Mountain Midwife

by Cassie Miles

She gazed longingly toward the bathroom. “Hot water?”

  He held out his arms. “Give me the baby. I’ll feed her while you shower and change out of those wet jeans. There are clothes in the bedroom.”

  That was all it took to convince her. She nodded toward the rocking chair. “Sit. Do you know how to feed an infant?”

  “How hard can it be?”

  “You haven’t been around babies much, have you?”

  “I was an only child.”

  Another piece of personal information she didn’t need to know. “Here’s how it’s done. Don’t force the nipple into her mouth. Let her take it. She’s tired and will probably drop off before she gets enough nourishment. Gently nudge with the nipple. That stimulates the sucking reflex.”

  She placed Goldie in his arms and watched him. His rugged hands balanced the clear plastic bottle with a touching clumsiness. When Goldie latched onto the nipple, Cole looked up at her and grinned triumphantly. He really was trying to be helpful. She had to give him credit.

  “What did you find when you went outside?” she asked.

  “Is it safe for us to stay here?”

  “The men who were after us must have turned back. If they were still on our trail, they would have busted in here by now.”

  “The blizzard saved us.”

  “They won’t stop looking. Tomorrow, we’ll need to move on.”

  She turned on her heel and went into the bedroom. There was only one thing she needed Cole for: survival. The sooner he was out of her life, the better.

  Like the rest of the cabin, the bathroom was well-equipped and efficient. Quickly, she shed her clothes and turned on the steaming water. As soon as the hot spray hit her skin, a soothing warmth spread through her body, easing her tension. She ducked her head under the hot water. One of the benefits of short hair was not worrying about getting it wet. She would have liked to stand here for hours but wasn’t sure what sort of water system the cabin had. So she kept it quick.

  As soon as she was out of the shower and wrapped in a yellow bath towel that matched the plastic shower curtain, Rachel realized her logistical dilemma. No way did she want to get back into her damp clothes. But she didn’t want to give Cole a free show by scampering from the bathroom to the bedroom wearing nothing but a towel.

  Her hand rested on the doorknob. I can’t hide in here. Rachel prided herself on being a decisive woman. No nonsense. She did what was necessary without false modesty or complaint. And so she yanked open the bathroom door and strode forth, decisively. She had nothing to be ashamed of.

  As she walked the few paces in her bare feet, she boldly gazed at him. In his amber eyes, she saw a flash of interest. His mouth curved in a grin.

  She challenged him. “What are you staring at?”

  “You.”

  Her bravado collapsed. She felt very, very naked. He seemed to be looking through the towel, and she had the distinct impression that he liked the view.

  Despite her determination not to scamper, she dashed into the bedroom, closed the door and leaned against it. Her heart beat fast. The warmth from the shower was replaced by an internal flush of embarrassment that rose from her throat to her cheeks. If he could decimate her composure with a single glance, what would happen if he actually touched her?

  In spite of the burning inside her, she realized that the temperature in the bedroom, away from the propane fireplace, was considerably cooler than in the front room. The double bed was piled high with comforters and blankets. Would she sleep in that bed with Cole tonight? As soon as the question formed in her mind, she banished it. Sleeping with the enemy had no place on her agenda.

  Inside a five-drawer bureau, she found clothing—mostly long underwear and sweats—in several sizes. It was easy to imagine a family coming to this weekend retreat for cross-country skiing or ice skating or snowmobiling. When this was over, Rachel fully intended to reimburse the cabin owners and thank them for saving her life.

  After she slipped into warm sweats and socks, she eyed the bedroom door. Cole was out there, waiting. Physically, she couldn’t avoid him. But she could maintain an emotional distance. She remembered motorcycle man and the flaming leather jacket. Any involvement with Cole would lead inevitably to that same conclusion.

  She straightened her shoulders. I can control myself. I will control my emotions.

  She opened the door and entered the front room. Cole was still sitting in the rocking chair. Without looking up, he said, “I think Goldie’s had enough milk.”

  “How many ounces are left in the bottle?”

  He held it up to look through the clear plastic. “Just a little bit at the bottom.”

