Page 8 of Poppy’s Prayers (Clover Creek Community #8)

Jacob stood in the cramped confines of the log cabin, his dark eyes fixed on the curtained-off corner where his wife labored. His hands, rough and calloused from years of farming, clenched and unclenched at his sides. The air was thick with anticipation and the musky scent of wood smoke. He could hear Poppy's muffled cries, and he cringed each time.

The door swung open with a creak that seemed to echo through the silence, and Mrs. Mitchell bustled in, her no-nonsense demeanor slicing through the tension. "Out you go, Jacob," she commanded, swooping into the room with the confidence of a woman who had ushered countless new lives into the world. "Childbirth is no place for a man, especially not a fretting father-to-be."

Jacob’s jaw tightened. "Mrs. Mitchell, I want to be here for Poppy," he said, his voice a low rumble of protest. It was his responsibility, his duty, to stand by his wife’s side, just as he had stood by his brother's until the very end.

"Jacob," Mrs. Mitchell said, placing her hands firmly on her ample hips, "you’ll do your wife more good by giving her space to bring those babes into the world. Now off with you to the barn. There’s work to be done, isn’t there?"

There was indeed. The second cradle awaited him—a symbol of survival and the future. With one last look toward the curtain, Jacob nodded.

He trudged out of the cabin and toward the barn.

Inside, the scent of fresh-cut hay mingled with the earthy aroma of sawdust. Jacob approached the half-finished cradle, running his fingers over the smooth curves of the wood.

He picked up the sandpaper, the grit biting into his skin as he began to work with rhythmic strokes. The motion was methodical allowing his mind to drift to what lay ahead. The sound of sanding filled the barn, punctuated by the occasional distant cry from the cabin.

As the wood beneath his hands grew sleeker and the unfinished cradle took shape, Jacob imagined the tiny forms that would soon rest within its embrace. He envisioned nights spent rocking his children to sleep, days watching them grow strong under the vast expanse of sky. In the smoothing of the wood, he sought to carve out a semblance of control.

Sarah moved with quiet haste around the modest cabin, her hands shaking slightly as she stoked the fire and set a pot of water to boil. She knew from her own experience with childbirth that boiling water before they used it would keep the mother and infants from getting infections.

Her sister, Poppy, lay upon the bed, a quilt hand-stitched by their late mother bunched beneath her. Poppy's breaths were shallow, her freckled face glistening with sweat, strands of fiery red hair clinging to her forehead. Sarah wiped Poppy's brow with a damp cloth, offering a silent prayer to the sturdy fabric that had mopped up tears, blood, and the sweat of fevered brows through so many seasons.

"Keep her calm," Mrs. Mitchell instructed. "And keep that water coming."

The door shuddered open, and Dr. Bentley stepped inside, his presence immediately filling the room with a different kind of weight. His eyes, dark and steady, swept over the scene before him, taking in every detail—the pallor of Poppy's skin, the determined set of Mrs. Mitchell's shoulders, the simmering pot of water. He carried with him a satchel of instruments and an air of readiness.

"Let's hope I'm only here for reassurance," he said, his voice low and even as he set down his bag and rolled up his sleeves. "But we'll be ready for whatever comes."

"Thank you, Doctor," Sarah murmured, turning back to tend to the kettle as another contraction seized Poppy, drawing a sharp cry from her lips.

*****

Jacob's hands were coarse with wood shavings, the rhythmic scrape of the sandpaper against the oak cradle a meditative mantra that kept his rising panic at bay. Each stroke was a silent prayer for Poppy and the life she was bringing into the world. The barn had become his sanctuary, a place to channel his helplessness into labor.

As he smoothed down an edge, the barn door creaked open, admitting both a gust of the evening chill and Elmer King's sturdy frame. Without a word, Elmer took up position on the other side of the cradle, picking up a piece of sandpaper and joining Jacob in his work.

"You don't have to stay, Elmer," Jacob said after a time, his voice barely above the whisper of sandpaper on wood. "The night is growing cold. Your family will worry."

Elmer paused, looking up from the curved rail he was smoothing. "I've got a stake in waiting, same as you," he replied, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken history. "Poppy's like my own kin. I helped raise her after all. And that child—," he corrected himself gently, "it’ll be my blood too, in a way."

Jacob nodded, acknowledging the bond that tied them together.

"Thank you," was all Jacob could say, the gratitude profound but the ability to express it difficult through the tightness in his throat.

"Nothing to thank me for," Elmer responded, returning to his task as if the rhythm of their work could somehow make the labor easier for Poppy.

And so, in silence punctuated only by the occasional groan of settling wood and the distant echo of a coyote's howl, two men sanded a cradle for a new life.

Jacob worked with an intensity that mirrored the resolve he'd carried since the war. Elmer stood across from him, his hands moving in tandem with Jacob's, both focused on the task at hand, shaping the cradle that would hold not one future, but two.

"Elmer," Jacob finally broke the silence, pausing to inspect a particularly stubborn knot in the pine. "It's children not child. Poppy's having twins."

