by Lisa Bingham
Too late she realized she’d made a mistake. A dreadful mistake. The added weight of her stomach made her attempt ungainly at best. Her foot slipped, and she screamed as Billy reached out to grab her knee.
For a moment she hung motionless. Then she was falling, falling.
Ginny flung out her hands to try and catch herself, but the momentum of her fall caused the ground to rush to meet her with a terrifying force, knocking the air from her body. For a moment she lay stunned, staring up at the ceiling above before blackness crashed over her.
Abbie urged her mount to a greater speed. That afternoon she’d awakened to find her bed empty and a twenty-dollar gold piece on her nightstand.
At first she’d thought it was a terrible joke. Billy loved her. He’d promised to marry her and take her with him to Missouri.
But as the sun glinted upon the money he’d given her she knew for certain that Billy had left for good. Bit by bit she began to remember the signs of dissatisfaction she’d ignored before. The way he’d grown impatient and cross. The way his lovemaking had cooled.
And it had all started that day they’d watched the Ghant family at the creek.
But had he been watching Orrin Ghant, as she’d originally thought, or the man’s wife? Ginny.
Vaguely she recalled that someone had once told her that Ginny came from some place back East. Minnesota, or … Missouri.
A fury began to well within her. Within minutes she had dressed and hurried to the livery, only to be informed that Billy Wicks had stolen her horse and headed for Eden Creek. Renting another mount, she’d followed him.
With each mile of the interminable journey she’d thought the same thing over and over: He couldn’t leave her. He couldn’t! He’d promised to marry her. He’d said he loved her.
Night had fallen by the time Abbie crested the rise and looked down upon the Ghant farm. Nudging her horse, she rode into the yard. If Billy weren’t there yet, he soon would be. She meant to wait until he offered her an apology and an explanation.
She was slipping from the saddle when she heard a woman scream. The sound brought a rash of gooseflesh to Abbie’s arms. Dropping the reins, she ran toward the source of the sound. As she burst through the barn door she absorbed the scene before her. Ginny was lying upon the ground with Billy standing over her.
“Billy?” She stared at him in horror. “What have you done?”
Billy whirled around, then glared at her. “Stay out of this, Abbie. This is between Ginny and me.”
“But—”
“Damn it, leave! Can’t you see I don’t want you anymore? Are you too stupid to realize that if I hadn’t been waiting to take Ginny back home, I never would have touched you?”
The truth spilled over her like a wave of cold water. She saw the way he turned away from her, as if she were of no consequence. Images flashed through her head. The way he’d courted her. The way he’d loved her.
His promises had been as empty as his heart.
Abbie saw Billy bend over the unconscious figure and shake her, shouting, “I’ve had enough of this, Ginny. Get up! You’re coming with me!” But even though each action was recorded with blunt efficiency by her senses, nothing registered except that he had abandoned her.
No one abandoned her. Not without a fight.
She rushed toward the tool rack a few feet away. She hesitated only a moment before removing the pitchfork from its hook. Damn him to hell! She wanted to see him begging for forgiveness at her feet.
“You lied to me, Billy,” she shouted as she headed for him, tines lifted. “You said you loved me. That you would take me home with you. You promised!”
At the sound of her voice Billy quickly turned. “You little—”
Abbie had no idea he was so close. She didn’t have time to react, to prepare, as the momentum of his body pushed the cold, slender tines into his stomach.
For a moment he faltered, a glimmer of surprise spreading over his features as he looked up into Abbie’s face. “You bitch,” he rasped, releasing her to reach down to where the pitchfork had impaled him. His hands came away slick with his own blood. “You bitch!”
But his voice had become little more than a ragged whisper.
Abbie backed away in shock, pulling the tines free. Billy staggered. Blood seeped into the fabric of his shirt and began to drip down his side.
Then he stopped and wavered for a moment, staring at her in confusion. “I don’t…”
His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground.
