“Yeah.” Bodine poured herself a mug.
“Coffee’s not allowed for childbearing women. It can stop the seed from planting.”
“I never heard that.” Bodine leaned back, sipped. “That’d make it the easiest form of birth control ever.”
“Bodine,” Maureen said under her breath.
Bodine kept the smile on her face, wandered over to sit with Alice. “I don’t think coffee’s going to manage that, but I’m not ready for babies yet.”
“You’re of childbearing age.”
“I am.”
“Bearing sons is a woman’s duty to her husband. You should have a husband, a husband to provide for you.”
“I provide for me. I might like a husband one of these days, but he’s going to have to meet my standards. They’re pretty high, as I have my dad as my first yardstick. So that one-of-these-days husband has to be handsome and strong and smart and kind and funny. He has to respect me for being who I am, the way Dad respects Mom. It’s likely, given my personal bent, he’s going to have to be a good horseman, too. And he’s going to have to love me like I was a queen and a warrior and a genius and about the sexiest woman ever born.”
“The man chooses.”
“No, Alice, people choose each other. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, Alice, somebody took your choice away.”
She caught movement, saw the woman standing in the kitchen doorway. About her mother’s age with short, ash-blond hair, a little stern around the mouth.
The nurse, Bodine thought, worried she’d crossed some line. But the woman nodded.
“I think you’re really brave,” Bodine finished, watching Alice’s eyes twitch as they seemed to do when she struggled to process.
“Women are weak.”
“Some people are weak. You’re not. I think you might be the bravest person I know.”
Alice ducked her head, hunched her shoulders, but Bodine caught the faintest smile. “I’m making a scarf. Clementine’s making breakfast biscuits. The sister is—”
She broke off, let out a muffled cry as Callen came in the mudroom door.
Shit! Bodine thought. She should’ve run back and told Callen to hold off.
“Morning.” Callen stood where he was. “I’m here to mooch breakfast. Are those your buttermilk biscuits, Clementine?”
“They are. Are your hands clean?”
“They will be. You must be Miss Alice.” He spoke easy, in a tone Bodine had heard him use with a nervous horse countless times. “It nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“One of the sons, one of the sister’s sons.”
“An honorary one.” Maureen’s voice might have been a few shades overbright, but it stilled Alice’s fretful hands. “This is Callen. Cal’s same as family. He’s a good boy, Alice.”
“Man. He’s not a boy.” Alice patted her cheeks.
In response Callen rubbed his own. “Didn’t think to shave this morning. Slipped my mind. That’s pretty work you’re doing there. My sister does needlework. I wouldn’t be surprised if she knitted up a house next.”
“You can’t knit a house. I’m crocheting. I’m making a scarf.”
“If you want anything in this kitchen, you get over here and wash the horse off your hands,” Clementine ordered as she cut out biscuits. “This breakfast’ll be ready soon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She tells the man what to do,” Alice whispered to Bodine.
“She tells us all what to do.”
“I washed my hands.”
Though her eyes went damp, Clementine nodded at Alice. “Then you’ll get your breakfast.”
At the clatter on the stairs, Alice jolted again. Bodine laid a hand over hers.
Rory bounded in, cheerful as a puppy, hair still damp, face freshly shaved. “Overslept. Smells damn good in here. I could use—”
He spotted the woman at the table with Bodine. Like the rest of the family, he’d been schooled. And Rory was, at the core, a salesman. He shot out a megawatt smile.
“Good morning, Alice. I didn’t have a chance to meet you yet. I’m Rory.”
Alice’s face went slack. Bodine heard the two rapid gasps before that face transformed into something beyond joy. Something too bright even for joy.
“Rory. Rory.” Tears spilled even as she laughed. And as she laughed, she pushed up from the table, flew at him. Her arms wrapped around him. “My baby. My Rory.”
Awkwardly patting Alice’s back, he stared at his mother in baffled shock.
“This is my youngest, Alice,” Maureen said carefully. “This is my son, Rory.”
“My Rory.” Alice eased back enough to look at his face, to stroke her hands over his cheeks. “Look how handsome. You were such a pretty baby, such a pretty boy. Now you’re handsome. So big! So tall! Ma can’t rock you anymore, my baby.”
“Ah—”
“Alice,” the nurse spoke, tone even, matter-of-fact. “This is your sister’s son. This is your nephew.”
“No. No.” Alice clutched at him again. “My baby. He’s Rory. You can’t take him away. I won’t let anybody take him away again.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Rory told her. “It’s all right.”
“I prayed for my babies. For Cora and Fancy and Rory and Lily and Maureen and Sarah and for Benjamin even though he went right to heaven. Do you know where they are, Rory, the other babies? My baby girls?”
“No, I’m sorry. Let’s sit down, okay?”
“I’m making you a scarf. It’s green. My Rory has green in his eyes.”
“It’s nice. It’s really nice.” And as Rory looked at his mother again, Bodine stood up.
She moved to the back stairs to hug and hold Cora as she wept.
*
He was dog-sick for a solid week. He could barely crawl out of bed to do his business much less to down more medicine or open a can to eat.
The fever burned, the chills racked, but the hacking, tearing cough was worse. It left him weak, breathless, his chest fist-tight, his throat raw from the thick, yellow mucus that spewed from his lungs.
He blamed Esther, cursed her as he lay on sweat-stained sheets.
He’d track her down when he got back on his feet. He’d track her down and beat her bloody, choke the life out of her. She didn’t rate a bullet.
Even when he managed to stand for more than a few minutes, the cough could bring him to his knees.
By the time he felt able to drag himself outside, he saw the dog was halfdead—maybe more than half. He tossed some food in a bucket. Pumping water into another brought on a violent coughing fit. He spat out blood-tinged mucus, wheezed breathlessly as he took a look at the cow.
Hadn’t been milked in a couple days, he judged, and like the horse had made due with snow and the spare grass under it. The chickens fared little better. It all showed him, clearly, bitterly, the boy had barely been around. And when he had been he’d done his work halfway.
Boy was useless, just like his cursed mother.
When he got his strength back, he’d take that boy to task good and proper. And he’d go out, get a young wife, get a young one who’d bring forth sons who’d honor their father instead of one who came and went as he damn well pleased.