Home Before Sundown Page 13

  Tom didn’t have religion, but for Analeigh’s sake, he’d gone to Mass.

  Now, for her son, he made sure they celebrated Christmas.

  George opened the door leading into the kitchen and closed it quickly to keep out the cold December air. He’d ridden to the rectory with Frank behind him on Sancho Panza, and now he stamped snow off his boots and unwrapped the scarf Olivia had knitted for him. Mrs. Hall had taught her, and it was obvious a novice had created it, but Tom could tell his son loved it in spite of the dropped stitches and odd tension.

  “Mrs. Thompson invited me in to have a cup of hot chocolate and warm up before I came home.” George stuffed his gloves into his pockets, removed his coat, and hung it up.

  “That was kind of her,” Olivia said. “She’s such a nice woman.”

  Tom went to his wife and slid an arm around her shoulders. “She is.” With the weather being so chilly, Olivia had taken to snuggling against him while they were in bed. He wasn’t going to press for anything more with the baby’s birth so imminent, but he could dream.

  “Papa?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I said Father Ed has a tree in the parlor of the rectory.”

  “What?” Tom had been so wrapped in the fantasy of showing Olivia the pleasures of the marriage bed, he’d missed what George had said. “Why would a man put a tree in his parlor?”

  “Is it a pine tree, George?” Olivia asked.

  “Yes. I rubbed the needles between my fingers, and they had such a nice scent.”

  “Have you heard of this, querida?”

  “I have, Tom. Aunt Hester showed me a picture in Godey’s Lady’s Book, but of course Father thought it was nonsense. That is, until he learned Mrs. Beauchamp had one decorated with out-of-season fruits.”

  A woman of immeasurable wealth, and Olivia had almost married into that luxury. Did she regret being here with Tom and George instead of the man she had given her heart to?

  Olivia was biting back giggles, though. “Apparently Mrs. Beauchamp had discovered the tradition while she was touring the Continent, and then of course Father insisted we had to have one as well.”

  “When I admired the tree, Mrs. Thompson invited us over to see it,” George said as he removed his boots, then glanced up at Tom. “Can we, Papa?”

  “My next free day, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Tom looked around with pride at his little family, and they sat down to dinner.

  * * * *

  “I’m going to get us a tree,” Tom told Olivia when they returned from visiting the Thompsons, and by the time he’d found one that would fit in their small parlor, rather than use fruit for decorations, which would have been wasteful, she had needlepointed figures and holiday scenes to be placed on the tree.

  He talked to Mrs. Hall about a huge meal for Christmas Eve. Don Jorge had brought the tradition with him from Spain, and Analeigh had whispered in Tom’s ear, “Esta noche es Noche Buena, y no es de dormir.” This night is the Good Night, and is not meant for sleeping. Tom didn’t know how much George remembered—he’d been so young when they’d had to leave the rancho—but it was a part of his heritage, and Tom would do whatever he could to keep it alive.

  George’s present was in the stable—the little buckskin filly Bella Dama had foaled. The filly was a sweetheart, with a white star on her forehead that was outlined with black hairs. George was looking forward to training her the way Papa had trained all the horses.

  Beside the tree was a cradle Tom had had crafted for the new baby, draped with a blanket Mrs. Thompson had knitted.

  And for Olivia was a simple gold band to replace the woven leaves George had made on the spur of the moment as her wedding ring.

  They ate and drank well into the night, even George, who was always allowed to stay up to welcome Christmas. Although Olivia didn’t seem to have much appetite. She toyed with her food and barely touched her wine. Shortly after midnight, she excused herself and began pacing the floor alternately rubbing her stomach and kneading her back.

  The fashion of the day being what it was, Olivia didn’t look very pregnant, even though the baby was due in a few weeks.

  “Querida?”

  “I’m fine. Don’t let me disturb the celebration.”

  “Is it the baby?” As had become his habit, Tom worried about the narrowness of Olivia’s hips and how they would accommodate delivering a new life.

