by Donna Dalton
Evan nodded, the worry easing from his eyes. “Yes’m. Whatever you need, I’ll do it.”
As the boy gathered the horses, Locke joined her at the landing. “I’m Dr. Locke, Mr. Smithers. I’ve taken over Dr. Troutman’s practice in town. Miss Devlin and I will do everything we can to help your wife and baby.”
Mr. Smithers backed out of the doorway. “It’s good to have you, Doctor. Come on in. Annabelle is in the back bedroom.”
Dr. Locke motioned for her to precede him. She plunged across the weathered boards and through the door opening. Braided rag runners ran the length of a large, living chamber. At one end, a small table and several chairs sat next to an ancient cooking stove. At the other end, a pair of rocking chairs faced a stone fireplace. Other than a few toy blocks scattered about, the place was neat and tidy. A hat tip to Mr. Smithers for keeping order during a difficult time.
Moira made a beeline for the only other doorway leading out of the room. A lantern sitting on a bureau poured golden light over the woman lying in the bed. Cotton sheets tented the bulge at her midsection. Her eyes were closed; her skin as pale as the bedsheets. If not for the slight rise and fall of her chest, she could pass for a body ready for burial.
Moira squared herself. Not today. Not if she could help it.
Dr. Locke surged past her and stopped next to the bed. He gave Annabelle a quick appraisal and began shrugging out of his jacket. “We’ll need a basin of hot water and some lye soap, Mr. Smithers. And all the clean towels you have on hand.”
“Already have water heating on the stove like Miss Devlin told us to do if things started going bad. Soap and clean towels are on the bureau, though I already used a few whilst trying to stop the bleeding.”
Dr. Locke tossed his jacket across the chair pulled near the head of the bed. “Very good. Bring the water then.” His gaze flicked to her. “Roll back the bedsheets, Miss Devlin. I’d like to do a quick exam. See if the babe has breached the canal.”
She moved to the other side of the bed and rolled down the sheets. A large slash of red stained the white nightgown and coated the mound of towels packed between pale thighs. Annabelle had lost a lot of blood. Hopefully she still had enough flowing through her veins to keep her alive.
Eyelids fluttered open, and a worried gaze flicked from her to Dr. Locke and back. “Miss Devlin. What’s going on? W-who is he?”
Moira rested a hand on the woman’s trembling shoulder. “It’s all right, Annabelle. This is Dr. Locke. He’s here to help.”
Footfalls shushed into the room. Mr. Smithers had traded the toddler for a white porcelain basin. “Here’s that hot water, Doc. Where do you want it?”
Dr. Locke reached over and pulled open drawer to the bedside table. He stowed away the Bible that had been resting on top. “Right here will do.”
Smithers set the basin on the cleared table and then stood there, staring down at his wife, swaying like a sailor on shore leave. Gray tinted his sun-browned skin. Even the stoutest of men fainted during the birthing process.
Moira caught his arm and nudged him toward the door. “Annabelle is going to be just fine, Mr. Smithers. I promise. Why don’t you go outside with the children? We’ll call if we need anything more.”
He hesitated, mouth sagging, and then gave a brief nod. As the anxious husband left the room, Dr. Locke fished an apron from his bag and tied it around his waist. He gathered soap and a towel from the bureau and returned to the bed.
His expression intent, he rolled up his sleeves and plunged his hands and arms into the basin of water. He soaped every inch of exposed skin. Even his fingernails got a good scrubbing. He clearly knew the benefits of good sanitation.
She watched his ablutions, unable to look away. He had slender fingers. Long. Trained to touch, feel, and examine. They would be magical on a woman’s body. Moira laced her hands together in a pious fold in front of her. Now was not the time to let her mind wander to sinful places.
Dr. Locke dried his hands on a towel and hung it over the chair back. He peered down at Annabelle, his fierce expression softening. “I’m going to examine you now, Mrs. Smithers. I need to see if the baby has entered the birthing canal. I’ll be as gentle as I can, but it may be uncomfortable.”
