Open Country

by Warner, Kaki

  “She needs me.” He tried to step back into the room, but she blocked his way.

  “No, Brady. She needs calmness. She needs quiet. She needs to concentrate on bringing these babies into the world and not wasting her strength worrying about you.” At his stricken expression, she softened her tone. “I know you’re worried. But this is woman’s work, and I’m here to see that everything goes smoothly. You must stay out of the way and not add to her burden with your fears. Do you understand?”

  “But—”

  She patted his arm. “I’ll call if I need you, or if there are any problems. I’ll keep you informed, I promise. But for now you can help by keeping the children occupied and seeing that nothing disturbs her. Can you do that?”

  “But what if something goes wrong? I should be there in case—”

  “Nothing is going to go wrong,” she cut in, trying to keep her voice from betraying her impatience. “You must trust me, Brady. You trusted me with your brother, and you know I’ll work just as hard for your wife. But I can’t do my best with you underfoot.”

  He raked a hand through his hair and took a step back. “All right. Okay.”

  “Good.” She picked up her satchel. “Now go take care of your family.”

  Jessica was in the early stages of the birthing process, and everything seemed to be progressing normally. Knowing that a patient under stress did better in a quiet, softly lit room, Molly pulled the drapes and left only a few lamps burning, then sent everyone else from the room except Consuelo, who sat quietly in a corner, working her rosary and humming. Setting a chair beside the bed, Molly held Jessica’s hand and spoke of mundane things to keep her distracted.

  And herself as well. She was worried about what Charlie might be going through. Hopefully once Fletcher was behind bars, the boy would return to the happy child he had once been. Under Hank’s guidance, he’d already made progress.

  One hour led to two, then three. Jessica rested when she could, but by midmorning, the pains came more often and lasted longer.

  Molly tied cotton straps with loops to the headboard for Jessica to grip when it came time to push. But that was a ways ahead yet, so meanwhile she concentrated on keeping her as calm and relaxed as possible while quietly monitoring the movements and heart rates of the fetuses with the stethoscope. Even though Jessica was tiring, all seemed to be progressing well.

  At noon, Molly set Consuelo at Jessica’s side and hurried to the kitchen to gather up the ligatures and assorted medical and obstetrical instruments she had put on to boil earlier. After directing Maria Garcia to carry up to the birthing room the toweling, fresh bedding, and infant items she’d set aside earlier, Molly went to report Jessica’s progress to Brady, who sat with Dougal in the great room, reading to the children while he watched all the comings and goings from the west wing.

  As soon as he saw Molly approach, he lurched to his feet, dumping children and books onto the floor. “How is she?”

  “Doing very well,” Molly assured him, setting Abigail upright. “It shouldn’t be long now.”

  “Guess what?” Penny shouted. “Uncle Brady gave us candy, and I didn’t even puke it up yet.”

  “Did he now?” Molly sent Brady a teasing look. “Then he has something to look forward to, doesn’t he?”

  “And guess what else? Dougal wears long pants and a dress!”

  Ben rolled onto his back and laughed. Abigail crawled over his stomach.

  “ ’Tis no’ a dress. ’Tis a kilt!”

  That Brady didn’t enter into the fray told Molly he was in desperate need of distraction. “Dougal, could you keep an eye on the children for a few minutes? I need Brady to bring up more firewood.”

  “Aye, lass. But no puking, Miss Penny. I’ll no’ stand for it.”

  “Papa-Hank has a dress, but he doesn’t wear it anymore. I don’t think Aunt Molly likes him to.”

  Molly waited at the porch door while Brady gathered an armload of wood, then accompanied him up the stairs to the birthing room. “You can see for yourself she’s doing well, but you may only stay for a minute.”

  He gave her an expression that was part gratitude, part terror.

  “Smile,” she whispered as she opened the door and motioned for Consuelo to step into the hall. “I’ll knock when it’s time to leave.”

  He didn’t look quite so terrified a few minutes later when he left.

  Molly returned to her post beside Jessica’s bed. She looked more relaxed too. “Have you decided on names?” she asked, once again taking Jessica’s hand in hers.

