Mystic Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 6)

by Debra Holland

  Helping a woman who wasn’t his wife change into a nightgown was the most embarrassing thing Caleb had ever done. But with her sprained ankle and overall bruising, he couldn’t just leave Maggie to struggle alone.

  After an awkward attempt to undress her while she remained lying down, he gave up and assisted Maggie to stand on one foot. As she leaned her back against him, keeping the weight off her bad leg, Caleb tried to keep his gaze over her head. But he had to keep glancing down to see what he was doing, giving him glimpses of her extended stomach and yellowing bruises on her arms, legs, and back, too old to be from the accident.

  He wondered what had happened. Did her husband hit her? He knew some men did such abhorrent acts, but surely not to a pregnant wife.

  Finally, the switch to a nightgown was accomplished, and he helped Maggie lie down, and then took off her worn shoes and stockings. Her ankle was swollen, and on her direction, he found a bottle of witch hazel in the caravan to pour on a rag and wrap around the injury. Afterward, he tucked the blanket around her.

  Maggie smiled wanly and thanked him but then tensed, obviously in the throes of another wave of pain.

  I thought I felt terror when that caravan came at me, but this is worse. As the contraction gripped Maggie’s body, Caleb’s nightmarish thoughts flitted to all the women he’d known who’d died in childbirth. Far too many.

  Even as he tried to make her comfortable, he couldn’t let go of the vision of Maggie dying.

  When it comes down to it, childbirth is as dangerous as war, probably killing as many mothers as battles do warriors. After all, battles come rarely, but babies are born every day. He could only imagine the courage soldiers needed to perform under enemy fire. Yet, women stared down death each time they bore a child. Caleb shook his head at his morbid thoughts.

  Maggie wrinkled her forehead. “What is it?”

  “You cannot stay here. We need to get you to shelter, to a woman who can help you deliver.”

  She placed a hand on her bulky belly. “There’s no choice, Caleb,” she said softly. “The child will not wait.”

  “Maggie, I’m serious. I don’t know anything about delivering babies.” What if you die? What if the baby dies? The unspoken questions hung in the air between them.

  “How about foals? Calves?” Her teasing smile didn’t quite meet her eyes.

  “What?”

  “Have you been with your dog when she had puppies?”

  “I don’t have a dog,” he said stiffly, not in the least amused by her attempt to distract him.

  “Too bad. Everyone should have a dog.” Her expression shifted to one of sorrow; old grief haunted her eyes. “I had a dog when I married Oswald. The first time he hit me, Blackie bit him.” She turned her face away. “I didn’t dare take in another one.” Her voice trailed off.

  So that explains the old bruises. Pity and outrage warred in him. He clenched his fists, suddenly not feeling as guilty about the death of Maggie’s husband. In fact, Oswald was lucky to be beyond Caleb’s reach, for he had a furious need to pummel the man.

  She rubbed circles on her belly.

  “Kittens,” Caleb said to chase the shadows from her eyes. “When I was a child, we had a cat who resided in the kitchen. A tabby. But since I wasn’t allowed in the servants’ domain, I rarely saw the animal. Then one night, my nanny snuck me down to watch the kittens being born. Do you think being the doctor to kittens qualifies me to deliver your baby?” he deadpanned.

  “Absolutely, Dr. Livingston.”

  He didn’t comment on her fabrication.

  “I know my baby and I will be fine in your capable hands.”

  You’re so brave. Caleb almost blurted out the thought—he who always carefully chose his words. She must be terrified, yet she’s able to joke with me. But he held in the sentiment, not knowing how to tell Maggie he admired her spirit.

  She gasped, suddenly hit with what seemed like one of the strongest contractions yet.

  Helpless to ease her pain, Caleb reached to hold her hand, praying the pain would end.

  Maggie pushed away his hand. She curled up and grabbed her knees, holding her breath, and shifting as if trying to get comfortable. Finally, the contraction subsided, and she panted for air. Perspiration from the effort drenched her face and chest.

  He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the unbloodied part at the sweat on her brow. “I can’t imagine the pain,” he murmured.

