Chapter Six

B rad rested his head against the copper bathtub and let out a sigh. He was exhausted. He could barely lift his brandy snifter from the stool sitting next to the tub. A clock from the living room below him chimed 11:00. The last two hours since putting Charlie to bed had been grueling.

Brad shuddered. If getting the man into the buggy had been hard, it was nothing compared to getting him out. After leaving Charlie, Brad went outside to find Captain had pulled the buggy onto the front lawn and was nibbling at the new spring grass. He'd had quite a time getting the stallion turned around and back in front of the house. The only way it would work was to go down to the barn, fix a feed bag, and lure Captain back to the house. He hung the bag over the horse's neck to keep him from searching out more grass.

Then came the job of lifting Charlie's father from the boot. It had been several hours since Brad had placed him there, and in that time the man seemed to have gained fifty pounds. And fatigue was catching up with Brad which didn't help. While resting against the buggy after his second attempt, Brad realized once he got the man out, he had no place to put him. He wasn't about to put a dead person on any of his furniture. Laying him on the dining room table wasn't appealing, either.

In the barn, he came across an old door. He hauled it to the parlor, placed it across two dining room chairs, and covered it with a blanket. Before going back outside he hauled water to his room and hung it on the hook over his fireplace. Hopefully, by the time he was done hauling the body in, the water would be hot for a relaxing soak.

After several tries and more swear words than he'd heard during the war, he was finally able to pull the body from the boot. Too heavy to carry, he dragged him across the foyer, and into the parlor, leaving trails of mud from the man's boots. Another mess for Cora to clean up. He heaved the man onto the door and pulled another sheet over him, keeping his face uncovered. Throughout this process, Brad prayed for forgiveness for the rough way he treated this poor man.

Brad slid down in the tub trying to soak his back, instead making his knees protrude from the water. The hot water relieved his aches, the brandy his pains. He closed his eyes. What would his son have been like if he had lived? Would he have been so free and full of questions? Would Brad have been a good father? After his short time with Charlie, he probably would have. He had enough patience with the boy's crazy questions to fill the hayloft. He made Charlie laugh and feel important. Oh, and those little arms around his neck—well... Brad wiped away a tear running down his cheek. How could something so simple be so powerful?

He chuckled recalling Charlie's "shirt dance." It must have been a game he played with his mother. It took a few seconds for him to figure out when he held out the shirt for Charlie to put his arms in, Brad was supposed to move away from Charlie's arms, making the little guy spin in a circle as he tried to slip his arms into the sleeves. They both ended up light-headed and laughing on the floor.

Now the chances of having more children were non-existent. Brad had no intention of remarrying, unless he were able to find a woman who would love him for himself, scars and all, and not for his money. Before meeting and marrying Lucinda, he had been a typical bachelor, going out, drinking, playing cards, doing some womanizing. Celebrating the end of the awful war. Most of the women he met in his social circles, though, only wanted him for his money, and, he had been told by his sister-in-law, his extremely good looks didn't hurt, either. Even before he was scarred, his value was in what he owned and how he looked, not who he was inside.

He refilled his glass from the brandy bottle sitting on a chair by the tub. Belinda Carlisle was one of those. She was constantly trying to seduce him into her bed so he would have to marry her. She didn't want Brad's love, only his money and her old family farm. Since he bought it from her, Belinda believed she had a connection to him; one she not only wanted but deserved. He finally avoided social functions so he wouldn't run into her. The Carlisles had never been church goers, but since finding out Brad went every Sunday, Belinda had become a "true believer." Brad became more and more disillusioned with women and their wily ways.

Then he'd met Lucinda at a party at his brother and his wife's celebrating the baptism of their fourth child. He was struck not only by her beauty, but by her sweetness. She seemed truly interested in him and his rebuilding of Whispering Pines. Lucinda and Caleb's wife, Colleen, had been childhood friends, and when Lucinda's family was passing through the area, they were invited to stay for an extended visit.

After two weeks Lucinda's parents left, but she stayed on. A month turned into two, then three, four, then wedding arrangements began. It had been love on both sides. Brad had never been happier or more content. His work on Whispering Pines had been worth it. He could bring his bride home and start a family.

When Lucinda had first seen the farm, she'd loved it. Her ideas for decorating fit with Brad's need for simplicity, mixed with her flair for elegance. The house took on life again. His employees adopted Brad and Lucinda's zest for life. When Lucinda became pregnant, Brad couldn't contain his joy.

Except for marrying her, the day Lucinda had given him the news was better than any other day in his life. He'd picked her up and twirled her around the room until they both fell to the couch from dizziness. Cora had given him a stern lecture about taking proper care of his wife since she was in "the family way." But beneath Cora's stern visage, he could see her happiness and joy at being able to raise "another Kemble."

Lucinda's pregnancy went well. She hadn't suffered from the morning sickness his sister-in-law had with each of hers. Lucinda thrived on Brad's attention and the growth of their child. With Cora's help, she took care of the house, and whenever she was resting, she was stitching clothes for the baby.

Then one Sunday evening when she was in her eighth month, her water broke. As always, Brad had given the employees the day off to spend with their families. After doing chores, he'd cherished their time alone. No one to interrupt their lovemaking and cuddling, no Cora to tell Lucinda how to take care of herself.

Lucinda had been lying on the sofa, eyes closed, her head resting on Brad's lap as he read to her from The Last of the Mohicans . She seemed more tired than usual, and as she listened to the story, she rubbed her hands over her large stomach. Occasionally she would comment on how tight it felt. When the hour grew late, Brad suggested they retire for the night. Lucinda would be more comfortable in their own bed. He helped her get up from the sofa and with their arms wrapped around each other's waists, they started up the stairs. Halfway up to their room, Lucinda stopped and let out a gasp.

