2

As she stepped through the front door, Fleeta thought the sprawling farmhouse felt cooler inside than out. Fifteen-year-old Simeon was supposed to keep the fires up in the kitchen and sitting room, but he preferred to read and dream. At the moment, he was nowhere to be seen.

Elnora darted up the stairs to the second floor where it was even colder. “Hurry, Fleeta.”

Fleeta exchanged a worried look with Albert, handed him her rifle, and scurried after her cousin. At the top of the stairs she met Simeon, who was wide-eyed with his red hair sticking up. He was clearly in a hurry to get away.

“There you are—the fires need stoking.” She expected a fight, but he just nodded.

“Yes’m. I’ll take care of it.” He swallowed convulsively. “Momma . . . she’s . . . I’ve never seen her cry like that. And there’s blood. . . .”

Fleeta suddenly found it hard to swallow too. She gripped Simeon’s arm and gave it a quick squeeze. “Don’t worry. I’ll get her to the hospital.”

Feeling like her hunting boots were weighted down with concrete, she crept toward her aunt’s bedroom door. Now she could hear the crying—more of a keening really. Rounding the corner, she saw Elnora bent over her mother, a mass of toweling in her hands. The sharp scent of blood hit her, like when they butchered meat. The bedding was stained red, and Aunt Maisie was curled in against herself, as if she were trying to keep from flying apart in pieces.

Elnora looked over her shoulder. “It’s too late for the hospital. Send Albert for Dovie and right quick. Momma’s losing the baby.”

Fleeta flew down the stairs, flinching when she heard Elnora call out, “And hurry right back to help me.”

By the time Albert fetched Dovie from the next farm over, Fleeta thought she might collapse. She’d carried water and bloody linens, held Aunt Maisie’s hand, and bathed her face with cool water that seemed unnecessary in the chill room. But still her aunt sweated and groaned. Dovie, who’d likely delivered more babies than the doctor in town, stepped in and soon had the situation in hand.

Aunt Maisie finally quieted, and Dovie’s gentle voice filled the room as she said, “It’s a girl. Looks like the cord got in the way.”

Aunt Maisie bit her lip and closed her eyes. “Can I see her?”

“Of course you can.”

Dovie wrapped the infant in a clean cloth and laid her in her mother’s arms. Aunt Maisie traced a finger along the soft bluish cheek. “Would have been nice to have another baby girl after all these boys.”

Fleeta struggled against hot tears that made her eyes feel gritty. It wasn’t right—Aunt Maisie suffering so. And for what? An armload of sorrow. Maybe that deer had been a bad omen after all.

Elnora sat on the side of her mother’s bed and pulled the cloth back from the infant’s face. “Will you name her?”

“Marion.”

Fleeta stiffened. She choked on the sentiment, telling herself it was only fitting that a dead child be named for her own dead mother. She didn’t suppose her mother wanted to leave her to be raised by her aunt and uncle, but sometimes she felt abandoned all the same. She’d been too young to remember, but the story was that after her father died, her mother soon followed, laid low by grief. Maybe if she’d loved her own, very much alive daughter more . . .

“Do you want to see her?” Aunt Maisie asked through tears.

Fleeta ran from the room.