Margaret Brownley (15 page)

It was hard to know when one pain began and another ended. Time had no meaning. Night. Day. It mattered none.

Something soft and cool touched her forehead. Her eyes fluttered open to find Logan as usual by her side. He smiled at her as he held a cool wet cloth to her brow.

His fingers felt like heaven. It worried her, though, to see his face lined with fatigue and anguish. She wanted so much to say something, do something that would ease the deep ridges in his forehead, soften the wild, almost desperate look in his eyes.

“Logan.” Her voice barely a whisper, she clutched at his hand and held it to her chest.

“Don’t talk,” he said. “Save your strength.” He leaned closer. “Can you hear them?”

She wasn’t sure what he meant at first, but then she heard the voices. Convinced it was angels singing, she was no longer afraid.

Without the fear, she relaxed, and her mind drifted away, severing itself from her body. She was in Boston and it was Christmas Day. Everyone was there. Her mother, father, aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings…

“’Come and behold Him…”

Her eyes closed as a soothing peacefulness washed over her. She was back home where she belonged, and the air was filled with the succulent smells of roasted duck and tangy pine scent of the Christmas tree.

“…born the King of Angels….”

The vision cleared and she was once again faced with reality. A soul-gripping pain began to build. Tensing, she clawed frantically at the tireless arms that held her down.

The pain exploded, seeming to rip her body into a million little fragments.

Then, mercifully, it was over.

*****

Logan stared down at the slippery red baby in his hands. He was afraid to move for fear the tiny body would go shooting across the room. The little fellow had a pair of lungs on him that would make a brass band seem quiet. He was positively squawking to high heaven, and sounded remarkably like a baby beaver. Even so, Logan couldn’t remember hearing anything that sounded more musical or wondrous in his entire life.

The baby’s cry was greeted by a burst of applause from outside, followed by joyous shouts and loud laughter. The congenial celebration in the street was a striking contrast to the noisy brawls and gunfire that usually rang through the town.

“You can put him here,” Libby said, patting her middle.

He laid the baby on her bare abdomen and watched her face soften and glow as she ran a finger across the infant’s tiny head. “He’s beautiful,” she whispered. Her eyes glistened with tears. At her loving touch, the baby stopped crying and turned his head toward her finger.

Relieved that the little fellow was now his mother’s responsibility, Logan collapsed, exhausted, in the nearest chair. What he needed was rest. Some shut-eye wouldn’t be a bad idea.

“Isn’t he the most beautiful thing you ever did see?” Libby’s voice was hushed in awe.

Logan stared at the scrawny, wrinkled, bloodied, red-skinned baby, and as crazy as it sounded, he had to agree. He was the most beautiful thing Logan had ever feasted his eyes upon.

Libby gazed at Logan, her eyes overly bright from fatigue. “You have to cut the cord.”

Logan sat forward, hoping he’d heard wrong. “Cut? You mean with a knife.”

Libby nodded. “You need to put the knife in boiling water.”

“Boiling… Confound it! Wouldn’t you know? He was clear out of boiling water. He shot out of his chair, quickly grabbed a bucket of water, and poured it into the empty kettle.

He tossed another log onto the grate then squatted in front of the hearth. It would take forever for the water to boil. He couldn’t let the little fellow dangle forever from his mother, that’s for sure. He leaned over and ran his knife blade through the flames.

“That should do it,” he said, returning to the bedside. He held his knife up for her to see. The baby was making funny little sucking sounds with its tiny rosebud mouth.

“You have to cut it about here,” Libby said, pointing.

His eyes followed her finger. “Are you sure?” It didn’t seem right, somehow, to go cutting around babies.

“I’m sure,” she said.

He cleared his throat. Suddenly the knife felt all-wrong. Or was it his hands that were all wrong? His thumbs felt strange, disjointed. His usual capable fingers felt as stiff and rusty as old nails.

He stared at the ropelike cord. It couldn’t have been more than an inch round. It was nothing. Not to a man who, at various times in his past, had pumped bullets into his share of grizzlies, rattlers, and a mountain lion to save his own skin. Nothing.

“You need to tie something around it first,” she said.

He pulled a piece of rawhide lacing from a nail and held it up. “Will this work?”

She nodded and watched in silence as he tied it around the cord.

He glanced at her. “Are you sure this isn’t going to hurt?”

Libby smiled faintly. “Positive.”

Holding the blade of the knife inches away from the cord, he sucked in his breath. “What about the baby?”

“What?”

“It won’t hurt the baby? Cut some important nerve?”

“No, Logan.” She studied his face. “Do you want me to do it?”

“Certainly not! You…You’ve done enough already.”

Legs apart, he held the knife steady. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

The chore was done in no time at all.

Grinning, Logan wiped the blade of his knife and slipped it back into its sheath. “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Libby stroked the dark hair of her baby’s head. “I never thought it would be.”

“Well now!” He slumped in a chair, feet apart. He felt like he could sleep for a week.

“Logan, the baby…”

He straightened. “What about the baby?’

“He needs to be…. Oh, no!”

Looking startled, he shot to her side. “What is it, Libby? Are you in pain?”

She shook her head. “I just remembered that we left the baby’s clothes on the mountain. We have nothing for the baby to wear.”

“Why of course we do,” he said. He pulled an Indian blanket from the foot of her bed. He took a few swipes at it with his knife and held it up for her approval. “The head goes in here and these pointed ends wrap around the baby cocoon-like.”

“Why, Logan! That’s absolutely ingenious!”

He grinned. He didn’t bother to tell her that he had learned the trick from an Indian woman. “Well, now….”

“When you finish bathing the baby, I need you to….”

“You want
me
to bathe the baby?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“No,” he rasped. “I don’t mind.”