  “Did you burp her?”

  “I do that by putting her on my shoulder, right?”

  “Give me the baby,” she said.

  When he transferred the swaddled infant to her, their hands touched. An electric thrill raced up her arm, and she tensed her muscles to cancel the effect.

  He took a step back. His baggy gray sweatsuit didn’t hide the breadth of his shoulders, his slim torso or long legs. His gaze assessed her as though deciding how to proceed. Instead of speaking, he went to the front window and peered through the gap in the green-and-blue plaid curtains. “It’s still snowing hard.”

  “This morning they predicted at least a foot of new snow.” A weather report wasn’t really what was on her mind.

  “It’s mesmerizing. I didn’t actually see snow falling from the sky until I was nine years old.”

  “Not so pretty when you’re caught in a blizzard.” She did a bouncy walk as she patted Goldie on the back.

  “I never want to do that again.”

  “Tomorrow morning, we shouldn’t have to walk too far. All we need to find is a working telephone.”

  Then they could call for help. She and Goldie would be safe. Cole was a different story. When the police came to her rescue, he’d be taken into custody. Would he turn himself in without a fight? Or would he run?

  “It’s ironic,” he said. “This is the first time in years that I’ve been without a working cell phone.”

  Had he planned it that way? She needed to clear the air of suspicions. “Cole, I—”

  A shuffling sound outside the front door interrupted her, and she turned to look in that direction.

  The door crashed open. A hulking figure charged across the threshold. His shoulders and cap were covered with snow. His lips drew back from his teeth in an inhuman snarl.

  He had a gun.

  Chapter Six

  Frank Loeb! Cole barely recognized him. The man should have been dead. He’d been shot. Cole had seen his blood spattered in the snow. How the hell had he made it through the blizzard? Some men were just too damned mean to die.

  Frank raised his handgun.

  Cole’s weapon was all the way across the room on the table. No time to grab it. No chance for subtlety or reason. He launched himself at the monster standing in the doorway. His shoulder drove into the other man’s massive chest.

  With a guttural yell, Frank staggered backward onto the porch. He was off balance, weakened. Cole pressed his advantage. He shoved with all his strength. His hands slipped against the cold, wet, bloodstained parka. The big man teetered and fell. Cole was on top of him. He slammed Frank’s gun hand on the floor of the porch.

  Frank released his grasp on the gun. He was disarmed but still dangerous. Flailing, he landed heavy blows on Cole’s arms and shoulders. The snow gusted around them. Icy crystals hit Cole’s face, stinging like needles.

  He drew back his fist and slammed it into Frank’s face, splitting his swollen lip. He winced. Blood oozed down his chin.

  Cole hit him again. His fingers stung with the force of the blow.

  “Wait.” Frank lay still. The fight went out of him.

  With his arm still cocked for another blow, Cole paused. He knew better than to let down his guard. He’d seen Frank in action. When the big man caught one of the other guys in the gang cheating at
cards, Frank broke two of the cheater’s fingers. And he smiled at the pain he had inflicted.

  “The shooters,” Frank said. “They were feds.”

  That wasn’t possible. Though Cole had put in a call for backup, the shooters had appeared within minutes. Even if the FBI had been tracking his movements, the violent assault on the house wasn’t standard procedure, especially not when they had a man on the inside. “I don’t believe it.”

  “They were after you.” His tongue poked at his split lip. “I heard them talking. They said your name.”

  “What else did you hear?”

  “They reported to somebody named Prescott.”

  Wayne Prescott was the field agent in charge of the Denver office—the only individual Cole had met with in person. “How did you find us?”

  His eyes squeezed shut. Clearly, he was in pain. “Wasn’t looking for you.”

  “The hell you weren’t.”

  “On the run. Just like you,” he mumbled. “Went across a field. Saw the lights from the cabin.”

  Rachel stepped out on the porch. She took a shooter’s stance, holding his gun in both hands and aiming at Frank. “Don’t move. I will shoot.”

  There was no doubt that she meant what she’d said. Her voice was firm and her hand steady. She positioned herself far enough away from Frank that he couldn’t make a grab for her ankle.

