Beneath the Apple Leaves(27)

She pulled away fiercely. “It’s just a scratch, I said!”

“Okay. Okay.” He put his hand up in innocence. The light filtered in an abrupt ray from behind a moving cloud and held to the hazel irises that stared in defiance at him. He swallowed and her eyebrows furrowed at the strange look that inched across his face.

The emerald eyes scanned him accusingly. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said softly, his own voice odd and unnatural. The heat was getting to him and he felt dizzy, wished he had some of Eveline’s lemon slices to wake him up. He met the eyes again. “What’s your name?” he asked gently.

“Lily.” She lowered her gaze. “Lily Morton.”

The name smacked him hard in the back. “You’re Frank Morton’s wife?”

“No!” Her face contorted in revulsion. “Ugh! How could you think that?”

“I just thought—” Andrew laughed then. Laughed at the absurdity of the conversation, at the fact that a woman was hiding in his tree and throwing apples at him, laughed that he wasn’t even sure what his name was anymore.

Lily twisted her chin and stuck a tongue in her cheek. “What’s so funny?” she asked hotly.

He couldn’t think of a reply, stood there dumb and smirking. Her eyes flickered to his, and her brows lowered. She crossed her arms over her middle. “Why are you staring at me like that?” she asked, livid. “You’re laughing at my dress, aren’t you? My big, dirty boots?” she seethed. “Well, take a good look and have your laugh. It’s all I got and I like them just fine even if they aren’t pretty to look at.”

Andrew stopped laughing, shook his head to clear it.

Her face distorted with shame. “I know we’re not rich like you, but that don’t give you a right to laugh at me,” she vented.

He was mortified, sorry to his bones. “I wasn’t looking at your clothes. I swear.” He floundered for an apology. “I’m sorry . . . that wasn’t it at all. I think your dress is fine. I really do.”

“My dress isn’t fine and you know it.”

“Honestly.” He stepped closer and leaned down so she would raise her eyes to look at him. “I wasn’t looking at your dress or your boots.” He smiled amiably. “I was just thinking about you throwing those apples. Nearly beaned me in the head. Got a good arm.” He clicked his tongue. “For a girl anyway.”

She studied him with reserve, squinted her eyes to see if he was teasing or being mean. Then her whole demeanor relaxed and she yielded. “Sorry I threw apples at you.”

“Tell you what, let’s start over.” He stuck out his hand. “Andrew.”

A cry broke from the house. A long, pained scream followed.

Andrew ran to the porch and into the parlor and found his aunt bent over in front of the rocking chair, her hands gripping the curved arms as if she rocked a ghost in the empty chair. The woman’s hair hung loose around her face and her features twisted in agony. Andrew put an arm around her waist. “Come to the sofa,” he ordered.

“No,” she panted. Short, quick breaths blew from her pursed lips. “They’re coming.”

“I’ll find a horse and get to town, get the doctor.” He let go, but she grabbed his wrist, her grip strong as a bear trap.

“There’s no time.” Then her lips rose about her teeth and she curled inward, wailed low and deep, the sound raw and primal. She breathed hard again, winced with terror and pain. “They’re coming now.” Her body writhed. “They’re coming now!” she cried. “Oh, God.”

“Mrs. Kiser?” The young woman in the torn green dress appeared in the room beside him. “We need to get you walking,” she urged with pointed control. With that, she took one of the woman’s limp arms and put it around her shoulder. She motioned with her head for Andrew to do the same and together they etched a circle in the room while Eveline hobbled between them.

“Who are you?” Eveline panted as the next contraction began building.

“Lily Morton. Live across the way.” She gave a slight curtsy under the weight of the woman. “Good to meet you.”

Eveline gave a short laugh at that before crumpling into the next wave of pain. “Oh, God!” she cried again. “Not now.”

“Bring her to the couch,” Lily ordered, and led the way. Eveline lay down and arched her back, clutched her stomach.

“Andrew,” Lily called to him, her voice calm and steady, rigid with authority. “You need to boil a whole pot of water, do you understand? I need a pile of clean sheets and some towels.” She swallowed and lowered her voice. “Need you to boil a kitchen knife, too. Just in case.”

Andrew blanched but went to the kitchen. He picked up the pot but was so nervous that it slipped from his fingers and crashed loudly against the floor. Stay calm. He lit the stove and stared at the pot for a long moment before he realized there was no water within the base. He ran to the well pump and filled a bucket, brought it back into the house, his speed sloshing half the water across the floor and making him slip.

He ran up the stairs, taking the steps three at a time. From the parlor, Eveline screamed. He shivered to his bones, grabbed the clean sheets, brought them downstairs. Eveline’s dress was up past her knees while Lily inspected the state of the birth.