Annabelle nodded and bit down on her bottom lip. Such a brave, young woman. Childbirth was hard enough, but to have to go through the process with a stranger…a man…not something she would care to endure either.
Dr. Locke shifted to the end of the bed and leaned over. He slid a hand under the soiled gown. Annabelle stiffened, and a moan poured from her lips.
Moira unfurled her hands and reached for a quivering shoulder. “Easy, Annabelle. Just breathe. In through your nose and out through your mouth. In and out. Deep and slow. Yes, that’s it.”
Granny Tate had taught her the most effective way to help patients bear serious pain was to have them concentrate on their breathing. Let the task soothe the mind and the body. The pain would fade. And it did. The stiffness retreated from Annabelle’s shoulders and face. Her trembling subsided. She would be ready to face whatever was to come.
Dr. Locke withdrew his hand and stepped away from the bed. His tense expression said whatever he’d found, it wasn’t good.
She rounded the bed and leaned in, keeping her voice low. “What is it, Doctor? What did you find?”
“It’s just as I suspected. The baby is breech.”
Not what Annabelle needed. “Can you turn it?”
“It’s too far down the birth canal for that. I’m going to have to assist the child out.”
“Won’t that be painful? Annabelle is already frail from losing so much blood. Manhandling could send her over the edge.”
He wiped his hand on the apron, leaving a jarring streak of red across the white. “I’m afraid we don’t have any other recourse. Both mother and child will die if I don’t.”
“Do you have anything we can give her for the pain?”
“I would administer chloroform, but the uterine contractions aren’t as strong or as close together as they need to be. She hasn’t had a contraction since we arrived. Chloroform will only stifle them more.”
She had a remedy, but he wasn’t going to like it. She squared herself against the impending storm. “I have something in my bag that will help. An infusion of pigeon grass tea will strengthen her labors.”
Thunderclouds gathered on his face. “You brought your wares? When I expressly forbade them?”
“Can you save Annabelle or the baby if her labors don’t resume?” At his deepening scowl, she continued. “No. So at least give this a try.”
She didn’t wait for his reply. Annabelle and her unborn child took precedence over his absurd notions. She went into the kitchen, found a clean mug, and filled it with water from the steaming kettle. She returned to the bedroom and fished a sack of pulverized pigeon grass from her bag.
Dr. Locke stood at the end of the bed, his piercing gaze following her every move. Contrary man. He should open his eyes. He might see things more clearly.
She spooned a generous helping of powdered herb into the mug and stirred until it dissolved. She crossed to the bed and slid her free hand under Annabelle’s head.
“Sit up, Annabelle. I’ve made you a special tea. It will help bring back your labors so we can get that baby delivered.”
The woman wobbled upright, and Moira held the mug to her lips. “Drink all of it, Annabelle. I know you’re tired, but this will help. I promise. Your suffering will be over soon, and you’ll be holding your baby.”
Annabelle sipped at the tea. Some leaked from her mouth and trickled down her chin, but she managed to down a goodly amount. Moira smiled and assisted her back to the pillow. “Good. Very good, Annabelle.”
“How long before this brew does whatever it’s going to do?”
He didn’t say “kill the patient,” but she knew what he inferred. She set the empty mug next to the basin and picked up a towel. She dabbed tea from Annabelle’s chin.
“Her labor should resume in about ten minutes. While we wait, I’m going to get her out of that soiled gown. There’s a clean one on the bureau, if you would be so kind as to get it for me.”
She half expected him to turn tail and run. In her experience, most men avoided unpalatable duties. Surprisingly, he retrieved the gown and proceeded to help her get Annabelle out of the blood-stained garment and into the clean one. She tried not to marvel at how nimbly his fingers performed the task.
As she plumped the pillow behind Annabelle, a pained grimace sliced the woman’s face. She grabbed for her belly and gave a low moan.
Dr. Locke rested a hand on the baby bulge, now visibly rippling beneath the thin material of the gown. Surprise lifted his eyebrows. The pigeon grass had done its duty. Moira corralled a smile. No sense rubbing her success in his face. Annabelle’s well-being required her and Dr. Locke to work together in harmony. They were only halfway through what promised to be a long process.
