At six foot, Jacob was the runt of the Stahl litter and had an easygoing manner that his family lacked. He’d helped Raymond with pranks, mimicked Zack’s seriousness at times, and always listened closely when Trevor read aloud to the family. When he’d played at Samantha’s house, he’d bossed her as bad as her brothers had.
At the schoolhouse, and even the few times she’d seen him at her home, she’d considered Jacob clumsy, inept. But now his fingers worked magic as he bathed Greta’s forehead. The little girl went to sleep, soothed by the gentle touch of a man who couldn’t roll a decent snowball. Only the child’s labored breathing broke the silence in the room.
Samantha was suddenly very aware that she was practically alone with Jacob. Stepping back, she tried to focus on something—anything—else. Betsy’s home smelled of gingerbread and peppermint. No, Betsy’s home smelled of gingerbread. Jacob Stahl smelled of peppermint.
Pushing herself off the bed, Samantha stepped closer to him. “What can I do to help?”
“Boil some water. Steam will help her breathing.”
Glad for something to do, Samantha hauled the black cast-iron pot from the fireplace and went outside. The slim piles of snow still holding their own at the Walker place were a tad cleaner than in town. Samantha scooped handfuls into the pot and hustled back toward the house. Since March hadn’t turned, the wicked wind sent tendrils of frost inside Samantha’s cape.
Betsy came running up the road, caught up with Samantha, and hurried to the front door. Samantha struggled to follow. Her bonnet blew back, and blond hair streamed behind her, caught in the wind that strained to keep her outside.
Samantha shivered then, not from the cold, but from the realization that Betsy was hurting and no matter how much help was offered, hers was a pain to be borne alone. They’d tried steam on Mama, too. And Samantha had made countless trips to the well to keep the water supplied.
The door closed behind them. Samantha took the pot to the fire and hung it on the spit. Jacob left Greta’s side, opened his doctor’s bag, and withdrew a bag. Samantha recognized pulverized Peruvian bark. Her father carried it at the store.
“What do we do now?” Betsy asked her favorite question.
Jacob’s lips formed a thin line as he gave a slight shrug and pulled the blanket tighter about the child’s shoulders.
The seconds ticked by, and the room grew smaller. Jacob’s attention focused on Greta. Betsy put away Greta’s belongings and all but collapsed on the kitchen table.
Ten minutes later, with a bundle of laundry—the least she could do—Samantha headed home. Her boots clamored on the slick, frozen ground. Struggling to keep her balance, she passed the sheriff’s office, and the cold wrapped around her. She told herself the sharp, prickling sensations were penance for being selfish—for leaving Betsy alone; but in the pit of her stomach and even in the back of her mind, she knew herself a coward.
Once home, she climbed the stairs and dumped the clothes in the hamper. Usually, home was the place Samantha Thomasohn most wanted to be. She hadn’t appreciated the security of her family enough. She wanted to be involved in a family Bible reading, with Raymond tickling the back of her feet, trying to make her laugh so she’d get in trouble. She wanted to watch the face of Zack as he nodded in agreement to everything Father said. She missed the homey feeling that settled in her stomach when Trevor took his turn reading the Scriptures.
Thumps, from downstairs, echoed through the room and jarred Samantha from her melancholy. Father never unloaded during business hours. He insisted that stocking should take place either early morning or late at night. And Father hadn’t returned yet with the wagon.
The door leading down to the store stood open. Samantha took a few hesitant steps and stopped. Even from there she could see the changes. Bolts of material now took up space on the top shelf of the east wall. Coffee grinders were arranged artistically on the high shelf behind the counter.
“What do you think?” Cecilia grinned. A streak of dirt across her nose made her look even younger.
“I think you’ve put much of our stock out of my reach.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that if someone comes in wanting to buy a sausage gun or meat chopper, I won’t be able to sell it to them, unless of course the customer happens to be six-foot tall and can reach it themselves.”
“Why—”
“Who told you you could do this?” Samantha’s stomach hurt. She put one hand on the wall to help her stand straight. No way did she want to hunch over and show weakness.
It didn’t look like Cecilia felt any stress. The woman’s eyes blazed. “Nobody told me. I thought—”
“You’re changing everything!”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“You call this help? I can’t reach anything. I wish you’d just go—”
“Samantha, that’s enough.” Father stood at the top of the stairs. His hair, once dark brown and thick, now mimicked the picture of a monk Samantha had seen in one of Master Jarrod’s many books. At the moment, what was left of Father’s hair stuck out in jagged lines, half frozen from the Ohio winter and anger.
“But—”
“You will apologize to Cecilia.”
Samantha’s lips went dry. Her tongue snaked out, back in, and her mouth went as dry as her lips.
“Now.”
“I’m not sorry.” Her voice betrayed her, becoming an embarrassing squeak.
Father moved closer. Even the echo from his boots sounded fierce. The back of Samantha’s throat tightened. Those stupid tears; they were trying to surface.
“I’m sorry.”
Before her father could say another word, before Cecilia could open her mouth and really bring tears to Samantha’s eyes, she sailed out of Thomasohn’s Mercantile. She only managed the boardwalk and a few steps toward Oskar’s before bumping into a solid form. Anybody sensible would have moved.
