by Jillian Hart
Her throat tightened. After this baby came, they would have to face their relationship. She would know the true color of Jacob’s heart.
“I can read most of it,” Emma said.
Libby leaned closer, listening to the halting rhythm of Emma reading aloud. Emma told her grandparents she missed them and loved them, of missing her pony and riding in the forest with her grandpa. She wrote of the cozy log cabin and the curtains and rugs and the quilt Libby made. She even told of her new doll and her very own horse.
“That’s a wonderful letter,” Libby managed to say when the reading of it was done. “Your grandparents are going to be so proud of you for writing it.”
“I hope so, ’cuz I hate having to go to Mrs. Holt’s school.” It was Emma’s greatest burden, and the new term began in a week. “I wish I could just stay home with you.”
“Your pa wants you to be educated, and I was never a schoolteacher.”
“But you can read and write as good as Mrs. Holt.”
Libby brushed the wispy curls from Emma’s eyes. “No, I only manage. It’s important to have a good education, even for a woman.”
“That’s what my granny says.” Emma sighed. “I didn’t tell her about the baby.”
Libby laid her hand on the curve of her sizable stomach. Curiosity sparkled in Emma’s blue eyes. “Do you want to feel the baby kick?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Give me your hand.” Libby placed the small fingers on her belly and cupped them beneath her own. Waited. “Feel that?”
“She’s kicking.” Emma stared up at her.
“So you think it’s a girl?”
Emma nodded gravely. “I want a baby sister. That’s the second reason why I wanted a mother.”
“What was the first?”
“So Pa wouldn’t be unhappy. Or me, either.”
Libby’s life slipped into a pattern. As the cold January days began to pass, her belly grew enormous, her movements awkward, her feet swollen and her back sore. Twice she was stuck in the rocking chair and had to wait until Emma came inside from playing in the snow to pull her out.
Each day, Jacob slipped from her side in the cold dark hours of the morning to warm the house. He feared she would catch cold in her condition and he would not let her up even to cook breakfast. Emma helped him in the kitchen, and when the cabin was comfortably toasty they ate his cooking at the small round table.
After Jacob left for town with Emma, Libby did the morning work. Housecleaning on Monday and Tuesday. Washing on Wednesday. Mending on Thursday. Ironing on Friday. Baking on Saturday. After lunch, she drove Star to town and fetched Emma from school, then finished the day’s work. While dinner cooked, she and Emma worked on her reading until Jacob returned from town.
Evenings were her favorite. Happy conversations at the table, punctuated by Emma’s funny stories. Then Libby did the dishes while Jacob tended the stock. When the work was done she gathered up her sewing and settled down beside the fireplace while Jacob read aloud from one of his leather-bound books.
After he put Emma to bed, he came for her. With a grin he would help her from the rocker, bank the fire, and undress her in his room. He laid her down on his bed and made love to her despite the awkwardness of her huge belly, or just held her if she was too tired.
Libby feared she was living a dream. As February neared, she could feel her time approaching. Fearing this happiness might end, she cherished these days with Emma and Jacob, holding each moment close so this real home and real love would live forever in her heart.
Jacob lay in bed and listened to the wind scouring the side of the cabin. The cold, desolate howling seemed to reach right inside and tug out all that was troubling him. Elizabeth lay beside him, sleeping deeply.
He didn’t know if he should be loving her like this so close to her time, but she enjoyed it despite her girth. In the darkness, Jacob didn’t need to look at the obvious state of her pregnancy. He knew the birth would be coming soon.
He slipped from the bed, careful not to awaken Elizabeth. She slept so soundly she hardly stirred, a huge lump beneath the thick pile of blankets. They had propped her up with pillows so she could sleep on her side.
He tugged on his long Johns and a pair of thick socks she had recently mended. Feeling his way in the darkness, Jacob closed the bedroom door and crossed the cool main room to the kitchen. He lit a lamp, and a pool of sepia light puddled on the table.
