by Warner, Kaki
A look of terror crossed Jessica’s face. “Is it breech?”
“Don’t you dare give up,” Molly ordered harshly. “You can do this. You can have this baby. But you must do what I tell you. Do you understand?”
Air hissed through Jessica’s teeth.
“Do you hear me?” Molly was shouting now, desperate to make Jessica understand. “Just do what I tell you!”
“Y-Yes. All right.”
“Breathe short and fast until I tell you to stop. I don’t care how much you want to push, you mustn’t.”
Jessica nodded, tears and sweat streaking her face.
Working as quickly as she could, Molly ran her hands over Jessica’s abdomen, trying to determine the position of the fetus. She found the buttocks then the head. “I’m going to try to get him to turn a somersault, Jessica. You absolutely must not push!” Molly waited until the next contraction ended, then pressed upward on the fetus’s buttocks and down on the head. Nothing.
She did it again. Nothing.
A third and fourth time yielded no change in the position of the fetus.
Choking back her own terror, she realized the baby would have to come breech. But before it moved too far into the birth canal, she would have to make sure the head was tucked against its chest and the umbilical cord wasn’t wrapped around its neck. “Open the jar of sheep tallow,” she said to Consuelo.
Once she’d lubricated her hand and arm with the fat, she slid her fingers into Jessica’s straining body. Protruding from the tip of the womb, she found one tiny foot, then another, tucked tight against the buttocks.
“Don’t push,” she ordered hoarsely as Jessica’s uterine muscles clamped down on the fetus. It slid farther into the birth canal, then stopped.
Was its chin caught? Molly knew that was the most dangerous situation in a breech birth, especially with smaller babies like twins usually were. Another contraction sent the baby farther into the canal. Molly could feel the chest, the neck.
No cord was wrapped around it. Good.
“You’re doing wonderfully, Jessica. It appears to be another boy.” The baby slipped farther.
She found the face, hooked her finger in the tiny mouth, and pulled down, tucking the chin of the fetus against its chest. Praying that it would hold that position, she pulled her hand back out. “Now push,” she ordered.
Jessica pushed, her head thrown back, her body shuddering.
“Again.” The feet, hips, and torso slipped free.
“Again. Last time, Jessica. Push as hard as you can.”
Jessica rose off the sweat-soaked mattress, her hands twisting in the loops tied to the bedposts. With a scream, she pushed her son free in a gush of bright blood.
Molly caught him in trembling hands and wiped the mucus and blood from his mouth. Immediately, the baby sucked in a gulp of air then gave a tiny mewl of indignation. Another breath and the mewling became a healthy cry.
“You did it,” Molly cried, holding up the baby for Jessica to see.
Jessica smiled shakily, tears of joy and triumph and exhaustion streaming down her ashen face. “Another . . . son.” Then with a sigh, her body went limp.
“Jessica?” Molly called. “Jessica!”
Behind her, the door crashed opened. Still clutching the baby, Molly turned to see Brady standing in the threshold, staring in horror at his unconscious wife.
DEAD. JESUS, NO . . .
Brady staggered back, unable to tear his eyes away from his wife’s still form. Then whirling, he stumbled down the stairs, shoving Dougal aside as he forced his numb legs to carry him past the great room into the east wing and through his office door. He slammed it shut, then stood gasping as a rage and grief so profound there were no words to name it filled his chest and pressed against his lungs.
Jessica.
Dead.
A smothered feeling came over him, and suddenly he was desperate to escape this moment, this place, this pain. But all he could do was stand there, shaking, his heart bleeding in his chest while tears ran unchecked down his face.
OUTPACING FOLEY, HANK CHARGED TOWARD THE SMITHY, shouting for Curly and Bishop. When he ran past Gruber’s Fix-it, they burst out of an alley, guns drawn, falling in behind Foley.
As they neared the end of the street, where the smithy and the laundry stood, Eldon rushed toward them, waving his revolver like a flag, his face so white it looked bloodless. “It’s Fletcher! He’s got the kid!” As Hank ran up, he pointed the pistol toward the laundry. “Took him in there! I tried to get him but I think I missed. Christamighty!”
