Mystic Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 6)

by Debra Holland

  At last Maggie found a position of comfort on her uninjured side, legs drawn up to her chest, hands gripping her thighs behind the knees.

  Caleb remembered he was supposed to hold a cloth to support the baby underneath her female parts, but he couldn’t seem to move. He felt as if he was looking at Maggie through narrowed vision, breathing too fast, and he became lightheaded. Keep taking slow breaths. This is no time to keel over, Caleb Livingston, he sternly told himself. He grabbed a clean cloth and pressed it under her.

  The baby’s head emerged, facedown.

  “It’s coming!”

  She ignored him, taking another deep inhale, and pushed.

  With her second push, as the baby’s face turned toward Maggie’s knee, Caleb supported the head. He took his hand and wiped the infant’s nose and mouth, pulling away the fluid, flicking it to the ground.

  She took another deep breath and pushed. Labor seemed to have taken over her body, compelling her to do nothing but thrust out the baby.

  With the next push, the lower shoulder slipped through into Caleb’s hands, and he intuitively moved the baby downward to make room. The top shoulder squeezed out next, then the rest of the body glided out. A girl.

  A splash of clear fluid followed. The tiny body was slippery, and he held her tightly, afraid she’d slither out of his grip. He rotated the infant faceup, holding her about ten inches away from his face.

  The top of her head had a slight cone shape. Her blue-tinged hands pinked. The baby’s eyes were open, alert and seemingly amazed. They connected with his.

  A jolt of intense feeling, of recognition, flowed between them. As he gazed on the scrunched features of the infant, love surged through him. He’d never felt such a feeling before, and his chest ached with the joyful pressure. Caleb wanted to curl her to his chest and keep her safe. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, inhaling a scent that surprised him with its sweetness.

  “My baby?” Maggie asked.

  The infant broke eye contact with Caleb and turned her face toward the sound of her mother’s voice.

  He blinked back moisture from his eyes and grinned. “You have a beautiful daughter.”

  Maggie let out a cry of joy.

  Goose bumps swept over Caleb’s skin, and his voice shook with emotion. “She’s so little. So perfect.”

  A huge smile broke out over Maggie’s face. She looked at him in obvious elation. “Let me have her.” Completely unabashed, she pulled up her nightgown to her shoulders, and then stretched out her arms for her daughter.

  Careful not to jerk on the cord, he handed over the baby.

  Maggie kissed her daughter and laid the infant face down between her breasts.

  Caleb grabbed up the flannel blanket warming by the fire. Moving to Maggie’s side, he laid the cloth over the baby.

  The baby’s head turned toward her mother.

  Her expression glowing with maternal love, Maggie explored the infant’s face with fingertip touches. “Oh, sweet baby, you have my mother’s nose.” She continued to examine her daughter, unfurling miniature, delicate fingers and obviously delighting in the child’s perfection.

  The baby turned her head toward a breast and pushed her feet on Maggie’s stomach, slowly moving sideways.

  Caleb watched in astonishment as the baby inched toward the nipple.

  The infant reached her goal and, lifting her head, made several attempts before she maneuvered the nipple into her mouth and latched on.

  “Oh, look, dearest. You found your first milk by yourself. Clever girl.” Maggie crooned. “I knew you could. You’re going to make your way in the world and find what you need.”

  Caleb couldn’t take his eyes off the baby. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I never would have thought she’d be so alert, so active, so able to search and find—” he lifted his gaze to meet Maggie’s “—her dinner.”

  “My grandmother believed that a vigorous crawl to the breast means resiliency in life. I remember my mother talking about how strong I was as a baby, how fast I latched on. But. . . .” She glanced down at her suckling daughter. “She’s a miracle.”

  “She is indeed. And so are you,” Caleb told her with the upmost sincerity. “With what you’ve just gone through, you’ve proven your grandmother’s belief.”

  Maggie lifted her gaze to his. “Thank you, Caleb, for being here. Helping me through this. Delivering her. You’ve saved our lives.”

