* * *
The tears burning Kelly's eyes threatened to fall. She had been willing herself not to cry, insisting her labor was false, that the intermittent pains throughout the night didn't mean the baby was coming. But now she knew different. Her water had broken.
The front of her nightgown bore a large stain, the fabric damp and clingy. She twisted the hem and held tight. How soon before the next pain arrived? How far apart had they been?
She didn't know. God help her, but she honestly didn't know. Nor could she count how many times she had tried the phone.
Kelly lifted the receiver yet again. The silence was deafening. As she returned it to its cradle, the tears she'd struggled to contain made their way down her cheeks.
Feeling like a child who had lost her way, Kelly cried. A silent, dazed, lonesome cry. Daylight hadn't eased her fear. The shutters were open, yet gloom enveloped the cabin, rain pounding the roof like a thousand angry fists.
Her baby was coming, and she was alone, trapped in a vicious storm.
Where was Shane? Yesterday he'd said that he would call. Surely he would check on her once he discovered her phone line was dead.
How many hours would pass before he attempted to call? She clutched the damp section on her nightgown. Two? Three? By then, it might be too late.
Too late.
The thought nearly knocked the wind out of her. Catching her breath through small, shaky gasps, she studied her surroundings. An antique armoire stood in lieu of a closet, a rough-hewn dresser displayed a wrought-iron candelabra and a scarred wooden nightstand held a useless telephone. This room, this rustic old room, would be the place in which her child would enter the world. Cry its first cry. Focus its tiny eyes on its mother.
Kelly sniffed, then dabbed at her runny nose, her plan suddenly clear. No more tears. It was time to get a hold of herself and start behaving like a mother. Her baby needed her strong and whole.
Making her way to the dresser, she removed her soiled nightgown and panties. Opting for a sleeveless cotton gown, she slipped it over her head and secured the ribbon at the bodice. Aside from her trembling hands, the task proved relatively easy.
The damp sheets were another matter. She struggled with the corners of the mattress, fearing another pain would immobilize her. Unable to secure the clean linen properly into place, she tucked it haphazardly, grateful she had come this far, her rebellious limbs shaky and weak.
At least her baby would be born on fresh sheets, she told herself, using the headboard for support. As she eased herself onto the bed, she caressed the posts, wondering if she would grip them later, if the cool, dark wood would be her salvation.
Don't get melodramatic. Stay strong. Be prepared.
Forcing herself to stand once again, she gathered clean towels and stacked them on the nightstand. Beside the towels, she placed a small pair of scissors and an antiseptic in which to sterilize them. She didn't know much about delivering a child, but she knew this much – she wasn't about to gnaw her way through the umbilical cord.
The image made her laugh – a laughter she prayed her baby could feel. She didn't want the child to absorb her fear, the overwhelming panic rising in her throat.
Would she need a basin of water? Damp washcloths? A makeshift…
Kelly's questions went unanswered. The severity of her next pain pitched her forward. She collapsed onto the bed, knowing the onset of hard labor had begun.
* * *
Soaked to the bone, his boots sloshed with mud, Shane entered his house through the back door. He stood in the cluttered service porch that led to the kitchen and removed his rain slicker and boots. Normally he just wiped his feet on the kitchen mat, but then his legs weren't usually knee-deep in mud. Scanning the clothes rack for dry garments, he blessed his dad for having the good sense to do their laundry that morning. He checked his watch and frowned. Morning? It was almost noon. He'd been outside for hours.
Shrugging out of water-logged Levi's, he washed up in a utility sink, drying his face and hands on a nearby towel. After donning clean jeans and a denim shirt, he headed for the kitchen, hoping his dad had a strong pot of midday coffee brewing.
Tom was in the kitchen, but the smell of roasting beans wasn't wafting through the air.
"What's going on?" Shane asked.
His dad stood at the counter, inserting batteries into a heavy-duty flashlight. An arsenal of portable lights littered the table, including several kerosene lanterns.
"The power has been going on and off. I figure it's just a matter of time before it's gone for good," Tom said, emphasizing his statement by motioning to the microwave clock where bright red zeros flashed across the display panel.
