“No. This evening has worn me out, is all.”
The crease between Walsh’s brows deepened then smoothed as he escorted her to the waiting conveyance without further comment. He must’ve employed his policy never to argue with a lady.
Chapter 6
The frigid Nebraska wind howled outside the farmhouse, rattling the windows and pushing its way through the cracks, as Jackson sat in the kitchen, his hands gripping a cup of half-drunk coffee long cold. He stared at the slanted shadows the flickering lamplight cast across the worn floorboards, but his mind was occupied with thoughts of his wife.
From the bedroom above came another clutch of muffled groans followed by soothing murmurs from the local midwife, Hester Reeves. “Almost there, Amanda,” she coaxed. “Push.”
Jackson’s hands clenched into fists at his wife’s anguished growl. Moments later, she let out a sharp cry of agony, and his breath caught in his throat. It whooshed out at the lusty wail of an infant.
Please let them both be well.
Jackson climbed the stairs and paced up and down the hall, not sure what to do with himself.
“Mr. Maguire,” Hester called an eternal half-hour later, “you can come in now.”
He opened the door and entered the room. Amanda lay exhausted on the bed, her face pale and damp with sweat, but her eyes shining as she cradled a small bundle.
Hester stood nearby, wearing a satisfied smile, her wrinkled face framed by wavy gray locks of hair that had fallen loose. “Congratulations. You have a healthy son.”
“What about my wife? Is she all right?”
“She’s well, too.” Hester lifted a hand gnarled by age and dexterous work, and beckoned him. “Come. See for yourself.”
Jackson approached the bed, his emotions a tumultuous mix of joy, apprehension, and a twinge of sorrow he couldn't quite shake.
Amanda looked up at him, her smile tired and uncertain. “Would you like to hold him?”
Nodding mutely, Jackson carefully took the infant into his arms. As he gazed down at the tiny face that bore traits of his brother, a surge of love filled his heart, unexpected and intense.
“He's perfect,” Jackson whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He hadn’t been able to let himself see past his anger to imagine this moment. The child was here, and they hadn’t yet chosen a name. “What shall we call him?”
“How do you feel about the name Noah?” Amanda asked, relief plain in her voice, and moisture glazing her eyes.
Jackson swallowed hard, pushing away thoughts of Ross and focusing on the child in his arms. “Noah,” he repeated. “I like it.” He gently stroked the baby's cheek. “Welcome to the world. I promise to love and protect you always.”
As he said the words, the weight of his commitment settled upon his shoulders—and, strangely, he welcomed it. This child wasn’t his by blood, but Noah was his son in his heart.
May 1866
Three months later
Caroline met Walsh at the gate and strolled with him to the tables that had been placed in the yard for a casual Saturday luncheon. Sweet white violets scented the air, and the sun warmed the space, dappling everything with light filtered through maple branches.
Greetings rang out as the two of them approached.
Walsh inclined his head. “Mr. and Mrs. Bennet... Miss Teague. It’s good to see you again.” He glanced around. “Where are The Brothers?” –his affectionate term for Simon, Landon, and Knox, collectively.
“They mounted up early this morning and went fishing,” Caroline replied.
“I can’t blame them. It’s a perfect day for that.”
Her father waggled his eyebrows and grinned. “I almost joined them.”
“The food looks delicious,” Walsh remarked, gazing at the generous spread of thick-sliced bread, cold ham, pickled vegetables, cherry tarts, and a pitcher of lemonade sweating in the spring air.
Her father paused with an empty plate in one hand and a slice of ham dangling from the serving fork in the other. “That’s why I didn’t go.” He nodded at the food. “Fix a plate and join us.”