“Whoa, whoa. And what sends a comely gal fleeing without a coat?”
The funny thing was … anger had a warmth to it, and Samantha didn’t feel a single chill, although she noted the difference when a black frock went around her shoulders.
“When did you get back in town, Martin?” If possible, Samantha noted, he had grown handsomer. Yet the observance didn’t pool in the pit of Samantha’s stomach like it usually did.
“This morning. Now what vexation has you knocking me over in the street?”
“If I was knocking you over in the street, Martin Crabtree, I’d certainly have waited until a cart was going by!” The words came easily, slipping from her tongue like the hot butter on Elsa Gerhard’s sourdough rolls.
“You wound my heart, Samantha. Now, who wounded yours?”
Tossing back her head, and glad that she could blame her tearing eyes on the weather, Samantha forced a grin. “Ah, but you have to have a heart in order for it to be wounded. I’ve probably given mine away while you’ve been gone.”
Martin laughed. He plucked off his Cumberland top hat and set it on her head. It was too big and quickly blinded her. The buoyancy of her curls made the hat lopsided. He tucked her hand in his elbow. “Walk with me over to Elsa’s.”
Samantha pushed the hat up. Martin didn’t deserve her wrath. He was an innocent bystander in the path of her anger.
“Come on, Mantha, you know you can’t stay vexed long.”
He tickled her under the chin and forced a smile from her. Martin was considered a prize by all of the eligible young ladies in Hickory Corners. Her oma, Rosie Gustefan, said he could charm the starch out of fresh laundry. Samantha began to calm down and even forgave him for calling her Mantha.
“Come with me while I call on Elsa.” Without any further encouragement, Martin tugged Samantha across the street. Each step took her farther away from the mercantile and the ugly memory of what had just happened inside.
The Hickory Corners Boardinghouse offered warmth, not just from the roaring fireplace. Elsa and Shane had created a real showplace. The dining room, once outfitted with hand-hewn benches and uneven tables, now sported a set of furniture unequaled in Hickory Corners. It was the rocker in the corner of the room that caught Samantha’s eye. Working in the store had given her an eye for craftsmanship, and this piece didn’t come from the hands of Nate Harmon, the cabinet maker. Harmon was good, but this was exquisite.
“Where did you get this?”
“Jacob Stahl.”
Samantha rubbed the fine-grained hickory wood with the tips of her fingers and remembered the sounds of Raymond and Jacob whistling as they sat on the side stairs whittling. It had been over a month since he’d had the audacity to wink at her. Oh, what was Jacob Stahl doing on her mind! And especially when Martin, in his double-breasted tailcoat and tight-fitting trousers, still had his hand on her arm long past the time he should have let go.
Jacob rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he exited Betsy’s home. Little Greta had finally fallen into a healing sleep, at least he hoped it was a healing sleep. At college, many of the professors held fast to the ideas of Benjamin Rush. Steaming was one of the great man’s favorite cures. So far, Jacob could not add any names under the list of those cured by steam. If Greta didn’t show some improvement soon, Jacob intended to try a treatment of calomel.
The horses stamped their impatience. They wanted the livery and food. Normally, Jacob would have walked to the Larkins’, but he’d started his morning with two distant house calls before settling down with Greta. Jacob clucked and drove them the mile into town. After turning the reins over to the livery owner, Leonard Melvin, Jacob headed for Doc’s place. In the irony of fate, Doc was improving while Greta sagged. Doc’s aged body daily grew stronger, not from steam or purging, but from sheer will to survive.
The ancient clock above Doc’s mantel showed ten o’clock. Jacob picked up the key and wound it. Doc was sleeping, not an unreasonable pastime for a man of his age and health. His forehead was cool and his breathing even. Without waking Doc, Jacob rubbed Professor Low’s liniment on the old man’s hands, paying special attention to the joints. No matter how many times Jacob reminded Doc to lubricate his hands, he didn’t do it.
When there wasn’t a patient in the other room, Jacob used it. Since he hadn’t made the bed, he took the time to do it, then glanced at the cradle on the floor near the window. Elsa Gerhard was turning into a regular customer. The cradle was a prize. He was tempted to keep it and make Elsa another. A Stahl child would look fine in the contraption.
The thought of a babe turned into a vision of Samantha seated in a rocking chair like the one he’d made Elsa and Shane. He could see her Madonna-like features soften as she looked at a babe in her arms, their babe.
All thoughts of sleep vanished. Jacob went to the basin and splashed cold water on his face. Samantha had surprised him this morning. First, she’d shown up to help. Second, she’d looked at him as a man, rather than as her brother’s annoying friend. Well, maybe she’d given him a similar expression when he’d winked at her during church.
Since her mother’s death, Samantha had avoided illness with a determination unequaled. Was a bit of healing finally coming along? Jacob figured if that was true, then maybe the time had come to act. So far the only hint he’d given Samantha that he was interested was that wink at church. Winking might have gotten her attention but was not all that fulfilling.
He changed his shirt, stuck a peppermint in his mouth, and picked up the cradle. Might as well deliver it before Elsa headed to the sewing group she so loved on Tuesdays. Besides, Samantha and Elsa always walked together. If he timed delivery just right, he might get to wink—or something more—with the girl he intended sparking.