Free Sophie's Dilemma by Lauraine Snelling Page B

course, but gossip was gossip, and this was going to cause a storm of it. How could she protect Kaaren from the worst of it?

8
    September 9, 1901
    ‘‘ I ’M SORRY . . . she’s gone.’’
    Garth Wiste stared at the midwife as if looking at her the wrong way through a telescope. ‘‘And the baby?’’ He forced the words past the block in his throat.
    ‘‘Still alive but weak.’’
    My Maddie . . . how will I live? ‘‘I will see her now.’’
    ‘‘If you would wait until I clean things up a bit—’’
    ‘‘Now.’’ He pushed past the woman blocking the bedroom door and crossed to the bed to kneel by his wife’s side. Taking her hand in his, he kissed the skin so transparent he might look right through. The blood. All over like there had been a battle fought here. All her life drained out. ‘‘Oh, Maddie, I . . .’’ He fought the tears, but like stopping the ocean, it was impossible. He stroked her cheek, tucked her hair behind one ear with a tender finger. Never again would she tease him, make him laugh, hold him, play with her children, love him.
    He gathered her close as if willing life back into her cooling body. ‘‘God, how could you? She had so much to live for, and you took her away. How could you?’’ Anger flared, a rage so hot that surely the tips of his fingers burned her skin. He kissed her forehead and laid her back down, arranging her hair, tucking the sheet around her arms. ‘‘Oh, God!’’ His groan rent the stillness. ‘‘I cannot do this. You ask too much of me.’’
    A whimper came from the basket in the corner. Who would feed this baby? Surely the midwife would know someone to wet-nurse it. It? One did not refer to one’s infant as it . Was it a boy or a girl? He’d not bothered to ask, so concerned he was for his wife.
    ‘‘Mr. Wiste, please let me clean things up in here,’’ the midwife said from slightly behind him.
    He’d not even heard her come in. ‘‘About the babe?’’
    ‘‘Your daughter, sir.’’
    ‘‘Ah, yes. Do you know someone who could take her, a wet nurse?’’
    ‘‘I have a friend who would help out, yes.’’
    ‘‘Fine.’’ He got to his feet and stared down. Were it not for the drying blood and the blue of her skin, he might think Maddie only slept.
    ‘‘It’s God’s will, Mr. Wiste.’’
    He turned on her, impaling her with his eyes. ‘‘No! I cannot believe this is God’s will! If He is a God of love, this . . . this horror cannot be His will!’’ And if it is, I want nothing to do with Him!
    He strode toward the door without a backward look. He’d said his good-bye.
    ‘‘Don’t you want to see the baby?’’
    He jerked the bedroom door open and slammed it behind him.
    A thin wail heaped flaming coals on his agony. Treating the stairs and the front door with the same force, he thundered down the sidewalk and onto the street. He recognized no one, heard nothing. Had he been at the mill, the heat of him might have caused an explosion— when heat and flour dust combusted it could bring down a mighty building.
    He pounded the earth for miles until pain radiated from his feet, up his legs, and finally registered on his brain. He sank against a fence post, dazedly looking around, with no idea where he was. Other than in the country. Cows grazed in the field, unaware of his pain, as if nothing mattered but the next mouthful of grass. How could the birds fly about so unconcerned? The sun shone when surely it should be shrouded. He propped his elbows on his bent knees and buried his face in his hands. The tears drizzled on his chin, ran through his fingers, and soaked his sleeves.
    When the deluge had put out the fire, he tipped his head back against the wood and permitted the setting sun to dry his face. Finally staggering to his feet, he found the cows in a semicircle behind him, watching him and chewing their cuds.
    ‘‘So do you know the way home—to my home in Minneapolis, that is?’’ He must be deranged,