Chapter Eight
Jacob stood in the cramped confines of the log cabin, his dark eyes fixed on the curtained-off corner where his wife labored. His hands, rough and calloused from years of farming, clenched and unclenched at his sides. The air was thick with anticipation and the musky scent of wood smoke. He could hear Poppy's muffled cries, and he cringed each time.
The door swung open with a creak that seemed to echo through the silence, and Mrs. Mitchell bustled in, her no-nonsense demeanor slicing through the tension. "Out you go, Jacob," she commanded, swooping into the room with the confidence of a woman who had ushered countless new lives into the world. "Childbirth is no place for a man, especially not a fretting father-to-be."
Jacob’s jaw tightened. "Mrs. Mitchell, I want to be here for Poppy," he said, his voice a low rumble of protest. It was his responsibility, his duty, to stand by his wife’s side, just as he had stood by his brother's until the very end.
"Jacob," Mrs. Mitchell said, placing her hands firmly on her ample hips, "you’ll do your wife more good by giving her space to bring those babes into the world. Now off with you to the barn. There’s work to be done, isn’t there?"
There was indeed. The second cradle awaited him—a symbol of survival and the future. With one last look toward the curtain, Jacob nodded.
He trudged out of the cabin and toward the barn.
Inside, the scent of fresh-cut hay mingled with the earthy aroma of sawdust. Jacob approached the half-finished cradle, running his fingers over the smooth curves of the wood.
He picked up the sandpaper, the grit biting into his skin as he began to work with rhythmic strokes. The motion was methodical allowing his mind to drift to what lay ahead. Thesound of sanding filled the barn, punctuated by the occasional distant cry from the cabin.
As the wood beneath his hands grew sleeker and the unfinished cradle took shape, Jacob imagined the tiny forms that would soon rest within its embrace. He envisioned nights spent rocking his children to sleep, days watching them grow strong under the vast expanse of sky. In the smoothing of the wood, he sought to carve out a semblance of control.
Sarah moved with quiet haste around the modest cabin, her hands shaking slightly as she stoked the fire and set a pot of water to boil. She knew from her own experience with childbirth that boiling water before they used it would keep the mother and infants from getting infections.
Her sister, Poppy, lay upon the bed, a quilt hand-stitched by their late mother bunched beneath her. Poppy's breaths were shallow, her freckled face glistening with sweat, strands of fiery red hair clinging to her forehead. Sarah wiped Poppy's brow with a damp cloth, offering a silent prayer to the sturdy fabric that had mopped up tears, blood, and the sweat of fevered brows through so many seasons.
"Keep her calm," Mrs. Mitchell instructed. "And keep that water coming."
The door shuddered open, and Dr. Bentley stepped inside, his presence immediately filling the room with a different kind of weight. His eyes, dark and steady, swept over the scene before him, taking in every detail—the pallor of Poppy's skin, the determined set of Mrs. Mitchell's shoulders, the simmering pot of water. He carried with him a satchel of instruments and an air of readiness.
"Let's hope I'm only here for reassurance," he said, his voice low and even as he set down his bag and rolled up his sleeves. "But we'll be ready for whatever comes."
"Thank you, Doctor," Sarah murmured, turning back to tend to the kettle as another contraction seized Poppy, drawing a sharp cry from her lips.
*****
Jacob's hands were coarse with wood shavings, the rhythmic scrape of the sandpaper against the oak cradle a meditative mantra that kept his rising panic at bay. Each stroke was a silent prayer for Poppy and the life she was bringing into the world. The barn had become his sanctuary, a place to channel his helplessness into labor.
As he smoothed down an edge, the barn door creaked open, admitting both a gust of the evening chill and Elmer King's sturdy frame. Without a word, Elmer took up position on the other side of the cradle, picking up a piece of sandpaper and joining Jacob in his work.
"You don't have to stay, Elmer," Jacob said after a time, his voice barely above the whisper of sandpaper on wood. "The night is growing cold. Your family will worry."
Elmer paused, looking up from the curved rail he was smoothing. "I've got a stake in waiting, same as you," he replied, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken history. "Poppy's like my own kin. I helped raise her after all. And that child—," he corrected himself gently, "it’ll be my blood too, in a way."
Jacob nodded, acknowledging the bond that tied them together.
"Thank you," was all Jacob could say, the gratitude profound but the ability to express it difficult through the tightness in his throat.
"Nothing to thank me for," Elmer responded, returning to his task as if the rhythm of their work could somehow make the labor easier for Poppy.
And so, in silence punctuated only by the occasional groan of settling wood and the distant echo of a coyote's howl, two men sanded a cradle for a new life.
Jacob worked with an intensity that mirrored the resolve he'd carried since the war. Elmer stood across from him, his hands moving in tandem with Jacob's, both focused on the task at hand, shaping the cradle that would hold not one future, but two.
"Elmer," Jacob finally broke the silence, pausing to inspect a particularly stubborn knot in the pine. "It's children not child. Poppy's having twins."
Elmer's sanding slowed, then stopped. He looked up, his eyes reflecting the flickering lantern light, a trace of surprise registering before settling back into the worn lines of his face. "Twins, huh?" he said, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly. "Well, that's double the blessing—and double the trouble."
A faint smile tugged at Jacob's lips, acknowledging the truth in Elmer's words. He and his brother had once embodied the idea of twins being double trouble.
"Double the worry right now," Jacob admitted, turning back to the cradle.
