Margaret Brownley (13 page)

“Hold on tight,” he urged, feeling her body tense next to his. “Try breathing through your mouth.” This was the advice trappers gave to injured men. Whether the same advice applied under the present circumstances, he had no idea. But it couldn’t hurt.

She breathed as he’d instructed and soon the deep lines left her forehead. Taking a deep breath she pulled away from him, amazing him with her resilience. The argument resumed as if nothing had happened.

“I’m not walking on that flume!”

“You’ll do what I tell you to do.”

“Over my dead body!”

“Drat, don’t tempt me.”

The argument waged for several minutes longer before she slumped against him for a second time, both hands on her belly.

He held her steady. “Does it help if I rub your back?”

“It helps if I can hold on to something.”

“Hold on to my arm.”

She wrapped her finger around his forearm and squeezed. Her fingers pressed like steel through the sleeve of his coat clear down to the bone. Seldom before had he witnessed pain strong enough to sustain such a powerful grip.

Sweat broke out on his forehead as he absorbed her agonizing hold. He shared in her relief when at last the contraction subsided and she released his arm.

“Let’s go,” he said, hoping to make some headway before the next pain.

“I am not going!” she said stubbornly. A bullheaded look settled on her face as she pulled away from him.

The last time he’d witnessed such out and out obstinacy was on the face of a dead man. It astonished him that even while in the throes of labor she was a force to be reckoned with. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t have fazed him. He was accustomed to her obstinacy. But the cold affected his leg, and the sky looked downright ominous. The bitter bile of fear coated his mouth. He felt a moment of helplessness before rallying in anger.

The fool woman had been nothing but trouble since arriving on his doorstep. He’d stood about all he was going to stand from her. Besides, this was for her own good. With no further ado  he lifted her in his arms. Gritting his teeth against the additional pain the physical burden brought to bear on his leg he carried her to the flume.

“Hold still!”

Screaming louder than a bull in a briar patch, she kicked her feet and pounded his chest. Underestimating her as usual, he was ill-prepared for the display of strength, and they both almost fell down the mountainside. If it weren’t for the fortuitous timing of a contraction, he might not have managed to ease her onto the flume.

She clung to him for dear life.

“Put your foot next to mine. Come on, Mrs. Summerfield. Now, the other one.” He breathed a sigh of relief. At least the frame was supporting her, which took some of the burden off his sore leg.

“Now when I say go, slide your right foot forward. And don’t whatever you do look down.”

“I can’t….” She glanced at the water that rushed through the narrow channel between her legs and cried out in terror.

“I said don’t look!” When she didn’t move, he nudged her foot for her. “Trust me. I won’t let go of you. All right, now the other foot.”

Inch by torturous inch, he forced her across the narrow flume. Flume walkers crossed these lofty channels on a regular basis. Until now, he’d not given a moment’s thought to the brave men whose jobs required them to check for debris or signs of wear.

At one point, he pulled off his fur coat and tossed it to the canyon below. Without the bulky garment he had more freedom of movement.

Each time he felt her body stiffen next to his, he stopped, knowing another pain was on the way. His arms around her waist, he grimaced as her fingers dug into his hands.

He pressed his body against hers. He could feel the ebb and flow of each contraction, the tempo and dissonance. Unwittingly, he began to anticipate each stage and relaxed or tensed his body accordingly, until it seemed that the pains were as much his as they were hers.

Although the air was freezing cold, heat poured out of his body. He was vaguely conscious of the strange rhythm that had seemed to develop. So many steps forward, pain, steps, pain.

Halfway across the snow turned to sleet and finally rain.

He looked down at the rugged tree-lined canyon below them and wondered what in blazes he was doing suspended hundreds of feet in midair with a woman about to give birth.

She kept her eyes closed but her lips trembled as if in prayer.

Before he knew it—before he even knew he’d made the decision to do it—he found himself saying a silent prayer.
God, you may not know me, but you know her and she needs your help.

The rain began to fall so hard it beat down on them like icy needles.

“One good thing to be said about the rain,” he shouted in her ear. “We don’t have to worry about being attacked by Indians or wild animals.”

“What a blessing,” she yelled back. As if an Indian or wild animal would be crazy enough to cross a flume.”

The flume began to slope downward, slowing their progress considerably. Logan kept a firm arm around her as she reached for one of the flimsy wooden posts that were spaced at three-foot intervals. She clung to the splintered stake until he joined her.

“That was perfect,” he said, taking her trembling body in his arms. “Now grab the next one.”

“I can’t!” she sobbed.

“You must. For the baby’s sake!”

It took some prodding, but he finally managed to get her to reach for the next stake, and the next. “Come on. You can do it. That’s a girl.”

When at last they reached the end of the flume, they were both soaked to the skin from rain and perspiration.

He helped her climb down the wooden frame of the flutter wheel. “Let’s get you back to the cabin,” he said, alarmed by how she trembled in his arms.

It was only a short distance to his cabin, but it was obvious to him that she was in no condition to walk. He picked her up and held her close to his chest. His foot slipped in the mud, but he managed to regain his balance.

With a pronounced limp, he carried her to his cabin, and set her down in front of the fire.

Handing her a dry blanket and shirt, he looked away while she stripped off her wet garments.

After donning dry clothes himself he helped her onto the pallet, arranging the pelts and blankets on top of her.

He then added kindling to the hot ashes in the fireplace, and when the pieces of dry wood caught fire, he tossed in a large log. He waited for the flames to take hold before returning to her side.

