Jacob adjusted the cradle under his arm and took a deep breath of the March crispness. Most of the people who scurried along Main Street were bundled up against the cold. They held the neck of their cloaks together and wrapped their chins with brightly colored scarves. Not him! He relished the brisk breeze that reminded him how good it was to be alive.
His jubilation waned as his thoughts returned to Greta. Somehow it didn’t seem right for him to be in high spirits when at Miss Betsy’s a small child struggled to breathe. He’d pore over Doc’s medical books again when he got back to the barbershop. Surely there was something he’d missed, some remedy yet to try.
Just as he turned the corner, Olivia Crabtree came out of the dress shop. Her black mourning dress, worn since he was knee high to a grasshopper, knew better than to brush the ground. She didn’t clutch her coat or wear a scarf. Weather didn’t seem to affect her. She tipped her head to the side, an inquisitive gesture by anyone else but from her more a demand, eyed the cradle, and asked, “Is that for Elsa?”
Jacob didn’t know how she did it, but Mrs. Crabtree was the only woman in town who had her dark and graying hair drawn so tightly into its bun, it didn’t dare move. He’d soon make some extra money from prescribing headache powders. Forcing a pleasant smile, he responded, “Yes, what do you think?”
She pressed her thin lips together and stepped closer, clearly hoping to find a flaw. Begrudgingly she admitted, “I’m thinking someday you’ll be making one for my boy and his wife.”
Jacob’s fingers grasped the cradle harder. To his knowledge, Martin had yet to act on his mother’s advice, but then, being a dandy took up a lot of his time. With the ink on his law degree still drying, Martin just might be thinking it was time to settle down. Mrs. Crabtree would be talking up Samantha.
Jacob studied the cradle. Yes, he should have kept this one, but if he knew Samantha, she’d be pleased he chose to give it to her friend.
Samantha was free, done mourning, and much too gentle to deserve a mother-in-law like Mrs. Crabtree. The woman didn’t know how to smile. It was unnatural.
He hoisted the cradle onto his shoulder, uttered a terse excuse, and hurried to the boardinghouse. It was well past noon, yet as he opened the door and stepped inside he heard voices coming from the dining room. Jacob followed the sound. Samantha sat in his rocking chair. Next to her, with his hand on her arm, stood Martin. She was wearing his coat and hat.
They looked good together.
Samantha’s gaze met Jacob’s. She reached up and took Martin’s hat off. Handing it back, she shrugged his hand off her arm and started to slip out of his coat. Martin silently helped her.
Once, years ago, Jacob watched as a fox grabbed his mother’s prize chicken. An uncanny grin graced the carnivore’s face as it made off with its booty. Smug was too polite a word.
Martin Crabtree looked a bit like a fox.
Jacob Stahl had often been compared to a bear.
No way was the fox getting the prize this time.
“Jacob.” Elsa rushed toward him. “Are you finished with my cradle already? I figured it would be at least another week.”
He carefully set it on the floor. “I’ve had some sleepless nights.”
Samantha’s eyes turned misty. Were the tears still from this morning? From watching little Greta suffer? Jacob wished he were standing next to Samantha. He’d do more than touch her shoulder. He’d sweep her into his arms and promise her the moon. Well, he’d promise her undying love anyway, which was all he, a struggling doctor, had to offer.
Shane helped his wife to her feet and picked up the cradle. “Where do you want it, Wife?” His jovial tone and dancing hazel eyes were aimed at Elsa.
Envy took hold of Jacob, not a comfortable or familiar feeling. Martin was standing too close to the woman Jacob wanted. Jacob didn’t like it one bit. “I saw your mother, Martin. She said she’d someday order one for you.”
“Did she now? I say a cradle’s a fine place for storing fire kindling. Don’t you agree, Samantha?”
“Hush,” Elsa said. “Such nonsense. Come on, Samantha, let’s go to my room, and you can help me decide where to put it.”
Before Jacob had time to catch his breath, the Gerhards and Samantha were gone. Martin remained behind the rocking chair, fingering his hat and grinning.
A good general always prepared for battle. Jacob hadn’t realized how close to camp the enemy had maneuvered. With fierce determination, he forced himself to study Martin Crabtree as a possible adversary.
Martin eyed him with a gleam. “It would bother you to make a cradle for me, wouldn’t it?”
“No, not a bit.”
“Good, then maybe you should see about assembling the piece. I mean, no sense waiting for the last minute. You never know what might happen.”
“I’ll wait a bit.”
“Really, you think there might be surprises in store?”
“No, I don’t think. I know.”
Elsa barely gave Shane time to place the cradle on the floor of their bedroom. Nudging him past the oak vanity and out the door, she whirled to face her friend.
Samantha protested, “Really, Elsa, Shane probably wants to help decide—”
“Oh, pooh, he’ll rearrange it the way he wants later. Now he’s talking about ordering me one of those fancy bathtubs. He read that half of Pittsburgh owns one. Imagine,” Elsa patted her swollen abdomen, “as if I could even fit into one.” Perching on the edge of the bed, Elsa pulled Samantha down with her, folded her hands in her lap, and with an amused expression asked, “So, do tell.”
“Do tell what?”
“I mean, when you walked in with Martin, I wasn’t a bit surprised. You’ve swooned over him since first primer, but then in walks Jacob Stahl, of all people, and suddenly I saw two men sizing up the territory.”
“They didn’t,” Samantha insisted. Her stomach lurched. Maybe they had.