Hank prayed the idiot hadn’t shot Charlie instead. “Go around front,” he yelled at Curly. “Bishop, cover the back.” Without being told, Foley cut through the alley to block access to Front Street. Langley staggered around the corner of the laundry, blood pouring from a gash at his temple. “Ambush,” he choked out then toppled face-first into the dirt.
“See to him,” Hank shouted at Eldon and ran through the back gate.
Cutting through the laundry, he dodged black-robed workers, jumped steaming washtubs, and ducked through clothes hanging under a sagging canvas awning.
Gasping for air, he tore through the narrow halls, his heart pounding so hard blood roared past his ears. He crashed into a laundry cart, sent it toppling. Scrambling back to his feet, he rushed through the main room, frantically searching for Charlie.
A coolie he recognized waved him on toward the side door. “He go there, he go there,” he shouted as Hank charged by. As he cleared the doorway, he saw a man dragging a child by the arm duck into a storage shed beside the smithy. Charlie.
Lungs burning, his boots slipping in mud, Hank raced across the street. He crashed through the door almost on top of them.
Fletcher whirled, a gun in his hand. He fired.
The doorframe exploded into splinters.
Before he could fire again, Hank lunged, knocking his gun hand up as their bodies collided. They went down, smashing over crates and boxes, Hank’s greater size and weight driving the smaller man hard into the dirt.
The gun fell from Fletcher’s grip. Hank kicked it away. He drove his fist twice into Fletcher’s face then lurched to his feet. Yanking the bleeding man up by his collar, he slammed him up against the wall and held him there with a hand around his throat.
Gulping in air, Hank ignored Fletcher’s thrashing and choking noises, and glanced over his shoulder at the boy trembling in the corner. “You all right, Charlie?”
“Y-Yes, sir.”
“He didn’t hurt you?”
“No, s-sir.”
Hank turned back to Fletcher. “You bastard!” He tightened his grip. “I ought to kill you now!” His rage was so strong he shook with it. He wanted to pound Fletcher’s face until his bones turned to mush. He wanted to break him into little pieces, then put him back together and do it again.
But Charlie was watching. And Charlie had seen enough.
Lowering his face to within inches of Fletcher’s, he snarled, “It’s over. They have the book. They know you killed McFarlane. It’s over.”
Fletcher gurgled something. Blood trickled from his bruised mouth. His eyes bulged like a rat choking on a peach pit.
Hank battled the urge to squeeze until he heard bones snap. “Call off Hennessey, or I’ll kill you now.”
“I c-can’t,” Fletcher gasped, his fingers digging at Hank’s hand.
“What do you mean you can’t?”
Fletcher made a gagging noise. Realizing the sonofabitch was trying to speak, Hank forced his fingers to relax but still kept his hand on the bastard’s throat.
Fletcher dragged in a wheezing breath. “Haven’t seen him in a month. I don’t know where he is.” Then he rose on his toes as Hank tightened his hold. “Besides, I didn’t hire him,” he choked out.
“Then who sent him after Molly?”
“I don’t know. Maybe one of the others. Rustin.”
Hank hit him. Then because it felt good, hit him again.
“I ought to kill you!”
“That won’t stop them.” Unbelievably, Fletcher’s bleeding mouth split in a grisly smile. “You think this is just about me? I’m just a small part of it.”
Hank shook him so hard, Fletcher’s head banged against the wall. “What are you talking about?”
“It’ll never be over.” He laughed. “Not as long as there are Southern men who—”
Hank cut off his words with a fist to the jaw. Fletcher started to sag, but Hank pinned him tighter to the wall. “What about Hennessey?”
“Hennessey’s an animal,” Fletcher rasped. “He’ll never stop. Hell, the bitch is probably already dead.”
Dead? Molly?
Red mist exploded behind Hank’s eyes.
Fletcher started laughing again, the sound of it growing louder and higher until it seemed to pierce Hank’s skull. To stop it, he slammed Fletcher’s head into the wall. Slammed it again. Then again and again until he felt bones snap in his hand.
Abruptly the laughter stopped and Fletcher went limp.