"Brad, my water broke! It's too early!"

Brad heard the panic in her voice as he swept her up in his arms and took the rest of the stairs two at a time. He threw back the blankets on the bed and carefully laid her on the mattress.

"Get some extra sheets to put under me. Hurry, the pains are starting! Get some towels for the baby."

By the time he had come back with the sheets and towels, her pains were coming in rapid succession.

"I'm going to get Cora. You need help."

Lucinda took Brad's hand. Love and pain showed in her eyes. "I don't want you to leave me. We can do this together," she whispered as another pain gripped her.

His knees grew weak with helplessness. He'd helped birth plenty of animals, but this was different. But if Lucinda trusted him, he wasn't going to let her down. "I don't know what to do. Tell me."

"This is happening too fast. Cora said it would take a long time for the first one to be born." Another pain grabbed her. She pulled her legs up.

He slid the extra sheets beneath her and drew her dress over her stomach. His stomach flipped and head spun the sight between her legs. Lucinda was red and swollen, blood running onto the sheets. A small foot protruded from her.

Brad tried not to panic. "Honey, shouldn't the head be coming first?"

With tears running down her face, Lucinda looked at him between her legs. "Yes. That's what Cora and Colleen told me. What's wrong?"

"It seems the little fellow is going to enter the world landing on his feet. I'm sure everything will be fine." He wasn't so sure when she let out another cry. "Try not to push, Lucinda." Oh, God I don't know what to do. Help me .

Then he remembered what they did when a cow had trouble delivering. Heaven help him if this didn't work.

"Lucinda, honey, I'm going to try to help the baby turn around, so his head will come first. I know it's going to hurt." Her blonde hair was plastered against her blotchy, red face. Pain and trust showed clearly in her eyes. "I love you."

"I love you, too. Now do what you have to."

Brad took a deep breath and asked for God's help before pushing the little foot back into Lucinda's body. He tried to ignore her screams as he tried to turn the child. When he managed to get the child turned so his rear-end was facing out, Lucinda let out a piercing wail and the baby came out into Brad's hands followed by a gush of blood. The room went deathly silent.

The boy lay limp and blue in Brad's hands. He unwrapped the cord from around his neck, placed the infant face down across his hand, and patted him on the back with the other. Nothing happened. He picked his son up by his feet and spanked him. Nothing. Brad laid the limp form on the bed and put his ear against the small chest. Nothing.

A low moan from Lucinda brought Brad to her attention. The afterbirth expelled from her body along with more blood than was proper. He covered his son with a corner of the quilt before packing towels between her legs.

"How's the baby?" Her face was pale. With dark circles beneath them, her eyes were sunken.

Brad knelt on the bed by her and wiped the hair away from her eyes. "Our son is just fine."

"A son? We have a son?"

He kissed her forehead and swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Yes. You gave me a fine son."

"May I see him?"

"He's sleeping." There was no way he could tell her their son was dead. "I'll bring him to you when you're rested. Right now, I need to take care of you so you're strong enough to raise him."

Lucinda raised a shaking hand to Brad. "I'm going to die, aren't I?"

"Shh. No, honey, you're not going to die. I won't let you. I need you. Your son needs you." But even though he said the words, she was right. The bleeding hadn't stopped. Her skin grew paler and paler with each passing second.

"What should we name him?" Her voice was barely audible.

"I was thinking about naming him after our fathers: Caleb Barret Kemble. How does that sound?"

Lucinda closed her eyes. "It's a wonderful name. Brad, kiss me."

As he placed his lips against hers, she whispered, "I love you." A last puff of air passed from her mouth across his lips. Everything went silent.

"Lucinda? Lucinda? Oh, God, please don't let her die!" Even as he cried out the words, he knew it was too late. He had lost his beloved wife and son. Before he broke down in a puddle of grief, he picked up his son and placed him in a towel, laid him in Lucinda's arms, straightened out her legs, and covered them with the quilt. How long he stood beside the bed, watching their faces, hoping for a miracle to bring them back, he didn't know.

He didn't hear the buggies returning, nor Cora entering his room. He didn't remember his having to be pulled from the bed and the room by Cora and her husband, Joshua. or her calling in for more reinforcements. They finally dragged him into his study where Joshua plied him with brandy while Cora took care of Lucinda.

The funeral passed in a blur. He barely recalled throwing himself onto the grave. According to his brother, Caleb, he was like a man possessed. Later, after the funeral, he had locked himself in his study, where he proceeded to smash everything he could get his hands on. His brother and staff paced outside the door. Whenever they tried to break the door in, he would throw something at it and threaten to kill anyone who entered.

The final blow came when he hurled a brandy decanter against the fireplace and it flew back on his face. He welcomed the pain and blood running from his eye to his chin, but it would never equal the pain he had put Lucinda through. He passed through his pain and anger, not noticing his room had finally been breached.

"C'mon Mr. Bradley." Cora took hold of his arm. "Let me fix your face and get you to bed."

"Just leave me the hell alone!" He ran from the room, out the front door, and to the barn. Heedless of there being no saddle on Captain, he had jumped onto his back and flew from the house as if death itself was on his heels. They didn't see him for four days.

Brad touched the scar on his face as he pushed himself from the tub. The anguish was as strong as if it were yesterday. He wasn't sure if he could ever get rid of it. Something crashed on the main floor. Someone was in the house. The last thing he needed right now was a thief. Would this night never end? He put on his robe and slippers and tiptoed down the stairs making sure to avoid a few squeaking steps.