The Heart's Charge

by Karen Witemeyer

“Old Maisy is the midwife who delivers Negro babies in these parts,” the woman with the red nose offered with a sniff that seemed to have more to do with disapproval than any ailment she was experiencing. “Ask for Tom Granger at the smithy. He’ll give you directions. Maisy can assist your wife.”

  “Ain’t my wife having the baby, ma’am,” Jonah said, keeping his tone respectful despite the fact that the woman seemed determined to shoo him from the premises. “It’s a white woman my partner and I ran across in an old line shack ’bout twelve miles southeast of here. But I thank you for the information. If Doc Hampton can’t see his way to come, I’ll fetch the midwife.”

  A door opened, and Jonah pivoted to see a man juggling a medical bag as he stuffed his arms into a black suit coat and made his way down the hall. As he crossed the threshold into the waiting area, he nodded to Fancy Vest. “Oscar, you can go in to your wife now.”

  Fancy Vest tossed a glare at Jonah, then hurried past them.

  The doctor turned his attention to Jonah. “How long has she been laboring?”

  “Don’t know,” Jonah said. “Just ran across her. But she looked like she’d been battling a good while. Sweaty, tired, and waving a pistol at anyone who tried to come close. I witnessed at least two pains come over her in the five minutes it took us to disarm her and get her into a bed.”

  The woman gasped behind him. “Disarm her? Who is this wild woman?”

  Dr. Hampton picked up the black bag he’d set on the seat Oscar had vacated and stepped over to the red-nosed lady. “Jenny, why don’t you head on home? I’ll check on you later.”

  “But . . .”

  He opened the door for her. “Try a steam treatment and some nice hot soup. That should get you feeling better.”

  She rose, her eyes darting between the two men, obviously more interested in the wild woman they were discussing than the recommended remedy for her cold. However, she seemed to sense the doctor’s unwillingness to continue discussing a patient in front of someone not involved with the case and reluctantly gathered her belongings.

  Once she had left, Dr. Hampton turned back to Jonah. “Did you get a name?” he asked. “I know most of the expectant mothers in the area.”

  Jonah shook his head. “No, but she did say somethin’ about her husband.” He searched his mind for details and found precious few. “Can’t recall the name. She was talkin’ sorta crazy-like, though. Goin’ on about angels and insisting her husband was gonna meet her at that old cabin. But there was no one there. No husband, no female relative to ease her time. Just her and that pistol. I didn’t even see any baby things. It was as if she’d made no preparations at all.”

  An odd look came over the doctor’s face. “Was the husband named Wendell?”

  Jonah’s memory cleared in an instant. “Yes! That’s it.”

  “Dear Lord in heaven.” The doctor’s face paled. “Wendell Dawson died three months ago.”

  Jonah’s gut knotted. Suddenly all the talk of angels made an eerie kind of sense. As did the pistol.

  “Fern Dawson nearly took her own life after his death, so steeped was she in grief. She has no relatives here. Not many friends either. She and Wendell ran a small ranch southeast of town until his death. In her condition, she had no choice but to sell off the cattle. I thought she might keep the house, but she sold it off too, a couple of weeks ago. She’s been staying in town since, waiting on the baby to come. I thought she was making progress, that she was shifting her focus from her loss to what she was about to gain—a child. Wendell’s child. But now . . .”

  His words drifted off, and Jonah’s mind made short work of filling in the dark possibilities.

  All at once, the doctor’s expression firmed. “Oscar?” He yelled the name loudly enough to be heard in the next room.

  Footfalls echoed in the hallway before Oscar appeared with a petite woman hovering shyly behind him. “Yeah, Doc? This fellow giving you trouble?”

  “It’s Fern Dawson.” The doctor cut straight to the point. “Her baby’s coming, and she’s cloistered herself away in one of Wendell’s old line shacks. This gentleman is going to take me to her, but we’re going to need a wagon and some female reinforcement. Tell Jake at the livery to hitch up a wagon and alert Mrs. Abernathy. If Fern will listen to anyone, it’ll be the parson’s wife. I’ll tie a white handkerchief to a tree or bush at the place we turn off the road so he can find us.”

  Oscar remained wary as he jerked his head toward Jonah. “Are you sure we can trust this fella’s—”

  “Oh for pity’s sake, man, we don’t have time for this.” Dr. Hampton grabbed Oscar by the shoulders and shoved him toward the door. “Fern is not well. Go fetch Jake before we end up having to deliver another Dawson to the undertaker.”

  Oscar’s wife skittered after her husband, eyes wide, face pale. As she passed the doctor, however, she slowed and clasped his hand. “I’ll find Mrs. Abernathy and let her know what has happened. If she’s not available to attend Fern, I’ll go myself.”

  Dr. Hampton smiled. “Thank you, Hannah. You’ve put my mind at ease.”

  She offered a small smile and released the doctor’s hand, but instead of following her husband out the door, she hesitated in front of Jonah. She met his gaze, the pink spreading across her cheeks evidence of her embarrassment and unease. Yet there was an earnestness glowing in her eyes that could not be denied. “Thank you for going out of your way to help a stranger, Mister . . .”

