Loving Against the Grain (Into the West #2)

Chapter 4

 

Emmaline continued to stare dumbfounded at Muriel, unable to grasp the notion she might be pregnant, till that woman, concerned over Emmie’s prolonged silence, grabbed her arm and dragged her out the front door and down the steps of the cookhouse. A light breeze kicked up, promising to sweep away the lingering, early morning clouds, ruffling Emmaline’s long hair over her shoulders as she gaped stupidly at her sympathetic friend. It promised to be a clear, beautiful, Pacific Northwest summer day, if not for the turmoil boiling through her at this moment. Even the dreaded nausea seeped away for the time being.

The space outside the cookhouse teemed with activity; sleds plodded by on the rutted road, led by Noah Lawson’s expertly maintained horses and mules, and even a couple of coveted steam donkeys rattled past, hauled by the largest of Lawson’s Percherons. Everywhere clattered the jingle of harness and good-natured cat-calls between lumberjacks as the camp stirred to life, another day amongst the trees beginning. The everyday bustle did little to calm Emmaline’s madly swirling thoughts, however, wrapped as she was in her current predicament.

Pregnant? She was pregnant? What was she going to do? Oh, what was she going to do? Lancelot had assured her women didn’t get with child that easily; that there were only certain times in a month in which to avoid! Her brother would kill her when he found out. He’d never liked the sea captain anyway, and now this. What was she going to do?

Out of the miasma of fear and dread, Emmaline’s thoughts reached beseechingly for the one constant amidst this tumbling mass of building hysteria: Muriel, who seemed to be whispering anxiously at her, requiring Emmaline to respond in some way over the pounding in her ears and the thudding of her rampaging heart. She forced herself to listen to what her friend said, though she felt light-headed, enough so that she reached out to anchor herself against the red cookhouse siding as she at last focused on what the older waitress was saying.

“…Could you be? Pregnant, I mean?”

Emmaline blinked at Muriel, mind still numb from the idea she might be carrying Lancelot’s baby inside her. Without conscious thought, her hands moved to her flat stomach as she slowly, guiltily, nodded assent to the whispered question. Muriel closed her eyes momentarily, heart going out the younger girl. Opening them once more, and gently brushing Emmaline’s hands from their tell-tale placement, Muriel breathed, “Oh, you poor, poor dear. What are we going to do?”

Emmaline latched onto the idea that there might be something they could actually do to erase the whole situation, and asked innocently, “Is there a way to get rid of it?”

Muriel’s jaw dropped. She stared, horrified at the naïve young woman before her. She felt for Emmaline; truly she did, and she would help her as much as she could. But, this notion, this ugly suggestion, needed to be wiped out of Emmaline’s thoughts forever, so Muriel straightened her spine, took her friend’s hands in hers, and said strongly, “It’s a living thing, Emmie. It’s already a baby! Look how it’s changing you, just with the morning sickness! It’s already alive. Like it or not, you made a baby with Captain Fairchild. Taking anything to kill it would be against God’s law, Emmie. Besides the fact you could die along with the baby.”

“But I’m going to die from embarrassment anyway, Muriel! Don’t you see? This town won’t accept an unwed mother. I’ll be labeled a fallen woman! A tart! An easy—“

“What are you two doing out here? I ain’t payin’ you to gab your jaws off outside!”

Crusty old Cookie, with iron-gray curls prickling over his head like curry-comb bristles and the ever-present cigarette drooping from between skinny lips, barked at his two “hashers,” as waitresses were called, from the top step of the Cookhouse.