Free The Midwife of Hope River by Patricia Harman

gold-and-pearl brooch out of her jewelry box and holds it out, dangling in her thin hand.
    I stare at the offering, a gleaming crescent moon with a pearl the size of an eyetooth. You can tell it’s real gold.
    â€œI couldn’t. That’s ten times too much. I’ll just wait until you and William get on your feet.”
    â€œPatience, it could be years . . . Mary’s daughter is like family. This will be for my beautiful baby and a beginning of a new life for Bitsy. You can teach her to be a midwife.” She stands and drops the heavy brooch in my lap.
    â€œWon’t Mr. MacIntosh object? If he needs the money, he could sell this.”
    â€œIt’s not his. My mother gave it to me. Anyway, he hardly notices what I wear for jewelry, or even my clothes. He probably doesn’t know I own it.”
    I shake my head and pointedly lay the ornate crescent moon with the pearl at the tip on the bedside table. It must be eighteen carats, though my experience with jewelry is limited.
    â€œI need to examine the baby.” I change the subject. “He’s beautiful. I’m sorry I put you and William through the pain of thinking he was dead. I’m still not sure why I couldn’t find the heartbeat, and then you said you didn’t feel him move.”
    Katherine sits beside me on the bed and smooths the dark brown satin quilt. “You gave me comfort in the night. You gave me my son.” Her face is flushed, and there are tears in her eyes.
    Our happiness for this one live baby drowns out my other worries, my lack of cash to survive the winter, my fears that I am over my head in calling myself a midwife. I don’t even notice when Katherine drops the golden brooch into my apron pocket.

8
    Bitsy
    First hard frost last night, and all the remaining tomatoes are ruined. I thought if I left them on the bushes, they might redden up, and I was mad at myself all day until Charles Travers came for me and I was called to another delivery. This one made up for the near tragedy at the MacIntoshes’ and the strangeness of Delfina’s birth in the coal camp. It reminds me that most of the time Mother Nature knows best.
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    November 15, 1929. Almost full moon and the first hard frost.
    Uncomplicated delivery of Ruth Ann Travers, firstborn of Charles and Abigail Travers of Liberty. Six pounds, 9 ounces. One small tear that didn’t require stitching. I bicycled home singing because I was paid five dollars! Others present were Abigail’s mom, a mother of seven. She was a great help to me.
    Mrs. Kelly’s ornate parlor clock chimes five as I rest my leather journal across my chest. It’s extravagant, I know, and the fire will burn out faster, but I’ve left the door of the heater stove open to enjoy the flames in the late-afternoon light. The coals shimmer like rubies. I allege that I don’t know much about jewelry, and that’s true, with the exception of Mrs. Vanderhoff’s ruby. The ruby . . . the ruby ring.
    Under the sound of the wind, I catch another sound, the clatter of wagon wheels coming up Wild Rose Road. When I jump off the sofa to look out the window, I see in the gloom a cart piled with split wood pulled by two burros, which are also laden with bulging gunnysacks. A small dark woman balances on top of the logs with a bicycle tied on beside her. Mr. Cabrini is driving, and Thomas Proudfoot, Mary’s son, walks by his side. They pull up to the porch and tie their animals. The woman climbs down. She has a worn cardboard suitcase and two firearms, a rifle, and a shotgun. It’s Bitsy.
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    Before I left the MacIntoshes’ a few days ago, I returned to the kitchen and conferred again with Mary. I tried to be honest, tried to explain. “It’s not the color thing. You know it’s not. It’s just I’m not used to people waiting on me, and truly I have so little money. I know I look better off than I am, with a house