Ada's Secret Read online

  Tears flowed from the eyes of the four women in attendance of the birth as they wrapped the squalling boy-child and settled him to suckle contentedly at my breast.

  “He’s perfect!” Aunt Lettie announced as she counted his fingers and toes.

  “He looks just like his father did when he was born,” smiled Mother Burgess as she touched the thick black hair covering the child’s head.

  Ma wiped my forehead and released the tie holding my hair up. Auburn curls flowed freely across my chest. She patted my cheek and said, “You did good, girl.”

  “I guess it is time to let the men in. Patrick is going to wear out the front porch if we keep him out much longer,” as Grace laughed and opened the bedroom door.

  Patrick stopped pacing and looked up fearfully and expectantly into Grace’s face. “Is it ... Is she ... did everything ... ”

  “Yes, yes, yes, Papa. You need to go meet your new son now.”

  Patrick rushed toward the bedroom but stopped short. He took off his hat, wiped his hair into place, and glanced at Grace. “Do I just go in like this?”

  The insecure look on his face tickled her, and she couldn’t help laughing. She grabbed a broom standing beside the kitchen and threatened to swat him on the backside. “Get in there. She isn’t going to care what you look like. She’s been doing all the work!”

  Patrick entered the room, and the other three women patted his back as they slipped outside.

  “What should we name him?” I asked, quietly looking into Patrick’s face.

  Looking worried he maintained eye contact in order to ascertain that I really was, in fact, OK. I met his gaze with reassurance, then glanced down at our sleeping son. Patrick’s eyes followed, transfixed by the sight of the child at my breast.

  “Holy mother of God!” he whispered. “Holy mother of God! I have never seen anything so beautiful!”

  His eyes glistened as he reached out to touch the sleeping child but his hand stopped.

  “Go ahead,” I teased. “He’s your son, so he should be pretty tough.”

  Patrick tentatively touched the tiny hand, and reflexively the baby grabbed his finger and held it tightly.

  Patrick held his breath as he studied the perfection of the tiny hand holding him captive. I passed the sleeping bundle to his father. Hesitantly, he held the child as if he were a basket of fresh eggs.

  “Don’t worry. He won’t break,” I asserted.

  Patrick moved the blanket away from the baby’s face. “It’s a miracle,” he breathed. “Nothing short of a miracle.”

  “Well, what should we call him?” I asked again.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Patrick started slowly.

  “My father wasn’t someone that I want to remember every day. Even though I have forgiven him, I still don’t want that ghost haunting me every time I call my son to dinner. How would you feel about naming him after your father?”

  “I don’t know my father’s name,” I reminded him. “I don’t even know who my father was.” I looked into his dark eyes.

  “What about Jeremiah? You told me that Jeremiah was the only father you ever knew. I would be proud to have my son carry his name, if that is OK with you.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes. “I think that would be a wonderful name. Welcome to the world, Jeremiah,” I cooed as Patrick held our child lovingly in his arms.

  Ma, Aunt Lettie, Grace and Mother Burgess couldn’t wait any longer. They all rushed in and began passing Jeremiah around, kissing his rosy cheeks, and trying to figure out whom he most looked like.

  Frank poked his head in, and Patrick took his opportunity to escape the women. Kissing me on my forehead, he smiled and whispered, “Ada, you never cease to amaze me.”

  ***

  The sun set over the craggy peaks and spread its orange, crimson, and gold across the valleys. The robins twittered their evening song. Swallows chased mosquitos over the meadows, and Duke called to his flock as evening prepared the ranch for rest. Sitting on the porch, Patrick watched the sky go through its colorful changes until the rugged mountains disappeared completely into the night. As he closed his eyes, he contemplated the miracle of his son’s birth and the joy of having his family together.

  “Patrick, it’s getting dark. Come to bed,” he heard Ada call in a pleasant voice. Opening his eyes and rising from the chair, he took one final breath of sweet night air and went inside. “Today was a very good day,” he said to himself as he shut the door and blew out the lamp on the mantle.

  A SPECIAL NOTE TO MY READERS:

  This story is loosely fabricated around events in Colorado history. The character of Lettie Styles was created from stories of the wild and raucous Mattie Silks. Mattie was a madam and brothel keeper in Denver during the mid 1880s. She ran some of the most exclusive brothels in Denver. The building where she did business is still located close to the State Capitol Building and a restaurant now graces the parlor. Mattie owned a ranch outside of Denver, which was purchased for her lover’s daughter after the death of his first wife. She bought the ranch and bred racehorses on it so the girl would not be raised in a bordello.

  This is not an accurate depiction of events in Colorado history. These characters are fictional and though loosely based on real people and places they are only figments of my imagination and are meant solely for your enjoyment. I hope you liked your fantasy visit to my rendition of history where strong women and hot men, blaze new trails through the old west.

  Please like me on Facebook and visit my website. May your best days always end with a Colorado sunset.

  Best Wishes,

  Nonnie Frasier

  * * *

  [1]

  Soiled Dove Plea

  About the Author

  Nonnie is a third generation Colorado native where she grew up in the high mountains. Her grandparents were Pioneers and part of Colorado’s history.

  She and her husband have raised two daughters in Parker and when Nonnie retires they plan to live happily ever after on their 38-acre ranch in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains of Colorado.