Stay a Little Longer

Book 1: The Tucker Family Series

by Dorothy Garlock

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

For Rachel Watkins, the armistice has brought anything but peace. She struggles to run her family’s Minnesota boardinghouse, keep her grief-shattered family together, and fend off the man who is using any means necessary to take her property. But now a shell-shocked stranger takes refuge with the Watkins family as he tries to heal and salvage what he can from his once privileged life. And when remorseless enemies seize a devastating chance, Rachel and this mysterious loner will risk everything to believe in each other … and claim the dreams they’ll never surrender.

Release date: April 10, 2010

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

Carlson, Minnesota—October 1926

RACHEL WATKINS wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand while absently moving a strand of her coal-black hair from her green-flecked
brown eyes. Though the early October day carried the crisp chill of autumn, the inside of Will and Clara Wicker’s small home
blazed as if it were the hottest day of July; water boiled in a cast-iron pot on top of the wood-burning stove and candles
flickered in every corner, their meager light sending faint shadows dancing across the walls.


“Oh, Rachel… it hurts…”

Clara Wicker lay on her back in the bed, one thin-boned hand spread across her enormous pregnant belly. All of the color had
drained from her thin face except for the dark purple circles under her eyes and her bitten, red lips. Her blonde hair, slick
with sweat, was drawn back from her face. Beads of moisture stood out on her forehead. Her eyes were closed tightly and her
breathing was shallow. Not particularly pretty, Clara’s face was now a mask of agony.


“It’s to be expected,” Rachel comforted her.

“Ohhh!” Clara answered, her cry almost a moan.

“It’ll be over soon.”

Gently, Rachel wiped the sweat from Clara’s pain-chiseled face. Looking around her, she took inventory of all that she would
need to bring the young woman’s first child into the world; the extra sheets that had been prepared for the birthing, a nightdress,
towels, clean rags, and a dented bucket for water. Everything was as ready as it could be.


“You sure you know what you’re doin’…’bout birthin’ and all?” Will Wicker asked from where he meekly stood at the head of
his wife’s bed, his voice little louder than a whisper. He nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the next, his small,
dark eyes flickering back and forth from Clara to Rachel, never lingering for long. His filthy fingers, the fingernails caked
with dirt, twitched uneasily as he rubbed one thin hand over the stubble of his bony jaw. His clothes hung loosely on his
small frame, just as sweaty and soiled as the body they covered.


How did Clara allow this man to lie between her legs?

“I do,” Rachel answered simply.

“Wouldn’t it be better if your mother was here?” Will followed.

“I’ve already told you that she couldn’t make it.”

“But don’t you think… that…” he stammered. “You know… given that…”

“There isn’t time for this.” Rachel took a deep breath, trying to settle her growing dislike for the man. From the moment
she’d been summoned to the Wickers’ ramshackle house at the far outskirts of town, she’d hoped that Will would simply accept
that she was every bit as capable as Eliza Watkins of bringing a newborn child into the world. Instead, he’d eyed her warily
from the moment she’d set foot in his home, as if she had come to harm instead of help. So far, he had contented himself with
a few derogatory comments. She hoped that was the way it would remain.


“I’ll need you to bring me the water when it’s time,” she told him.

“Don’t worry ’bout me none,” he answered. “Ain’t no—”

Before Will could say another word, Clara moaned in pain as blood-tinged water gushed from between her legs and formed a puddle
around her feet on the mattress.


Sensing Clara’s panic, Rachel did her best to settle the pregnant woman. “Don’t worry about the water,” she said calmly. “We’ve
got plenty of rags and oilskins to keep things dry. This happens to every woman when giving birth to her child.” Covering
Clara with another clean sheet, she grabbed a pair of rags and tucked them between the woman’s legs to catch the remaining
fluid.


“I’m… I’m sorry…” Clara struggled to say.

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about,” Rachel said with a soft smile.

At a sudden rustling behind her, Rachel turned to find that Will had moved from the head of the bed and quickly shuffled over
to the ramshackle home’s lone window, as far away from his wife as he could get without going outside. The look on his face
was one of utter revulsion and horror. Clearly, the sight of Clara’s body preparing to give birth, readying itself to finish
what had begun when Will had planted his seed inside her nine months earlier, had completely unsettled him.


“That there… that there…” he stuttered, “ain’t… ain’t right!”

“Will… Will… don’t…” Clara struggled to say through the vicious waves of pain that washed over her, one shaking hand stretched
toward her husband, desperately urging him to return to her side.