  “No.” For a second she appeared puzzled. “I don’t think so.” But then she stared down at the puddle on the floor between her legs in dismay. “Oh. Oh! What happened?”

  Tom felt his heart clench. “I think the baby’s coming. George, fetch Doc Choate.”

  “Yes, sir.” He hopped up from the table, grabbed up his coat and hat, and raced out the door.

  Tom scooped up Olivia, and she gave a squeak as he began to do some pacing of his own.

  “Thomas, what are you doing?”

  He had no idea. All he knew was that he needed to keep her close.

  “It will be all right, querida,” Olivia said.

  “Querido, Olivia. Of course it will.” Tom would have laughed—not only had she used the wrong gender, but he was the one who was supposed to be comforting her—but instead he thought he was going to puke up the meal Mrs. Hall had been at such pains to prepare for them. That or piss his pants.

  Doc Choate had told them the baby should arrive in another three weeks. It was too soon.

  “I’m glad I have you to teach me.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head beneath his chin. “It’s confusing.”

  “I…uh…I’d better go boil some water.” But he continued to hold her.

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “That always seems to be necessary.”

  She smiled, shook her head, and kissed his cheek. “Put me down. I’ll turn down the bed and put on a nightdress.”

  Tom watched as she walked into their bedroom, holding her skirts away from her body. She was dealing with this much better than he was.

  He filled a kettle with water, set it on the stove, and reached for a bottle of whiskey.

  He wouldn’t be able to bear it if he lost Olivia. Mrs. O’Connor’s words slithered through his mind like a venomous snake. Olivia’s hips were too narrow.

  Tom set down the bottle and forced himself to go into the bedroom. Back on the rancho, there had been a midwife who’d seen to all the births, and she’d shooed him out of the little casa he’d shared with Analeigh. George had arrived easily enough, but their Mora…their little blueberry…

  He could feel his eyes well with tears, and that was the last thing he wanted Olivia to see. “I’ll…I’ll be right back. I have to check on the water.”

  “All right, querido.” She began panting, and he bolted out of the room.

  The water had almost boiled away, so he filled the kettle again, flinching when the water hissed as it hit the heated metal.

  “All right, amigo. She’s your wife. Get your ass back in there and give her all the support you can.”

  But before he could take a step toward the bedroom, George and the doctor arrived.

  Thank God. And okay, so he didn’t believe in a Deity, but why spit in the face of the possibility there might be Someone running the show?

  “George, wait out in the stable.” Tom remembered how Analeigh had screamed when their son was being born, and he didn’t want the boy to hear that. There would be time enough for George to pace and worry about his own wife giving birth.

  George looked scared. “Will Mama be all right?” It had been almost eight years, but you didn’t forget losing your mama.

  “She’ll be fine.” But it was Doc Choate who answered.

  George gave a jerky nod and left the cottage, closing the door quietly behind him.

  The doctor nodded approvingly when Tom showed him the boiling water, removed his coat and hat, and caught up his black bag.

  “The water, Doc?”

  “I like my c
offee with cream and sugar.”

  “Huh?”

  “You were going to make me a cup of coffee, weren’t you?” A grin curled his lips. He started toward the bedroom.

  Tom groaned, reached for the bottle of whiskey, and took a healthy swig.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Pettigrew.” Doctor Choate’s voice was cheerful. The bastard. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Th-that’s right, it’s Christmas Day.”

  “It is. How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’m about to be torn in two.”

  “Let me just take a look…Ah. I believe you’re going to have a Christmas baby.”

  And in spite of Mrs. O’Connor’s insistent words that Olivia was too narrow in the hips to safely deliver a baby, their daughter was born within forty-five minutes, and neither of them took any hurt.

  * * * *

  Tom sat on the bed, his wife asleep beside him. George walked the floor, cradling the baby in his arms. She had Olivia’s fair hair, and when she opened her eyes, they were blue. Tom wondered if they’d stay that color.

  “Know something, Papa?” George spoke quietly so as not to wake his Mama.

