“Rebecca, our granny woman back home in Fishtrap, did the exact same for a difficult delivery,” Rose said, beaming.
Jackson’s eyes filled and he placed a tender hand on Rose’s small shoulder and murmured his gratitude.
“Such a tiresome journey, sweetheart,” she cooed and carried the babe over to the bed. “Not to worry. The color’s back now. And he’s bald and blessed.”
“A healthy boy,” Jackson barely breathed.
He’d fought so hard to come into the world, to live, my greedy hands ached to hold him.
Rose passed the newborn to Jackson while she tended to the afterbirth. He tilted the baby down so I could see, then placed him into my arms.
I peered down at Elijah Jack Lovett, the names of both our fathers. Lifted his tiny fingers and toes, inspecting every inch of him. He had Pa’s eyes. I was sure of it.
I wiped my own and examined him again. Our son had been spared the punishing side effects of the blue drug—and was safe from the blue-skinned misery that would have forever marked him as a target for hostile folks’ mocking, cruel laughter, and taunts.
I pressed my lips onto the babe’s cheeks and tip of his head, then drew my gaze to Jackson. “He’s a handsome one,” he said, dropping breezes of kisses to both our faces.
After a few minutes, Miss Rose washed the babe in the wooden stand’s porcelain basin. When she had wrapped him in a towel, she handed the wide-eyed infant back.
Satisfied, Miss Rose pulled a celebratory cigar from her apron pocket and gave it to Jackson. “Been waiting a whileto give this to you,Papa. It’s one of the finest from Defiance Drugs & Liquors. Go on, take it downstairs to the parlor. This mother needs to nurse now.” She shooed Jackson out. “Yes, sir, sweetheart, you’re blessed for a healthy life.” The woman ran a gnarled finger over his head.
I traced the boy’s soft, wrinkled forehead and smiled at the ol’ mountain wives’ tale that foretold a child born with long hair is born old. Back home, granny woman Emma would insist such a babe would live sickly because all his might had been spent on growing hair.
Miss Rose squeezed my hand and I pressed a kiss to it, eternally grateful for her wisdom and quick actions.
“Well, now, let’s try and feed little Elijah Jack. Nothing better than your milk tokeephim healthy.” The hungry babe rooted and latched on. Minutes later, he was asleep in my arms.
After she’d placed him in the bassinet, she took off her apron and draped it over an arm. “You should rest now. I’ll just go check on the new papa. Maybe have ourselves a festivedrinkto celebrate Elijah Jack’s birthday.”
He was a content infant, and I couldn’t stop marveling over our good fortune, despite Jackson’s troubling glances I’d catch from time to time when he thought I weren’t looking.
Occasionally, he’d bring up talk about moving to another city. Getting work. But I protested, insisting the babe was too young, or Rose still needed our help with one thing or another.
It was not enough; Jackson’s unsettling spirit would not stay quiet.
Forty-Nine
Elijah Jack was almost two weeks old when Rose said, “It’s nearly Christmas. Defiance will have on her finest holiday dress. It’s a spectacle. Go see it and enjoy yourselves. Be sure and stop in at Bud’s restaurant and have yourself some delicious lake perch.” She rocked the baby in her arms and patted his bottom, shooing us toward the door after passing a small shopping list to me.
Eager to visit the hardware store, Jackson quickly accepted her offer.
In town, I bought diaper cloths, Oxydol washing powders, and a few candles Rose requested for the guest rooms while Jackson shopped over at the hardware store for a new latch for her busted gate and a rope cord and pulley for an upstairs window.
Although cold, it was an eye-scaldingly bright day, and the town carried the sparkles of Christmas finery. Lampposts were dressed in holly and evergreens. Shop windows displayed scenes of toys, dollies, sleds, skates, and wrapped presents with shiny bows that rested atop snowy blankets of sparkled cotton.
I slipped up beside a small boy who had his nose and face smashed to one of the windows, and I smiled at the child’s wonderment. A mix of pine, gingerbread, Christmas oranges, and cinnamon wafted out of doors, and like the young’un, I marveled at all the regalia and drooled over the candied almonds, an invitation to step inside.
On a corner, a bundled vendor hawked his pine wreaths and cord-wrapped spruces as families waded through rows searching for the perfect tree. I walked the pathways a bit, then stopped.
Suddenly, the pine aromas pulled me back to the hills—to the crowning balsam paths Junia had ridden us on. I closed my eyes and inhaled the perfumes, thinking of the apostle gal who’d been my loyal protector for so long. Ol’ Junia riding us through those rough, winding hills to get me safely home night after night. Through winter’s snowy drifts and summer’s prickly brambles. How I yearned for one more ride with her. Longed to be home for Christmas with Honey.
A giggling couple whisked past me, and I breathed in the fragrance one last time before moving along.
Later, I met up with Jackson in front of the drugstore. “I searched inside the hardware store but couldn’t find you.”
“I was rummaging through their supply room in the back to find the right-size pulley.” He pulled the small bag from a pocket and inspected inside. “The house is so old; I should replace all the sash cords on those heavy double-hung windows for her safety. They only had the two at the hardware, but the clerk said he’d have more in next week. Rose can’t risk a guest losing a finger if another rope breaks.”
We stopped in to have dinner at Bud’s restaurant, then strolled down the streets, pausing to admire the treasures inside shop windows. When we turned away from one display, Jackson stiffened and pulled me back to the glass. “Keep your eyes on the window dressing. Don’t let him see you.”