  “You ever had a charley horse?” she asked, her voice still thin from exertion.

  Caleb winced and nodded, remembering the times after riding for hours that he’d woken up with one in his calf. The muscle would knot, and he’d yelp from the intense throbbing.

  “Well, put a big cramp inside your stomach, and you’ll know what I’m going through.”

  I shudder to think. . . .

  Maggie closed her eyes in obvious exhaustion. “In the vardo, there’s a small cabinet hanging on the wall, containing many square drawers,” she said without opening her eyes. “I store my herbs there. Can you bring it here? There’s a tea I need you to brew for me.”

  Caleb squeezed her hand. Three minutes, he told himself. I’ll be there and back before the next one. “I’ll hurry.” He jumped to his feet, loped to the caravan, and climbed inside. The cabinet hung askew on a wall. He navigated the tilted floor, his boots grinding on the glass, and reached up to take down the cabinet. A tea strainer was hooked on one side.

  On his way out, he grabbed a pot and picked up a tin cup from the wreckage on the floor. Once outside, Caleb hurried to join Maggie, only to see her struggling with a fierce tightening of muscles. He set down everything and knelt, waiting.

  She lay back, gasping for air and not speaking.

  Finally, Caleb broke the silence. “Tell me what to expect—what to do.”

  She exhaled a long breath. “I’ve never assisted in a birth, mind you. Mining camps don’t have a lot of women. And when they do, the tent or cabin only has room for the most experienced woman and maybe a female relative or a close friend. But I’ve heard my mother’s and grandmother’s stories. Childbirth makes for a dramatic retelling.”

  The thought that Maggie might be just as ignorant about childbirth as he was appalled Caleb.

  She must have seen the expression on his face, for she smiled and patted his hand. “Ever since I started to show, I’ve been hearing birthing stories from the women of Morgan’s Crossing. Last week, Mrs. Tisdale sat me down and told me what would happen. She was quite. . .specific.”

  “That’s something, at least,” he muttered. “We’re not completely ignorant here.”

  “You’ve forgotten the kittens.”

  “How can you jest at such a time?” This woman continues to astonish me.

  “What would you have me do? Cry? Scream? Have hysterics?”

  He held up a hand. “No! Jesting is just fine. Carry on.”

  She glanced toward the caravan. “You need to heat water—to wash your hands and to cleanse the knife for cutting the cord, to wash the baby. . .and me. At least the pots won’t be damaged. I have cloths prepared—for cleaning and diapers. You’ll find everything for the delivery and the needs of the baby in the cupboard near the bed.”

  He stood and then wavered, reluctant to leave her. “Yell if you need me.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m quite capable of making myself heard.”

  He laughed, surprised at the emotion. “You’re a feisty little thing, aren’t you?”

  She dropped her gaze. “I was once.”

  Caleb lowered himself again to one knee. He leaned over and touched his forefinger underneath her chin, tilting her head so she met his eyes. “What happened?”

  “Oswald beat the feistiness out of me.”

  Anger and a strange wave of sorrow washed over him. “You’ll never suffer that again,” he said gently. “Your husband will never harm you.”

  “Or my baby,” Maggie said with a sob. “I was so afraid he’d hit me and
kill my child.”

  Stirred by compassion, he moved his hand to cup her cheek. “You’re safe now. I promise, you’ll both be safe.” He sent the assurance through his voice, eyes, and touch, willing her to believe him. Willing himself to believe. Please, God, make it so.

  “When this is over, I’ll need to bury your husband. Will you want to pay your respects before I do?”

  “No. I’m—” Before Maggie could finish, she rolled up into a ball, her eyes glazed, her focus inward until the contraction ended. Then with a gasping breath, she lay back. “As I started to say—”

  Caleb wiped the perspiration from her face.

  She grabbed his hand, pulling his attention toward her. “I’m not the least bit sorry Oswald is dead. Not that I’m dancing on his grave, either.” She scrunched her eyebrows together. “I feel. . .empty.”

  Caleb slanted a glance at her. “Are you sure you don’t want to view him? I, ah, closed his eyes, and. . . .” He swallowed.