Chest heaving, Hank stepped back. He released his grip on Fletcher’s throat and watched his body collapse into the dirt like a broken puppet.
Jesus, what have I done? His mind reeling, Hank stared at the body sprawled at his feet, then at the boy cowering in the corner.
Charlie stared back, his eyes round, his mouth slack.
A terrible feeling of dread swept through Hank. It wasn’t that he regretted killing Fletcher. It was that he’d done it in front of a child. Christ. What new horrors had he brought the boy now?
“Is he dead?” Charlie asked in a quavering voice.
Hank nodded. He started to say more, but then Charlie rushed forward, a fierce look on his face. Before Hank could stop him, he kicked Fletcher’s crumpled body, then spit on it and kicked it again. “I’m glad you’re dead!” he shouted in a high, thin voice. “I hate you! I hate you!” Breathing hard, he looked up at Hank. “I’m glad he’s dead!”
Hank stood frozen, chilled by the violence of Charlie’s reaction. It didn’t seem normal for an eight-year-old boy, but he didn’t know what to do, what to say.
“I’m glad,” Charlie said again. Then he burst into tears.
Relieved to have the child back, Hank scooped him up in his arms and held him tight as Charlie wept against his neck. “It’s over, Charlie,” he said, rubbing a hand over the boy’s back. “He’ll never hurt you again. It’s over.”
Voices outside, then a figure charged through the doorway.
Foley.
Straddling Fletcher’s body, Hank met Foley’s eyes over his stepson’s head, watching to see what the deputy marshal would do and wondering if he would have to fight this man as well. No one was taking Charlie away from him.
Foley’s dark gaze dropped to the body on the floor then back up to meet Hank’s. “Christ, man, what have you done?”
Hank tightened his grip on the child in his arms. “I protected my son.”
“You’ve complicated everything,” Foley shot back. “This is why I didn’t want you to have a gun. Goddamn civilians.”
“I didn’t use a gun.”
“Christ.” Foley stomped to the door of the shed, gave assurances to the men gathered outside and told them to stay put, then stomped back. “I ought to arrest you right now,” he said in a furious voice.
Charlie lifted his tear-streaked face and glared at the deputy marshal. “You better not. It was him who shot at Papa-Hank.”
Foley opened his mouth, then closed it. He knelt to examine Fletcher’s body. “I wish you had used a gun,” he muttered, watching Fletcher’s head flop on his shattered neck when he tried to roll him over. “Be easier to explain than this.” He let Fletcher flop back and rose.
“Hennessey’s still out there,” Hank said. “He’s still after my wife.”
Foley gave him a sneer of disgust. “And you’re going after him, I suppose.”
Hank looked at him.
“Can you at least wait for me to gather a posse?”
Hank continued to look at him.
“Christ, man, it’s night. You can’t ride out in the dark.”
Foley was right, Hank realized in frustration. He might make it on his own, but not with Charlie. And he wouldn’t leave the boy behind. “First light then. And I don’t need a posse.”
“Christ.” Foley waved a hand in dismissal. “Go on then. Take your son and get the hell out of here before I shoot you myself.”
Twenty-three
MOLLY WATCHED BRADY STUMBLE FROM THE DOORWAY. “Brady, wait!” she called.
He didn’t answer.
She heard his footfalls pound down the staircase and wanted to go after him, but she couldn’t leave until she’d tended the baby and finished with Jessica. Tamping back her worry, she bent to the task at hand.
Before cutting the umbilical cord and handing the second infant to Consuelo to be cleaned up, Molly made certain the first baby had an identifying strip of ribbon tied around his ankle so they would know who was firstborn.
The afterbirth emerged intact, but still Jessica bled. Growing concerned, Molly did a pelvic examination and saw that the breech birth had caused damage to the cervical opening into the womb. It didn’t appear serious, and Molly was able to quickly stitch it up while Jessica remained asleep or in a faint—she wasn’t sure which—and that worried her too.