“Well done, Miss Devlin,” he said. “It appears your concoction has affected a resumption of contractions.”
A compliment. Would miracles never cease.
“We should prepare for delivery.” He reached for his medical bag. “While I gather my things, please help Mrs. Smithers to sit and position her legs bent at the knees. Once that is done, bring the lantern to the end of the bed and hold it overhead. I’ll need as much light as I can get.”
After helping Annabelle into the requested position, Moira gathered the lantern and moved to his side. She held the lantern over the bed, ensuring as much light as possible poured over the patient. “Is that good, Doctor? Do I need to hold it higher?”
“No. That’s perfect.” He peered across the bed at Annabelle. “I’m afraid your baby is breech, Mrs. Smithers. It’s coming feet first which is why you are having so much trouble with the birth. I’m going to have to reach in and guide the child out. The process will be painful, but there’s no way around it. Do you understand?”
Annabelle nodded and fisted the edges of the mattress. Dr. Locke leaned forward and slid a hand into the birth canal. A pained shriek clawed the air. Moira clasped Annabelle’s ankle with her free hand, sending sympathy and reassurance through her fingertips.
Dr. Locke worked steadily and patiently, encouraging Annabelle when her will to go on receded. After what seemed like an eternity, he gave a steady tug, and a slime-coated infant slid onto the pad of towels. It was a girl. A very blue and lifeless girl.
He snipped the umbilical cord with a pair of scissors and made a quick knot. “Take the child, Miss Devlin. Clear the mucous from her nose and mouth and then rub her down with a towel. Brisk, but gentle strokes. She should begin breathing on her own.”
Moira set the lantern on the floor and gathered the child in a towel. She cleared the nose and mouth and began scrubbing the tiny torso. As much as she wanted to probe the lifeless infant, she didn’t dare. Dr. Locke was too close and far too observant for the use of her gift.
The child began squirming, her little legs and arms twitching. After a few seconds, she let go a squealing wail. Moira sagged with relief. The child would live. So would her mother. Annabelle rested against the pillows, face pale, but eyes sparkling with joy as she watched her newborn daughter.
Moira wrapped the baby in a clean towel and settled her into Annabelle’s arms. The little girl had pinked up nicely. Her little mouth puckered, instinctively seeking to suckle.
“She’s lovely, Annabelle. What are you going to call her?”
Annabelle looked up at Dr. Locke standing at the bedside table, hands submerged in the basin of water. “Do you have a wife, Doctor?”
His shoulders went rigid, his washing stilled. Something flickered across his face. Pain? Guilt?
“My wife passed on several years ago.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss. What was her name?”
“Alice.”
“That’s a lovely name.” Annabelle jiggled the bundle in her arms. “That’s what I’ll call my baby girl…if that’s all right with you, Doctor?”
He snagged a clean towel from the chair. “If that’s what you want to name her, it’s fine by me.”
Those stiff shoulders and rigid tone didn’t say fine at all. Was his wife a sore spot? There was a story there. Oddly, she wanted to hear it.
Moira patted Annabelle’s arm. “You get some rest now, Annabelle. I’ll come back in a week or so to see how you and little Alice are doing.”
“We both will,” Dr. Locke added.
Satisfaction for a job well done leaked from her like blood from a sliced vein. After all they had done to save Annabelle and her child, she hadn’t gained one ounce of his trust.
Was she fighting a losing battle?
****
The ride back to town was slower and much more relaxed. It would have been the perfect time to take in the scenery. Yet the untamed backwoods with its thickets and meadows and stark cliffs rising in the distance did little to hold his interest. The woman riding ahead claimed his attention.
Wisps of dark hair had escaped her pins and danced around her head like woodland fairies. She rode sidesaddle as befitted a young lady, yet an improper swathe of skin showed above her boots where her skirts had bunched. Despite his attempts to remain unaffected, he found himself spellbound.