Shane raked his hands through his rain-dampened hair. The day had gone from bad to worse, and it was barely noon. "I better call Kelly."
The older man tested the flashlight, shining the beacon across the room. "I don't understand why she didn't come home with you yesterday."
"Tell me about it. I guess I should have insisted." He reached for the phone. "But you know how stubborn women can—" The disconnected line rammed him like a hard punch to the gut. He gulped the air that whooshed out.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Why hadn't he sensed it before now?
"Dad," he said, his voice catching on the lump in his throat. "Will you come with me to Kelly's place? I think she's going to need us."
The kitchen light flickered, then went out altogether, but neither man paid it any mind. "Why? What happened? Didn't she answer?"
"The phone's dead."
Tom's ruddy features relaxed. "That's no reason to panic, Shane."
"But I've got this awful feeling." A feeling he couldn't shake, a sudden ache in the pit of his stomach. "Besides, Kelly didn't seem well yesterday. She was overly tired. And she looked so pale."
Further explanation wasn't necessary. Tom accepted his son's response, and together they worked side by side, hastily gathering emergency supplies. The power appeared to be off for good, and the possibility that Kelly was ill plagued them both. Once they reached the cabin, they would probably remain there, at least for the night.
"Get some blankets," Tom said, as he headed outside to load Shane's truck.
Shane tore off down the hall. Thank God for his father's organizational skills. It was Tom who kept hurricane supplies in the cellar – bottled water, non-perishable foods and over-the-counter medicine that would come in handy in case Kelly was sick. There were probably blankets in the cellar, too, but Shane raided the linen closet instead. He was too damn nervous to think straight.
He tossed the blankets into the extra cab of the truck, then glanced at his watch. They had packed within a matter of minutes.
The road conditions were bad, but not as troublesome as Shane had feared. The tires spun through a sludge of mud at the bottom of the hill, but the four-wheeler made it through without incident. A smaller vehicle might not have fared so well. He exhaled an anxious breath, grateful the Ford hadn't let him down.
Shane turned onto the narrow road that led to the cabin, then exchanged a nervous glance with his father. Debris floated in pools of water, tree branches and leaves that had fallen by the wayside. He maneuvered the truck toward their final destination, his heart pounding faster than the rain.
The cabin looked more isolated than usual, a tiny wooden structure surrounded by vast amounts of foliage and a weather-beaten porch. Shane prayed Kelly was safe and warm inside, that the knot in his gut wasn't what it seemed.
He thumped his fist against the door, hoping to be heard above the storm. His father stood beside him, tall and quiet. Shane knew Tom took his premonitions seriously, which, at the moment, wasn't a comforting thought. Shane wanted to be wrong this time.
"Damn it, why isn't she answering?" He pounded again, then yelled through the door. "Kelly! It's me! Shane!"
When she didn't appear, he turned to his dad. "What should we do?"
Just as Tom began to form an answer, the d
oor opened. Shane could see the change of expression on his father's face. He turned back and caught sight of Kelly.
Sweat bathed her skin, and her wheat-colored hair hung in limp strands. Pale, he thought. Deathly pale. As he opened his arms, she stumbled into them and burrowed against his chest.
"The baby's coming," she said, her voice barely audible. "Soon."
"It's okay, sweetheart, we're here now." Shane lifted her off the ground, then realized he had just violated an ancient taboo – Comanche men, other than medicine men, were not permitted to be present during childbirth, let alone participate in labor.
A balloon of panic burst in his chest, but he continued to hold her, praying silently for forgiveness.
He entered the cabin, Tom on his heels. Whether his father had heard Kelly's words or understood by instinct, Shane couldn't be sure. Either way, Tom seemed to know exactly what was happening.
The older man took charge. As Shane settled Kelly onto the bed, Tom held her hand and asked about her labor, his tone gentle and soothing. She answered in a quiet, shaky voice, tears glazing her eyes. Tears of relief, tears of discomfort. Shane thought her expression mirrored conflicting emotions.
"I deliver babies all the time," Tom told her. "You're going to be fine."