  He shook his head, denying her praise. “I’m the one who’s grateful to you, for I know I’ve had an experience that would have been denied me. Even if I have children someday, Dr. Cameron will deliver them, and I’ll be pacing the parlor. I won’t see the mother and child for a while afterward. I never would have known what I’d be missing by not being there the whole time.”

  Maggie smiled and nodded, seeming to understand, and returned to watching her baby.

  Caleb had never seen anything so beautiful. Madonna and child. A mystical feeling of awe touched him, and he felt connected to the divine, indeed, to all of humanity—generations upon generations of fathers who watched their wives nurse their newborns. In that moment, he forgot the mother and child didn’t belong to him.

  Finally, Maggie finished studying the suckling baby and smiled at Caleb.

  “Do you have a name for the baby?”

  “We’d discussed Oswald—horrible name—for a boy, of course. For a daughter, Anna after Oswald’s mother. I wanted Viktoria, with a k, for my mother and grandmother. It’s Hungarian. But my husband wouldn’t hear of it. In fact, he barely considered that we’d have a daughter. He was so sure the baby would be a boy.”

  “Are you going to keep the name Anna?”

  Her eyes glinted. “I don’t have to use it.”

  “Victoria is a lovely name.”

  She rubbed her belly and shot him a considering glance. “Maybe I’ll name the baby after you, instead. Caleb is a fine name for a boy. There’s no feminine version of Caleb, is there?”

  “Caleba?” he teased. “Calebina? I know. Calebimity!” Her throaty chuckle was a reward far richer than money.

  “You must have a middle name.”

  “Two actually. Charles and, if you can believe it—” he smiled “—Victor.”

  “Caleb Charles Victor Livingston. Quite grand.”

  “I believe it suits me,” he said with a mock arrogant air. His gaze dropped to the baby. “Will you call her Viktoria with a k, then?”

  “I will call her Charlotte Victoria, without a k, after you—your two middle names.”

  Before he could speak, Caleb had to swallow down a rise of emotion. “I’m honored. The name fits her well. Far better than Caleba.”

  She chuckled. The gold flecks in her brown eyes sparkled like stars. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you, Caleb.”

  “Not been in this situation.”

  “No,” she retorted. “One far worse. My pains coming. . .only Oswald to help deliver the baby. . .if he would have even stopped. The baby and I might not have survived.” Her voice lowered. “And I doubt he would’ve even cared.”

  “More fool he. Your husband missed out on—” Caleb gestured to Charlotte “—the most wondrous experience a man can witness.”

  “I think you did more than stand as a witness.”

  “Not in comparison to you, Maggie. You were marvelous.”

  Her eyes widened. “I have another urge to push. The afterbirth, I think.”

  Caleb grabbed a basin he’d brought for the task and placed it between her legs. With a gush of blood, the placenta slid out. So much blood. Is it normal, or is something wrong? The thought made his stomach clench. After all we’ve been through, I can’t lose Maggie or the baby now. He set aside the basin, planning to later take the placenta and dig a hole for it near where he’d bury Oswald. Hopefully the distance would protect them from any animals who might smell the blood.

  After he used a warm cloth to clean Maggie, Caleb washed his hands an
d face. His body still felt shaky after the birth experience, but his heart was full. When he returned, the baby was still nursing. He sat down next to them, Indian style, content to watch.

  After a while, Charlotte pulled her head up like she was ready to stop. Then she seemed to change her mind and continued to suckle for a minute. The next time the baby lifted her head, she relaxed her mouth so the nipple slipped gently away. She turned her face and nestled her cheek against her mother’s soft breast.

  “I suppose we should clean her up.”

  “Just a little.” She ran a finger over Charlotte’s head. “This white coating is supposed to be good for her skin.”

  Caleb stood, his legs aching, and shook them out before walking to the fire. Grasping a corner of a washcloth, he dunked it into the pot of water, and then raised it, holding it aloft to cool a bit. The cloth flapped in the wind until he judged the temperature to be the perfect warmth for Charlotte’s delicate skin. He returned to Maggie’s side.

  She held out the baby for him to wash.

  He crouched and dabbed at Charlotte’s cheeks.

  The infant scrunched her face and turned away.

  “Your first bath, my love,” Maggie crooned.

