The Midwife

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  Dear Reader

  Title Page

  Books by Carolyn Davidson

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Copyright

  “I’m not a female who will cling

  and ask favors of a man.

  “I’ll do my duty by your children and your house. That’s what you told me you expected of me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I think we’ll come to an understanding eventually, ma’am. In the meantime, we’ll just have to work it out as we go.”

  She was a magnificent specimen of womanhood, he decided. Standing tall, as if her spine were made of finest steel, yet only reaching his shoulder in height. She was a strong woman, carrying a graceful figure, with hair not quite golden, but rather, streaked and honey-colored. Her eyes were the true blue of her ancestors, her slender body well-proportioned. And then he allowed his gaze to scan the length of her.

  Her cheeks had turned more than rosy with his scrutiny, and she pursed her mouth. “Do I pass muster, sir?”

  Dear Reader,

  This month we’re celebrating love “against all odds” with these four powerful romances!

  Carolyn Davidson’s voice has a warmth to it that always assures a happily-ever-after for her characters, even during moments of great adversity. Set in Minnesota, The Midwife is the poignant story of Leah Gunderson, a young “spinster” fleeing from her past as a midwife, and Garlan Lundstrom, the taciturn farmer who presses Leah into helping care for his newborn after his wife dies in labor. Leah has secretly admired Garlan from afar, which makes it all the more complicated when he proposes a marriage in name only…

  Lady of the Knight by rising star Tori Phillips tells the tale of a courtly knight who buys a “soiled dove” and wagers that he can pass her off as a noble lady in ten days’ time. The more difficult charade, though, lies in ignoring their feelings for one another! Catherine Archer returns with Winter’s Bride, a medieval novel about a noble lady, long thought dead, whose past and present collide when she is reunited with her beloved and overcomes her amnesia.

  Rounding out the month is Barbara Leigh’s The Surrogate Wife, set in the Carolinas in the late 1700s. In this story of forbidden love, the heroine is wrongly convicted of murdering the hero’s wife, and is sentenced to life as his indentured servant…

  Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historicals® novel.

  Sincerely,

  Tracy Farrell

  Senior Editor

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Harlequin Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  The

  Midwife

  Carolyn Davidson

  Books by Carolyn Davidson

  Harlequin Historicals

  Gerrity’s Bride #298

  Loving Katherine #325

  The Forever Man #385

  Runaway #416

  The Wedding Promise #431

  The Tender Stranger #456

  The Midwife #475

  CAROLYN DAVIDSON

  Reading and writing have always been major interests in Carolyn Davidson’s life. Even during the years of raising children and working a full-time job, she found time to read voraciously. However, her writing consisted of letters and an occasional piece of poetry. Now that the nest is empty, except for three grandchildren, she has turned to writing as an occupation.

  Her family, friends and church blend to make a most fulfilling existence for this South Carolina author. And most important is her husband of many years, the man who gives her total support and an abundance of love to draw on for inspiration. A charter member of the Lowcountry Romance Writers of America, she has found a community of soul mates who share her love of books, and whose support is invaluable.

  Watch for her next Harlequin Historical novel, The Bachelor Tax, coming in January. She enjoys hearing from her readers at P.O. Box 2757, Goose Creek, SC 29445-2757, and promises to answer your letter.

  The Midwife came into being because of my granddaughter, Rachel, a wonderful young lady who aspires to that profession. When she asked me to write a book about a midwife, I agreed to consider it, and was surprised and delighted when she sent me a brief outline of a story. Although I chugged down a different road and steered in different directions than she, and even though I added characters I thought were important to my book, this is basically Rachel’s midwife story. To her I dedicate the total effort, with all good wishes that her dream will one day be fulfilled.

  And as always, to Mr. Ed, who loves me.

  Chapter One

  Kirby Falls, Minnesota

  January 1892

  “It’s a pity that such a handsome man should always look so forbidding.” Bonnie Nielsen’s eyes cast a longing look at the man she spoke of.

  “He’s married, Bonnie.” Leah mentally calculated her purchases and searched through her purse for coins, spending barely a glance in the direction of the man in question. He stood on the outskirts of a group of menfolk who clustered around the stove in one corner of the general store. His arms were crossed, his mouth formed in a thin line, and he did indeed glower, Leah decided as she favored him with a second look.

  Bonnie’s cheeks flushed a becoming pink and she looked up at her customer through a pale fringe of lashes. “All the good-looking ones are. More’s the pity!” Her hands were making quick work of Leah’s sparse selections, and she tied the package deftly as she spoke.

  “Don’t you even look at the men, Leah?” Bonnie pushed the paper-wrapped bundle across the counter and accepted Leah’s coins in return.

  “It’s enough that I wash their clothes. Why should I look at the men who wear them?” Leah picked up her foodstuffs, then made a liar out of herself as she allowed her gaze to pass over the group of men who were laughing at some private joke as they warmed themselves.