  “For girls, I was thinking Heather, to remind me of home, and Adeline because that was my mother’s name.”

  “And boys?”

  Jessica’s grip on Molly’s hand tightened for a moment, then loosened. She let out a deep breath. “I’ve been threatening Nigel and Aubrey to goad Brady. His family has a tradition of naming children after American statesmen.”

  Molly smiled. “I heard.”

  Another contraction brought Jessica’s shoulders off the pillows. “My, that was a strong one,” she said with a shaky smile when it eased.

  “What are Brady’s preferences?” Molly prodded, mentally counting the seconds between contractions.

  “He wants to name them Thomas Jefferson and Samuel Thornton. Samuel, for his brother, and Thornton for my family. Truth to tell, I don’t care. I simply want them healthy. Oooouch!”

  Molly reminded her to try to keep her body relaxed and take short, shallow breaths when the cramps came. “If you clench against the pain, you’re fighting your body’s efforts to expel the baby.”

  “Oh, really?” Jessica gave her a thin-lipped glare. “I have two melon-sized creatures trying to thrash their way out of my body and you tell me to relax? Honestly, Molly, don’t be absurd—oh!”

  “Sometimes it helps to keep your hands loose,” Molly offered calmly as she extricated her mashed fingers from Jessica’s grip. Papa said women in the latter stages of parturition often became combative. She could certainly see why.

  “I really don’t want to chat right now, Molly, truly I don’t. Ahoooh!” She half rose off the bed then after almost forty seconds fell back, panting.

  “I think my waters have broken.”

  Twenty-two

  THE JUDGE ARRIVED EARLIER THAN EXPECTED, AND FOLEY came for Hank and Charlie just after they’d finished their noon meal.

  Hank was greatly relieved. After spending nearly twenty-four hours cooped up in a small room with an eight-year-old, he was ready to get this over with. Not that Charlie wasn’t good company. But Hank had already lost two thousand imaginary dollars to the kid, and he was tired of being humiliated by a boy who was barely out of short pants and who still had to count on his fingers before he made a bet. An imaginary bet. “Where are we meeting with him?” Hank asked Foley as he reached for his gun belt.

  “The jail. There’s an office in back that’ll be private. You won’t need that.”

  Hank looked up, the gun belt hanging in his hand.

  “We’ll be with you. If there’s a problem, we don’t need civilians waving guns around.”

  Hank looked at him.

  Foley looked back.

  “I don’t wave guns,” Hank snapped. “I shoot them. And I don’t trust anybody but me to watch out for Charlie.”

  Foley’s dark eyes narrowed. His muttonchop sideburns twitched over his clenched jaw. “Leave the gun or stay here. Your men too.”

  Realizing the only way to win this confrontation was to knock the mule-headed sonofabitch down, which might upset the judge or frighten Charlie, Hank tossed the gun belt and revolver on the bed.

  Langley was waiting in the hall with Rikker’s deputy, Eldon Whittaker, a man who possessed the intellect of a radish and was so lacking in gun skills that Rikker didn’t even issue bullets to him. Unwilling to give up total control of a potentially dangerous situation, Hank pulled Langley out of earshot of Foley and explained the situation.

  “You come with
us, but unarmed. Have Curly and Bishop keep their guns, but hang back unless there’s trouble.”

  Langley nodded. Removing his gun belt, he handed it to Curly, spoke to him and Bishop for a moment, then came to stand on the other side of Charlie.

  They started down the stairs, Foley in the lead. With Charlie sandwiched between Hank and Langley and closely followed by the deputy, they left the hotel, crossed the muddy street, and moved quickly down the boardwalk to the sheriff’s office. Rikker met them at the door and ushered them past the empty cells to his office in back. Except for a desk, a rack of rifles, two chairs, and a small coal stove, the room was empty. At Hank’s questioning look, Rikker said, “Judge Utley is on his way. Got caught in a snow squall and had to stop off to change.” He waved them to seats, then realized there were only two and offered coffee, instead.

  Hank and Langley declined. Rikker didn’t have any either. They’d all had Eldon’s coffee. Foley took some, tasted it, then set it aside.