He found the letter and finally folded it open. His mother’s hand, warm and sensible, filled every spot of the paper. She wrote how she worried for him and Emma alone in the wilderness. She talked of how her busy days were empty without her grandchild. She wondered when they might come home, even for a visit.
Jacob’s heart tugged, and he put down the letter. Just by looking at her words he could sense how she ached for him. Mother had written him last year time and again, yet he had only sent one brief note to let her know they’d arrived safely in Montana Territory.
Jacob hid his face in his hands. He missed his home, the land he’d grown up on, the horses he helped to raise, working alongside his father. He’d left, and he’d hardly looked back. He loved his parents, the farm, the sound of summer in the south meadows. He allowed himself to miss home for the first time in years.
Jacob found ink and paper and lit a lamp to write by. The sound of his words scratched loudly in the near silent room; the only other sounds were the wind outside and the tick of the clock.
He did not know how to tell Mother about Elizabeth, or her baby, or how he was living with hope. But he tried. Then he wrote of his work, of the town, of how much Emma had grown and of her latest antics. He signed his name, promising to visit within the year.
But could he go home to the place where his heart lived?
As the blizzard built into a wicked fury, battering the north wall of the cabin, Jacob sat listening, until his hands were numb from the cold. Then he went back to his room, the ache in his leg grinding from the change in weather, and climbed into bed.
Elizabeth stirred. “Jacob?” Her thin and strained voice alarmed him.
“What is it? Do you want me to hold you?” He leaned over her, gently kissing her brow.
“Yes, my back really hurts. Would you mind rubbing it for me?”
His guts tightened. “Your back hurts?”
“I’m just stiff.”
Reining in his fear, Jacob grabbed hold of her hem and hiked up the nightgown. Her back felt warm and tense beneath his hands. “Is this better?”
She sighed, relaxing a fraction.
“Your back was sore all day yesterday, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” Libby fell silent, stiffened, and groaned into the pillow.
He could feel the contraction slip through her.
“Jacob?”
His hand stilled. “What?”
“I think something happened.” Fear sharpened her voice. “I—I feel all weL Am I bleeding?”
“No.” He caught her hand before she could sit up in panic. “Lie still. It’s probably just your water breaking.”
“Oh, no. The baby’s coming.” Dismay sharpened her voice.
“It seems so.” Jacob closed his eyes. “Let me go warm this cabin up and heat some water for you to wash with. Come lie on my side of the bed.”
“But the straw needs to be changed and the tick thoroughly washed.” Elizabeth’s voice thickened and she gasped. “Oh, Jacob. This really hurts.”
His hand trembled. “Just relax. When the pain has passed, come lie over here. I’ll take care of you.”
“I should help.” She sat up.
Jacob stopped her. “No. You have no idea how exhausting this birth is going to be. Please rest while you can. Do it for me.”
“I—”
“Please.” He pressed her cool hand to his warm lips. “I will go stoke up the fire. Stay here.”
Libby allowed him to lay her back into the pillows. “Your touch feels comforting, so solid and sure. I’m g
lad you’re here. It makes me feel safe.”
He eased her back into the bed and drew the covers up to her chin. His pulse drummed hard and fast as he reached to smooth back the hair from her face.
Grateful for the darkness, he didn’t speak. He wanted to hide his fears from Elizabeth. He didn’t want to remember another night and another woman in labor.
Libby dozed in and out of pain in her own room. Jacob heated the cabin so she would be warm. Then he made her a pot of coffee, rich and black.
Dawn grayed the edge of night, but made no dent in the angry storm. After hours of pain, Libby pulled herself from bed. A healthy fire crackled in the hearth, warming the chill from the main room. The large window by the door showed the sheet of gray-white snow like an impenetrable wall from sky to earth.
As a clinching pain gripped her entire abdomen, Libby pressed a hand to her stomach.
Jacob touched her elbow. “How are you doing?”
“Better now that the pain has passed.” She breathed out slowly.
