aside. Goldie had rolled over again, and one shoulder and pudgy little arm were uncovered. She rose from the rocker and stood a moment, looking at the adorable baby face, the tiny button nose and the small rosebud mouth moving in and out in little sucking motions. Tears welled in her eyes. She leaned down and moved Goldie back to the center of the cradle and tucked the covers around her, blinked the tears away and brushed the back of her finger over the baby’s silky, brown hair, her warm, rosy cheek. She blinked again, straightened and turned away, shaken by the strength of the love that filled her.
What if she had lost her? What if the kidnapper had harmed her? No. She would not dwell on that. She shuddered, wrapped her arms about herself and waited for the trembling to pass. It would. And every day the memory would become more dim, the trembling would lessen, and someday she would be able to look at Goldie and not think of what could have happened. Or remember that it would have been her fault.
The thought set her stomach churning. How would she ever have explained to Goldie’s father? She looked out the window, studied the shadows of trees clouding her yard. Where was Goldie’s father? Would he ever return? The selfish part of her hoped not. The unselfish part prayed he would. Girls needed fathers to shelter and protect them.
As she would have been sheltered, had her father and mother not died in that carriage accident. If her father had lived, she never would have been forced out onto the streets of Seattle by foreclosure on their home. And Richard Dengler would never have found her sitting on that park bench crying.
Oh, how innocent and trusting she had been! Believing Dengler when he told her she reminded him of his dear dead daughter. And that he was lonely and it would please him if she would allow him to provide for her, that she could stay in his dead daughter’s bedroom until she found work by which she could support herself. How shocked she’d been when he presented her with a bill for her room and board and made her that oh, so magnanimous offer to allow her to work off her debt in his house of ill repute, knowing full well she had nowhere else to go, no one to turn to for help and no skill with which to make a living.
Her chest tightened. Sickness washed over her—the same sickness she felt that day she succumbed to the circumstances and agreed to work for him. The day she sold her innocence and youth to pay for her keep.
She clenched her hands into fists, forced air into her constricted lungs. One thing was certain. If Goldie stayed in her care, she would make provisions for her. She would never leave the child without means. But neither would she ever marry. Never! The very thought of a man’s hands on her again revolted her.
Viola whirled from the window, fighting the memories pushing to the surface, took a slow, deep breath to ease the churning and knotting in her stomach, the tightness now inching up her neck into her face. Her gaze lit on Thomas and the knotting and the tightness increased. Had she gone mad, having the man in her home? He was weak and helpless now, but what about when his strength returned and he still needed care because of his disabled arm? He was strong. Very strong.
She shivered, rubbed her elbow where his hand had gripped her. When he was stronger, she would give his care over to Hattie. He had saved Goldie, and in gratitude and thankfulness, she would shelter and nurse him. But she would not be a victim of a man’s wants again. Not ever again.
She walked back to the rocker, pulled a blanket up over her shoulders and leaned her head back and closed her eyes, fighting for breath. Almighty God, cleanse my mind of all the bad memories, I pray. Take them from me and cause me to forget….
“Got the oatmeal fixed, Viola. I’ll sit here with your patient, whilst you eat.”
Viola took the empty bottle from Goldie’s mouth and set it aside. “I’m not hungry, Hattie. I’ll stay with him.” I owe him that much. She dabbed a drop of the sweetened goat’s milk from Goldie’s little mouth and handed her a wooden dog to play with.
The elderly woman frowned and stepped to the bed. “Handsome one, ain’t he? Even if he does look like death is just a-waitin’ to claim him.” She chuckled. “Guess I don’t blame you for wantin’ to stay with him.”
If you only knew the truth. “Do you realize he might wake and hear you?”
Hattie turned from the bed, the wrinkles in her face deepened by a wide grin. “Which part don’t you want him to hear? The part about his bein’ handsome and death waitin’ to claim him…or the part about you not wantin’ to leave him?”
“All of it.” It came out sharper than she intended.
Hattie’s grin died. “Wouldn’t hurt you none to take an interest in someone, Viola. It ain’t right, a beautiful young woman like you being satisfied to do nothin’ but work and spend her time with an old woman and a baby.”
“I’m not.” Viola summoned a cheeky grin, offered it as penance for her sharp tone. “I go to church, too.”
“Hmmph.” Hattie stepped in front of her and held out her arms. “Leastways, let me take this one and feed her some of the oatmeal. Lest you want her growin’ up to be a slender slip of a thing like you.” She lifted Goldie, propped her on her round hip, grabbed the bottle and headed for the door. “It wouldn’t hurt you to put some flesh on them bones, you know. Men like somethin’ they can get ahold of.” The parting comment floated over her round shoulders as she walked away.
“Which is exactly what I do not want!” Viola pressed her lips closed on her vehement whisper and lifted her hands to rub her fingertips across her gritty, tired eyes. Since moving in with her, Hattie had become aware of her lack of social life and was beginning to probe as to the reason. And the woman was not satisfied with her casual answers. She was pushing harder.
She rose and crossed to look out the window, absently rubbing at the scar on the outside edge of her left hand. The one where Dengler had cut her with his knife the last time she had run away. Perhaps it had been a mistake to take Hattie in. But she couldn’t simply ignore the woman’s homeless state when her husband had died. Please help me, Lord. Please give me the right words to say to satisfy Hattie’s curiosity. You know I can’t tell her the truth of my past, nor can I lie to—
“How’s our patient doing?”
She gasped and spun toward the doorway.
“Sorry, Viola, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Dr. Calloway smiled. “I knocked, but the door was open, so I came on in. I thought you must have heard me at the door.”
“No. I—I was thinking.” And remembering. She forced a smile. “Come in, Doctor.” She stepped back to allow him ample space to pass her in the narrow room. “I’m afraid Mr. Stone is still sleeping.”
“I’m…awake….”
She jerked her head toward the bed, looked into those penetrating green eyes. How long had he been awake? Had he heard Hattie’s comments? And her whispered retort? What if she had prayed aloud? Her body went rigid. She looked away. “I’m going outside for some fresh air while you examine your patient, Doctor. I shall return shortly. If you need anything meanwhile, Hattie is in the kitchen.” She turned and walked out the door.
The doctor stared after her a moment, then looked down. “That is one beautiful woman. But I guess you’ve probably noticed.”
“A man would have to be…blind not to.” Thomas frowned. What had caused that flash of fear he had seen in Viola Goddard’s eyes before she turned away?
Jacob grinned, set his bag on the end of the bed and
