by Merry Farmer
“Soak some cloths that we can use to clean her.”
Emma turned back to the bed, searching for any sort of fabric. All she could find was a scrap of soft, treated hide. It would have to do.
The pregnant woman must have come to trust Dean on some level. She had let Dean get a full look at the situation. He crouched between her legs, both hands on her belly, feeling it with an intense frown.
“Will she be all right?” Emma asked.
It was a moment before Dean answered, “I think the baby is facing the wrong way. I believe what I’m feeling here is its head. It will either be born breach or we’ll have to find some way to shift it until its head is down.”
“Can you do that?”
Again, he hesitated before answering, “Maybe. When a baby needs to be turned before birth, it’s usually done long before this point. It will be difficult, but I don’t think it’s impossible. There’s only one way to find out.” He glanced up at her, the confidence in his eyes far beyond the uncertainty of his words. Emma trusted him completely. “Will you sit with her and hold her hands so that she isn’t frightened when I begin the procedure? Since we can’t explain what I’m doing, she’ll likely be alarmed.”
Emma nodded and rushed to the bedside. “It’s all right,” she did her best to calm the woman and herself. “Dr. Meyers is going to turn your baby. Don’t be afraid.”
She did more than just sit and hold the woman’s hands. She crawled around to her shoulders and held the woman on her lap. A sense of calm came over the woman and she held both of Emma’s hands as soon as they were offered. She was still sweating and panting, but she spoke to Dean in a way that suggested she was telling him to do what he had to do.
As if he understood her, Dean nodded. He smoothed his hands over her belly until he found where he wanted his hands to be. Then he pressed and pushed, guiding the baby inside to where it needed to be. The woman gasped and swallowed a cry. She screwed her face up into a mask of determination as Dean continued to turn the baby. He worked with a level of concentration that filled Emma with awe. His face was set and his muscles taut, but at the same time, he gave off a sense that he would never do anything to hurt the woman or her baby.
He paused only once to take a breath and rest. Emma breathed with him. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. “We’re almost there,” she told the woman. “Everything will be all right.”
Dean glanced to her, a hint of a smile playing on his lips before determination set in again. He resumed the pressure on the woman’s belly, moving her baby even more. Emma was amazed that what he was doing was even possible, but it seemed to be helping. He worked with care, and before long, the irregular lumps in the woman’s belly had shifted. Dean let out a breath and rocked back.
“There. That should do it,” he said.
Even the Indian woman seemed to relax, breathing more easily. Her relief was short-lived, though. Within a few minutes, she was grunting again as another wave of contraction overtook her. This grunt was different, though. This time she clasped her belly with a sense of purpose. Her brow knit with concentration instead of panic. She bore through the pain, and when it had ended, she let out a panting breath with a weak smile. She said something in her language, then nodded, collapsing into Emma’s waiting arms.
The rest was easy. Emma lost track of time as the woman’s contractions grew closer together. The young woman returned with the bowl full of fresh water. She helped Emma wet several cloths in the already hot water, then poured it into smaller clay pots before setting the fresh water over the fire to heat. The pregnant woman seemed to know what she needed to do now as each new wave of pain hit her. She worked with Dean, nodding at his gently given commands.
Sunlight was pouring in through the top of the tipi by the time the baby crowned.
“Here it is,” Dean told the woman, his voice as full of excitement as if he was the father. “Just a few more pushes and it’ll be here. Just a few more.”
“You can do it,” Emma added, squeezing both the woman’s hands.
She received a squeeze in return. The woman let herself cry out as she pushed. Emma’s heart pounded against her ribs, with expectation and with joy. She watched as Dean reached between the woman’s legs, saying, “Here we go, here we go.”
A moment later the woman’s tight groan released into exhausted panting, and Dean held up a tiny, bloody baby. He cleared fluid from the baby’s nose and mouth as best he could, and the tiny thing burst into wailing.
“It’s a boy,” Dean said, his voice filled with laughter. “It’s a boy, and he looks as healthy as could be.”
The Indian woman wept with delight, reaching for her baby. Dean laid the boy on her stomach before motioning for the young woman to hand him the knife. He cut and tied the umbilical cord, then went to work cleaning up the afterbirth.
The younger woman exclaimed, tears streaming down her face, as she handed the mother a soft bit of hide to wrap the baby in. Emma inched back as the two women set to work cleaning and swaddling the baby while Dean finished what needed to be done to take care of the mother. She sat back, marveling at the scene in front of her. It didn’t matter that her best dress was in ruins or that she was miles away from anything that felt like home. A new life had come into the world. Dean had been marvelous in making sure that life was possible without tragedy. She couldn’t have loved him more if she tried.
Chapter Sixteen
Exhaustion crept into every muscle and bone in Dean’s body as he sat back and watched the new mother and baby. The baby had cried loud enough to bring the heavens down, but now he slept, cradled in his mother’s arms. The sight was a beautiful, haunting reversal of every surgery he had ever performed on the battlefield. He thought of those men, the ones who made it and the ones who didn’t. He thought of Henry Proctor and his childless widow, and wept. But his tears weren’t those of grief. No, the tiny Indian boy cuddled in his mother’s arms brought tears of redemption to his eyes. So many men had died, but life went on—new life, life full of possibilities.