Shane knew the babies the veterinarian delivered were gangly foals and spotted calves; but that didn't seem to matter. Tom McKinley was a doctor just the same – a medicine man.
While Tom scrubbed his hands, Shane sat beside Kelly, confused and fearful. He reached out to stroke her hair, then drew back. He couldn't continue to touch her. Not now.
Grandma had instilled the old ways into him, and she had been so strong in her convictions, Shane had respected her wishes by keeping his distance during Evan's birth. Rather than remain by Tami's side, he had behaved like a nineteenth-century father, waiting quietly for the announcement.
Tom returned from the bathroom and gave Shane a verbal list of articles to gather. He did as his father bade and noticed some of the items were already on the dresser. His heart clenched. Sweet little Kelly had been preparing to deliver her own child. God help him, but how could he walk away now? How could he explain that he had no right to be there?
Thirty minutes might have passed. Or possibly an hour. Shane had no idea, although he assumed his dad knew. Tom appeared to be timing the contractions, cramping pains that rammed through Kelly with the force of a Mack truck. Each time they hit, she pitched forward and bit back a scream, her lips straining from the pressure.
Protect her. Please, keep her safe.
His hands clasped tightly in his lap, Shane prayed once again – prayed that his now deceased grandmother was mistaken, that his masculine presence wouldn't harm Kelly or her baby.
Tom remained at the foot of the bed. He had draped Kelly's lower half with a sheet, for modesty's sake, Shane assumed. The sheet tented around her drawn knees.
"It's not time to push," Tom told her. "Not just yet."
Kelly gazed up at Shane when the pain subsided. He still sat beside her, silent and nervous, clutching a portion of the sheet to keep himself from touching her. He struggled between the old ways and the new – never quite knowing where he fit in. He wanted to touch her, wanted to give her a part of himself, yet he had been taught…
She touched him instead, her shaky hand connecting with his.
"Hold me," she whispered. "Please."
Unable to deny her plea, he reached forward. She felt as fragile and frightened as she looked. Her lips were parched, her skin bathed in sweat, her heartbeat erratic. It pounded against her rib cage – hard and fast, just like his own. He stroked her matted hair, offering strength and comfort. It felt right, he thought, to take her in his arms – to keep her there.
When Kelly's next contraction hit, Tom ordered her to push, and she did so willingly. Shane supported her shoulders, holding her as close as humanly possible. Over and over she pushed, clinging to him as though he provided a lifeline.
Grandma had been wrong. Kelly needed him. He couldn't possibly harm her. Nor could he endanger her child.
On the wings of Shane's revelation came a strong infant cry. His breath hitched until Tom's proud voice seized the moment.
"It's a girl," the doctor said, placing the tiny babe against her mother. "And she's perfect."
* * *
The next hour was the most incredible sixty minutes of Shane's life. Not only had he participated in Kelly's labor, but he had helped his father prepare the baby for her introduction into the world. With Tom's instruction, Shane had bathed the golden-haired infant, then brought her back to Kelly swaddled in a downsized blanket.
As he lowered the baby into Kelly's arms, their eyes met – just long enough to make his breath catch. As he stepped back, Kelly unwrapped her daughter, then inspected tiny fingers and toes, counting each one, cooing as she did.
Shane smiled. He had done that, too. He had examined every tiny appendage while marveling at the baby's perfection.
Tom sat beside Kelly as Shane stood back, absorbing the moment.
"Thank you," Kelly said to the doctor, "for everything." She looked weary, yet beautiful, an elated new mother, tired eyes shining.
The older man touched the newborn's cheek. "Have you thought of a name?"
Kelly nodded. "Brianna Lynn."
"Brianna Lynn." Tom tested the sound on his tongue, his Texas twang taking on a lilting brogue, something Shane had never heard his father do. "'Tis a fine Irish name for a wee Irish lass. Your grandpa would be proud."
Kelly smiled and looked down at baby Brianna. "I think so, too." She stroked the top of the child's head with gentle hands. A mother's hands, naturally soothing. "Clever diapers."
Tom turned toward Shane, his voice beaming of Texas once again. "My son's idea."
