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Authors: Debra Holland
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Maggie did not speak a single word of complaint about how painful it was for her to ride on the seat of Caleb’s surrey. She tried to distract her mind from the pain by telling herself it could have been worse. After all, she was wrapped in a blanket—having refused Caleb’s coat—with a second one over her legs. The leather seat cushion was far more comfortable than the wooden seat of the vardo . The driver wasn’t Oswald. Caleb had managed to stuff the surrey with as many of her belongings as the vehicle could hold, and miracle of miracles, her baby was safe in her arms.
If only one of those arms and shoulders, and, indeed, her whole right side didn’t ache and throb from landing on the hard ground yesterday. Add to that the birth soreness from her back and abdomen to her thighs and the headache from where she’d hit her forehead. . . . She glanced down at her baby. Yes, I have too much to be thankful for to complain to the kind man who’d saved us.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the loamy smell of the forest. Thank goodness Caleb was there to help me through it. Maggie cast a glance at him, admiring his profile. Even with a few days’ growth of a beard and his clothing in far more of a disheveled state than when she’d first met him, the banker was definitely a fine-looking man.
Caleb didn’t notice her stare. His attention was focused on driving. He held his team to a slow walk to accommodate Pete’s injury.
Maggie looked behind her to check on her horses, even though she had to shift her body because her neck was too stiff. The rest of her muscles protested the movement.
Tied to the back of the surrey, Pete shuffled along next to Patty. Only the slightest favoring of his foreleg told of his injury. You can do it , boy , she silently urged the gelding. Tomorrow we’ll arrive in Sweetwater Springs, and Caleb has promised you fine treatment, including apple slices and carrots.
Feeling guilty, she turned to face the front. When was the last time I was able to offer such a treat to my horses? She hadn’t been the only one to suffer from her decision to marry Oswald. How could I have been so foolish—so taken in?
Not for the first time, her thoughts lingered on their courtship. She searched for clues to Oswald’s true personality. In hindsight, she could see them. He’d hidden his real self behind an almost animal magnetism. What had seemed like a wish to take care of her had really been a need to possess her, to control her every thought and move. I held out my wrists for his shackles.
She glanced down at Charlotte, sweetly sleeping in her arms. The horror of what her daughter’s life would have been with such a father—if her baby would even have survived her birth—made her feel sick.
Never again. Maggie knew she could not afford to make such a grave mistake in choosing a husband, because she wouldn’t be the only one to suffer from a poor choice. Watching harm come to her child, perhaps the other children she would bear, as well as her animals, would torture her.
Maggie shifted Charlotte deeper into the crook of her arm, so she could free a hand and touch one hooped earring. If she sold the gold, she could pay to have the vardo fixed. That would take care of a home for them. But she’d need to feed and clothe them, as well as provide food and shelter for the horses, so she had to find work as soon as possible.
Maybe I can take in laundry. Without Oswald’s knowledge, she’d earned a little money by secretly helping Mrs. Rivera, who did the laundry for Morgan’s Crossing. Sometimes the woman had more washing than she could handle, especially during the rush times when Father Fredrick, the Catholic priest, or Reverend Joshua Norton came to town to hold a Sunday service, or the times the Morgans threw a party. Their last shindig had been to celebrate the birth of their latest daughter, Darcy Angelina.
She sighed, thinking about baby Darcy’s pretty clothing, some
Maggie did not speak a single word of complaint about how painful it was for her to ride on the seat of Caleb’s surrey. She tried to distract her mind from the pain by telling herself it could have been worse. After all, she was wrapped in a blanket—having refused Caleb’s coat—with a second one over her legs. The leather seat cushion was far more comfortable than the wooden seat of the vardo . The driver wasn’t Oswald. Caleb had managed to stuff the surrey with as many of her belongings as the vehicle could hold, and miracle of miracles, her baby was safe in her arms.
If only one of those arms and shoulders, and, indeed, her whole right side didn’t ache and throb from landing on the hard ground yesterday. Add to that the birth soreness from her back and abdomen to her thighs and the headache from where she’d hit her forehead. . . . She glanced down at her baby. Yes, I have too much to be thankful for to complain to the kind man who’d saved us.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the loamy smell of the forest. Thank goodness Caleb was there to help me through it. Maggie cast a glance at him, admiring his profile. Even with a few days’ growth of a beard and his clothing in far more of a disheveled state than when she’d first met him, the banker was definitely a fine-looking man.
Caleb didn’t notice her stare. His attention was focused on driving. He held his team to a slow walk to accommodate Pete’s injury.
Maggie looked behind her to check on her horses, even though she had to shift her body because her neck was too stiff. The rest of her muscles protested the movement.
Tied to the back of the surrey, Pete shuffled along next to Patty. Only the slightest favoring of his foreleg told of his injury. You can do it , boy , she silently urged the gelding. Tomorrow we’ll arrive in Sweetwater Springs, and Caleb has promised you fine treatment, including apple slices and carrots.
Feeling guilty, she turned to face the front. When was the last time I was able to offer such a treat to my horses? She hadn’t been the only one to suffer from her decision to marry Oswald. How could I have been so foolish—so taken in?
Not for the first time, her thoughts lingered on their courtship. She searched for clues to Oswald’s true personality. In hindsight, she could see them. He’d hidden his real self behind an almost animal magnetism. What had seemed like a wish to take care of her had really been a need to possess her, to control her every thought and move. I held out my wrists for his shackles.
She glanced down at Charlotte, sweetly sleeping in her arms. The horror of what her daughter’s life would have been with such a father—if her baby would even have survived her birth—made her feel sick.
Never again. Maggie knew she could not afford to make such a grave mistake in choosing a husband, because she wouldn’t be the only one to suffer from a poor choice. Watching harm come to her child, perhaps the other children she would bear, as well as her animals, would torture her.
Maggie shifted Charlotte deeper into the crook of her arm, so she could free a hand and touch one hooped earring. If she sold the gold, she could pay to have the vardo fixed. That would take care of a home for them. But she’d need to feed and clothe them, as well as provide food and shelter for the horses, so she had to find work as soon as possible.
Maybe I can take in laundry. Without Oswald’s knowledge, she’d earned a little money by secretly helping Mrs. Rivera, who did the laundry for Morgan’s Crossing. Sometimes the woman had more washing than she could handle, especially during the rush times when Father Fredrick, the Catholic priest, or Reverend Joshua Norton came to town to hold a Sunday service, or the times the Morgans threw a party. Their last shindig had been to celebrate the birth of their latest daughter, Darcy Angelina.
She sighed, thinking about baby Darcy’s pretty clothing, some
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