Midwife of the Blue Ridge by Christine Blevins Page B

hand up, aye?”
    “By my reckon,” Tom Roberts noted as he moseyed over to
    creekside, “you were the one sneakin’ up on me.” He grasped her
    by the forearm and yanked her up to dry land.
    “Hmmph!” Maggie set the bucket of eggs on the ground and
    stood with hands on hips, inspecting his camp. A dapple-gray geld-
    ing stood hobbled, browsing on cress near a pile of gear. A
    fi eld-dressed deer lay trussed near a small fire burning within a ring
    of stones. His faded blue shirt hung flapping from a tree branch.
    Her eyes lit back on Tom, wearing nothing but his red woolen
    breechclout. Tiny droplets glistened in his dark beard and on the
    curly hair sprayed cross his chest. His shoulder- length hair hung
    loose, dripping wet. Maggie swallowed.
    That is much man.
    He had a rugged beauty about him—tight, lean—solid as a
    chestnut tree. His body was allover tattooed with the marks of his
    trade, the most prominent being three parallel scars slashing from
    his left shoulder across his chest to his sternum. The purple- yellow
    of a fading bruise wrapped his rib cage on the right side. A shiny,
    circular scar, the size of a Spanish dollar, decorated the fi rm mus-
    cle of his left thigh. The collection of scars added to his partic u lar
    aesthetic. He belongs here. Standing in the wild, Tom Roberts fi t.
    He drew on doeskin leggings and secured the thongs to a thin
    belt holding his breechclout in place, all the while grinning.
    Sheepish under her scrutiny, he noted, “If you’d come by a mite
    earlier, you could have watched me bathe as well . . .”
    “An’ yiv no a speck of shame, do ye? Struttin’ about half nek-
    kid, like a savage . . .”
    “Look who’s talkin’—bare legs . . . loose hair, laces undone . . .
    like . . . like one of them gypsy dancin’ gals.”
    Midwife of the Blue Ridge 81
    She blushed at the truth of his observations and her fi ngers
    flew to tighten the laces on her bodice. “Yer a most angersome
    man, Tom Roberts!” Twisting her hair into a knot at the base of
    her neck, she held it there with one hand while jerking her skirt
    down to cover her legs with the other. “What are ye doin’ here
    anyway? If it’s on Joshua’s behalf, I’ll tell ye right off I’ll no go
    back t’ Richmond with ye . . .”
    “I figure this will come as a shock to you, miss, but the sun
    and the moon do not rise and set around Maggie Duncan.” Tom
    plucked his shirt from the branch, pulled it over his head, and
    slipped his arms into the damp sleeves.
    He cocked his head and looked at her for a brief moment,
    stepped forward, and pulled her hand away from her hair, releas-
    ing the dark coil to roll down her back. His eyes went soft and
    his voice low. “Leave it hang loose—’tis pretty thataway.”
    Maggie stared at him.
    Tom cleared his throat. “Where’re you off to anyway? Cabin’s
    back yonder.”
    “I—I was going t’ pick berries . . .” Maggie stumbled to gather
    her pails. “I’ve tarried
    here overlong—I better head back for
    more milk.” She scooted down the bank and sloshed upstream
    back toward the springhouse.
    Maggie stopped and turned. Smiling, she called out, “Hoy,
    Tom! I expect we’ll be seein’ ye up the brae.”
    “Up the what ?” Tom shouted.
    “The hill! Come on up fer breakfast.”
    H
    Seth came in from his morning chores and sensed an unusual ner-
    vous energy in the air. Battler was once again armed with the
    broom, sweeping with great gusto. Seth skirted around the tod-
    dler and settled his rifl e on the pegs mounted next to the door.
    Jack struggled down the ladder from the loft with a slab of
    bacon, which he tossed to Maggie. She slapped it down on the
    table and carved thick slices into the three-legged fry pan setting
    82 Christine
    Blevins
    over the embers. Winnie skittered in, dumped a load of fi rewood
    on the hearth, and ran back out the door. Only Naomi sat se-
    rene at the head of the table, wiping out her collection of treen-
    ware.