  As always, her eyes hesitated, just for the smallest second, on the somber man, the tallest of the group. The one who said little, who seemed drawn to the noisy, friendly men, even though he appeared not to belong in their midst.

  Gar Lundstrom. He did look forbidding. Bonnie had it right on the money. And yes, he was handsome, with pale hair that never darkened in the winter, as did her own. His eyes were striking, pale blue beneath dark brows, another puzzle. He should have been fair, right down to his eyebrows. Perhaps the hair on his chest…

  Leah closed her eyes, aghast at the thought she had allowed to enter her mind. She’d been too long indoors, spent too many evenings alone, talked to herself too many hours on end.

  And always, she kept the vision of Gar Lundstrom from her mind. Only when she caught sight of the man did she allow her thoughts to stray in his direction. But to what purpose? The man was someone’s husband. Hulda Lundstrom was the woman he’d chosen to wed: a small, nondescript woman who seldom came to town, and whose son always remained close at hand when she did venture into the general store.

  Lundstrom was no doubt on his way home now, Leah decided, taking care to turn
aside as he said terse goodbyes and made his way from the store. The talk resumed around the stove and Leah walked to the door, aware of eyes that watched her progress, her own gaze straight ahead, lest she mesh glances with one of the men who gathered on these winter mornings.

  Most of them were married, but there were always, in their midst, one or two bachelors. Several had approached her, the elusive widow, hoping to strike a bargain of some sort.

  She closed the door behind her and walked down the wooden sidewalk, her package dangling by the string with which it was tied. Tea, a bit of sugar, and a small piece of bacon weighed little, and cost less, but it had taken most of her cash. If the menfolk didn’t pick up their bundles of laundry today, she would be hardpressed to find money for the rent this month.

  Her feet turned up the path to the small house she called home, and she stepped onto the porch, reaching for the doorknob.

  “Yoo-hoo! Mrs. Gunderson!” From next door, a fragile voice called her name and Leah halted, one foot already past the threshold.

  “Yes, Mrs. Thorwald,” she answered, pulling the door closed, lest the heat escape. “Are you all right?”

  “I believe I have a touch of the quinsy, dear,” the old woman answered, barely visible behind the windowpanes, bending low to speak through the narrow opening she’d allowed above the sill.

  “I put some soup bones on the stove to cook before I went to the store. I have to find some vegetables to put in with them, and then I’ll bring you a bowl of soup when it’s ready,” Leah promised, knowing that, more than soup, the widow lady wanted companionship. She waved a hand as she opened her door again and stepped into the warmth of her parlor.

  The heat from the kitchen cookstove permeated the whole house, each room opening up into another. She could walk in a circle and visit each room within seconds. Leah hung her cloak by the front door and placed her boots on a mat beneath. Then she donned her knitted slippers.

  Her skillet awaited, warming on the back of the shiny black stove. She unwrapped the bacon quickly, her mouth watering at the prospect of such a luxury this noontime. She sliced it, then placed the thick pieces in the pan, inhaling the scent as the edges began to sizzle.

  A knock at the door halted her while she was pouring water from her teakettle into her favorite flowered cup.

  “I’m coming,” she called, her slippered feet silent as she crossed the parlor.

  “It’s Hobart Dunbar, Mrs. Gunderson,” the man said loudly, as if he would allay any concern a man at her door might bring.

  The owner of the only hotel in Kirby Falls was most circumspect, always careful to remain on her porch while she brought him the big bundle of tablecloths and aprons she washed and ironed with such care. Bleach and starch were commodities he paid extra for, and gladly, since, as he’d told Leah upon their first encounter, his wife refused to spend half a day over a scrub board twice a week.

  “Do come in, Mr. Dunbar,” Leah said cordially, waving her hand to usher him in.

  As always, he shook his head. “No, no. I’ll just wait right here, ma’am. Close the door. Don’t waste your heat.” And all the while, he stamped his feet and shrugged his ears down into the collar of his heavy coat, until the brim of his hat met with it.

  Leah hastened to the room she used as her laundry and snatched up the washing she’d completed late last evening. Wrapped in a stained sheet, the bundle contained sparkling white, heavily starched linens. Even the caps that Mr. Dunbar’s three waitresses wore when they served tables had been ironed and creased, ready to be buttoned at the back when the wearers donned them.

  The three women also cleaned the hotel rooms and lobby daily, in between mealtimes, a sign of Hobart Dunbar’s frugality. Even his wife took her turn, standing behind the walnut desk, her lacy handkerchief attached to the front of her dress, her hair curled and pinned, her eyes ever watchful.

  Mr. Dunbar accepted his laundry and pressed his money into Leah’s hand with a nod. “Thank you, Mrs. Gunderson. I’ll send the boy over tomorrow night with another batch.” He backed from her door and Leah closed it quickly, her fingers closing over the coins that were cold against her palm.