  “Listen to me.” Maggie tightened her grip, holding his gaze intently. “Any decent man would feel remorse over being involved in such an accident. But that’s all this was—an accident. Oswald was furious. He’d been in a foul mood since he’d argued with Michael Morgan and was kicked out of town. This morning, he became angry with me and was driving recklessly.” She placed a hand to the deepening bruise on her cheek. “He did this to me right before. . . .”

  His gaze narrowed on the injury. “He hit you?”

  “I asked him to slow down.” She faltered, and then forced herself to take a breath. “He knocked me so hard I almost fell off the bench. I was sick over the side.”

  Remorse faded, replaced with anger. “How were you thrown clear?”

  “The momentum toppled me overboard. As I pitched through the air, all I could think of was my baby.” She gave him a faint smile. “I called upon my childhood of tumbling with my cousins, curled my arms and legs around my stomach, and twisted so I landed on my side. With a crack of splintering wood, the vardo smashed into a tree. A piece broke off and flew at me. I could only protect the baby or my face, not both.” She felt her forehead and winced. “I bent over my belly, and the wood hit my face.”

  “You chose your child,” Caleb murmured in admiration, but he wasn’t sure she heard him, for she plunged into a cramp. He held Maggie’s hand throughout, her grip hard enough to squeeze the bones together.

  When she finished and recovered her breath, Maggie gazed at him in earnest. “I’m free of him, Caleb.”

  “Then I can’t be sorry for the accident.”

  “No, never be sorry.”

  Caleb touched a finger gently to her bruised cheek. “Your husband was a cad to treat you so.” Confused by his rapidly changing emotions, he stood. “Let me get you some water.”

  “That would be nice,” she murmured.

  He ran to the vardo, where he’d seen a wooden barrel fastened near the back door, hoping it contained water. Unlatching the top, he peered inside to see it was three quarters full. The long handle of a dipper was tucked into a metal loop. He wrestled the barrel from the rings that held it and lugged it back to Maggie.

  Just as he reached her, he could see another spasm tighten her body. He set down the barrel, lowered himself to her side, and took her hand. When the tremor released her, Caleb picked up the dipper and ladled some water. “Drink.” He held the edge to her lips, sliding his arm under her shoulders to prop her up.

  She drank thirstily, finishing the ladleful.

  Caleb scooped another for her, helped her drink, and laid her down again.

  “I’m so tired.” She closed her eyes.

  “Rest then.” He rose and moved to the caravan, climbed inside and gathered what he thought she might need. Once outside, with his arms full, he heard Maggie cry out. Barely three minutes now. How soon before the babe is born? He worried, not knowing.

  Maggie was pulled into another great paroxysm, arms and shoulders curled around her belly.

  He ran to her, dropping the supplies and the pot on the corner of the bedding, and gave her his hand.

  She held on as if for dear life, gasping for breaths that turned into animal-sounding groans.

  “Forget the charley horse,” she muttered when the contraction ended. “Try stabbed-in-the-stomach-with-a-hunting-knife.”

  His gut tightened in sympathy. “This will be over soon, my dear Maggie.” The endearment slipped out without him noticing. Surely this ordeal can’t last much longer!

  She looked at him, her gaze serious. Half turning on her side toward him, Maggie grabbed his arm with her free hand. “Promise me something, Caleb.”

  “Anything,” he rashly vowed.

  “If I die and the baby lives, you must take care of my child.”

  He tried to hide his instinctive alarm at the idea. “Nothing is going to happen to you. You will be fine.”

  “Promise?”

  Seeing the desperate need for an answer in her eyes and scarcely believing how this time with Maggie was softening what some had called his steel heart, he said, “I promise, Magdalena Petra. If something happens to you, then I will raise your child as my own.”

  The words drifted on the breeze, carried to heaven—a solemn vow made before God.

  Maggie relaxed and lay down. “My back hurts in the worst way.”

  “Lie on your side,” he commanded. “Let me see if massaging the area will help.”

  She curled into a ball.

  He touched the tight muscles in the small of her back. “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  He began to knead her, softly at first, and when she didn’t protest, he dug in harder.

