Chapter 8
Two years later
Amanda Bennet gritted her teeth against a sharp pain in her abdomen as she kneaded bread dough. She paused, drawing a deep breath and willing it to pass.
The pain had started with her monthly flow then persisted. She’d dismissed it as a colicky bowel. But now? It felt more intense than anything she'd experienced, even childbirth.
Still, she did her best to ignore it and focus on the tasks at hand. There was simply too much to be done. Too many people depended on her.
“Mama?” Noah's small voice called from the doorway. “May I help?”
“I need you to keep an eye on your sister.”
“She fell asleep.”
“All right, then. Pull a chair over and stand on it. I'll show you how to shape the loaves.” He was well on his way to five and wanted to be involved in everything.
As she guided Noah's hands, another wave of pain hit. She bit her lip, determined not to let it show. “You're doing very well,” she praised, hoping he wouldn’t notice the strain in her voice. “Can you do the last one by yourself?”
“Um hm,” he said, giving her an exaggerated nod.
The loaf was lumpy and lopsided, but she smiled as if it was as perfect as the others. Turning the job over to him had given her discomfort time to wane.
“What next, Mama?” Noah asked as they covered the loaves to let them rise.
“You can help me hang the laundry on the line.” He’d have to. She’d never tolerate the bending.
“I wish Papa had taken me to town with him,” he groused.
“Maybe next time.”
Amanda allowed Noah to carry one side of the basket, praying with every step that he wouldn’t spill the damp clothes onto the dirt. “Hand me one garment at a time, so I can clip them to the line,” she said as they set the basket on the ground.
Her vision blurred as she straightened up. She steadied herself against a post, breathing deeply.
“Are you all right, Mama?”
She forced a smile. “I’m fine. Hand me that shirt.”
Amanda got the laundry hung with Noah’s help. He looked so proud, carrying the empty basket all by himself as they returned to the house.
Jewel was awake and sitting up in the upholstered chair where she’d fallen asleep, blinking and rubbing her eyes. “Mama,” she called, holding up her arms.
“Get in my lap,” Amanda said as she sat beside her daughter on the chair instead of picking her up. Jewel had just turned two and was heavier than a loaded laundry basket.
Amanda guided her away from the painful side and relaxed into the chair, soothed by the feel of her daughter’s head resting on her shoulder and her little hand stroking her neck.
A shiver rippled through Amanda’s flesh. “Noah, add a log to the fire.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Amanda closed her eyes as the room warmed then jerked awake. The clock on the mantle showed a quarter past three—it had felt like only minutes, but she’d dozed for the better part of an hour!
Her pulse sped as she took note of the children. Jewel was still nestled against her side, and Noah was sitting on the floor nearby, playing with a wooden horse.
The rabbit soup she’d made that morning was being kept warm on the back of the stove top, but the bread still needed to bake.
“Mama has to get up,” she said to Jewel.
Biting back a groan, Amanda slid from under her daughter and stood. “Just a little longer,” she muttered to herself as she walked to the kitchen and stuck her hand in the oven to judge the temperature. Jackson would be home soon.
She returned to the chair and rested while the bread baked.
At the sound of hoofbeats in the distance, Amanda stood and straightened her apron. She plastered on a smile and went to greet her husband, praying that a good night’s sleep would bring relief.
“Supper smells good,” Jackson said as he stepped inside and removed his hat.
“Papa!” Jewel ran to him.
“How’s my girl?” He hoisted her up and planted a smooch on her cheek then made a comical production of sniffing all about her neck and head. “Have you been rolling with the hogs?”
“No, Papa.”
He sniffed some more. “Kissing frogs?”
Jewel giggled. “No, Papa.”
Jackson leaned down and gave Amanda a quick kiss. “Have you been kissing frogs?” he asked with a grin.
Amanda lifted her chin and cast him a superior look. “I just did.”
“Ha!”
Noah set his wooden horse aside and got to his feet. “I helped Mama make the bread.”
“You did?”
“Yes, sir. I helped her with the laundry, too. I handed Mama the clothes, so she could pin them.”
“That was kind of you, Noah.”
He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I didn’t mind. Mama was tired. She took a nap like Jewel.”
Jackson looked at Amanda with an odd expression.
She averted her eyes and slipped past him. “I’d better take the bread out of the oven before it burns.” She kept her spine straight despite pain that made her want to hunch over like an old woman, but still, she could feel the weight of Jackson’s gaze.
Jackson kept his eyes trained on his wife. Her movements were stiff and halting as she bent to retrieve the loaves, and she stood stock-still for a full minute once she was done. He wished he could see her expression, but she was facing away.