  Through the glass that centered her front door, she watched as another gentleman passed through her gate, pausing to speak with the hotel owner. Quickly she hurried to find the appropriate bundle of laundry for Brian Havelock, knowing only too well that he would more than welcome an offer to enter her parlor.

  Leah was breathless from her hasty movements when she opened the door for him, her smile barely moving her lips. “I thought I saw you coming through the gate,” she said brightly.

  Brian peered past her into the house. “Are you all alone, Leah? Can I join you for a cup of tea, perhaps?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m about to step over to visit with Mrs. Thorwald. She’s not feeling well.”

  His disappointment was visible, and his gaze swept the length of her body, from the crown of her head to where her slippers peeked from beneath the hem of her dress. “I’d really enjoy spending time with you, you know.” His words were wistful, and he smiled with beguiling charm.

  Leah sighed. “I know what you want, Mr. Havelock. At the risk of being too bold, I must tell you that I am not available for such a thing.”

  “My intentions are otherwise, Leah,” he said quickly, a blush climbing his cheeks, turning them even more rosy than the wind had done.

  She blinked, mouth open and mind wiped clean as he denied her accusation. “Otherwise?” she said after a moment.

  He nodded, edging closer to her. “I’d like to come calling on you, ma’am.”

  “I thought you were courting Kirsten Andersen,” Leah said bluntly. Her hand waved distractedly. “No matter. I’m entirely too old for you, Mr. Havelock, and too busy to waste either my time or yours.”

  “Will you at least dance with me Saturday night?” he asked hopefully.

  She nodded quickly, willing to promise that small boon, if only he would leave her house with his clean underwear and work clothes.

  He smiled eagerly, counting out the money he owed her, managing to squeeze her fingers as he placed the coins in her palm. “I’ll plan on it, Leah.”

  She shut the door behind him and leaned back against its cold surface. Now if he were only taller, with wide shoulders and the hands of a…She shook her head. The image in her mind was forbidden to her, the features of Gar Lundstrom taking form behind her closed eyes.

  Never in her almost thirty years had she found herself in such little control of the thoughts and desires she lived with daily. Garlan Lundstrom had done nothing, said nothing, to insinuate himself into her mind. And yet he dwelt there.

  She bent her head. From the very first time, over a year ago when she’d seen him in church, she’d felt a yearning for the man and scolded herself all during the long walk home. He was married.

  And she was Leah Gunderson, wash lady to most of the bachelors in town. Not that that was anything to be ashamed of. On top of that, she was fairly skilled in the art of healing, enough so that she had been called upon to sew up cuts and set broken bones.

  Her skills as a midwife were not known to the townspeople, and never would be, she had decided from the first. The doctor who tended the new mothers was old and beyond his prime, content to let the widow lady on the back side of town care for the odds and ends of healing that came her way.

  Yet Leah mourned for the disuse of those abilities she had learned in her young years. She’d visited women in all stages of labor with her mother, Minna Polk. She’d helped with birthings from the time she was sixteen. And then called herself a widow in order to set up her own practice.

  A single woman could not deliver children. There was a stigma against it that forbade such contact. Young girls were supposed to be innocent.

  Innocence. Sometimes Leah could not remember the meaning of the word.

  Laundry came first, as always, and the soup kettle was moved to the back of the stove so Leah could he
at wash water in the copper boiler. She scrubbed on her board in between cutting up her store of vegetables for the kettle on the stove. The day was waning by the time she reached the bottom of Orville Hunsicker’s laundry basket, and Leah hurried now to complete her mission to the neighbor who depended on her kindness.

  The soup was a bit thin, but Mrs. Thorwald was most appreciative in any case, tasting each spoonful with appropriate murmurs.

  “You are such a joy to have right next door,” she said sweetly, her spoon scraping at the bottom of her bowl. “You’ll never know how much I appreciate your company, dear.”

  Leah smiled, ashamed of her impatience, as she watched the old lady enjoy her soup. “I’m happy to help out,” she said, pleasantly enough. Her mind raced ahead to the pile of washing she had yet to hang in her kitchen tonight. It would be dry by morning, and she would iron it before noon.

  “Do you have any more of that salve you gave me to rub on my chest, dear?” Peering up at Leah, the wizened old woman’s eyes were rheumy and her mouth trembled.

  A pang of guilt struck Leah. “Of course, I have. I’ll just run home and bring it back to you, Mrs. Thorwald.” She rose and eyed her soup kettle. “Why don’t you just keep the rest of the soup, and I’ll take the kettle home to wash.”

  Mrs. Thorwald’s eyes brightened, and the widow nodded eagerly. “It’ll be just the thing for my quinsy, won’t it, dear?”

  Leah donned her boots and coat and let herself out the front door, walking on the path to the gate to her own yard. The sun had gone down, and dusk had settled while she sat in the widow’s kitchen. Beneath her feet, the snow was too deep to attempt crossing the yards.