  “What, Georgie?”

  “This has been an amazing day.”

  “It has, hasn’t it?” Tom smiled at him.

  And every Christmas after, George would claim that for Christmas of 1859, he had received two of the most precious gifts: the little filly with the white star on her forehead and the baby sister they’d decided to name Noelle because she was born on Christmas Day.

  Chapter 21

  “Told you she’d be a girl,” George crowed when Tom came out of the bedroom holding the brand new baby wrapped in a blanket.

  “You were right.”

  “So pretty.” George held out his arms to take his sister. Tom was pleased his son was willing to hold the baby—some boys didn’t want any contact with their younger siblings. “Such tiny hands.” George sounded awed, and he stroked the little fingers with their perfect fingernails.

  “They are.” It had been a long time since Tom had held an infant, and he’d forgotten how small they could be.

  George touched her palm, and she closed her fingers around his. “She has such a tight grip!” He brought her hand to his mouth for a kiss, then another one, then paused. “Papa, what’s this?”

  “What’s what?”

  George turned Noelle’s hand gently. On her wrist, just below the base of her precious little thumb, was what looked like a star.

  “I don’t know, I hadn’t even noticed it.”

  Dr. Choate came out of the bedroom, carrying his black bag. “Your wife is doing amazingly well for never having given birth before.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that. Frankly, Doc, I was terrified her hips were too narrow.” He’d finished half the bottle of whiskey in hopes of soothing his nerves. It hadn’t, but what surprised him even more was that it hadn’t even affected him, which went to show how distracted he’d been.

  “Normally I’d agree with you, but she sailed through this like a real trooper.”

  His dainty, delicate wife a trooper? Well, as long as she was fine. “Is Noelle all right?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t she be?”

  Tom pointed out the star on her wrist.

  “That? It’s just a birthmark, nothing to be concerned about, I assure you. Well, my work here is done.” He set down his bag, braced his hands on his lower back, and arched into the pressure. “Mmm. I believe I’ll go home and catch a few winks before someone else decides to go into labor.”

  “Thank you, Doc.” Tom shook his hand, leaving behind a gold piece.

  “Thanks. I can’t tell you how many patients forget to pay me.”

  “You got us through this. I’ll never forget it.”

  “Yes, thanks, Doc.” George held out his right hand while he continued to cradle his baby sister in his left.

  Doc Choate took George’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “You’re welcome, both of you.”

  Tom got Dr. Choate’s coat and handed it to him. The Doc slid his arms into the sleeves, clapped his hat on his head, and picked up his black bag.

  “Merry Christmas.” He nodded at them, and Tom saw him to the door.

  George was smiling down at the amazing bundle in his arms when Tom returned. “I’m your big brother, Noelle. I’m going to teach you so many things.” He placed a tender kiss on her forehead, rocked her gently, and hummed a familiar song, the one about the lilacs.

  “Let me take her now, son.” Tom held out his arms, and George carefully transferred his sister into them.

  “Can I see Mama?”

  “We’ll see how she’s feeling.” Tom walked into the bedroom. He hummed the same song.

  “Here’s the newest addition to our family, querida. Thank you.”

  “For what, Tom?”

  “For giving me this lovely little girl.”

  She gazed at him, her eyes sheened with tears.

  “What is it?” Had Dr. Choate left too soon?

  “You’re a good man, Tom. I wish…” She shook her head. A tear slid down her cheek.

  Ah. Olivia was thinking too much. He leaned over, tipped up her chin, and dropped a quick kiss on her soft lips.

  “Do you want to hold her?”

  “Yes, of course.” She held out her arms, first one way, then another, and Tom stifled a chuckle.

  “Like this.” He adjusted her arms, then placed the baby into them.

  “She’s so tiny! Oh, Tom, was she too early? Dr. Choate seemed to think she should have come in January.”

  “I don’t think he would have left if there was any concern.”

  “Where is my son?”

  George had stayed by the door, peeking in, and Tom gestured for him to join them.

