Chapter Nine

Ana joined Dr. WilliamMercer in the infirmary every morning, before spending the afternoons with her sisters. It felt good to be helping her husband but still being allowed to spend a few hours every day with her sisters. Slowly she was getting used to spending time away from her sisters, though it was much harder than missing their mother. Mother had given them as much time as she could, but her evenings had been with Father. She and her sisters had rarely not been in the same room together.

William moved with ease among the patients in the waiting room. Ana watched him, feeling the weight of responsibility on her shoulders—the same weight he bore with such grace.

Ana listened to the soft groans of the ill. Each morning unfolded like the pages of a well-worn journal, details penned in the careful script of routine.

"Hand me the bandages, please," William said.

Ana complied, her fingers brushing against his as she passed the linen strips. Their eyes met briefly. In these shared glances, she found affirmation of her growing skills and a kinship born from serving side by side.

They moved from patient to patient, a dance of compassion choreographed by necessity. She applied salves with delicate precision, wrapped wounds with newfound confidence, and offered soothing words that she hoped might ease more than physical pain. William observed her progress, his nods more telling than any spoken praise.

Ana had never had any desire to be a nurse, but she found she was good at it, and she enjoyed it more than she could express. She didn't know if she simply liked working with her husband or the nursing itself, but either way, she enjoyed the time she spent in the infirmary.

The infirmary buzzed with life. Miners with coughs, children with scrapes earned in youthful exuberance; women worn thin by the rigors of frontier existence—they all came and went, their stories etching themselves into Ana's soul.

With each passing day, her hands grew surer, her resolve firmer. She learned the language of healing, of caring by watching William, who saw healing as more of an art than a science.

When the clock signaled the end of her morning vigil, Ana would bid farewell to the infirmary and its occupants. She often told stories of her mornings to her sisters in the afternoons, but she was always careful not to give any names or descriptions of people because that felt unethical to her.

*****

THE NEEDLES DANCEDbetween their fingers, threads weaving bonds as tight as the stitches in the linen. Ana, Izzy, and Rosie sat in a circle, surrounded by the soft hum of afternoon light. Their conversations meandered through the complications and joys of married life.

"Albert becomes more distant with each ledger he buries himself in," Isabelle's voice was a whisper.

"Charles's ambitions stretch far beyond the mountains," Rosabelle added, her tone touched by the shadow of doubt, "sometimes I worry he'll take me away from here. From the two of you."

Ana listened to her sisters and offered advice when it was asked for. Though she knew no more of marriage than either of them.

*****

ANA HELD A WOMAN'Shand, calloused from years of toil, as life burst forth in a cry—a cry soon echoed by another. Twin boys, their arrival doubling the joy in the room. Ana watched, her emerald eyes reflecting a kindred fascination. She knew the bond of sharing a womb.

Later, when the new mother rested and the twins lay swaddled side by side, Ana lingered. She traced the delicate features of the newborns. In the quiet of the infirmary, Ana felt the weight of many lives—those lost, those just beginning.

She thought of her Mother, her absence an ever-present pang in Ana's chest. The pain was a dull blade, but standing there, watching over these new souls, she found solace. It was as if each delivery, each tiny heartbeat, filled the empty spaces left behind.

Dim candlelight flickered across the modest supper table as Ana set down her fork, the metal tines chiming faintly against the porcelain.

"Ana," William began, "I must commend you. The aptitude you've shown in the infirmary—it's quite remarkable."

She looked up, meeting his eyes. "Thank you, William," she replied, her words floating like leaves on a still pond. "I appreciate how patient you are with me. I could never learn without your guidance."

"Perhaps," he conceded. "But a fine nurse needs more than just instruction. She needs intuition and compassion...You have both."

Ana felt a flush of pride warming her cheeks. "Thank you for saying so."

*****

THE NEXT MORNING, ASthe sun cast long shadows over Hope Springs, Izzy wandered into the infirmary, her face pale. Her hand rested on her abdomen, a subtle cradle for her discomfort.