“Stay here.” He squeezed her icy cold hand and tucked it beneath the blankets. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded.

“I’ll find someone who knows about delivering babies,” he explained. He ran a knuckle across her pale cheek. “I won’t be long. Trust me.”

Her large liquid eyes searched his face. “I do trust you, Mr. St. John.”

He took in a deep breath. Her trust in him humbled him like nothing else ever could. He vowed to do everything in his power to validate her belief in him.

It was still raining hard when he left the cabin, and already the dirt street was under a foot of muddy water. He waded through the stream and into the Golden Hind Saloon.

It was crowded inside, and noisy. At the first sign of rain, the men had abandoned their claims and headed for town, intent upon spending the rest of the day gambling and drinking.

Logan threaded his way through the crowd toward the bar where a man named Slick McGuire played a tune on his mouth organ.

“Need to talk to you,” Logan said.

McGuire looked at him curiously, wiped his mouth organ on his red flannel shirt, and slipped it into the pocket of his canvas pants. He was in his late twenties, but his Irish good looks and shaggy hair made him appear younger.

“You married, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And you have a child, right?”

“Two. A boy and girl.”

“Two, uh? Then you’re the man I’m looking for. What do you know about birthing?”

McGuire scratched his temple. “Birthin’?”

“You know, what happened when your wife—you know—was ready to have the babies?’

“Ah don’t know.”

Logan considered this for a moment. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“That’s the way women like it.”

“Is that so?”

“Ah have it on good authority. Women don’t want nothin’ ta do with men when their time comes.” McGuire reached for his glass, gulped his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why do ya want ta know? Ya worried about your woman?”

“She’s not my woman. But yeah, I’m worried about her. It’s her time. Anyone else here married?’

“Keefer is. Has eleven children.” McGuire raised his hand and motioned to a short, red-faced man with mutton chop side whiskers. “Keefer, come over here a minute.” He waited for Keefer to join them. “Logan here says it’s his woman’s time. Do ya know anything ‘bout birthin’?”

Keefer slapped Logan on the shoulder. “Congratulations, boy. How far ‘long is she?”

“A couple of hours is all.”

“Well, don’t expect much to happen before morning.”

“Anything I can do to help her along.”

“Boil water. Lots and lots of water.”

That made sense to Logan. Come to think of it, he’d heard something about babies and boiling water. “And….”

Keefer frowned. “And what?’

“What do I do with the water?’

“How in blazes would I know?”

Logan grabbed Keefer by the collar. “Drat, Keefer, think! This is an emergency. What do they do with the water?”

Keefer’s eyes grew wide. “They ain’t a whole lot you can do with boiling water, ‘cept drink it.”

Logan released him. “Drink it? You mean like tea?”

Keefer shrugged. “Why not? I’ve heard tell that tea has magical healing powers.”

“You could be right,” Logan said.

Keefer brightened. “Maybe the hot water softens the bones. You know, so the baby has room to move around more.”

Logan had never heard of anything so ridiculous, but McGuire, who had been listening to this exchange, nodded in agreement. “Makes sense to me.” He pulled out his harmonica and mouthed a scale. “Makes perfect sense.”

Logan put aside his misgivings. If these two experienced men believed it was possible to soften bones then who was he to argue?

Logan raced out of the Golden Hind as fast as his leg would allow.

Back at his cabin, he pulled off his dripping wet clothes. Rivulets of water streamed from the fringes of his shirt.

Mrs. Summerfield watched him from the pallet, her eyes filled with hope. “You found someone?”

He forced a smile for the purpose of offering encouragement. It made no sense to alarm her. “Found myself two experts,” he said cheerfully. “Now I know exactly what to do.”

She looked unconvinced, but before she could question him further, he explained. “Hot water, that’s the secret.”

He hauled a bucket of water to the fireplace and filled the large black iron kettle with water. He then hung the kettle on the hinged bar that ran the length of the fireplace, and added another log. While the water heated, he did what he could to make Libby comfortable. Mainly, he talked her through the pains. “Come on, now. You can do it,” he’d say, or “Breathe through your mouth,”

It seemed to take forever for the water to heat, but finally steam shot out of the spout, and the fire sizzled when water bubbled over the sides of the kettle. He filled a cup and carried it to her.

“I have it on good authority that this will help,” he explained. “Drink up.”

For once in her life, she did as he commanded without argument or undue discussion. She stopped drinking only when another pain gripped her, but resumed once it had subsided. No sooner would she finish one cup than he promptly refilled it.

“No more,” she whispered after the fifth or sixth cup.

“Come on, now,” he coaxed, “This will help soften the bones.”

Rather than comfort her, this only made the lines of worry on her face more pronounced. “I don’t want soft bones.”

“Trust me on this, Mrs. Summerfield. You want soft bones. Come on, now, drink up.”

Between forcing water down her, escorting her back and forth to the outhouse and helping her through contractions Logan was plain tuckered out. He had no idea giving birth was so much work.

Around midnight, a knock came at the door. It was McGuire. “Just wanted to know how ya woman is doing?”

Logan hushed him and stepped onto the porch, closing the door softly behind him. During the last hour or so, the rain had turned to snow and patches of white had drifted onto his porch. “She seems to be having a hard time.” Logan explained. It was cold outside and he hugged himself to keep warm as they talked. “A real hard time.”

McGuire nodded, his breath a white mist in the darkness. “All woman have a hard time.”