  “Here I am, Mama. How are you feeling?”

  “Tired and a little sore, but otherwise amazingly well for someone who’s never had a baby before.”

  “Dr. Choate said something like that,” Tom murmured

  “I’m glad.” George yawned. “Sorry, it’s been a long night.”

  “It has.” Tom smiled at him. “Why don’t you go on up to bed?”

  “That sounds like a good idea.” He kissed Olivia’s cheek, kissed his sister’s forehead, and walked around to the other side of the bed to hug Tom. “Good night. No wait, it’s morning, isn’t it? Oh well. Feliz Navidad.”

  “Feliz Navidad. Be careful going up the ladder, son. You don’t want to take a tumble.”

  “No, Papa.” George smiled sleepily and left the room.

  Olivia had been singing a lullaby, but she stopped mid-verse and gave a little cry.

  “What’s wrong?” He sat beside her on the bed and eased an arm around her.

  “Oh, Tom.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Her wrist.” Olivia held out the little arm with the star-shaped birthmark.

  “Is that what’s bothering you? Doc says it’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. Barron has this exact same mark on his wrist. So does his sister.” She turned and buried her face against Tom’s chest. “You couldn’t pretend she was yours, even if you wanted to!”

  Tom could see how distraught she was becoming.

  The baby began to fuss.

  “Oh God, I don’t even know what to do with her. You’ve gotten such a bad bargain, Tom.”

  “I got a very good bargain. Any man in his right mind would be overjoyed to have a wife like you, a son like George, and a little girl like the one you’ve given us.”

  “But—”

  “Noelle is just hungry. May I show you?”

  “Please.”

  He undid the row of fine buttons at the top of her nightdress and moved the two halves aside, revealing a very sweet breast. A blush rose from beneath the material to her chin and up over her cheeks.

  “Sorry,” he said, surprised at how his hands shook.

  “No, please, do what you have to do.”

  He steadied
his hands, then carefully guided their baby so she could latch onto a nipple.

  “Oh!”

  “All right?”

  “It feels…odd, but in a good way.”

  Tom wasn’t going to tell her about the times he’d nursed from Analeigh as part of their bed play before George had been weaned. At least, not until the day when Olivia felt more comfortable with him as her husband.

  “Can I leave you here for a little bit?”

  “Of course.”

  Tom brought her free hand to his lips, turned it over, and kissed her palm. “I’ll be right back.”

  She smiled at him absently, then cradled their daughter and resumed singing the lullaby.

  Olivia kept a little box of jewelry on the chest of drawers—bracelets, necklaces, earrings, the string of pearls that came to her on her mama’s death—she’d packed them when she’d thought she was eloping with Barron Beauchamp. Tom searched through the box. He was sure he’d seen…

  Yes, the charm was exactly what he was looking for. He took it out and went into the kitchen.

  He stirred up the fire in the hearth and rolled back his sleeve. For what he had in mind, he’d need a pair of tongs, and it didn’t take long for him to find them. It took some fiddling, but he finally got a secure hold on the charm. He held it into the fire, and once it glowed, he withdrew it and touched it to his wrist.

  He bit back a cry of pain and dropped the tongs and the charm. Fortunately, there was some whiskey left in the bottle, and he poured it over the fresh burn.

  He hissed. Not a good idea, but he knew better than to smear a burn with butter.

  He opened the kitchen door. It had snowed at some point during the night, and a fresh layer of snow covered the ground. Tom scooped up a handful and pressed it to his wrist.

  The sudden relief was…well…a relief.

  Tom blew out a breath, distracted by the plume of white that left his mouth. Then he stepped back into the cottage and closed the door.

  He replaced the tongs and reached carefully for the charm. It had cooled by that point and was a little discolored. If Olivia asked for it, he’d return it to her, but otherwise he intended to keep it. He slipped it into his pocket.

  The burn wasn’t quite as vivid, and the pain had eased. He studied the star he’d branded into his wrist.