“I can’t, Clara,” he answered with a shake of his head. “I just can’t.”

A small cry escaped Clara’s lips and the hand that she had offered to her husband was withdrawn, instead clenching into a
tight fist that she pounded heavily on the mattress. Her head swung from side to side as she rode out a spasm that hurt so
much her eyes, though still open, couldn’t seem to focus on either of the faces around her.


“Help her!” Will shouted at Rachel.

“I’m doing all that I can,” she answered as calmly as she could.

“Maybe Doc Clark is back,” the man kept on. “Maybe he can do this!”

Clarence Clark was Carlson’s new doctor, having recently arrived from the state college. For many years, the town simply made
do without a full-time physician, relying instead on the folk knowledge that had been brought from the Old World, mostly a
mixture of Norwegian and German home remedies. Though Dr. Clark was a young man in his early thirties, he had proven to be
an excellent caregiver and was well respected. If not for an emergency in his wife’s family that had taken him from town,
he would have been where Rachel now sat.


“We don’t need Dr. Clark’s help,” Rachel said, her eyes never leaving Clara.

“Then we should get your mother,” he insisted. “She’ll know what to do!”

“She can’t help us,” Rachel answered curtly.

“But she’d know—”

“We don’t need her!”

Though Rachel had remained calm through Will Wicker’s suggestion that she needed Clarence Clark’s help, she bristled at the
insinuation her mother was more capable than she. Before the doctor’s arrival, Eliza Watkins had been the midwife for the
birth of nearly every child in Carlson. Her opinion had been sought for every sort of illness or condition, even those outside
of childbirth. But then Mason Tucker had gone off to war…


And everything had changed!

Nowadays, Eliza Watkins almost never left her room in the house she owned with her brother, Otis. She contented herself with
fretting incessantly about those unfortunate enough to get too close, working herself into fits of worry. She agonized over
the slightest sign of a cold, the hidden danger of a flight of stairs, or the tiniest of cuts. To combat these imaginary threats,
she hid herself away. Even now, in Dr. Clark’s absence, she couldn’t bring herself to help. Instead, the burden once again
fell to Rachel.


As a child, Rachel had never been her mother’s favorite; that honor had always belonged to her older sister, Alice. Where
Alice had been fawned over, eagerly encouraged to follow her dreams, Rachel had forever been second fiddle. When she’d been
told what to do, there was no other expectation than for her to agree. Thankfully for the Wickers, she’d watched her mother
deliver babies so many times that there was little that could surprise her. They were in safe hands. In the end, it seemed
that everyone now depended upon her.


Her mother, her uncle Otis… and especially Charlotte.

“Look at me, Clara,” Rachel encouraged.

Hesitantly, the pregnant woman’s eyes fluttered open and stared into Rachel’s face, not seeing her, but using her voice as
a point on which to focus her mind while her muscles knotted and pulled. Her voice cracking, she answered, “It… it hurts,
Will… Rachel…”


“It won’t be long, Clara,” Rachel soothed.

“Is she supposed to be hurtin’ like this?” Will asked from the far corner, his voice finally returning after Rachel’s rebuke.
He looked at them over his shoulder, as if he couldn’t bear to bring his full attention toward the bloody, unsettling sight.
“It don’t seem right.”


“Take one of these rags,” Rachel told him, holding a swatch of cloth out for him, “and dip it into the water bucket, then
use it to wipe the sweat from her brow.”


“I—I can’t,” he said with a shake of his head.

“Stop asking questions and complaining about things you know nothing about. Clara and I need you to do this one simple thing,”
Rachel commanded, the fire in her heart momentarily bubbling to the surface. “We need to make her as comfortable as we can.
Whining about how this looks isn’t going to do her any good.”


“I’m not whining,” Will countered, succeeding only in reinforcing Rachel’s accusation. Still, his resolve to stay away from
his wife’s side wavered. Slowly he made his way to where Rachel knelt, snatched the rag from her hand, and clumsily dunked
it into the bucket. Making his way to the bed, he began absently to wipe it across Clara’s blazing forehead.


“Just try to keep her cool,” Rachel furthered.

“I’m here, Clara,” Will softly reassured his wife.

“Oh, Will!” she exclaimed before another pain came and went as rivulets of water ran down her red cheeks.

