"Now?" Mal repeated softly, his eyes on Frannie.
The contraction over, she took a deep breath and actually smiled weakly at him. "You do know how to deliver a baby, don't you, Bridger?"
"No." He tossed the towels onto the foot of the bed. "Come on. We can be at the hospital in ten minutes."
"I don't have ten minutes."
As if to prove her point she had another contraction. Taking short, ragged breaths, she glanced at Paula. "I love you like a sister," she said hoarsely, "but get out."
"But—" Mal began.
"Just you and me, Bridger," Frannie whispered. "Just you and me."
Paula apparently didn't think twice. She thrust the cordless phone at Mal. "They're on their way, but I don't think they're going to make it."
He told the operator on the other end to hang on, and set the phone on the table as Paula quietly crept from the room and closed the door.
"Why didn't you tell me you were in labor?" He moved to the end of the bed.
"I thought I was having false pains, like last time," she said breathlessly. There was a sheen of sweat on her face. "They were irregular and not so bad, and by the time they got regular and bad, it was too late." She fastened her eyes on him. "You're a cop. You're supposed to know how to do this."
She had another contraction, and this one looked bad. The strain on Frannie's face was more than he could stand. Dammit, this had been hard enough in a delivery room full of doctors and nurses who knew what they were doing!
He very carefully lifted the sheet she'd draped over her knees.
"A head," he whispered.
He grabbed the phone and returned to the end of the bed. "I'm going to have some badges and some butts if somebody doesn't get here now!"
"Lieutenant Bridger," answered the much too serene 9-1-1 operator. "Nice to talk to you again. Stay cool, sir, it's just a baby. I can talk you through this."
"I don't want you to talk me though this, I want—"
Frannie let out a scream and Mal dropped the phone.
He didn't have a choice. This little girl was coming, and she was coming now. He climbed into the bed, balancing on his knees, and looked over the sheet to Frannie. "Okay, honey, we're going to have this baby." His voice was relaxed, and for some reason he was suddenly calm.
He'd been in the delivery room twice, but standing aside and watching was nothing to compare to actually delivering a child. He was terrified, he was elated, and the tears that sprang to his eyes surprised him.
"You're doing great,"' he said gruffly, glancing over the top of the sheet to see Frannie's face.
"So are you," she said breathlessly.
Watching Frannie going through labor had never been easy. She strained and he held his breath. She cringed and he hurt. She fastened her eyes on him and pushed, and he broke into a sweat. He cradled the head of his child as it came into this world.
"One more push," he whispered. "That's all we need."
The child was delivered into his hands, a tiny, fat-faced baby who let out a healthy cry and worked up an unhappy face.
"It's a boy," he whispered.
Frannie grinned. Sweating and breathing hard and looking as if she wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the bed and sleep for a week, she grinned at him. "A little Bridger."
Mal wrapped the baby in a towel and laid him on Frannie's chest, where he let out another hearty squall. Her hands settled shakily over the tiny bundle and she peeked at his face. "He looks a little grumpy," she said, "like his daddy. He looks like he wants to say, 'I was perfectly happy where I was. Why'd you have to go and ruin everything by making me come here?'" She glanced up with a wicked grin. "He looks like he's having a very bad day."
Mal smiled at her as he snatched the phone from the floor. "Now what?'" he asked.
The operator instructed him, step-by-step, as to what came next. Fortunately, Frannie and the baby had both done remarkably well, and in a matter of minutes he was finished.
Mal hung up the phone and took a chair beside the bed. Frannie turned her head his way and smiled again. "Looks like the doctor missed something in the sonogram."
"Looks that way." He leaned over and kissed her gently. "I love you." The words came easily to him these days.
"I love you too, Bridger," she said breathlessly.
He took the baby from her and peeled back a corner of the towel to study the perfect little face. "I never expected that I'd be the one to deliver you," he said to his son. "I never even expected that you'd be here. Frannie," he glanced up sharply, "we don't have a boy's name picked out."
"Malcolm James Bridger, Junior, of course," she said, and her eyes drifted closed.
"We can call him James," Mal added.
"Or Jimmy."
"Or Jamie."
Frannie barely opened one eye. "Or little Bridger."
Outside, the faint wail of ambulances signaled the tardy arrival of the paramedics. Mal leaned over and kissed Frannie quickly. "He's just a kid. What does he know? It's been a good day."
"The best," she whispered.
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BRIDGER'S LAST STAND Page 22