"Ana," she murmured, her voice lacking its usual vivacity. "My stomach... it's been turning all morning."

"Let's have you lie down," Ana said. She guided Izzy to a cot.

As Izzy settled with a quiet groan, Ana's thoughts drifted to the many women she'd seen in these beds. There was a silent kinship among them, a shared vulnerability that transcended the walls of the infirmary.

"William will know what to do," Ana reassured her sister, though her own heart thrummed with trepidation. "Rest now. I'm here."

Izzy nodded, her eyelids fluttering like moth wings before succumbing to their weight. Ana watched over her. She cared about all of her patients, but her concern for Izzy was strong.

The infirmary door swung open with a gentle nudge from William's shoulder, his arms occupied by an assortment of glass vials and cotton bandages. The sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a somber glow on Izzy's pallid face. Ana had never seen her sister so still, so fragile beneath the white sheets.

"Ana, could you help me with these?" William asked. Ana nodded, her hands moving mechanically to assist him.

"Thank you," he said. "Izzy, tell me what's wrong."

While William talked with and examined her sister, Ana felt a chill run down her spine, her fingers tightening around a glass vial. She knew the signs, had learned to read them as well as any book. But knowing did not quell the dread that rose within her like floodwater.

"You're expecting," William announced, a gentle smile softening the gravity of his words.

Izzy's breath hitched, her hand fluttering to her abdomen in disbelief. Ana's heart ached at the sight, the joy and fear warring on her sister's face.

"Expecting?" Izzy echoed, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes," William confirmed, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. He spoke of new life with reverence, yet Ana's mind raced with thoughts of the birthings she'd witnessed—the screams, the sweat, the blood.

"Congratulations," Ana murmured, the word feeling like a stone on her tongue. She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Thank you, Ana." Izzy's gaze met hers, seeking solace in shared understanding. "I must tell Rosie."

*****

THAT AFTERNOON AS THEtriplets sat together in Ana's parlor, Izzy looked at Ana and then sighed. "Rosie, I need to talk to you," Izzy said.

"Of course," Rosie replied, setting aside her sewing. "What is it?"

"I'm...We're going to have a baby. Albert and I." Izzy's voice trembled.

Rosie's eyes widened, a myriad of emotions flickering within. "Oh, Izzy, that's wonderful!"

"Is it?" Izzy bit her lip, the uncertainty gnawing at her. "Albert has never spoken of wanting children. And after all the births Ana has seen..."

"Shh," Rosie soothed, reaching across the space between them to squeeze Izzy's hand. "He loves you. This will bring you even closer."

"I hope you're right." Izzy attempted a smile.

Ana watched from the doorway, her fears mirrored in Izzy's cautious hope.

"We need to start sewing for the baby then, don't we?" Ana asked, smiling. She loved the idea of making something special for her future niece or nephew.

A plaintive wail pierced the hum of conversation. Ana turned, her eyes narrowing as she sought the source. The sound came again, a baby's cry, insistent and raw. Without a word, she rose.

She reached the door, the coolness of the handle seeping into her palm. There, on Ana and William's porch, bundled in coarse blankets, lay an infant. Its face was ruddy, its tiny fists punching the air with the ferocity of its cries.

Ana knelt, the hem of her skirt collecting dust from the boards. Her breath caught as she took in the sight, the enormity of what lay before her dawning slowly. She extended a trembling hand, her fingertips brushing the soft down of the baby's cheek. The crying ceased for a heartbeat, curious eyes locking onto hers.

"Who would leave you here?" she murmured, more to herself than the child. The baby's gaze held a depth that seemed impossible for one so young.

Ana gathered the infant into her arms, the warmth of its small body seeping through the layers of fabric. She stood, cradling the bundle close, her mind churning.

As she held the baby, the silence of the house behind her felt suddenly profound. The sisters' laughter and chatter had ceased, and Ana knew they were watching, waiting for her to turn back with answers she did not possess. She gazed down at the child, feeling its steady heartbeat against her own, their lives momentarily entwined by circumstance.