“And then I’ll need you to…help me.” She blushed. “We’re not quite finished yet.”

“Drat Libby! Don’t tell me there’s more!”

*****

It took him the rest of the morning to take care of mother and child. He bathed the baby, changed the bed and carried the bucket with the afterbirth outside and buried it behind the smokehouse.

McGuire intercepted him upon his return to the cabin. “Everythin’ all right?”

Logan grinned. “Couldn’t be better.”

“What is it?”

Logan looked puzzled. “What is what?’

“The bairn. Is it a boy or a girl?”

“A boy. A big healthy boy. Weighs as much as a good rifle and is about as long as one.”

McGuire was impressed. “That big, uh.” He slapped Logan on the back. “Congratulations.”

“I’m mighty obliged to you and the others for helping out. As soon as you started singing, things started moving along nicely. You ought to hire yourselves out as midwives.”

McGuire laughed. “Wouldn’t that be somethin’? The Singin’ Midwives. Wait till my wife hears that one.”

“Would you tell the others how much the baby’s mother and I are obliged?”

McGuire looked almost as proud of himself as did Logan. “Glad to be of service. Listen, why don’t ya come over ta the Golden Hind and tell the boys ya-self?’

“Maybe I’ll do that. Let me check to see if the little mother needs anything.”

Inside the cabin Libby was asleep, the baby nursing quietly at her breast. He checked the fire and tiptoed out of the cabin. He felt so proud he thought his chest would burst clear open. He didn’t want to leave her for long. Only long enough to break the good news to the others.

As soon as Logan walked into the saloon, he was greeted with applause.

“Drinks all around,” he called to Moe the bartender. This brought more cheers, more hand clapping, and foot stomping.

Sharkey grabbed hold of Logan’s arm. “So tell us about the baby,” he slurred, his breath a hundred percent proof.

Freeing himself from Sharkey’s drunken grip, Logan described the baby’s weight and height, holding his hands the appropriate distance to illustrate. He then described how he’d caught the baby and detached its mother without causing injury.

“So when do we get to see this wondrous sight?” Keefer asked, chomping down on his cigar.

Fanning the smoke away from his face, Logan frowned. “Well, now, I don’t know—” He felt fiercely protective. Crazy as it sounded, he felt like a mother bear with a newborn cub.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Big Sam’s voice boomed from the back of the saloon. “Deadman’s Gulch has its very own baby and you plan to keep it to yerself?”

The voices died down and all eyes turned to Logan.

Logan gave an apologetic cough. “You have to understand that babies are susceptible to disease.”

“Ain’t none of us harboring diseases,” Keefer drawled. He glanced over at the big black man. “Hey, Big Sam, you harboring disease?”

“Not me,” Big Sam replied with a scowl.

“What about you, Shakespeare? You harboring disease?”

Shakespeare looked positively offended. “Certainly not!” he sniffed.

Keefer turned back to Logan. “What I hear you saying is we ain’t good enough to see your young ‘un.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Keefer.” Logan’s gaze traveled about the room. “Put yourself in my place. If this was your baby would you want to let the lot of you anywhere near? Most of you haven’t had a bath since who knows when? Look at your hair, your beards. Who knows what vermin you’re carrying.”

“He’s right,” McGuire said, stepping away from the bar. “Ah wouldn’t even visit my own two children looking like this.”

Satisfied that he’d made his point, Logan assumed the discussion was over.

Next to him, Keefer rubbed his hands together. “All right, men, what do you say we clean up? Baths, haircuts, the works.”

Logan choked. “Now hold on there….”

His voice disappeared in the pandemonium that followed. The men were already checking out one another’s credentials. “Anyone here know how to give a haircut and shave?’

Beaker, so-called for his long pointed nose, grabbed hold of Sharkey by the scruff of his neck and lifted the man’s drunken head off the table. “I bet you men don’t know that Sharkey here was a barber before coming to Californ’a.”

“Is that so?” Big Sam ran his hand over the black kinks of his unkempt hair. “Is he any good?’

“Of course he’s good.” Beaker gave Sharkey a good shaking. “Show them.”

Sharkey’s head flopped back and forth like a rag doll, but he did finally manage to move his fingers to emulate a pair of scissors.

A look of satisfaction settled on Beaker’s face. “What did I tell you?” He let Sharkey’s head drop back on the table.

“Then it’s settled,” McGuire said. “Now what about baths?’

“Wait a minute,” Logan protested. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“You got a problem with us getting gussied up?” Big Sam demanded. “You think your woman and baby’s too good for us?”

All eyes turned from Big Sam to Logan. Logan forced a friendly though halfhearted grin. “No, I don’t think that. It’s just not a good idea for a baby to have too much company. Besides, the last time you men paid your respects, you scared Libby half out of her wits. I doubt she’ll want to see you again.”

Hap stuck his bald head in Logan’s face. “Need I remind you that we stood outside freezing our balls off singing Christmas carols?”

McGuire concurred. “Ya said it yourself. It was us who made your woman’s time easier at the end.”

“Yes, it was. Christmas is important to her. I’m mighty obliged to all of

you, but—”

“Then she’ll want company,” McGuire insisted. “It’s not Christmas without company. Where Ah come from, we have company all the way ta Twelfth Night.”

“Is that so? Company, uh?”

Logan recalled the story Libby had read aloud from the Good Book. All the company that came to visit the baby Jesus. He wondered if the Magi had taken the time to gussy themselves up for the occasion. He’d have to remember to ask Libby. “All right. You can visit the baby. But only on one condition. You check your weapons at the door.”

“Our knives as well?”

“Last I heard, knives are weapons. And you mind your manners, all of you. No cussing. No spitting and no pushing.”