Sadly, there would be no more babies for Jessica. She might conceive, but she would never be able to carry a fetus past the third month, much less to full term. A blessing, really. Assuming Jessica made a full recovery after this delivery, and Molly could see no reason why she shouldn’t even with the damage caused by the breech, the fact that she wouldn’t be subjected to this ordeal year after year, as many women were, ensured she would lead a much longer, healthier life.
Working with brisk efficiency, Molly and Consuelo washed Jessica and changed her gown, put fresh linens on the bed, then tidied the room before Jessica awoke. When she did, Molly was relieved to see she was suffering nothing beyond the normal weariness one might expect after a difficult delivery.
She and Consuelo brought her sons to her. It was an emotional moment for Molly and a joyful departure from her previous sickroom experiences. All three women wept happy, exhausted tears over Jessica’s perfect little babies and the miracle in which they had all taken part.
“Where’s Brady?” Jessica asked after she had relinquished her sons to Consuelo to be returned to the cradle they shared for now. “I thought he would be here.”
Molly did too. “I’ll fetch him. But first there are some things I need to discuss with you.” Sitting by Jessica’s side, Molly quietly told her about the damage to her womb, and that there shouldn’t, and probably wouldn’t, be more babies. She suggested Jessica find a wet nurse to supplement the feedings and to help with their care, since twins could take an exhausting toll on a new mother. And finally, she said that because the birthing had been somewhat difficult, Jessica would be sore, and as long as she wasn’t feeding the twins herself, Molly would be able to give her laudanum to help with the pain if Jessica felt she needed it.
Jessica listened without interrupting. When Molly had finished, she thought for a moment, then said, “No more babies?”
“You shouldn’t, Jessica. If you do conceive, you wouldn’t be able to carry it full term.” Realizing she was damning her friend to a future of conceiving babies only to lose them, Molly quickly added, “But there are ways to prevent conception. If you’re interested and when you’re ready, we can discuss them if you’d like.”
“Yes.” Blinking hard, Jessica looked over at the cradle in the corner.
Feeling the sting of sympathetic tears, Molly reached out and took Jessica’s hand in her own. “I’m so sorry, Jessica. I wish I could have prevented it.”
Jessica turned back with a tremulous smile. “No. You did everything you could.” She gave Molly’s hand a weak squeeze. “I thank God for you, Molly. And I thank you for what y
ou’ve done here. I owe you my life, and my sons’ lives.”
“You owe me nothing, Jessica. You’re my family now.”
Jessica nodded. “Yes. Family. I’m so glad you see us that way. And how lucky we are that you’re now a part of it.” Releasing Molly’s hand, she took a bracing breath, signaling a move to a less emotional subject. “You did a masterful job keeping Brady under control. However did you manage it?”
“I simply told him to stay out of my way. More or less.”
“Ah. Well, he’ll be beside himself. Twin sons. Every man’s dream.” She chuckled, then winced at the pull to her sore abdominal muscles. “No doubt he’ll try to give you something. I’d guess a horse. Or perhaps two, since he has two sons.”
Reminded of how stricken Brady had looked when he left the room earlier, Molly rose. “I’ll get him now. I know he’s anxious to see you.” Hurrying from the room, she went to the hall overlooking the main room and looked over the railing. She didn’t see him. He wasn’t upstairs when she checked the nursery either. After giving the children the news of the two new additions to the family, she left them with the Garcias and went back downstairs.
Dougal awaited her at the bottom of the stairs. “ ’Tis done, then?” he asked, tears brimming in his eyes. “My wee lass is gone?”
“Gone?” Molly stopped and stared at him. “Do you mean dead?” Dougal flinched at the word.
“Of course she’s not,” Molly said indignantly. “Where would you get such an idea?” Brady. Molly sighed with impatience. The man was determined to believe the worst. “She is not dead,” she told Dougal in a firm voice. “She is doing wonderfully, although understandably tired after giving birth to two healthy sons.”
Dougal gave her an owly look. “A-Alive? My lass is alive?”
“Very much so. In fact, you can go up and see for yourself while I go hunt down her nitwit of a husband. Do you know where he is?”
“His office,” Dougal called back, already halfway up the stairs.
She found Brady sitting in one of the chairs by the cold fireplace.
