy collapsed against the wall, her face as pale as Greta’s. Jacob knew why. He’d already lost a little girl up toward Wabash Springs, the same symptoms, just last week.
Jacob didn’t intend to lose Greta, but unless he got her temperature down, inflammation of the kidneys or an ear infection would follow.
Betsy didn’t look convinced, and Jacob wished he had more of a way with words. He needed a wife to advise him on how to speak to the women. Doc always said that the ladies often wouldn’t tell doctors what was ailing them due to embarrassment. Now was not the time to be thinking about wives—and that meant Samantha—Greta needed his attention.
Betsy took a drawer from the dresser and started packing. “She can come home with me. I should of thought of it earlier. It will be much easier?”
Jacob started to move toward Betsy. Poor woman had enough on her plate. Just as he let go of Greta’s hand, he heard a thump upon the door and then a hesitant knocking.
“It’s Pa,” Betsy said. “He’s not going to like this.”
But it was Samantha Thomasohn, opening the door against the cold and looking like she’d faint dead away. Still, Jacob had to admire her. She stood shivering from the cold, with her chin in the air, clutching her reticule like it was her only hold on sanity. Behind her stood the other Larkin children. The look on their faces said it all. Sickness was no stranger to this clan.
“What can I do to help?” Samantha herded the children to the kitchen table. Everyone looked at Betsy. She held onto a nightgown of Greta’s and frowned. Jacob started to stand, but stayed crouched. The little girl, if possible, had grown even hotter to the touch.
As if realizing she was the center of attention, Greta woke up and whined.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Betsy said.
Jacob wasn’t sure if the words were directed to her siblings or to Samantha. Giving Greta a quick pat on the shoulder, he moved over to Samantha. “Take the drawer and put it in the sleigh. Betsy, you need to talk to the little ones. It will frighten them that Greta is gone.”
Betsy lay the last nightgown in the drawer and nodded.
“I’ll get Greta settled over at your place,” Samantha said. “I want to.”
A few minutes later, Jacob stopped the sleigh in front of Betsy and Ty’s place. He tethered the horses before reaching for Greta. He wanted to help Samantha down, but she followed too quickly. He heard her behind him. Even taking careful steps, her shoes were slippery. Silly female whim. Her feet might look small and dainty in the pretty, black leather boots, but the hard, flat sole acted much like an ice skate. If he weren’t already carrying Greta, he’d sweep Samantha off her feet to keep her from falling.
“Jacob, you feeling all right?” Samantha stared at him.
He’d gone right to their door and stopped. Greta stared at him, awake, not coughing, and curious.
“Come on, then.” Jacob pushed open the front door and carried Greta the few steps to Betsy’s bed. Soon the little girl snuggled into the sheets. She probably smelled Betsy and felt secure. Jacob checked her pulse and tongue. No change since he’d done that the first time an hour earlier. “Greta, does it hurt when you breathe?”
“Um dra hgum now.” Greta closed her eyes and went to sleep.
Jacob pulled the blanket up to the child’s shoulders. “What did she say?”
Samantha settled on the edge of the bed. “She said it doesn’t hurt now.”