Abbie waited for him to move. He never did. Finally she forced herself to walk forward and kneel beside him. Trembling in fright, she turned him onto his back.
Billy Wicks stared up at her with sightless eyes.
Frantically, Abbie calculated that she couldn’t leave him there. Someone would know that she’d come to Orrin’s house. Someone would know that she’d killed Billy Wicks.
Her gaze jumped to Ginny, and she could see that the woman was beginning to rouse.
Fighting back a panicked moan, Abbie wrapped her hands under Billy’s arms. With much pulling and grunting she managed to drag him out the side door. Then, lifting her skirts, she hurried toward the front yard and retrieved the two horses tied to the post. She could borrow a rope from the tack room and pull the body away from the area. Then she could decide what to do.
She had just managed to find a lasso and tie it around Billy’s chest when she heard the rumble of a wagon on the upper road. Holding the horses’ reins, she flattened her back against the rough barn wall and peered around the corner.
Orrin Ghant had come home.
A muffled moan of distress came from her lips. She had to get away! She had to hide Billy before Orrin saw her.
Rushing back to the body, she fastened the rope to one of the saddle horns. She would drag Billy out to the creek. With a little luck the frigid waters would carry him miles away. If not, Eden Creek would hide him long enough for Abbie to catch the first train out of town.
Orrin sighed and pulled the team to a stop. This last trip had taken longer than he’d planned. He had tried to rush his return, yet every possible obstacle had been thrown in his way.
But now he was home at last.
He felt a stab of disappointment. No welcoming lights gleamed from the house. There was no laughter, no childish shouting. Instead the valley seemed enveloped in a sterile silence.
He frowned when he noted the purple sky. It was much too early to retire for the night. The light had not yet faded entirely, and there was still a little time for reading or sewing or talking about the day’s events.
But, he reasoned, the baby took what little stamina Ginny still possessed. If she had managed to tuck the children into bed early, she deserved the rest.
Knowing he should take care of his team first, Orrin tied the reins around the brake of the wagon and jumped to the ground, walking as quickly as his stiffened muscles would allow. He needed to see her. Just once. Then he would settle the horses for the night.
Orrin entered the keeping room, lit a lamp, and paused in confusion. The house was filled with a steamy heat, yet the kettles on the stove were making a pinging racket that signaled they had long since boiled away their contents.
Wondering if Ginny had begun to put the children to bed, he went into their room. It was empty, and drawers were opened and cluttered with discarded clothing.
A chill crept into his bones.
Jesse had left the drawers open and disheveled like that She’d never returned.
Orrin pushed that thought firmly away and chided himself for his foolishness. He headed for the addition.
“Ginny?” When he received no answer he flung the door open, then paused in confusion. The scent of lavender teased his nose, but once again the room was empty.
A sick feeling was beginning to weight the bottom of his stomach. Something was wrong, terribly, terribly wrong.
Striding back outside, he hesitated and stared into the darkness. He could discer
n little more than the eerie shiver of the pines.
Orrin hurried into the yard, moving in the direction of the laundry line, thinking that perhaps Ginny was gathering the last of the clothes, and the children were helping her. But the area behind the house was empty.
Where could she be?
The coppery taste of panic tainted his tongue. Loping across the yard, he decided to check the barn first. After that he would unhitch the team and take one of the horses into the fields to begin looking.
As always, the threat of the creek reared its head. Having lived next to the river for so long, Orrin was not indifferent to the dangers inherent in such swiftly running water. Nor was he ignorant of the enticement it posed for small children.
Hurrying now, he slipped into the barn. All was quiet except for the slight rustling of the animals as they shifted in their stalls. There were no other sounds.
Then he heard it. A soft, almost unintelligible moan that sent a shiver of fear scudding down his spine. He went toward the back of the barn, checking each stall along the way. He had reached the end of the aisle when he was alerted by a flash of bright color. Bending down, he saw Ginny’s shawl.