Shane shrugged a little boyishly. He had cut an even stack of squares out of the softest quilt he could find. Baby Brianna wore an Aztec print on her little bottom, fastened with safety pins he'd retrieved from a sewing kit.
"Thank you," Kelly said, and he knew she meant for more than just the diapers.
He met her gaze, his voice husky with emotion. "You're welcome."
Tom excused himself to prepare the sofa bed in the front room, giving Shane and Kelly time alone. Neither spoke until the older man closed the door behind him.
"Will you stay here with us?" Kelly asked Shane, shyness creeping into her voice.
Us. She wanted him to sleep next to her and the baby. He wanted that, too. Very much. "Are you sure?"
She nodded, and he stepped forward. "I could find something to make a night cradle out of. It's an old Comanche practice, placing the baby in a cradle between its—" he couldn't very well say parents; he wasn't Brianna's father "—beside its mother."
"That's a good idea," she said, cuddling her daughter. "I'll dress her in one of my T-shirts to keep her warm."
"I'll be back soon." Shane toured the cabin and found a large, sturdy gift basket the realtor had sent Kelly as an apology for the house cleaning delay. He emptied the current contents and removed the handle. Next he padded the basket with the remainder of the diaper quilt, tucking the fabric all around.
Tom reclined in the sofa bed, reading an old magazine. It was still daylight, but the power was off, making the cabin dim. "I left a couple of flashlights on the dresser," he said. "And a kerosene lamp for later."
"Thanks, Dad." Shane held up the makeshift cradle. "It's for Brianna."
"She's beautiful, isn't she?"
Shane smiled, recalling the child's soft baby skin and cap of smooth golden-colored hair. "That she is."
He returned to the bedroom to find Kelly waiting anxiously for him, Brianna asleep in her arms. She didn't want to be alone, he realized. She wanted his company, a friend with whom to share the joy.
He placed the basket-cradle beside her, and she lowered Brianna into it. The child stirred, but didn't waken. "I was worried that she was born too early, but your dad said she's fine. Th
ose last few weeks didn't matter."
Shane climbed into bed, settling himself on the other side of the baby. "As soon as the phone lines are restored, we need to call your mom." He tucked the blanket around Brianna when she kicked at it, loosening its hold.
Kelly didn't mention Jason, for which Shane was grateful. Jason would claim Brianna soon enough. He would see the child, and he would want her. Kelly would have a father for her baby – the rightful father.
As an exhausted Kelly closed her eyes, Shane listened for the rush of rain, but the only sound he heard was the soft, even breaths of a newborn.
A smile caught his lips. "Hey, little ona," he whispered, stroking her tiny back. "You sent the storm away." And brought a ray of sunshine into Shane's lonely heart.
He glanced at Kelly. Bordering on sleep, her eyelids fluttered. She was sunshine, too. Pretty Kelly with her scatter of golden freckles and pale yellow hair. He would miss them both – mother and daughter. The perfect family that wasn't his.
* * *
Hours later Shane remained awake, cloaked in the dark, the weather outside quiet. He heard Kelly lifting her daughter from the basket. Brianna hadn't cried, but she hadn't nursed yet, either. Shane knew why Kelly reached for the baby.
I shouldn't be here, he thought.
Kelly whispered to little Brianna, something soft and sweet.
Shane closed his eyes. If Kelly needed him would she ask for help?
Help? He swallowed nervously. Why would she need him? Mothers had been nursing their children since the beginning of time. It was instinctual, wasn't it? Shane frowned. He couldn't be sure, especially since Evan had been a bottle-fed baby.
Although Shane's eyes remained tightly closed, he knew Kelly had untied the ribbon on her nightgown, sliding the fabric off her shoulders to bare her breasts.
He tried not to picture her, but couldn't help the image that surfaced in his mind. God help him, but he wanted to remove that makeshift cradle and slide next to her, become a part of something he had no right to share.
A suckling sound filled the room, and he smiled. Brianna nursed eagerly, a healthy, happy baby.
NIGHT WIND'S WOMAN Page 8