  Feeling like a clumsy oaf, Caleb persisted, moving as gently as he could.

  “She won’t break, or so Mrs. Tisdale assured me. Rub her head clean.”

  Caleb obeyed, slicking the washcloth over Charlotte’s head and causing some of the baby’s downy dark hair to swirl in tufts.

  Maggie guided him in applying a diaper and dressing her in the baby bunting. After being swaddled inside her blanket and full with her mother’s milk, Charlotte fell into her first contented sleep.

  Caleb wondered if the babe had a sufficient wardrobe. He felt an urge to rush to Sweetwater Springs and place an order for baby clothes and such. “I should attend to the cord.” He used his pocketknife to fish the string and butcher knife out of the pot of boiling water and held them aloft to cool.

  “Remember,” she instructed. “Tie off the cord about an inch and again at four inches. Cut between.”

  Caleb knelt by her side and followed her instructions, tying the strings tight. The umbilical cord surprised him with how soft it felt, yet he still had to apply a certain amount of pressure to cut all the way through. He wiped off the blood, and the task was done. “There.”

  “Well done, Dr. Livingston,” Maggie said, her eyes bright with exhilaration.

  For the first time, Caleb became aware of his hunger. He’d been so focused on Maggie and Charlotte, he’d failed to heed the call of his body’s needs. “I’ll fix us something to eat.” He went to wash up again, then moved to the campfire, opening a can of corned beef hash and one of peas. He set them at the edge of the fire to heat for dinner. From a basket he’d taken from the surrey, he brought out the last of the bread and cheese his housekeeper, Mrs. Graves, had sent along with him for the journey.

  One of the horses nickered as he waited. Probably thirsty. He’d water them soon.

  When the food was warm, he dished some up and brought the plate to Maggie, along with another mug of tea. “I’ll hold the baby while you eat.”

  Maggie gave the dozing infant a kiss. “It’s hard to let her go, even to you.”

  Caleb chuckled. “I’ll be right here under your eye the whole time.” He bent to take the baby.

  “Support her head.”

  “I am.” He brought the infant to his chest. Charlotte was so tiny, seemed so fragile, yet he’d already witnessed her strength. This time Caleb was the one who explored the baby, softly touching her button nose and running a finger over the petal-soft curve of her cheeks. “I think she’s going to have your cheekbones,” he told Maggie.

  Her mouth full, she could only wrinkle her nose before she finished her bite. “Oh, I hope not.”

  Caleb couldn’t imagine why. He shot her a puzzled look.

  She rubbed her cheek. “Because they make me look different.”

  “You are a lovely woman, Magdalena Petra. Your looks are more out of the ordinary than most women around here—not that we don’t have some attractive ladies in our town. I think that only makes you more interesting.” He thought of Delia Bellaire. “Reverend Joshua’s betrothed also possesses exotic beauty, so you won’t be the only peacock among the chickens and swans of Sweetwater Springs. The Bellaires are to return to town today. They’ve been staying at a hotel in Crenshaw.”

  “Reverend Joshua has spoken of her. His face always lights up when he does so. I know the Morgans and some others from Morgan’s Crossing plan to attend the wedding.”

  Caleb tried not to think of his ambivalent feelings toward the Bellaires, who hadn’t been honest with him about Delia’s illegitimacy and Negro blood, although the wedding was good business for his hotel. . . .

  He held the baby in front of him and focused on her, making a playful face. “Charlotte will be lucky if she’s blessed with her mother’s looks. Right, sweetheart? Although perhaps I shouldn’t say so, I wouldn’t want you to have your head turned by all my compliments.”

  Maggie chuckled. “Well, I guess a few are all right.”

  “Glad I can get away with some.” Seeing she’d finished eating, he gave Charlotte one last look. “Ready to return to Mama?” he asked the baby.

  Maggie set her plate and silverware on the ground and held out her hands.

  Carefully, Caleb deposited Charlotte in her arms. “You two rest for a while.”

  “We will. But you need to eat.”