“Ginny?”
There was no answer, but he sensed that she was near. Some instinct led him to the haymow ladder near the backdoor.
What he found there made his stomach clench. Ginny lay in a crumpled heap upon the straw. Her lashes were closed, and her hands gripped her rounded abdomen. Her skin was ashen, devoid of color.
“Dear God, no,” Orrin said as he rushed over to her and knelt at her side. His mouth grew painfully dry as he reached out to touch her forehead. Her skin was cool, but to his profound relief, she was very much alive.
She uttered a soft groan, and he waited until her eyes flickered open. Blue-gray eyes that were filled with pain.
Orrin saw the way she struggled for conscious thought He saw the way she stared up at him, as if she were seeing some kind of apparition.
“Ginny?” It was the only word he was capable of forcing through the tightness of his throat Swallowing, then swallowing again, he whispered soft phrases of comfort waiting until she knew he was no dream.
When she sobbed and called his name, he placed his cheek against her own. He wanted to lift her in his arms and take her into the house, but he didn’t dare touch her, didn’t dare move her until he knew how she’d hurt herself.
Lifting his head, he wiped away the tears that spilled from the corners of her eyes. “What happened?”
She clutched at his wrists, and he damned the pallor of her cheeks. She was so cold, so weary. So frightened.
“I fell,” she finally answered. Then suddenly she jerked, her head twisting in the straw as she frantically searched the shadows.
Wishing to chase some of the desperation from her face, he took her hands in his own and chafed them. When she looked at him again Orrin tried to smile encouragingly, even though his fear was growing.
“Why didn’t you call to the children for help?”
“They’ve gone with Ida to a party. Orrin, don’t leave me! Please don’t leave me.”
“I won’t I promise.” Knowing he had to get her into the house where she would feel warm and safe, Orrin asked, “How badly are you hurt?”
“My knee.”
“Is it broken?”
She shook her head back and forth in the straw. “I don’t think so, but I can’t stand.”
Orrin pushed aside the hems of her skirts and drew her stocking down to her calf, tamping down the vehement curse that rose to his lips. The skin was already mottled with an assortment of bruises, and the joint was swollen and ugly.
His fingers were skimming across her knee when, without warning, Ginny gasped, clutching her stomach. Orrin felt the blood drain from his face when Ginny said, “The baby.”
He waited until the contraction passed before asking, “How long have you been this way?”
“I don’t know. It was about four when Ida left, about seven when I came out to the barn.”
Winding the skirts around her legs, he knelt, saying, “Ginny, I’m going to take you into the house. I need to carry you. It might hurt a little, but I’ll be as gentle as I can.”
“I know.”
Hastily he slipped one arm beneath her knees and another beneath her shoulders. As tenderly as he could, he lifted her from the straw.
He felt the way she stiffened and heard her small hiss of pain, but other than that she lay quietly in his embrace.
Orrin exited the barn, crossed the yard, and went into the house. In a half dozen more steps he managed to reach the bedroom.
Keeping a careful eye trained on the pinched cast of her features, he whipped the covers away and set her upon the mattress, then tucked the quilts around her chin. Sitting on the side of the bed, he took her hand as she fought the shivering that racked her body.
When she began to relax Orrin noted with relief that a faint flush of color seeped back into her cheeks.
“Better?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Will you be all right if I go pump some water and put the team away?”
“Y-yes. W-we’ll need the water.”
He smiled, pleased that she felt well enough to try talking.
“If you feel another contraction,” he told her, “I want you to call for me.” She opened her mouth to argue. “If you won’t promise, I’ll leave the damn team hitched up to the wagon for the rest of the night.”
“I promise.”
He kissed her again, sweetly, then stood from the bed and took a few more quilts from her linen trunk. As he heaped them on top of her body he said, “I’ll be right back.”
She shivered and huddled deeper into the weight of the covers. “I know.” Her lashes fluttered closed.