  “You’re a medic,” Frank said. “I need your help.”

  Cole noticed a flicker of doubt in her eyes. Her natural instinct was to save lives, not threaten them. Even though he wasn’t inclined to help Frank, he couldn’t justify killing the man in cold blood.

  He stood, picked up Frank’s gun and aimed for the center of his chest. “Get up.”

  Moving slowly and laboriously, Frank got to his knees. Then he heaved himself to his feet and stood there with blood dripping down his chin onto his wet black parka.

  Cole instructed, “Rachel, go inside. Keep your distance from him. If he makes a move toward you, shoot him.”

  After she was safely in the house, Cole escorted his prisoner into the cabin. He saw Goldie sleeping, nestled in blankets on one of the sofas. He had to protect that innocent baby. If Frank wasn’t lying, Cole’s hope for a rescue from the FBI was disintegrating fast. Agent Wayne Prescott was connected with the men who opened fire on the house. Houston, we have a problem.

  With the gun, he gestured toward the bedroom. “In there.”

  Rachel wasted no time closing the front door. Frank had broken the latch, and she had to pull a chair in front of it to keep it shut.

  In the bedroom, Cole ordered, “Take off the parka.”

  Frank peeled off his jacket. A swath of gore stained the left side of his plaid flannel shirt and the left arm. It looked like he’d been shot twice. It was a miracle that he’d made it this far.

  The question was whether or not to treat his wounds. They didn’t have medical supplies, but Rachel could probably do something for him. Cole hated the idea of her getting close to this dangerous criminal.

  Frank groaned. “You had me fooled, man. I thought you were just some punk from Compton. But you’ve got the feds on your tail. You must have pulled something big-time.”

  Cole was aware of Rachel standing behind him, listening. He glanced toward her. “Find something to tie his hands and feet.”

  “We need to clean those wounds,” she said. “He could still be losing blood.”

  “Listen to her,” Frank said. “I don’t want to die.”

  “Why should I help you? You crashed through the door with a gun.”

  “But I didn’t shoot.”

  A valid point. Frank had caught them unawares but hadn’t opened fire. What did he want from them?

  Cole asked Rachel, “How would you treat him?”

  “He needs to go into the bathroom, strip down and get out of his wet clothes. Then he should clean his wounds with soap. Once I can see the extent of the damage, I’ll tell you what else is necessary.”

  “I still want you to find something to tie him up.” He turned back to Frank. “Here’s the deal. Do exactly as she says, and I won’t kill you.”

  He nodded. This willingness to cooperate was out of character. Maybe he was intimidated by his new idea of Cole’s reputation. Maybe the loss of blood had weakened him.

  Cole stood in the bathroom door and watched as the big man sat on the toilet seat and pulled off his boots, socks and wet jeans. His skin was raw. His feet had white streaks, indicating the start of frostbite, but the more serious physical problem became evident when he removed his shirt. Blood caked and congealed on his upper chest and left arm. When he turned his back, Cole didn’t see an exit wound.

  “You need treatment in a hospital,” Cole said. “The bullet is still in your chest.”

  “I’m not going back to prison.”

  “Jail is better than a coffin.”

  “Not for me.”

  After Frank had pulled on a pair of sweatpants and dry socks, he washed the wounds. His left arm wasn’t too bad, but the hole in his upper chest was ragged at the edges and slowly bleeding. It had to hurt like hellfire. Cole had never been shot, but he’d nursed a knife wound for three hours without treatment.

  Still holding his gun, he tossed Frank a towel. “Press this against your chest, and come into the kitchen.”

  Frank shuffled forward obediently. His heavy shoulders slouched. His head drooped forward, and his long hair hung around his face in strings. He reminded Cole of an injured grizzly, willing to accept help but still capable of lethal violence.

  After he was seated in a straight-back chair, Rachel went into the bathroom to look for first-aid supplies.

  “How did you get away?” Cole asked.

  “I lay still, played possum. They thought I was dead. When they all went inside, I got up and ran. Two of them went after you and Rachel. They had flashlights.”