“It won’t be long now, Clara,” Rachel said confidently. From her experience at her mother’s side, she could see that the Wickers’
new child would soon make his or her entry into the world. “If you need to holler right out and loud, don’t you hold yourself
back. Even if they hear you over in Cloverfield, you just rear back and shout. Take hold of the sheets and push when I tell
you to. That’s a good girl…”


Clara’s body shook as agonizing contractions washed over her, leaving her with little control of her mind or her body. Her
shouts rose in intensity, filling every space of the small home. Still, she did as Rachel told her, pushing her small body
to expel its burden.


“Clara! It’s coming!” Rachel shouted from the end of the bed. “I can see the top of its head!”

The pregnant woman’s eyes opened wide. “Will!” she screamed.

“I’m here, darlin’,” Will answered, his eyes searching his wife’s face, his unease nearly completely forgotten. “You just
keep pushin’… let it come. Don’t hold yourself back from the hurtin’.”


“Listen to him!” Rachel added.

Just as her mother had taught her many years before, Rachel let a sense of calmness wash over her; this was a time that required
both a steady heart and hand. Everything about the birth of Clara Wicker’s baby seemed normal, but any delivery could go wrong
in an instant. Still, she knew that she would do anything in her power to make sure nothing happened to either mother or child.
Placing the palm of her hand on the hardened mound of Clara’s abdomen, she waited for another contraction.


“Ohhh… oh, it hurts!” Clara bellowed as heavy pain assailed her.

“Push, Clara! Push!” Rachel urged.

Clara did what she was told and her child arrived. The head came free and then, a mere blink of the eyes later, the shoulders.
Rachel waited for the final push, then gathered the baby to her. She reached for the linen string, tied two heavy knots on
the umbilical cord, and cut between the knots to sever the cord. The baby was covered in birth blood. She grabbed a towel
and cleaned the child frantically, pressed by the realization that something was wrong; the tiny chest was not moving, the
eyes were sealed shut.


“Rachel… I don’t… I don’t hear anything,” Clara gasped.

“Is… is somethin’ wrong?” Will added.

Refusing to become distracted, Rachel gave no answer, her mind racing over her mother’s many lessons before alighting on the
answer. Quickly, she hurried to the dented bucket of well water and plunged the newborn infant into the cold water up to its
neck. She poked her finger into the child’s mouth when it gasped. “Breathe!” she whispered fervently. “Breathe!”


“What’s happenin’?” Will insisted, stepping away from his wife’s side.

“Stay back!” Rachel barked. She knew that there were people who depended on her to do the right thing, to take care of what
was precious to them and keep it safe. Her entire adulthood had been spent doing just that. She wouldn’t fail now.


Suddenly the tiny chest heaved, and the little mouth opened and drew air into the lungs. The resulting scream was both fierce
and tiny, but it sounded like the sweetest of church music to Rachel’s ears.


“It’s… it’s not dead or nothin’?” Will asked cautiously.

“No, by God!” Rachel laughed. “Listen to that scream!”

Crossing the room, Rachel placed the tiny bundle of flesh on a towel. She rubbed the baby briskly, moved its tiny arms and
legs, then turned it over and rubbed its back until all of its skin had turned a healthy pink. He was both full and fit.


“You’ve got a beautiful baby boy,” she told the new parents.

“I’ve… I’ve got me a son?” Will asked.

Rachel nodded.

“Did you hear that, Clara?” he exclaimed, turning back to where his wife lay, utterly exhausted despite her beaming smile.
“We got us a son! She said we done got us a son!”


“A son,” Clara echoed.

Rachel continued to work the baby’s tiny arms and legs, smiling happily when the little muscles responded. Little hands flayed
the air, fingers fully outstretched. A cry of protest came from his mouth, and he opened large, beautiful blue eyes. Just
as her mother had always told her, she knew that what she had witnessed was a living miracle.


Every child was just that… a miracle!

“Look at what we got there!” Will shouted from beside Rachel. Staring at his newborn son, his face lit up with a brightness
she’d never seen before. “Just gander at them bright eyes! There ain’t a better-lookin’ boy that ever did come into this here
world!”


“Let… let me see him,” Clara said.

Rachel held a blanket to the fire and warmed it. Wrapping the baby, she cuddled him against her and carried him to his waiting
mother. Kneeling beside Clara, she placed the baby in her arms. Clara gazed upon her new son with as much amazement as love.


“Has… has he got everything?” she asked anxiously. Her fingertips lightly stroked the fuzz of dark hair.

