Cathleen paused in her writing. “You miss him a lot, don’t you?”
“Yes.” It was a simple admission, and Maggie didn’t attempt to elaborate on it.
“Why don’t you write and ask him to come here for the holidays?” she suggested.
Maggie shook her head sadly, knowing it wasn’t possible. “The weather is too unpredictable at this time of year, blizzards and ice storms. He couldn’t risk being gone from the ranch.” Her answer was logical and sensible, but it didn’t stop her from wishing she could see him. She needed someone she could talk to, someone who knew the facts surrounding her father’s death, someone who understood her inner anguish. As wonderful and good as Cathleen had been to her, Maggie wasn’t able to confide these secrets to her. They were all bottled up inside, silenced by pride.
As if sensing that it would be best to change the subject, her aunt asked, “Have you picked out any possible names for the baby yet?”
“Yes.” Maggie heard the thud of a cane in the hallway and rose automatically to help the arthritically distressed Mother Hogan into the living room, seating her in one of the armchairs. “If the baby is a boy, I’m going to name him Tyrone,” she told her aunt. “If it’s a girl, I’d like to name her Cathleen, after you.”
From the minute she had become aware of the life growing inside her, Maggie had begun to block out the part Chase had played in the baby’s conception. She considered the baby solely her own.
“What a lovely thought, Mary Frances!” her aunt declared, genuinely moved by her words. “Thank you.”
As Maggie started to sit down to finish wrapping Culley’s package, she paused to pull the gray sweatshirt down past her hips. It stretched across her stomach.
“It’s going to be a boy,” Mother Hogan stated. And she observed, “Look at how low she’s carrying the baby.”
“That’s an old wives’ tale.” Cathleen smiled away the remark. “It doesn’t have a thing to do with the sex of the baby.”
Before that moment, Maggie hadn’t considered whether she would prefer to have a boy or a girl. Boys certainly had an easier time of it in this world than girls.
“I suppose Dr. Gordon told you that,” Mother Hogan replied in a tone that questioned his knowledge.
“Does he have children?” Maggie asked. His sister, Pamela, she recalled, had never married, but she didn’t remember her aunt saying anything about the brother.
“No, he and his late wife were childless,” Cathleen answered.
“His wife died?” Maggie pressed the last piece of Scotch tape onto Culley’s package.
“Yes, some years ago in an automobile accident.” Her aunt paused, a sudden smile breaking across her expression. “I wish you could see the way the house is decorated for the holidays, Mary Frances. I swear, Pamela has persuaded the doctor to hang garlands and holly in every room of that house. You have never seen a brother and sister so devoted to each other.”
Maggie thought about that as she wrote Culley’s name on the package. Maybe they were separated by thousands of miles; maybe they hadn’t always agreed on everything; still, they were close.
But Christmas came and went without Maggie hearing a single word from Culley. She worried silently while she listened to weather reports that spoke of the blizzard burying Montana in snow. It was after New Year’s when she received his Christmas card with a ten-dollar bill tucked inside and a hastily scribbled note.
January 3
Dear Maggie,
I’m sorry this is late, but I couldn’t get out to mail it. It’s been a bad winter so far. One of the horses—the bay with the bad eye—slipped on the ice by the water trough and broke its leg. I had to shoot it.
Sorry this can’t be a longer letter, but I’ve got a dozen head of cattle missing. I can hear Calder’s plane flying over. He’s been dropping hay to his cattle. I doubt if he’s lost a single cow. He has the luck of the devil.
Thanks for the Christmas card and the shirts. They are nice. I gotta go now.
Your brother,
Culley
She shivered, remembering those Montana winters—the frigid air pressing an invisible icy band across the forehead and freezing the moisture in the nose; blowing snow clinging to eyebrows and eyelashes; and the cold that numbed the legs until a rider couldn’t feel the horse under him.
The baby kicked inside her and Maggie rubbed a hand across her swollen stomach, as if comforting it. The walls of the house seemed to close in on her, confining her. She wanted to get out—go somewhere, anywhere—but she couldn’t. It was almost time for lunch and she still had an American history lesson to study, not to mention the two older members of the household, who shouldn’t be left alone. She fought down the restless melancholy and waddled to the kitchen.
The last weekend of March Maggie went into labor. Seven hours later, she gave birth to a strapping eight-pound, nine-ounce baby boy. She was allowed to hold the squalling infant, with its prune-red face and mass of wet-black hair. None of it seemed quite real until later, after she was wheeled to her room to rest.
It was the next day when the nurse brought him in for his morning feeding that Maggie examined his tiny, perfectly formed fingers and toes, and laughed at the little mouth eagerly seeking the bottle’s nipple. Then came the surge of maternal love. It was a warm glow that radiated from within and shone from her features when she glanced across the room to her aunt, who had arrived a few minutes earlier.