Orrin backed against the door, then hesitated, glancing at the woman lying on the bed. Though she was safely resting in the house and wrapped to her eyeteeth in quilts, he couldn’t stop the furious thumping of his heart.
Ready or not, the baby meant to come. Soon.
Chapter 18
Orrin fetched the water and cared for the animals as quickly as he could. Then, with an apology to his team, he hurried to the pump for two more pails of water and went back to the house. Setting the buckets on the stove, he stoked the coals so the fire raged, then rushed into the bedroom.
“How are you?” he asked quickly.
She offered an expression that was half grimace, half smile. But he could tell by her manner that his presence had eased her mind somewhat.
He sat upon the side of the bed. “Any more pains?”
“No.”
Needing the reassurance of being close to her, Orrin tugged off his boots and jacket, then slid into the bed, resting his back against the headboard and drawing her against him. For several long moments they sat in silence, but within the hour Orrin knew that Ginny’s labor had begun. He could only wait and worry and hope she had the strength for the long hours ahead.
Striving to offer her some comfort, Orrin wrapped hot bricks from the stove in bath sheets, then helped Ginny to wash and change into a warm flannel nightgown. Soon she was ensconced in a nest of blankets, surrounded by hot bricks, her face flushed and her hair combed.
“Better?”
“Yes,” she said as she burrowed more deeply into the covers.
“Rest while you can,” he urged.
But she had already drifted off to sleep.
Throughout the night Orrin tended to her as she tossed and turned, sometimes sinking into a kind of sleepy delirium that caused her to mutter aloud about pitchforks and demons.
Soon the pains came in a regular pattern, closer and closer together. Each time Orrin felt a stab of concern when Ginny’s labor seemed to aggravate the injuries caused by her fall. The color had all but completely left her skin again, leaving her lips pale and blue, her features pinched and white. But he held her and prayed that if the baby was determined to come, it would happen quickly.
By morning Ginny’s pains were only ten minutes apart, but the baby made no further effort to come. For hours she struggled against the steady rhythm of contractions, but her body seemed unable to go any further. Orrin knew he should get help, but the Carrigans were the closest neighbors—nearly five miles away. Ida would be the logical choice to undertake such a task, but he couldn’t chance being away from Ginny for the amount of time it would take to get the other woman’s help and send for a doctor. So he sat by her side, worrying and praying and hoping there would be no complications.
Toward noon he heard the rumble of the wagon, and he rushed onto the stoop. He had only taken a few steps into the yard when Ida stopped him. Orrin knew something was wrong.
“No! Orrin, don’t come any closer, do you hear?” Ida took a deep breath, then explained, “They think little Ed Mecham may have come down with a case of red measles. Unfortunately, the sick child exposed most of the town at the harvest party last night.”
“Even my girls?”
“’Fraid so. But I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. We’re not sure if he has the measles or just a rash. Meantime, I don’t think your children got around the boy enough to do any harm, but with Ginny pregnant and all, I don’t want to chance bringin’ them back. I’ll keep them with me at my place, watch them close, and in a few days we’ll decide what to do.”
Orrin gazed at her with desperation. “Ida, Ginny’s having that baby now.”
“She wasn’t feeling any pains last night.”
“She fell.”
Ida’s mouth tightened.
“You’ve got to come and help me.”
“As much as that poor girl needs me right now, and as much as it hurts me not to be there—Orrin, I went to the party last night as well. I could be carrying measles as easily as your girls. I can’t come into your house, not with a new baby on the way.”
“Then you’ve got to get me a doctor. Or one of the neighbor women!”
“Ginny was probably the only person in town who didn’t come to the dance.”
Orrin raked his hands through his hair in frustration. “What am I going to do?”
Ida pushed her shoulders back and stared at him as if she could impose her will. “Orrin Ghant, you’ve already had three children, and I know for a fact you were there for the birthin’.”