“Yep! He’s got the right number! I counted!” Will exclaimed proudly as his eyes bounced from his wife to his son. “Ten fingers
and ten toes to go along with ’em! Now all he needs hisself is to get a name.”


“I thought… we’d already decided,” Clara said. “You’d picked a name.”

“I did,” Will nodded. “If it’s all right with you.”

“It is.”

“Then his name is Walter.” Will beamed brightly. “After my father.”

Having never given birth to a child of her own, Rachel always marveled at how quickly women could recover from the ordeal
of birth. After experiencing a pain the likes of which couldn’t be adequately described, their recovery was nothing short
of remarkable. She found herself amazed that Clara could so much as raise her head to look at her child. The color had begun
to come back into her face and her eyes seemed a bit livelier. She looked exhausted, worn out, but the pain had disappeared.


What she was witnessing was the beginning of a new life, not just for Walter Wicker but his parents as well. From this day
forward, they would go on together, their lives entwined; father, mother, and son. This was a time of happiness and joy, of
hopes and dreams, expectations and even fears. Nothing would ever be the same again.


Just like nothing was ever the same for me!

Rachel turned away from the Wickers as the shadow of a frown crossed her face. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop herself
from thinking of what had happened eight years ago that very day. Memories of the day assaulted her from all sides. The entire
time she had been inside the Wickers’ home, she had been fighting a constant battle against her remembrances, though it was
clear that the parallels were too close to avoid.


She knew all too well that the birth of a child was not always an occasion for joyous celebration. Sometimes, the beginning
of one life can signal the end of another. When such a thing happens, it’s up to the survivors to pick up the pieces, and
that was what she’d been doing for the last eight years. Picking up the pieces.


RACHEL LEFT THE WICKERS with the promise she would return the next day to check on the baby. From the tiny house on the outskirts of Carlson, she
headed home without any hurry, content to enjoy the beautiful day. High above, the mid-October sun shone down with pleasant
warmth, enough to hold off the persistent fall chill carried on the breeze. Lazy wisps of clouds skirted the far edge of the
horizon. All around her, the trees showed signs of the changing of the seasons: elms, oaks, and maples exploded in spectacular
colors; brilliant reds, deep purples, and even burnt oranges.


The day is too beautiful for the trip I have to make, she mused.


Carlson sat to the northeast of the capital city of Minnesota, St. Paul, and its sister city of Minneapolis. Primarily a farming
community, it was home to less than a thousand inhabitants. The tall, leafy cornstalks that had stretched skyward in the stiflingly
humid heat of July had been almost completely harvested, families spending night and day reaping the fruits of their many
labors. Farming was so essential to the town’s well-being that school was suspended during the busiest days of the harvest.


Like thousands of other towns in Minnesota, Carlson was situated on a lake. As she made her way toward Main Street, Rachel
caught glimpses of Lake Carlson through the spaces between homes. Open where it butted up against the town, the far side of
the lake was lined with majestic evergreen trees that sheltered wild game. Mallard ducks lowered themselves to the lake’s
glassy surface, their flight ending as they slid gently into the deep blue water. An abundance of catfish and walleye swam
beneath the surface.


The sound of saws cutting through wood and nails being hammered came to Rachel’s ears as she neared her family’s boardinghouse.
Carlson was clearly a town on the rise. New buildings seemed to spring up as readily as the corn that was the town’s lifeblood.
Passing Hamilton’s Grocery, Abraham McLintock’s barber shop, and Miller Livery reminded Rachel that while the rest of the
community was enjoying prosperous times, her own life seemed stuck in the quagmire of decline.


Stopping in front of the post office window, Rachel took a good look at herself in the glass reflection. Coal-black hair,
one of the features she was happy to have inherited from her mother, fell just below her narrow shoulders. Greenish-brown
eyes looked back at her over high cheekbones, a petite button of a nose, and full lips. Her clothes certainly weren’t the
latest fashion sent north from Chicago, but her blue blouse and skirt fit her narrow waist and full bosom flatteringly. There
was no shortage of bachelors in Carlson who entertained thoughts of taking her as a wife; but with all of her responsibilities,
romance was the furthest thing from her mind.


“Afternoon, Rachel,” a voice called from behind her.

Struggling mightily to find a smile to fix upon her face, Rachel turned to find Sophus Peterson leading a team of horses down
the street, his wagon nearly overflowing with a load of enormous orange pumpkins being brought to market. One of her many
suitors, he tipped his straw hat and gave her a wink before he walked past her.