“You’ve taken off the black. You’re beautiful and of marrying age. It makes sense the men will come courting.”
“It’s too soon,” Samantha whispered.
“That’s not the problem.” Elsa’s foot tapped on the floor, a steady trip, trap, trip, of reproach.
“Things keep changing.” Samantha knew her friend only meant to give comfort, but the walls were closing in. Elsa was married, with a babe on the way. Betsy had a ring on her finger. Not only did Samantha feel alone within her family, but also her friends were growing up and away faster than she could count to ten.
“Jacob’s a good man,” Elsa said.
“So is Martin.”
“Martin has his moments, I’ll agree. But think, you know Martin will never stay here. We’ve no need of a lawyer, and he’ll chafe under the dictatorship of that mother of his.”
Samantha stood up and offered Elsa a hand, changing the subject as she did. “That reminds me. Martin brought news from your sister.”
It worked. Elsa put a hand to her heart and scurried from the room amazingly fast for a woman in her condition.
Samantha followed slowly. Elsa was right, Martin would never stay in Hickory Corners. Moving would be good, Samantha decided. She wouldn’t have to watch Cecilia contrive to change the look of Mama’s home. Moving would be bad—Samantha changed her mind. Everything that had ever spelled comfort was right here in Hickory Corners.
“Samantha, we’re late! Mrs. T will wonder what’s keeping us.” Elsa’s voice dragged Samantha from her musings. Looking at the grandfather clock Shane had shipped in as a wedding present for Elsa, Samantha quickened her step.
“Keep the coat,” Martin suggested, handing it to her. “I’ll fetch it tonight when I come calling.”
Before she knew what she was doing, Samantha looked at Jacob. His chin jerked to one side and back, a minute indication of no.
Samantha blinked. What was she thinking? Looking to Jacob Stahl for permission! “That would be fine, Mr. Crabtree. I’ll tell Papa to expect you at seven.” Grabbing Elsa’s hand, she barely gave her friend time to grab a cloak before pushing her out the front door.
“Don’t say it,” Samantha warned as they hustled up the street toward Mrs. T’s.
“Don’t say it? You’ve got to be joshing. I can hardly wait to tell Betsy. Do you think she’ll be there?”
“No, Greta’s taken a turn for the worse. Jacob and I—”
“Jacob and you?”
“No, not us together. He was already at Betsy’s house when I went to help this morning.”
Elsa gave Samantha a hug as they turned onto Birch Street. “And to think I was worrying this winter would be dull. I do believe Hickory Corners is due for a high time.”
Mrs. T opened the door and hustled the girls in. The minister’s wife always kept the stove hot and the sweets ready on quilting day. “Samantha, I’m sending Brady to your father’s store. He stopped by earlier. Seemed right concerned about your whereabouts.” Squinting, Mrs. T stepped closer. “Did you get a new coat?”
Clara jumped in. “Is that a man’s frock?”
“I’m wearing it for a bit,” Samantha defended. “It means nothing.”
“Martin Crabtree’s,” Elsa piped in.
“He happened along, and I was cold.”
“Where were you? When did Martin get back in town? Why—”
“Girls.” Mrs. T expertly stalled Clara’s questions. “Let’s settle down, and perhaps Samantha will fill us in.…”
Samantha shook her head.
“And perhaps not.” Mrs. T left the room, and soon the girls heard her calling Brady’s name.
Samantha slipped from the room and caught hold of Brady’s shoulder before he headed for the store. The Tidewells’ nephew was pretty easygoing. He wouldn’t mind traipsing through town with a flowered basket.
“Brady, will you ask for my sewing basket, please?”
Deep blue eyes twinkled. “Why, Miz Samantha, if you can walk through town in a man’s frock, I’ll surely get by with your sewing basket.” He laughed all the way out the front door.
The girls busied themselves at the quilting frame. Elsa saved Samantha from more questions by chattering about the upcoming baby. Although, from the looks Elsa cast Samantha, the subject was not dropped.
Mrs. T delved into her Bible, not bothering to join the girls at the frame. She left the Scriptures to accept Samantha’s basket, then delved back in, a troubled look on her face. Samantha knew the minister’s wife looked forward to the sewing circle as much as the girls did. Betsy’s absence left a void. Mrs. T probably hunted for Scriptures of comfort.
Glancing over at Clara Bucey, Samantha noted that she’d already turned the point of the Pieced Star. Not one stitch had Samantha managed. Running her finger along the silver dimples of her mother’s thimble, she remembered the first time she’d tried it on. She’d been five, and it had slipped right off her finger.
Mama’s thimble. Samantha blinked back tears and tried to shake the sadness. Instead, she shivered.
“I’m going to read today from the Book of Ephesians,” Mrs. T said softly. “Chapter six, the first few verses: ‘Children, obey your parents in the Lord: for this is right. Honour thy father and mother; which is the first commandment with promise; That it may be well with thee, and thou mayest live long on the earth.’”
Strange, Samantha considered, the verse had nothing to lessen the pall of Betsy’s absence.
The thimble slipped from Samantha’s finger and fell to the floor.
“Oh.” Clara immediately pushed back her chair and went to her knees. “I don’t see it.”
Samantha gently rubbed her left middle finger. It felt warm and tender, much like her heart.
Elsa peered under the quilt’s edge. Mrs. T started to stand up. The frame trembled as Clara crawled through to the other side.
“It’s lost,” Clara announced.
So am I, Samantha thought.