She’d gasped and pressed a hand to her stomach twice over the last few days, but she’d insisted it was a female complaint.
It must be something more. With the exception of labor, feminine pangs had never affected her this much.
Jackson set Jewel down without taking his eyes off Amanda. “Need me to carry those to the table for you?”–the completely empty table that hadn’t been set for the evening meal, as it usually would have been this time of day.
“No, thank you. I can do it,” she said, with a backward glance over her shoulder. Catching up her apron to protect her hands, Amanda turned two loaves out onto a board, carried it to the table with mincing steps, and paused there, too.
Jackson went to the stove and removed the lid from the soup pot.
“I thought we might serve our bowls at the stove tonight,” Amanda remarked.
He wasn’t opposed to a change in routine. Had it been done on some feminine whim, he’d have gone along and humored her. But his wife was clearly unwell.
He’d keep his counsel for now. Then, once the children were abed, he’d press her for details. “I’ll carry the soup. Noah, put bowls on the table for everyone.”
“Yes, sir.”
Amanda started toward the cupboard. “I can get them.”
“No. Let Noah do it.”
Noah got four bowls out and placed them in a single stack, as his mother would’ve.
Jackson paused on his way to the table. “Carry them one at a time, Son, so you don’t break them.”
Noah let out a frustrated sigh, but he obeyed.
Jackson looked to Amanda and lifted his chin in the direction of her chair. “Sit.”
The way she gingerly lowered herself into it added to his worry, as did the strained quality of her voice when she thanked Noah for placing a bowl before her.
Jackson ladled soup into all the bowls then picked up Jewel and placed her in her high chair. “Noah, get the spoons and the napkins while I pour the tea.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jewel held out her hands and made a grabbing motion in the direction of the food. “Hungry, Papa.”
“It’s too hot.”
“Burn Jewel?”
“Yes, it will. I’ll give it to you when it cools.”
“My soup is hot, as well,” Amanda said, waving at the rising tendrils of steam, bending them sideways. “We must be patient.”
Jackson fetched the pitcher of cream and added some to his daughter’s tea and soup, to cool them faster. Then he sat and blessed the meal. Before lifting his head, he added an unspoken prayer for his wife.
He reached for the bread then paused and eyed the loaves. One was twisted worse than the hoof in dire need of a farrier. Was Amanda so greatly afflicted that she couldn’t shape bread?
He lifted his gaze to find her giving him a pointed look.
“Noah helped me with that one.”
“Hm.” Jackson tore a piece off the lopsided loaf and spread some butter on it. He popped it into his mouth, his son watching—unblinking—as he chewed.
Jackson’s grandmother had often said one shouldn’t judge a person’s heart by their appearance. Apparently, the same was true for bread. “I’m impressed. It’s very tasty.”
Noah beamed brighter than the sun at high noon.
Jackson passed Jewel a piece of bread to appease her, while Amanda tested the temperature of the little one’s soup. He tucked into his meal once Jewel’s bowl and cup were on her tray. “Mm, good,” he said between bites.
Noah nodded. “Mama makes the best rabbit soup.”
“Yes, she does.”
So why wasn’t she eating it?
Once his appetite was slaked, Jackson sat back and sipped his tea. Amanda was nursing hers, too, but she’d only downed a few spoonsful of soup. He gestured at the remains of Noah’s loaf. “Would you like some bread?” he asked her.
“No, thank you.”
“It’s very good,” he pressed.
She glanced at her son. “All right. But just a small piece.”
Jackson tore off a portion that was small by his standards and handed it over.
Amanda nibbled on it and praised Noah then set it aside.
Jackson’s jaw ached with the urge to interrogate, but he held his peace. “So, Noah,” he said, taking up his tea again, “I thought you wanted to be a rancher. Have you changed your mind and decided to become a baker?”
“No, sir. But I liked making the bread.”
“A little cooking knowhow is good for a man to have, in case he has to fix a meal when he’s away from home.”
Noah stopped eating and looked up. “Have you ever had to cook?”
Quite a few times during the war, but that topic was off limits, for several reasons. “When I go hunting, I sometimes go far enough to camp overnight.
“A night or two of hunting is nothing, though,” Jackson went on, Noah staring at him, soaking up every word.
“The men who drive horses and cattle are gone for months. One man goes ahead of them and takes a special wagon filled with food. His job is to make all the meals, enough to feed the entire group.”
Noah’s mouth dropped open. “I like cooking, but not that much,” he said, shaking his head.
“What about hanging up the clothes? Did you enjoy that?”