“You shouldn’t be up.” Jacob’s worried gray eyes searched hers. “Labor can take a long time. You need to rest now so you’re strong when you need to be.”
“But I’d like a cup of coffee.” Libby’s heart twisted at the concern dark in his eyes. Concern for her. “I know babies can take a long time. I’ll be bedridden soon enough.”
He poured her a cup of coffee and set it on the table in front of her. She stirred in a spoonful of sugar and sipped slowly. Jacob’s book lay closed nearby. She reached a finger to trace the spine of leather and the thick creamy pages.
Before she came here she had known nothing of sailing the furious sea, known little of the streets of London or the English countryside. Libby touched her enormous stomach. Her thoughts weighed on the baby to be born.
Jacob sat across the table with a cup of his own. Steam rose from the rim.
She studied his set face. “You’re afraid.”
He stared down into his cup. “Yes. I’m afraid the storm won’t break in time. I can’t fetch the doctor.”
Libby reached out and caught his hand in hers. “Then I’m glad I’m here with a man who has raised and bred horses all his life.”
Jacob’s face twisted. “You should be afraid to count on me. I haven’t been much help to anyone in a long time.”
“Then think of what you can be to me.” She smiled, softly like rain. “I don’t know anything about what’s to come. I’m afraid.”
She should be. He tried to close his mind against the images sweeping through his brain. Since he was a boy younger than Emma was now, he’d witnessed the cycle of life. It was hard to miss living on a breeding farm. From mating to foaling, Jacob grew to manhood understanding it, seeing the brutal coupling and the complications of pregnancy and the amazing life that slipped into the world wet and wide-eyed and confused.
He had also seen stillbirths, foals unable to live, dams that died for too many reasons.
And then there was Mary. He hadn’t been allowed to see her, hadn’t been allowed at her bedside while she died giving birth to Emma. He’d been forced to wait in the parlor, his capable hands useless, listening to the frightening silence upstairs.
Fear tingled through his entire body. He tried not to show it as he looked at Elizabeth. He didn’t want to frighten her. She sat so serene, only the anxiety dark in her eyes gave away her fears. The lamplight bathed her face with a soft glow, and her chin sat propped in one hand.
“Would you like me to read to you?” he asked.
Gratitude shone in her eyes. “Please, Jacob.”
He reached for the volume and tried to quiet the dark thoughts driving through his head like the winter snow.
Chapter Twenty
By the time day broke, Libby couldn’t endure the pain. She allowed Jacob to guide her to bed and lay her down with a plump stack of pillows.
Sharp, gripping pain seized her insides, ripping down her back and her abdomen, streaking down her legs. She froze until the pain passed, relaxing into the pillows.
Never had her body felt so out of control. Pain ripped through her in predictable, rhythmic clinches. She felt unable to stop them, unable to control them. She wondered if this was normal. She feared it was not.
“I’m fine,” she assured Jacob, even if it wasn’t the truth. “You need to fix breakfast for you and Emma.”
“I’ll make pancakes.” He reached out to brush tousled hair from her bangs. “You’ll need to tie this back.”
Libby closed her eyes, sighing. She had forgotten about her hair. She didn’t want to move now.
“I’ll plait it for you.” He stood, finding her brush.
Libby concentrated on the comforting everyday task of brushing her hair and then separating the strands for Jacob. He sat on the bed behind her, silent and intent on his work. What was he thinking?
He wove strands of her hair back and forth, over and under, tugging lightly. His touch felt comforting. Yet he was so silent. She worried something could be wrong—and there was no way to fetch the doctor. The storm still raged.
Libby tried to keep her fears from taking root in her mind. A sensible woman knew babies were born all the time and mothers lived. Anyone could see she was healthy and the pregnancy trouble free. There was no need to worry.
Jacob tied the long end of her braid and plumped the pillows behind her. One look at his face told her of the fear he held so quietly inside. Lines drew down his mouth and eyes. His hand trembled when he snatched the brush from the quilt.