  He grinned at her bossy tone. “Yes, ma’am.” Caleb saluted and sauntered over to the fire to dish up the corned beef hash and peas. He spooned out the food, poured some water into a cup from the pack he’d brought with him, added a slab of bread and cheese, and returned to her. But he saw she’d fallen asleep, and the baby with her. Keeping an eye on mother and child, he gobbled down the meal, aware Oswald needed a burial—as rotten a chore as he’d ever undertaken.

  Only when he’d finished eating and set the bowl on his lap did Caleb realize he still wore the apron. With a wry shake of his head, he took off the garment and folded it. He sat for a bit, weary, but with a deep sense of peace.

  Charlotte made a sound.

  “Do you think she’s hungry already?”

  “We’ll see.” Murmuring soft endearments, Maggie unbuttoned the slit in the bodice of her nightgown and brought the baby to her breast.

  Honoring the mother-baby moment, he glanced away, but the image lingered as beautiful and awe-inspiring as a medieval painting of the Madonna and the Christ-child painted by one of the masters.

  “Caleb,” Maggie chided. “After all we’ve been through, I think we can cast modesty to the winds.”

  With a feeling that he might be casting more than modesty to the winds, Caleb Livingston, staid banker that he was, brought his gaze back to mother and child and looked his fill.

  Maggie hurt all over, and yet she’d never felt happier, or more content. Lying on the bedding, which Caleb had changed, with her head and shoulders propped on pillows, Charlotte in her arms, she watched the man move around the campsite. He’d cleaned her up and soaked the soiled clothes in the washtub. He built up the fire and taken care of both teams of horses. He’d followed her directions and found the Mason jar with liniment under the bed—luckily unbroken—and rubbed the ointment on Pet’s strained leg.

  He unloaded the vardo, setting her scanty possessions in piles, and brought a bedroll from his surrey and spread it out a few feet from Maggie’s. Then he’d taken Oswald’s shovel and the basin with the afterbirth and disappeared.

  Without Caleb saying so, she knew he’d gone to bury her husband.

  For the first time, Maggie thought of Oswald with a pang of grief, not so much for missing him, but for what he was missing—their sweet baby. She remembered how he’d appeared during their courtship—handsome and strong, offering a shoulder to lean on when she was grieving the death of her grandmother, her last living relative. He
’d swept her into a marriage while she’d been vulnerable and without giving her time to form an opinion of his character.

  No, I did that to myself. I could have put my foot down, not let my fears of being alone sway me into thinking I was in love.

  What a foolish girl I was!

  The baby stirred in her arms.

  Maggie glanced down at her daughter, swaddled in faded plaid flannel. She’d cut down an old shirt of Oswald’s to make the small blanket. Love swelled her heart until she thought her chest couldn’t contain the emotion. “But then I wouldn’t have you, my darling Charlotte,” she murmured to her daughter. “I’d go through everything twice over to have you.” Exhausted, she laid her head down on the pillow and drifted off.

  A squeaky wail startled her awake. Dusk had fallen, casting a purple-gray haze over their surroundings. The flannel cloth wrapping the baby was wet. I need to change her. Maggie struggled to sit up, gasping as her abused muscles protested.

  “Let me.” Suddenly Caleb was at her side, supporting her back.

  “Charlotte needs a diaper and a soaker. We didn’t put one of those on her before.”

  “Don’t move.” He ordered. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  Maggie smiled at his tone, doubting he’d ever changed a baby. Well, I haven’t, either. She’d had no younger siblings, only some older cousins. But Caleb did well enough earlier when he put on Charlotte’s first diaper. She pointed to the pile. “We’ll first pin one of the diapers on her. Then come the soakers—the knitted pants—over it.” All the soakers she’d knitted were stacked together. “Find the tiniest pair.”

  He rummaged through the pile, and then held up a miniscule multicolored one for her to approve.

  Maggie had knitted the soakers from leftover pieces of yarn, careful to keep the knots on the outside so they wouldn’t rub against the baby’s tender skin. Embarrassed, she realized the little panties conveyed the poverty she’d lived in, the shifts she’d made to economize when Oswald drank up too much of his wages. Maybe Caleb won’t notice how rag-tag they appear. He’s probably never seen soakers before. For all he knows, that’s how they’re supposed to look. She almost snorted at her own wishful thinking.