Love's Fortune by Laura Frantz Page B

or—her heart stilled at the thought—James Sackett might have refused her.
    They navigated the maze far more easily than when she’d entered, and it was apparent he knew it well. Once again she stumbled on her cumbersome skirts, feeling the burn of embarrassment as he reached out to right her. Warm fingers cupped her elbow, then fell away as if bitten.
    “Are you all right?” His words came quiet in the stillness, surprising her, turning her a touch shy.
    In answer, her hand went to the rose she’d tucked in her hair. Plucking it free, she pressed the fading bloom into his sinewy hand. He took her small token of thanks without a flicker of emotion. As if she’d done nothing at all.
    Mercy, she’d never seen a man so . . . unbent. If she handed him a rattlesnake, what would his reaction be? Unlike Selkirk and the Cane Run men she knew, James Sackett seemed cast in stone.
    Papa appeared in their path, smiling bemusedly when he took in her wet attire. “I knew you’d be in the garden, Wren. Our carriage is waiting.” He extended a hand, which James shook firmly. “I’ll see you early in the morning, at the levee.”
    At James’s nod they parted company, though Wren gave a backward glance at the big house, thinking of Izannah.
    Papa looked back too. “Pray for your aunt, Wren. Her baby is about to be born and not all is well.”
    The terse words erased every thought of James Sackett from her head.

    “Where’s Mistress McFee, the midwife?”
    Izannah swung toward her father as he stood in the doorway of the dressing room, wishing she had better news. “She’s been sent for but is at the Kirks’.”
    A flash of exasperation lit his bearded face. She knew whathe was thinking. How dare young, vivacious Kitty Kirk, who birthed babies like a cat had kittens, intrude on a Turlock at such a time? It seemed to underscore the obvious. Mama was too old. Too tired. Too besotted with a house overflowing with children. Too passionate about Daddy—and he with her—despite a union that spanned a multitude of years and should have long since cooled.
    Childbirth was the only time her father showed fear. Izannah saw it now in the tight, tanned lines of his face, the grieved gray of his eyes. As a revered and respected judge, Jack Turlock was used to swaying fate with the swing of his gavel, yet here in the stifling bedchamber he appeared completely powerless. Out of place.
    Lying back on a bank of feather pillows, Mama tried to smile despite the ordeal stretching before her. “Izannah, ready the cradle and make sure a warm blanket is waiting. Then we’ll—” The words were snatched away by a pain so acute her face turned ashen despite the heat of the bedchamber.
    Witnessing it, Papa tunneled a hand through his hair and shut the door, enclosing himself in the dressing room. Izannah turned back to the bed as Mama finished telling her what to do, her words rushed and then extinguished altogether by an anguished moan. For a moment Izannah stood stricken.
    It should be me, Mama, lying in that bed, giving you a grandchild . I’d gladly withstand the pain to bear my beloved a son . . .
    The thought sent her flushing and nearly stumbling as she readied the cradle. Used by countless Turlock babies, its pine edge was marred by tiny tooth marks, the interior lined with lamb’s wool in winter and the softest cotton in summer.
    “Open the windows wider, Izannah. And call for your father to—” Stopping again, Mama bit her lip. “To come praywith me. It shouldn’t be long now. I’ve had pains all through supper—”
    Before the last word was uttered, her father thrust open the door that separated them. Izannah fled down the hall to fetch linens, her last look capturing her strong, stalwart father on his knees at Mama’s side.
    In the shadows of the linen closet, she drew in a quivering breath and tried to shake the sick feeling that followed. The day had gone wrong from the start. Her brothers had been an unmanageable