Libby touched the rings of that pattern, wondering about the woman who had given her life. Had she lain beneath this quilt, waiting for her baby to be born-Libby-worrying how it might end, staying silent about those unspoken, horrible fears?
“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” Jacob wouldn’t meet her gaze. He walked with an uneven gait, his shoulders stooped.
The snow pounded the cabin walls, grating against her nerves, and the soulless howl of the wind made her feel small and alone. She listened to Emma’s voice in the kitchen asking about the baby, and she squeezed the tears from her eyes.
No matter how hard she had tried to ignore it, how hard she had refused to think of it, she loved this baby. She wanted this small life more than anything.
If she were lucky, maybe it would be all right.
There was no break in the pounding storm, and Jacob hung his head. He had hoped to have the doctor by now, the fairly capable man who would know how to do what he could not. He did not want to see Elizabeth’s baby into the world—he had no experience with human babies. But Jacob knew he had little choice with the fierce battering of the howling wind and snow.
Emma insisted on staying on the bed with Elizabeth. The woman, pale with pain, tolerated the child’s bright excitement with her gentle smile.
What if something went wrong?
Unable to think of it, he had to turn away.
“Pa?” Her need called him back. Emma sat against the wall, hugging the doll Elizabeth had so lovingly made her. Beth was dressed in a pretty nightgown for staying in bed all day. “How long does it take for the baby to be born?”
“I don’t know,” he answered quietly.
His heart twisted as Elizabeth brushed an unruly strand of hair from the girl’s wide eyes. “Babies take as long as they need to,” she said in that warm way of hers. “We might as well get used to it.”
“I know how you’re going to feed her,” Emma said boldly, and Jacob headed toward the door..
Outside the room, he didn’t bother to pretend. Fear drained him, and he felt inadequate to the task. He was no doctor. He wouldn’t know what to do if something went wrong.
“Emma.” He called out sharply. “Emma, come here.”
She came with a flurry of flyaway, upbraided hair, bright yellow dress bobbing, her bare feet pounding the wood floor.
“I want you to stay in this room from now on.” He hated being cold and harsh, but it was for the best. What if som
ething went wrong? He didn’t want Emma exposed to it.
Of course, he should have thought of that earlier. She already loved Elizabeth. If Elizabeth died... Stop it. He couldn’t bear thinking it.
“But I want to see the baby born.” She looked up at him uncertainly.
“I said no. Elizabeth is going to be busy enough without a little girl to worry about.”
Emma’s face fell, but she said nothing. She walked stiffly toward the braided rug before the fire and sat down. She hugged her doll to her and stared into the flames. She sniffed once, but that was all.
Hell, he hadn’t meant to be so harsh. His nerves felt frayed, at the edge of holding on. He leaned against the doorjamb. He was just so damn afraid. Women died in childbirth.
Jacob stepped into Elizabeth’s room and closed the door.
Something was wrong. Libby was certain of it Pain gripped her in an almost steady, unmerciful grip and still no baby, no sign of a baby. She felt as if one great claw gripped her insides and kept clamping and slicing. Sweat beaded on her brow and between her breasts and down her back. This pain was never going to end.
She clenched her teeth trying not to cry out, but pain forced a groan from her raw throat. Relief shivered through her when she saw a shadow in the doorway. Jacob eased back into the room with a fresh pan of water.
He sat down and wrung out a washcloth. Capable hands. Dependable shoulders. The sight of him soothed her fears. Jacob wouldn’t let anything happen to her. She felt stronger.
“Do you think it will be much longer now?” She had to ask.
He gave her the cool, wet cloth, and it felt so wonderful in her hand. She wiped her own face and neck, too weary to hold back the horrible moan when a fresh squeeze of pain clamped through her.
“I’ll see.” He lifted away the sheet and hiked up her nightgown. “I don’t see a head yet.”
Disappointment tore through her. She couldn’t take much more of this. The day had passed. The storm still raged. There was only this horrible haze of pain. Something had to be wrong.