But what kind of life would this tiny Indian child have when his world was changing so fast? The inexplicable urge to do something to help him welled up in Dean’s soul.
He didn’t have time to follow his thoughts. A scratch sounded from the tipi’s door flap, followed by the old man’s voice. Dean and Emma both sat straighter. They exchanged looks. For a flash, Dean was struck by how beautiful Emma was, how perfect with her hair disheveled, her dress dirty, her shoulders stooped with fatigue. He smiled and wiped his face with the back of his hand. He would never love anyone the way he loved her.
The old man called at the door again. Dean got up. He grabbed his coat, shrugged back into it, and crossed around the fire to the door, Emma behind him. The morning sunlight was bright outside the tipi, and Dean blinked. The old man stepped back and gestured for him to come out.
“She’s well,” he told the man, knowing he couldn’t understand. How he wished that he could communicate with this man, with all of his people. “The baby was breach, but I was able to turn it. Mother and son are resting peacefully now.”
The old man stared at him, distress lining his face. He said something, asked some question. He hadn’t understood anything.
“It’s a baby boy,” Emma said, holding her arms like a cradle.
Still the old man stared.
A moment later, the young woman scurried out of the tipi. She took one look at the standoff, then burst into a flurry of words. Her eyes were wide and wonder lit her face as she spoke.
“She must be telling him what happened,” Emma said.
Dean nodded. The old man’s face relaxed into a smile, then beamed with joy and relief. He lifted his face to the sun and sang a few words of thanks. When he looked down, he gestured for the young woman to go back into the tipi. She did as she was told with a wide grin for Dean and a nod for Emma.
The old man stepped forward and clasped Dean’s arms. There was a warmth and str
ength beyond the man’s age in his grip. Even though Dean couldn’t understand his words, he understood the emotion behind them, gratitude. The old man leaned back and reached for the long necklace he wore. He lifted it over his head and looped it over Dean’s, resting it on his shoulders.
“Thank you,” Dean said, moved. “I will treasure it.”
The necklace was made of leather and ornamented with bone and colorful porcupine quills. A small leather sack hung from the front, also ornamented. A faint, pleasant aroma rose from it. When Dean touched it, the old man laid his hand over top of Dean’s, over his heart. He spoke words that sent a chill through Dean, something of vital importance. Dean didn’t understand, but he nodded gravely nonetheless.
Next, the old man turned to Emma. He spoke to her with thanks in his voice. The young woman reemerged from the tipi with something in her hands. She went to the old man and handed him a necklace of beads and quills. The old man took it, then handed it to Emma.
“It’s beautiful,” Emma said, smiling at the old man and peeking at Dean with surprise and delight. “I can’t thank you enough.”
The young woman had another gift, a dagger, that she gave to the old man. The old man took it and held it out to Dean. As Dean accepted it, the old man’s face fell to seriousness. His tone completely changed as he made a new speech. He pointed to the trees, the stream on the other side. He gestured to himself, swept a hand over his visage. Dean frowned as he tried to understand what the old man was trying to tell him. The old man kept pointing away from the camp, back the way Dean had come from, the way the brave had gone when he rode off at daybreak. The young woman’s face grew suddenly frightened and she nodded, mimicking the old man’s gesture.
“I think they want us to leave,” Dean told Emma. Part of him was sad at the thought.
“I think you’re right,” Emma answered. She took a few steps away from the tipi in the direction the old man and the girl were pointing. “Do you want us to go?” she asked, pointing herself.
Both the old man and the girl nodded enthusiastically, pointing harder.
“They’re worried about something,” Dean agreed. He made to leave, watching the relief that came to the old man’s face. “Thank you,” he said again, touching the pouch of his necklace. “I will never forget this.”
As they left, rushing around the bushes to where the stream flowed and to where Dean’s horse, hopefully, was still tied, the old man began to sing again. Whether it was a song of thanks, a song of well-wishes, or a song of good riddance, Dean didn’t know, but it gave him courage. He took Emma’s hand and led her down to the stream, across, and up to the stand of bushes where his horse was hidden.
“You still have your horse,” Emma exclaimed in delight when she saw it. “Thank heavens.”
“I would have thought you’d want nothing to do with horses after your ordeal last night,” Dean said with a grin. It felt good to be out of danger enough to tease. If, indeed, they were out of danger.
“As long as it gets us back to Ft. Caspar, you could bundle me up and carry me on your back,” Emma replied.
“It won’t come to that.”
Dean untied the horse, then mounted, pulling Emma up behind him. She circled her arms around his middle, holding tight.
“I think the old man is anxious about the brave coming back and finding us,” he said as he nudged the horse to walk. “He didn’t know I was there. I don’t know how he would react to finding a white man in his camp.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Emma murmured at his back. “Let’s hurry home, then.”
Dean nodded. As soon as his horse had reached the crest of a small hill where he could look around, he paused. Nothing seemed familiar in any direction. He had ridden through darkness touched by moonlight the night before. They could have been thousands of miles away from Ft. Caspar, for all he knew.
