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Authors: Geralyn Dawson
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did a woman manage? What made her adjust her thinking?
A picture of Zach Burkett flashed through her mind. Yes, she could see where a man such as he might exert quite an influence.
The infants mouth opened and his tiny tongue poked out. Morality felt an overwhelming need to respond to him by sticking out her own tongue. She resisted, only out of fear that the others might misunderstand.
A baby. An infant. A little angel from God. Whether married to a man selected by her uncle or to one she chose herself, this might well be her future. Motherhood.
Morality drew a deep breath. Responsibility settled on her shoulders like a wet wool blanket, but the joy that sang in her soul made the burden as light as Valenciennes lace. She’d be the kind of mother she’d always wished she’d had. She’d stand beside her child at each step through this painful life. She’d dedicate herself to the health and happiness of the tiny soul she’d carry, and the baby would love her.
“Can I hold her?” The words just popped out of her mouth. The young mother turned, surprise on her face. Morality blushed as the rest of the company turned to look at her. So much for eavesdropping, now.
She cleared her throat. “You have a beautiful child, ma’am, and holding babies is my favorite thing to do. I’m sorry, you don’t even know me, so of course you wouldn’t—”
“Hand over little Patricia, Emily,” the widow said, waving a hand. “This is the preacher’s niece. The Miracle Girl. Can’t ask for a better pair of hands to hold the child. Some of the miracle just might rub off on Baby Patricia. I’m Eulalie Peabody. Welcome to Cottonwood Creek.”
Morality exchanged greetings with the women and accepted the weight of the child with a sense of bittersweet. Her miracle again. Just sometimes, she wished it would cease. Then she smelled that sweet, unique infant scent and peace stole over her soul.
As she and little Patricia gazed at one another, conversation continued around her. Mrs. Hart’s lips dipped in a frown and she risked her tongue. “Zach Burkett setting up shop in Cottonwood Creek. Why, I wonder? The way feelings run in this town, what makes him think he could be successful at anything?”
“It’s a curiosity. It surely is,” the widow replied, straightening the folds of her shawl.
Mr. Nichols then voiced the question for all of them. “What in God’s green earth is the Burkett Bastard up to?”
Having lived with her uncle long enough to recognize a cue when provided one, Morality looked up from the infant’s captivating eyes and said in a clear, pleasant voice, “Come to Reverend Harrison’s meeting tonight and find out. Mr. Burkett requested the opportunity to witness.”
A DISMAL sky hung above bleached grasses, swallowing the tips of faded cedar trees planted in windbreak rows behind a cabin that was dingy from weather and neglect. A limestone chimney rose from one end like a monument, buffeted by the gray blow of a gray wind.
The air of ruin blanketed the meadow as Zach knelt on one knee beside the chimney, heedless of the damp chill that seeped through his trousers. He stretched a finger toward the heart-shaped leaves cradling the lone splash of color in the monotony of the day.
A morning glory. “Fancy that,” Zach murmured. He was surprised to see the bloom this time of year. Late February was more than a month too early for morning glories, even in Texas. Sarah Burkett would have viewed the flower and deemed it a miracle. She had set great store in miracles— miracles and morning glories.
She had sometimes called the flowers heavenly blues, and she’d laughed when others named morning glories weeds to be obliterated from cultivated fields. She’d nurtured the vines, feeding and watering, training the creepers to twine toward the sky using the cabin’s walls for support. Then, when the funnel-form flowers burst forth in a profusion of blue, she’d smiled as warm as summer
A picture of Zach Burkett flashed through her mind. Yes, she could see where a man such as he might exert quite an influence.
The infants mouth opened and his tiny tongue poked out. Morality felt an overwhelming need to respond to him by sticking out her own tongue. She resisted, only out of fear that the others might misunderstand.
A baby. An infant. A little angel from God. Whether married to a man selected by her uncle or to one she chose herself, this might well be her future. Motherhood.
Morality drew a deep breath. Responsibility settled on her shoulders like a wet wool blanket, but the joy that sang in her soul made the burden as light as Valenciennes lace. She’d be the kind of mother she’d always wished she’d had. She’d stand beside her child at each step through this painful life. She’d dedicate herself to the health and happiness of the tiny soul she’d carry, and the baby would love her.
“Can I hold her?” The words just popped out of her mouth. The young mother turned, surprise on her face. Morality blushed as the rest of the company turned to look at her. So much for eavesdropping, now.
She cleared her throat. “You have a beautiful child, ma’am, and holding babies is my favorite thing to do. I’m sorry, you don’t even know me, so of course you wouldn’t—”
“Hand over little Patricia, Emily,” the widow said, waving a hand. “This is the preacher’s niece. The Miracle Girl. Can’t ask for a better pair of hands to hold the child. Some of the miracle just might rub off on Baby Patricia. I’m Eulalie Peabody. Welcome to Cottonwood Creek.”
Morality exchanged greetings with the women and accepted the weight of the child with a sense of bittersweet. Her miracle again. Just sometimes, she wished it would cease. Then she smelled that sweet, unique infant scent and peace stole over her soul.
As she and little Patricia gazed at one another, conversation continued around her. Mrs. Hart’s lips dipped in a frown and she risked her tongue. “Zach Burkett setting up shop in Cottonwood Creek. Why, I wonder? The way feelings run in this town, what makes him think he could be successful at anything?”
“It’s a curiosity. It surely is,” the widow replied, straightening the folds of her shawl.
Mr. Nichols then voiced the question for all of them. “What in God’s green earth is the Burkett Bastard up to?”
Having lived with her uncle long enough to recognize a cue when provided one, Morality looked up from the infant’s captivating eyes and said in a clear, pleasant voice, “Come to Reverend Harrison’s meeting tonight and find out. Mr. Burkett requested the opportunity to witness.”
A DISMAL sky hung above bleached grasses, swallowing the tips of faded cedar trees planted in windbreak rows behind a cabin that was dingy from weather and neglect. A limestone chimney rose from one end like a monument, buffeted by the gray blow of a gray wind.
The air of ruin blanketed the meadow as Zach knelt on one knee beside the chimney, heedless of the damp chill that seeped through his trousers. He stretched a finger toward the heart-shaped leaves cradling the lone splash of color in the monotony of the day.
A morning glory. “Fancy that,” Zach murmured. He was surprised to see the bloom this time of year. Late February was more than a month too early for morning glories, even in Texas. Sarah Burkett would have viewed the flower and deemed it a miracle. She had set great store in miracles— miracles and morning glories.
She had sometimes called the flowers heavenly blues, and she’d laughed when others named morning glories weeds to be obliterated from cultivated fields. She’d nurtured the vines, feeding and watering, training the creepers to twine toward the sky using the cabin’s walls for support. Then, when the funnel-form flowers burst forth in a profusion of blue, she’d smiled as warm as summer
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