  After sending Eldon to watch the front, Rikker settled in the chair behind his desk while Foley took the one in front of it. Hank stood looking out the window with Charlie close by his side.

  It wasn’t much of a view. A narrow back roadway that provided rear access to several of the shops fronting Main Street, and farther down, the livery. Almost at the end of town and in separate buildings because of their potential for fire, the smithy stood on one side of the street and the Chinese laundry on the other.

  Business as usual, nothing out of the ordinary.

  Yet something felt off to Hank.

  Probably because he was unarmed. He wasn’t a shootist. He rarely drew on anything other than snakes and varmints and hadn’t shot at a human being since the feud with Sancho Ramirez ended four years ago. But the idea of being without protection should he need it made him uneasy.

  Which was probably why Foley had insisted upon it. The man was worse than Brady for having to be in control. And by putting himself between Foley and Charlie, Hank had threatened the lawman’s sense of authority. Stupid bastard. It wasn’t a gun that gave a man authority, or even his willingness to use it. It was his willingness not to use it without just cause that made him someone to take note of.

  “Papa-Hank?”

  Hank looked down to see Charlie motioning him to bend closer.

  “I got to pee,” the boy whispered.

  Hank straightened. “Where’s the nearest outhouse?” he asked Rikker.

  “By the smithy.”

  Hank steered Charlie toward the door.

  “Let your man take him.” Foley nodded toward Langley. “The judge will want to talk to you first anyway.”

  Hank hesitated, not liking the idea of only one man guarding Charlie.

  “The deputy can go along, too, if you want.” Foley gave a small smile. “Besides you’ve got two other armed men lurking out there, don’t you?”

  When Hank didn’t respond, Rikker tipped his head back and yelled for Eldon.

  Footsteps shuffled down the hall, then the deputy’s blond head peered around the door. “More coffee?”

  “Christ, no.” Rikker set aside the smoke he was rolling and fished two bullet cartridges out of his pocket. He handed them to Eldon with a warning look. “In your pocket unless it’s necessary. You understand?”

  Eldon gawked at the cartridges like they were made of gold instead of brass. “Yes, sir.”

  Hank and Langley shared a look of understanding, meaning if there was any trouble, Langley was to take charge of the pistol and bullets, and use them as he saw fit. Then Hank gave Charlie a reassuring smile and sent him on his way with his two bodyguards. He was watching their progress from the window when Jones and the judge finally arrived.

  Judge Clement Utley. Hank had seen him a time or two when the judge made his stop in Val Rosa on his circuit of the area. A small, thin fellow with a bald dome and gunmetal blue eyes that reflected the weary, disillusioned look of a man who had seen more than he wanted to, Judge Utley had a reputation for quick judgments and harsh sentences, whether they be founded in fact, or not. He was also a strict abolitionist with a deep hatred for anything or anyone residing south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Hank foresaw no problems in convincing the judge to issue a warrant for the arrest of a Southern sympathizer.

  “Where’s this boy I’m supposed to talk to?” Utley said as he waved Rikker from his seat so he could take it. Foley vacated his for Jones.

  “Taking a piss,” Rikker said. “This here’s his stepfather, Hank Wilkins. You might ought to hear what he has to say first.”

  “So talk then.”

  Hank recounted what Charlie had told them about finding the book, then later witnessing his grandfather’s murder. At the judge’s request, Foley handed over the book, then they all waited silently as the judge leafed through it, his expression growing more thunderous with every page he turned.

  “Goddamn traitors. Should shoot them all.”

  Jones cleared his throat. “Although the contents of that book are extremely damning, they are not the primary reason for the warrant.”

  Utley looked up with an indignant glare. “You plan to do nothing about this filth?” He threw the book onto the desk for emphasis.

  “No, Your Honor,” Jones said hastily. “But once we have Fletcher in custody for killing Matthew McFarlane, we hope to gather more information from him about his coconspirators and their activities.”

  Utley narrowed his eyes. “You intend to torture the bastard?”

  Jones looked taken aback. “Not at all, sir.”

  “Too bad.” Utley held out his hand, palm up. “Hand them over then. The papers. I don’t need to talk to the boy if you’ll vouch for him.”