  Maggie let out a moan.

  Caleb lifted his hands.

  “No, don’t stop. That’s helping, really it is.”

  Relieved he could finally do something to aid her, Caleb massaged her muscles, feeling some of the tightness leave her posture. “Would you like more water?”

  “Yes, please.” She rolled onto her back.

  Again he helped her drink, then lowered her shoulders.

  Maggie closed her eyes and seemed to drop into sleep, only to stir a few minutes later as a contraction barreled over her. She groaned, squeezing his fingers ’til they ached. When the constriction eased, she released him and lay back, her body limp. “They are coming faster. I don’t know if I have the strength to do this, Caleb.”

  Once again, he mopped her damp forehead with his handkerchief. “So must every woman think at some point in her travail. Yet babies are born all the time, despite their mothers’ doubts. Besides, I already know what a strong woman you are, Maggie.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I’m not going to argue the truth.”

  Maggie sipped water, nodding when she was done. “The tea?”

  He laid her back down. “I’ll build a fire and boil water. Then you’d better tell me exactly what to expect and what to do.”

  She nodded, grabbing her knees, grunting with pain and the effort to endure. When it was over, she caught her breath. “Someone’s filled my insides with prickly pear cactus and is wringing me out.”

  Caleb winced. “You certainly have a way with words.”

  “I’ll trade places with you.”

  Never. “You’re doing just fine.” Playfully, he tapped her nose. “If men were the ones to have babies, the human population would die out within a generation.”

  She chuckled. “True.”

  Caleb rocked back on his heels, surprised by how good her husky laughter and their repartee made him feel. He wasn’t a man given to bantering with women—with anyone for that matter. Out here in the wilderness, with a woman about to give birth, he wasn’t the banker or the hotel owner. I’m just a man trying to hold his guilt and terror at bay and make sure this mother and child survive.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Between Maggie’s contractions, Caleb rushed about the business of setting up camp. He cleared an area near the bed, dug a fire pit, an
d started a fire to brew her tea. He hiked through the trees to a stream at the base of the hill, filled two buckets with water, and hauled them back to the fire.

  Meanwhile, she explained what supplies were needed for birthing the baby—the washtub for soaking bloody clothes, the pot for boiling water, a pile of clean rags, a flannel blanket, the string and knife for tying off and cutting the cord, diapers and soakers, and a little cloth garment for the baby to wear.

  He tried to memorize her instructions, terrified there’d come a time when he’d need to know what to do, and she wouldn’t be able to tell him. Once inside the caravan, Caleb rifled through Maggie’s possessions, careless of making a mess. Or maybe I should say more of a mess. He bundled everything into a basket that hung from a hook in the ceiling near a corner.

  While he worked, Maggie dozed, only to awaken a minute or two later when another wave of pain possessed her. She panted, groaned, and grunted her way through multiple pushes through each contraction.

  The next hour passed in a blur. Somewhere along the line, Caleb lost his fear, so intent was he on the birth. His world narrowed to a grim need to get mother and child through this ordeal.

  After a contraction, Maggie let out a breath. “I feel better if I continuously push my way through the entire thing.”

  “You said Mrs. Tisdale told you to trust your body, so I suppose that is what you are doing. Would you like a drink?” He lifted up her shoulders and offered her sips of the raspberry leaf tea, holding the cup to her mouth while she drank, for he could see she was totally spent. Then he laid her back down and wiped her sweaty face.

  Soon the cramping came in swift waves, one on top of the other. Maggie was so inwardly focused, she didn’t respond when he spoke to her, almost as if she couldn’t hear him. To get her attention, Caleb had to lean close to her face when he spoke.

  After one long contraction, with intense pushing, Maggie couldn’t seem to get comfortable. She tried shifting her hips one way, then the other. “This isn’t working.” Her eyes flew open. “The baby’s coming out!”

  Caleb drew back the nightgown to view the part of a woman he wasn’t supposed to see. Between her legs, a hairy scalp about the size of a silver dollar gradually grew larger. He inhaled the dusky smell of birthing.