“Not if it took a hundred years,” she muttered under her breath and continued on her way.

The boardinghouse she called home sat just off Main Street and across from Carlson’s train depot. Rachel stood in the road
and stared up at the building her grandfather had built with his own two hands shortly after his arrival from Pennsylvania.
He’d originally come to Carlson in the hope of tapping maple syrup from the thousands of trees in the area, but had ended
up having about as much luck as if he’d tried to squeeze blood from turnips. He’d died fifteen years earlier with little more
to show for his many labors than what he had when he first arrived; he left only the house as a legacy to his two children.
Rachel’s mother, Eliza, had decided to turn it into a boardinghouse when times began to get tough. Drifters and seasonal workers
rented the four available rooms a week at a time, and the Watkinses had somehow managed to eke out a living.


The building had required but not received improvement in the years since her grandfather’s passing. The exterior was in dire
need of a new slathering of paint; what little remained from the last coat was chipped and weather-beaten, with several warped
planks pulling free from the frame. One of the windows on the upper floor was cracked, a recent occurrence that would have
to be fixed before winter. Even the sign that read BOARDERS WELCOME wasn’t immune to decline; one of the bolts that secured the sign had come free, leaving half of the word WELCOME to hang listlessly
in the breeze.


With every passing year, the number of boarders seemed to dwindle; on most days the family felt lucky to have a single room
occupied. The only glimmer of hope had appeared years earlier when Rachel’s sister, Alice, married Mason Tucker, whose father
was at once the proprietor of the town bank and the wealthiest man in Carlson. Mason had promised to help care for his new
bride’s family, but then he had gone off to war and…


“Damn it all,” Rachel swore.

A fluttering at one of the upper windows attracted her attention and she looked up just in time to see her mother’s porcelain-white
arm quickly withdraw from the sunlight. Rachel sighed. Most days, her mother did little more than sit at her window and watch
the world go by without her, worrying all the while. Today appeared to be no different. Waiting for word of the Wickers, she
was by now quite impatient. Rachel was certain to get a tongue-lashing when she went inside.


The laughter of a young girl and the playful barking of a dog suddenly rose from the rear of the house; Charlotte and Jasper
seemed to have escaped Eliza’s panicked oversight long enough to make their way outside. Rachel hoped that Charlotte was being
careful; if she were to come back indoors with a bloody scrape or bruise, Eliza wouldn’t let her outdoors again for a month!
Rachel regretted that she would soon have to pull the girl away from her fun.


What a life for a small girl!

The inside of the boardinghouse was only slightly better than the outside; dusty banisters lined the once majestic hardwood
staircase that rose from the door toward the rooms on the second floor. Chipped tables and chairs filled the small dining
area tucked off to the left of the entrance and next to the kitchen. Though she often tried to polish the rich woodwork her
grandfather had built throughout the house, Rachel could clearly see the many blemishes and warps. While it must have been
something to behold when it was first built, the place now looked shabby.


Otis Simmons, Rachel’s uncle and her mother’s older brother, came from behind the dining room’s cast-iron stove humming a
tune between gulps from a bottle of whiskey. Drops of the amber liquid ran down his stubbly chin and heavy jowls.


“Don’t you think it’s a little too early to be drinking?” Rachel asked.

The sudden sound of his niece’s voice startled Otis so badly that he stumbled, nearly dropping his bottle. Sheepishly, he
stared at Rachel like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Though in his mid-fifties, Otis was childlike, even comical. He insisted upon combing his few gray hairs across his otherwise bald head. His dingy clothes strained
mightily against their seams and buttons on his enormous body, and he had a cockeyed smile that lit up no matter how much
he’d had to drink. For an instant, he tried to hide his bottle behind his ample waist and pretend the liquor didn’t exist,
but then he just smiled mischievously.


“I don’t know if I’d be willin’ to call this a drink,” he offered defensively.

“If it’s not a drink, then what is it?” Rachel asked, willing to play along with her uncle’s shenanigans for the moment.

“This here ain’t nothin’ but a nip,” Otis explained. “In my book, that sure ain’t the same thing as a drink.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Oh, my darlin’,” Rachel’s uncle exclaimed with a heavy slap at his knee, “drinkin’ is somethin’ you do sittin’ down at a
bar while pourin’ yourself a big glassful, whereas nippin’ ain’t nothin’ more than takin’ a few sips here and there. Drinkin’
you do with your friends down at the tavern or, if you’re a particularly lonely sort, yourself. Nippi. . .