  “I do,” Jones said.

  “Then hurry up, man. I’ve been in the saddle all day. My ass hurts, and I need a drink.”

  Quickly pulling the papers from his coat pocket, Jones rose and spread them open on the desk. “If you’ll just sign here, sir.”

  Utley elbowed him aside. “I know where to sign, goddamnit. Give me something to write with.”

  Rikker rummaged in his desk drawer until he came up with a frayed quill and inkpot. Muttering under his breath, Utley dug from his vest pocket a stubby black lead pencil. After priming the tip with spit, he scrawled his name on each sheet of the warrant then shoved the papers back to Jones.

  Jones took a copy, folded it, and handed it to Foley. “Arrest the bastard.”

  After Foley left and the judge headed to the nearest saloon, Rikker pulled a bottle of red rye whiskey from his bottom drawer and took a long swallow.

  “Jesus, that man gives me the hives,” he muttered once he quit coughing. He offered the bottle to Hank and Jones. Having seen the grimace and shudders that assailed the sheriff after a single sip, they both declined. Rikker took one more swallow, gagged and belched, then dropped the bottle back into his drawer.

  Hank continued to stand at the window watching for Charlie and Langley. He had decided to wait for Foley to return with Fletcher so he could be certain Fletcher was locked up before Charlie got back. He wanted the boy to see that it was over. Hank frowned at the dark clouds building in the west. Too bad it was so late. They’d have to wait until morning to head back to the ranch, weather permitting.

  A feeling of impatience nagged at him. They’d only been gone a night and two days, but he found himself anxious to get back, and that unfamiliar feeling of homesickness surprised him. And it wasn’t really home that he was missing. It was Molly. And Penny. It was being away from where he was supposed to be . . . where he wanted to be.

  Christ. He was as pathetic as his lovesick brother.

  Footfalls pounded down the hall. Hank whirled as the door crashed open.

  “He’s gone! The bastard’s gone!” Foley shouted just as gunshots sounded from the direction of the smithy.

  THE FIRST BABY, A RED-FACED BOY WITH DARK HAIR AND flailing fists, arrived without complication, although Jessica might have disagreed with that a
ssessment. He was perfect in every way, and Molly almost wept with the joy of it. Leaving Consuelo to keep an eye on Jessica, and Maria Garcia to clean up the baby, she rushed to the balcony railing.

  “You have a son,” she called down to Brady.

  He leaped to his feet, then his legs seemed to give way and he collapsed back down into the chair, a stunned look on his face. “A son.”

  Dougal laughed and leaned over to cuff him on the side of his head. “A wee bairn, ye great lummox! Aboot time ye did sommat right!”

  “The other one?” Brady called up in a shaky voice.

  “Not yet. But soon.” With a backward wave, Molly hurried back into the birthing room.

  “Okay, Jessica,” she said, all business once again. “You’re halfway there.”

  “Oh, do be quiet, Molly,” Jessica panted. “Your wretched cheeriness is getting on my nerves—oooh!”

  Positioning herself at the foot of the bed, Molly rested a hand on Jessica’s abdomen to judge how far the second fetus had descended. Oddly, it was still high in the womb and hadn’t yet begun to enter the birth canal. She glanced at Consuelo, who gave her a worried look and shook her head. Looking up at Jessica, Molly put on a smile. “Try not to push just yet, Jessica,” she said. “Rest for a moment while we see where we are.”

  “I can’t help it,” Jessica said through clenched teeth. “Oh, God, it hurts.” Another contraction bowed her back.

  Molly listened through the stethoscope to pinpoint the location of the baby’s heartbeat. If it was below Jessica’s navel, the fetus was presenting headfirst. If it was above the navel, it was buttocks or feet first.

  It was just above Jessica’s navel.

  Starting to panic, Molly directed Consuelo to bring a lamp and hold it so the light would shine into the birth canal. When the next contraction came, she checked for the head of the baby. Instead, she saw a foot.

  Oh, God. A breech birth.

  “Jessica, don’t push,” she ordered. “Pant. You can’t push while you breathe.”