Elmer's sanding slowed, then stopped. He looked up, his eyes reflecting the flickering lantern light, a trace of surprise registering before settling back into the worn lines of his face. "Twins, huh?" he said, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly. "Well, that's double the blessing—and double the trouble."

A faint smile tugged at Jacob's lips, acknowledging the truth in Elmer's words. He and his brother had once embodied the idea of twins being double trouble.

"Double the worry right now," Jacob admitted, turning back to the cradle.

They returned to their work, the silence settling over them once more.

Hours passed, though they seemed like weeks, and then the door swung open, casting Sarah's slender silhouette against the night sky.

"Jacob, Elmer," she called softly, her voice threading through the stillness. "You best come now."

Both men straightened, the urgency in Sarah's tone snapping them out of their concentrated labor. They exchanged a glance, tools abandoned as they brushed sawdust from their clothes and made their way toward the house, hearts heavy with anticipation for the news that awaited them.

Jacob's boots thudded softly against the dirt as he approached the cabin, each step heavy with trepidation. The door creaked open, and he paused.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of sweat and wood smoke. A low-burning flame in the hearth cast flickering shadows across the room, revealing Poppy propped up against a stack of pillows. Her flaming red hair lay damp against her flushed cheeks. She looked exhausted, but he could see the happiness in her eyes.

Jacob's breath caught in his throat as he took in the tableau before him—Poppy cradling not one, but two small bundles at her breast. Each child, a mirror image of peace, their tiny heads crowned with tufts of dark hair that hinted at their father's lineage.

"Jacob…" Poppy's voice was a whisper, yet it cut through the silence like the call of a meadowlark. "Meet your sons."

He edged closer, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight as if sharing the burden of his sudden rush of emotions. His gaze shifted between the infants, taking in every detail—the curve of their rosebud lips, the gentle rise and fall of their chests.

"Two boys," she continued, her words laced with a hint of laughter and wonder. "I think... I think we should call them Luke and Jake."

The names echoed in Jacob's mind, each syllable a promise, an anchor to the future they would build together in this untamed land.

"Luke and Jake," Jacob repeated softly, the sound of their names settling around him like a benediction. “We were Lucas and Jacob.” He reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the downy softness of his children's heads. At that moment, the weight of his past sorrows seemed to lift ever so slightly, making room for a hope that surged within him.

Jacob's knees nearly buckled with the force of his emotions as he pulled a wooden chair closer to the bed, its legs scraping against the plank floor. He sank down, his gaze never leaving the tiny faces nestled against Poppy's chest. "Luke…Jake," he murmured, feeling that it was right. He nodded, once, decisively. "Yes, Luke and Jake."

"Look at them, Jacob," Poppy whispered. "They have your dark hair, your strength even now."

He could only nod again, his throat tight with unshed tears. The lives they had brought forth were a balm to the scars left by war and loss. These boys, his sons, were the future.

"We'll teach them to ride and to read the land," Jacob said, his voice rough with emotion. "They'll grow up strong and free here, without the shadow of war looming over them."

"And kind," Poppy added, her eyes shining with hope.

"Kind," he echoed, picturing two young boys learning the ways of the trail, their laughter ringing out as they discovered the world around them. A world he would shape into a sanctuary for them, a place where the ghosts of his past could not reach.

"Promise me, Jacob," Poppy said, her hand reaching out to clasp his, "that whatever comes, we'll handle it together."

"Nothing could pull me away from you or our sons," he vowed. "We're bound by our sons."

Jacob reached out a trembling hand, his fingertips brushing against the downy softness of a small head. The infant's skin was warm, pulsing with new life under his touch. He hadn't realized how much room there was in his heart until this moment—until these tiny beings had filled it to brimming.

"Hey there," he whispered.

The baby turned slightly at the sound, nuzzling instinctively in the crook of his arm. Jacob felt a surge of protectiveness that was even stronger than the loyalty he had known for his brother.

In the quiet of the cabin, with dawn's light meandering across the wooden floorboards, the world narrowed to the confines of this room. Here, the weight of the past seemed to lift from Jacob's shoulders as he cradled his son, the future embodied in miniature breaths and the gentle curve of rosebud lips.

He allowed himself to trace the delicate eyebrows of the other boy, a mirror image of the first, sleeping soundly beside his twin. It struck him then, the enormity of it all, the responsibility of shaping these new lives.

"Luke…Jake…" he murmured, testing the names on his tongue, a solemn vow etched into each syllable. "My boys."

Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, unbidden yet unashamed in their descent. They were tears born not from sorrow, but from an overwhelming sense of love.

"Look at you," Poppy's voice was a soft lullaby, her gaze locked onto their sons with pride and wonder. "Strong already, just like your pa."

"Strong, and so much more." Jacob responded. “I’ll teach them to be free, like the river that carves its own path."

"Free," Poppy echoed, a smile touching her lips.

"Free," he affirmed, holding his sons close.

Here, Jacob Alexander, former soldier, and now father, found redemption in the simplest act of love. Just touching them, he was deeply, irrevocably in love with them.