When she protested that he was doing too much, he simply said, "You're growing our child. The least I can do is grow the firewood pile." By January, Norah was obviously pregnant, her belly rounding in a way that made simple tasks increasingly difficult. Sarah and the other valley women visited regularly, bringing supplies and advice, and the kind of female wisdom that had been passed down through generations of frontier mothers. They taught her about labor, about nursing, about the thousand practical details of keeping an infant alive in harsh conditions.
One afternoon, when snow fell thick outside and the cabin felt like its own small world cut off from everything else, Sarah stayed after the other women left. She helped Nora fold the tiny clothes they'd been sewing, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. "You're nervous," Sarah observed. "It wasn't a question." "Terrified," Norah admitted. "What if I'm too rough with the baby?
What if my size makes me clumsy? What if I hurt them without meaning to? You won't, Sarah said firmly. I've seen you with animals, with children at the fair. You know how to be gentle.
Size has nothing to do with tenderness, Nora. Some of the roughest mothers I've known were tiny women who thought delicate meant caring. You'll be fine. Better than fine. But what if the baby is small like Silas?
What if they inherit his size and I don't know my own strength? And then you'll learn, Sarah interrupted. The same way every mother learns. By paying attention, by being careful, by loving them so much that gentleness becomes instinct. She paused, her expression softening.
Can I tell you something? When I first heard about you, the giant mail-order bride from St. Louis, I judged you. Thought you must be desperate or deluded to marry a man you'd never met. But watching you these past months, seeing how you and Silas are together, how you've strengthened this whole community just by being who you are, I was wrong.
You're not desperate. You're brave. And that baby growing inside you is lucky to have you as a mother. Norah's eyes filled with tears. She tried to blink away.
"Thank you," she whispered. "I needed to hear that." After Sarah left, Norah sat in a rocking chair by the fire, her hands on her belly, feeling the baby move inside her. Each kick, each shift felt like a promise, that life continued, that hope survived, that love could create something entirely new and precious. Silas came in from the barn, snow dusting his shoulders and hat, his cheeks red from cold.
He saw her sitting there, one hand on her belly and tears on her face, and was beside her in an instant. What's wrong? Is it the baby? Are you hurting? I'm fine, she assured him.