For a moment, Ana closed her eyes, taking in the scent of the infant. There was nothing quite like the smell of a new baby. When she opened her eyes, resolve hardened within her.

"Let's go inside," she whispered. Her heart was heavy with questions, but she carried the child with tenderness.

William's familiar footsteps approached the front porch. Ana paced back and forth, the baby nestled in the crook of her arm, its cries piercing the quiet twilight. She felt each wail as a sharp tug at her heart. Her sisters had gone home to prepare supper for their husbands, and she was left alone with the baby.

"William," she said, her voice strained with worry as he crossed the threshold. He removed his hat, revealing furrowed brows that smoothed upon laying eyes on the pair.

"Let's see here," William said softly. "We can try infant food. It's better if a baby is fed by breast, but I do have some infant food in the infirmary. It's gentle on the stomach. I'll run and get some and will be back in ten minutes."

True to his word, he came back a short while later, carrying a can of something.

Ana watched him with a mixture of relief and doubt as he set about preparing a bottle with practiced hands. The baby's cries subsided to fitful whimpers, and it latched onto the makeshift teat with an instinctive hunger. In that moment, Ana's restless pacing ceased, and she allowed herself a silent breath of reprieve.

In the days that followed, they made inquiries throughout Hope Springs, their voices growing hoarse with the repetition of the question: "Do you know this child?" Yet, the town's response was a resounding murmur of uncertainty. Each shake of the head, each shrug of the shoulders added another layer to the mystery enfolding the baby girl.

With the dawn of each new morning, Ana's routine encompassed the dual roles of nurse and caretaker. While her hands were busy with bandages and balms in the infirmary, her mind wandered to the little being swaddled in her sisters' care. Her sisters, who chattered about their husbands and stitched together quilts, now also whispered soft lullabies to the foundling cradled in their arms.

It became a rhythm of sorts—a dance between duty and devotion. And as the baby's cries grew less frequent, replaced by coos and gurgles, Ana felt a bond forming, fragile and unspoken, but as real as the weight of the child in her arms each night.

*****

A WEEK HAD PASSED,each day closing with the same unanswered questions. The baby's origins remained a mystery, and Hope Springs had offered no claim to the infant. In the quiet of the parlor, Ana sat by the firelight, the child nestled against her chest, her eyes tracing the gentle rise and fall of the tiny form.

"William," Ana said, "we've searched and asked tirelessly. No one claims the baby." She looked at her husband, saying a silent prayer he had come to the same conclusion she did.

"Then it seems," he said with a weighted pause, "she is ours now."

The words hung between them—a shared understanding. Ana nodded, the corners of her mouth curving upward in a tender smile. It was an unorthodox blessing, a gift they hadn't sought but had been bestowed upon them, nonetheless.

"Ours," she repeated. A laugh, light and airy, escaped her as she confessed, "I'm thrilled, truly. To think, I have a baby—without the pains of childbirth."

William's chuckle mingled with her own. Her heart swelled with an affection for a child she had not borne yet felt intrinsically connected to.

In the flicker of the fireplace, the baby cooed, oblivious to the depth of the conversation, to the life-changing decisions being made over her slumbering head. Ana watched her, the joy of unexpected motherhood blooming within her chest, as William's presence anchored her to this new reality they would navigate together.

Ana cradled the infant, her movements gentle and assured. Shadows crossed William's face as he watched them.

He cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the stillness. "Ana," he began. "The joy this little one brings...it's more than I could have imagined."

She glanced up, meeting his gaze. There was a vulnerability there she had not seen before.

"Yet," he continued, his eyes never leaving hers, "it stirs in me a longing—a sorrow for the children I'll never call my own." His words were soft, but they landed heavily in the space between them.

Ana felt a pang in her chest. "William," she whispered. Her heart ached for him, for the dreams that seemed just out of reach. "I'll think more about it."