“Not at all.”
Jackson donned his jacket and hat then tackled his chores with dedication, but they proved useless as a distraction. His thoughts kept straying to Amanda.
At lunch, Celia pulled him aside. “Both Noah and Jewel has been askin’ for their mother.”
He couldn’t put them off forever. “I’ll take them in to visit before they go to bed tonight.”
Celia nodded and finished setting the food on the table.
Her talent in the kitchen surpassed Amanda’s, but Jackson didn’t have the will to eat. He stared at his plate, barely conscious of his surroundings.
“Papa... Papa?” Noah was speaking to him.
“Hm?”
“Miss Celia says Mr. Green has a litter of puppies that are almost growed enough to give away. May I have one?”
Jackson’s first reaction was to take Celia to task for getting the boy’s hopes up or—worse—engaging in outright meddling. But she could just as well have brought it up to keep him off the topic of his mother. On a regular day, Noah’s questions could exhaust a library’s worth of topics in a single afternoon. “What kind of puppies are they?”
Noah opened his mouth then closed it and looked to Celia, who was picking chicken off the bone and handing pieces to Jewel.
“They’s nothin’ special... mongrel farm hounds.”
Jackson sighed. He didn’t want to make decisions about pets at a time like this.
“Do they have to be special?” Noah asked him when he didn’t respond.
“No. Mongrels are fine dogs to have around. The problem is they add another mouth to feed.”
“You let the kittens stay.”
“Cats are different. They hunt and catch their own food. Some dogs do, too, but not as much. If we got a dog, we’d have to feed it from our cellar.”
“Oh.” Noah ducked his head.
“I’m not saying no, son. I just want some time to think about it.”
Noah’s head popped back up. “All right.” He bent a cautious look at Jackson. “But can you finish your thinkin’ before Mr. Green gives away the last puppy?”
Jackson bent a look of his own at Celia.
Her lips were pressed tightly together and turned up at the edges.
Celia settled Jewel in Amanda’s stuffed chair for her nap and busied Noah with the job of refilling the wood bin. Before Jackson could make it to the door, she brought a tray that held a bowl of steaming liquid and held it out to him. “It’s ‘bout time for another dose of Dr. Babcock’s tincture. Maybe you can feed your missus some broth before it knocks her out.”
Jackson looked at her with a puzzled expression that was largely feigned. The truth was he didn’t think he could bear going back upstairs.
“I know you, Missa Maguire,” she said in a firm, quiet voice, her eyes warm with wisdom and sympathy. “You’s a good man, a man who cares enough to be burdened by his regrets. Don’t let this be one of ‘em.”
Jackson carried the tray up the stairs, each step sapping his strength as if his boots were filled with lead, then he stood outside the bedroom door. He’d bravely charged toward enemylines in battle, yet he couldn’t make his feet cross the threshold of his room where the only thing at risk was his composure.
A noise came from his wife’s direction, faint but unmistakable. Amanda was making the same sounds she had when Dr. Babcock touched her belly.
Jackson hurried in and set the tray aside, chiding himself for being such a coward.
Amanda didn’t rouse at the intrusion, but pain was etched into her face and plainly evident in every whimper. Silver trails ran from the corners of her eyes toward her pillow. At some point she’d cried, but the tears had dried and left behind salty crystals.
A lump rose in Jackson’s throat, nigh cutting off his air. He should have checked on her sooner. He should have never left her side.