The physical attraction was understandable. He’d been celibate for more than two years…his desires tamed by work, exhaustion, and a good dose of guilt. Miss Devlin called to him like a siren to a sailor. Any red-blooded male would find her charms difficult to resist. But he couldn’t give in. Lusting for her would only complicate an already prickly truce.
Miss Devlin had no formal instruction in medicine, however she had an uncanny sense of healing…and of people. She’d put Mrs. Smithers at ease with a simple touch and an encouraging word. Her herbs had provided the needed stimulus for the resumption of uterine contractions. He didn’t want to admire her or her herbal remedies. It went against everything he held sacred. But he couldn’t muster a trace of contempt.
His mount slowed and dipped its head, stretching for the creek meandering close to the pathway. Poor creature must be thirsty. He loosened the reins and let the horse have its drink.
“Hold up a moment, Miss Devlin,” he called out.
She reined her horse to a stop and peered over her shoulder, those ebony eyes washing over him like a tidal wave. “Is there a problem?”
“It appears my mount requires a drink. We pushed them rather hard on the ride out. We have the time to allow a brief respite.” And one for themselves as well. He was drained. Mentally and physically. If the slouch to Miss Devlin’s shoulders was any indication, she could also use a rest.
Images surfaced of her spread out on a blanket, slopes and curves laid out like a feast. Sunlight would dance over her creamy skin. Blood quickened in his groin. He swallowed back a groan and pointed to the creek. Perhaps talking about the mundane would take his mind off the exotic.
“I’ve never seen such crystal-clear water. It looks almost like glass.”
“That’s Dancer’s Creek. It flows from deep within the Shoehorn. The water stays cold most of the year, even on the hottest of summer days.”
“Very refreshing, I’m sure.”
“Would you like to sample a taste? As you say, we have the time.”
Perhaps a good dose of chilly water would help tame the heat smoldering inside him. “Yes, I believe I would. It’s been hours since my morning coffee.”
He swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted. He started for Miss Devlin’s mount, but she had already slid to the ground quicker than a startled rabbit dove into a burrow. Was he so irascible that she couldn’t abide his merest touch? The thought sliced like a scalpel through tender flesh.
“Go ahead and have your drink.” She flipped up the saddle bag flap and traded her riding gloves for a pair of leather gloves. “I’m going to forage in that meadow over there.”
Before he could respond, she untied
a large burlap sack from her saddle and plunged into the tall grasses flanking the path. Curiosity trampled his thirst. He lurched after her. “What are you foraging for?”
She didn’t slow, merely kept pushing ahead, her backside swaying in delightful wiggles as she maneuvered through the sawgrass grabbing at her skirts. Thirst turned to hunger. The urge to have her poured through him. He fisted his hands, fighting for control.
A slender finger slashed the air. “I saw a patch of stinging nettle growing over there just off the path as we rode by. I need to replenish my supply of potions that were destroyed by the quake.”
He pushed aside a rather pesky vine that wanted to mate with his trousers. Another tried to lynch his arm. Perhaps he should have stayed with the horses and enjoyed his drink. For more reasons than one.
She stopped and tugged on the leather gloves, fingers disappearing into the thick leather. Those clever appendages would play havoc on a man’s body. Teasing. Provoking. Binding him with her charms.
He halted beside her, panting—more from wrestling with his desires than from the exertion. “Why…the stout gloves?”
She prodded a tall, wiry weed topped with small, brown flowers. “Because the leaves and stems have tiny hairs that when touched causes a stinging sensation. Hence the name stinging nettle.”
An apt appellation. And probably why his legs smarted beneath his trousers. It almost overrode the fire burning in his loins. Almost. “What medicinal purpose does this nettle serve?”
“There are many. The stinging barbs can help lessen the pains of rheumatism and gout. The leaves can be boiled to produce teas and tinctures that will ease a variety of ills…hay fever, asthma, hives. This time of year is particularly bad for folks with aversions to ragweed. I need to harvest a substantial quantity to keep up with the demand.”
The potion sounded innocuous, possibly even helpful. But fishing expeditions required diligence and carefully aimed tosses. “What other ingredients are added to these nettle tonics?”