“I could follow the stream,” he spoke his thoughts so Emma could help him decide, “but there’s a chance we could run into the brave if I did. I don’t know why the old man sent him away, but I believe he went in that direction.” He pointed in the direction the stream flowed.
“I think the fort is that way,” Emma said, clutching him tighter.
Dean pressed a hand to one of hers on his stomach. “I think you’re right. We need to go in that direction, but we can’t keep close to the stream.”
There wasn’t much more to say about it. He nudged the horse to a fast walk, heading down the hill and turning to follow the course he thought the stream must take.
They walked on for what felt like hours. Nothing around them in any direction was familiar. The Wyoming countryside was beautiful and peaceful, but without any sense of which way they were going or how close they were to civilization, Dean couldn’t enjoy it. Every mile they crossed felt as if it could be taking them farther from their goal instead of closer.
Worse still, exhaustion pressed down on him. He hadn’t slept the night before, he had chased Emma and the brave through the night, and he had delivered a baby in the morning. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open as the sun reached a point directly above him. Emma sagged against his back, and once or twice he heard her snort herself to alertness, as if she had fallen asleep. They needed to stop. They needed rest.
Another hour on, they came to a stretch of rocky hills, some of which opened into caves.
“We need to stop and take shelter for a bit,” Dean told Emma. “Let’s see if one of these caves will do.”
Dean dismounted, lifting Emma down after. She swayed into him, and his heart shouted that all he wanted to do was hold her in his arms. Forever. He thought about kissing her right then. She stared up at him with sleepy eyes, her mouth soft and willing. Every sense he had was alight with longing for her, but he had to make sure they were safe and sheltered first.
The caves turned out to be the perfect place to rest. In fact, several of them had compacted dirt floors, remnants of fires, and even old, broken pots and baskets discarded here and there. The Indians had obviously used them before. Dean picked one that seemed larger than the others. He gathered enough wood and kindling to start a fire in one of the discarded fire pits, then settled down with Emma in his arms.
“I don’t suppose they left behind anything to eat.” He attempted to keep a light-hearted attitude even as worry poked at the back of his mind.
“I should have thought to ask the young woman for something before we left,” Emma replied, settling against him. She rested her head on his shoulder. “I don’t mind being hungry for a little while. I’m fine just as I am.”
Dean’s heart soared, but even as he did, prickles of doubt gnawed at him. He wanted nothing more than to snuggle with Emma and nap through the afternoon, but his worries wouldn’t let him rest.
“Emma.” He adjusted to sit with his back against the wall of the cave, lifting her so that she could look at him. She blinked, curiosity bright in her sleepy eyes. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
She sucked in a breath, sitting all the way, suddenly awake. “Dean, I….” A brilliant smile spread across her lips. “I want that too. More than anything.”
As wonderful as her declaration was, Dean had more to say. He shook his head. Emma’s smile faded to confusion.
“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he said, “but I can’t spend my entire life looking over my shoulder, wondering if you’ll choose your mother over me.”
A painful cloud passed through her delicate face. “I would always choose you over my mother,” she said. “Always.”
“I want to believe that, but….” He let out a breath and lowered his eyes to gather his thoughts. When he glanced up, Emma stared at him with something very close to anger. He came close to laughing, even as his heart twisted in his chest. “When we were back at the tipi, when I delivered that baby into his mother’s arms,” he began again. “The love that shone in her eyes. I’ve never seen anything like that. Never except when your mother watches you. Sh
e cares so much for you, Emma.”
“I know she does.” It was Emma’s turn to lower her eyes, a pink flush coming to her cheeks. “She’s been through so much. I don’t know how to explain it.”
“I don’t think you have to,” he said. “And I respect her love for you. I hope someday to have my own children to love.”
Her eyes flickered up to him. “I want children too. Lots of them. I always have.”
She placed her hand on his chest. Dean rested his hand over hers, hoping she could feel every one of his heartbeats. “I worry about you,” he confessed. “I worry that you are so concerned for your mother that you’re willing to sacrifice your own happiness.”
Her expression hardened for a moment. “This is about Russ. You think that I will follow my mother’s wishes and marry him if he asks me.”
Hearing her say it, hearing the truth come out so bluntly, stabbed Dean with shame. “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, I am. Because I can’t think of any other reason why you tolerate him. I know you don’t like him. Anyone with eyes—except your mother and Russ himself—can see that. But still, you walk with him, you dance with him, you listen to him.”
All at once, Emma’s frown vanished. She pressed closer to him. “Are you jealous?”
“No, I’m not, it’s just that—” He stopped. Maybe he was jealous.
Emma’s smile grew. “Do you want me to walk with you and dance with you and listen to everything you have locked away inside that you need to tell me?”
Dean’s mouth opened, but he had no answer for her. She was right. She was right about things that he hadn’t stopped to consider. He did want to talk to her. His mind and heart and soul were full of so many things—things that had happened to him, things he wanted to achieve with his life—and he desperately needed someone to share them with. He pressed her hand tighter into his chest.
