The Reluctant Midwife

This book is dedicated to the healer in all of us.

Life can be hard,
but if we hold hands
we can make it across the river.

I'd like to thank first my husband, Tom Harman, for his support of my writing. He will do an extra load of laundry just to give me time at my computer; also, my staff at Partners in Women's Health Care who have to put up with the changes in my schedule for book-related events.

In addition, I thank my editor, Lucia Macro, and her wonderful staff, as well as my agent, Barbara Braun. They have helped me give birth to another Hope River Novel. Also, I can't fail to mention the midwives, muses, and patients who have inspired me.

And last, dear readers, I thank you for your letters and e-mails of encouragement. Writing a book is in some ways a lonely endeavor. You have doubts: Is it good enough? Will people like it as much as the last book? I keep thinking of you. I tell the story for you, knowing the women and men of Hope River give us courage, give us hope, help us heal.

Somewhere in Appalachia, there's a small white house with a blue door. In the back, behind the barn, is a graveyard. Two women kneel in the tall yellow grass.

Under a rock are three babies, two of bone, one of spirit. There are fresh graves too, where black and white sleep together, eight in all.

The women have flowers in their hands, bouquets of daisies, yellow mustard, and pink phlox. One of them makes the sign of the cross. One of them can't stop crying.

From the private journal of Becky Myers, RN,
reluctant midwife
Wild Rose Road, West Virginia, USA
1934–35