  “You were following them?”

  “I was going parallel up the slope behind the house. I thought for sure they’d hear me.”

  The wind and the fury of the oncoming blizzard had masked the sounds from desperate people climbing through the forest. “You had a gun.”

  “Nothing like the kind of heat they were packing. Damn feds. They’ve got the primo weapons.”

  Not always. “When did they turn back?”

  “Didn’t even make it to the top of the hill.” Frank grimaced. “I kept going. Picked up your trail. Then I got to an open field. The snow was coming down hard. Couldn’t see a damn thing. Man, I thought I was going to die out there in the field. Frozen stiff.” He barked a laugh. “A stiff. Frozen. Get it?”

  Rachel returned with an armful of supplies, which she placed on the table. “I found antiseptic, gauze and surgical tape. I think I can make this work.”

  When she approached Frank and touched his shoulder, Cole’s gut clenched. Though she showed no sign of fear, he knew how dangerous Frank could be. If the big man took it into his head to attack her, Cole couldn’t risk shooting him. Not while Rachel was so close. He holstered his gun and took a position behind Frank’s right shoulder, preparing himself to react to any threatening move.

  Focused on first aid, Rachel lightly probed the wound on Frank’s chest.

  He inhaled sharply. The muscles in his chest twitched. “What are you doing?”

  “Feeling for the bullet,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s deeply embedded.”

  “Cut it out of me.”

  “That’s a painful process, and we’ve got no anesthetic. Not even booze. Plus, you’ve already lost a lot of blood. If I open that wound wider, you could bleed to death.”

  “I can take the pain,” Frank said.

  “But I can’t give you a transfusion. For now, I’m going to patch you up and get the bleeding stopped. Later, you can deal with surgical procedures.”

  “Just do it.”

  Quickly and efficiently, she dressed the wound on his arm and wrapped it with strips of cotton from a T-shirt
she’d shredded. “We’re going to owe the people who own this cabin a whole new wardrobe,” she said. “All this stuff is saving our lives.”

  “But no booze,” Frank muttered.

  She peeled the wrapper off a tampon and removed it from the casing. “I’m going to use this to plug the hole in your chest. It’s sterile. And the absorbency will stop the bleeding.”

  Cole had heard of using feminine products to staunch blood flow but had never seen it done. Frank would owe his life to a tampon. Cole kept himself from smirking.

  Frank turned his head away as she packed the wound. “You got to be pretty good friends with Penny,” he said.

  “We talked.” A frown pulled Rachel’s mouth.

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Anything that would take her mind off the labor pains,” Rachel said. “Her childhood. Her dreams.”

  “Her baby’s daddy? Baron?”

  “I know you guys work for him and think he’s a big deal, but I think he’s a jerk. Sending his pregnant girlfriend to rob a casino?” She finished taping and wrapping the wound. “What kind of man does something like that?”

  Frank’s right hand shot forward. He held Rachel’s jaw in his grip and pulled her face close to his. “Where did Penny hide the money?”

  Cole reacted. He broke Frank’s grasp and yanked his arm behind his back. The damage had already been done.

  When he looked at Rachel, he saw fear written all over her face. Frank had achieved his objective. He’d showed her that he was someone who would hurt her if she didn’t do as he said. Cole hadn’t protected her; she’d never trust him now.

  Chapter Seven

  After checking one more time to make sure Goldie was sleeping peacefully, Rachel sat at the end of the long table in the cabin. She slouched, head bent forward. With her fingernail, she traced the grain of the wood on the tabletop. The unidentifiable aroma of something Cole was cooking on the stove assaulted her nostrils.

  Though she tried to focus on simple things, Rachel couldn’t dismiss her rising fears. When Frank grabbed her, she hadn’t been bruised. But she could still feel the imprint of his fingers. His grip had been ferocious—strong as a vise squeezing her jawbone. He could have killed her. With a flick of his wrist, he could have broken her neck. He’d forced her to look into his dark, soulless eyes. His split lip had sneered when he asked where Penny hid the money.