  Jonah tapped the brim of his hat. “Brooks, ma’am. Jonah Brooks.”

  “Mr. Brooks.” She dipped her chin. “May God reward you for your kindness this day.”

  “A healthy mother and babe will be reward enough.”

  She nodded. “Amen to that.” Her gaze darted to the doctor then back to Jonah. “Godspeed to you both. And may his grace abound.”

  As Jonah waited impatiently for the doctor to collect his horse from the livery so they could set out, he silently repeated Ms. Hannah’s plea for grace. It was as good a prayer as any, he figured, and Jonah’s gut told him that everyone involved was going to need a larger than average helping of the commodity before this day was through.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Wendell! You should be here!”

  Mark couldn’t agree more. If he ever ran into good old Wendell, he was going to wring the fellow’s neck. There were some things a man just wasn’t meant to do, and bringing another man’s baby into the world topped the list.

  “It’s all right, Fern.” Mark had coaxed the name out of her about an hour ago, once the labor pains increased their frequency and she realized she was stuck with his company. “You can do this.”

  Whether or not he could was still in question. After years on the battlefield, he’d never considered himself squeamish, but injured soldiers typically didn’t have live beings bursting from their bodies either.

  He gripped her hand and ran a damp rag over her brow. She wagged her head back and forth, rejecting his offer of comfort. He tossed the rag back into the basin of lukewarm water he’d filled with the contents of his canteen. As midwives went, he had to be the worst in history. Why God had chosen him to aid this woman was a mystery he’d never comprehend. The Almighty must not have had anyone else in the area.

  Fern grimaced, then gave in to the groan that tended to punctuate each push. Veins stood out at her temples. Strands of limp hair lay plastered against her face. Her dull eyes sought his. She squeezed his hand. “Sorry . . . I tried . . . to shoot you.”

  It was the first kind thing she’d said to him. First completely sane thing too. Mark grinned. “That’s all right. I was a stranger to you then. You were afraid.”

  She wagged her head again. It seemed to be her favorite occupation. “‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’”

  She was quoting Scripture about hospitality? Now? Maybe he’d jumped the gun on the sane assessment.

  He chuckled softly and gave a
little head wag of his own. “I don’t think God expects a woman in labor to play hostess.”

  She closed her eyes against another building contraction. “Not . . . that. Didn’t recognize . . . you were . . . the angel.” As if that statement were not shocking enough, she dug her nails into his hand and sat up away from the pillows he’d propped behind her. “Promise you’ll take care of my baby.” She gritted the words out through a clenched jaw.

  “Of course.” He’d agree to anything at this point.

  I know I’m not an angel, Lord, but if you see fit to send divine reinforcements, I wouldn’t argue.

  “Good,” she groaned, “because we need you . . . now!”

  Now?

  Mark chanced a peek at the place on the bed he’d been doing his best to avoid looking and spotted a dark, slimy dome emerging.

  The baby was coming!

  He jumped off the side of the bed and ran for the doorway, hoping he’d see the answer to his prayers riding down the narrow path. He’d petitioned fervently on multiple occasions for the doctor to arrive before the baby, but apparently God had settled on a different plan.

  He trusted that the cavalry was coming—Jonah would never leave him stranded—but in the meantime, he was the only officer on duty. Turning away from the doorway, Mark steeled himself, rolled up his sleeves, and marched back to the battleground.

  For the next several minutes, Fern groaned and pushed, then pushed and groaned. A head emerged. Mark cupped his palm around the tiny face, spreading his fingers wide around the baby’s mouth and nose as he did his best to support the child’s neck.

  “The head’s out.” A tiny person’s head. Complete with a thin layer of dark hair, two ears, and all necessary facial features. Awe tightened his chest. He glanced up at the mother, whose face still contorted with excruciating effort. “Keep pushing, Fern. You’re doing great.”

  She inhaled several panting breaths, then bore down again. As her groan coalesced into something closer to a scream, the baby’s shoulders pushed through one at a time. After that, the rest of the kid slid out surprisingly quick.

  It was a slippery little thing. Terrified he would drop the tyke, Mark turned the newborn over and seated the baby’s bottom in his palm as he fumbled to support the head.

  Her head.

  “It’s a girl!” Grinning like an idiot, he glanced up at Fern, but she wasn’t looking at the baby. She stared straight up at the ceiling as she collapsed back on the pillows.

  “I’m ready, Wendell,” she murmured, her words eerily flat.

  Mark grabbed a clean sheet edge and wiped the baby’s face. The girl’s forehead scrunched, and a tiny mewl of a cry escaped. Little arms flailed in jerky motions as the cry grew louder and more demanding.

  “Don’t worry, little beauty. Uncle Mark’s here.”

  He cleaned her up as best he could, then wrapped her in the knitted blanket he’d found stuffed in a small bag under the bed. At least he thought it was a blanket. It hadn’t been finished. Loops hung empty where a needle had been pulled free. He’d tied off the loose yarn end as best he could, but he knew as much about knitting as he did about delivering babies, so the blanket would probably unravel. But it was clean and warm, and that was all that mattered at the moment.

  Once the little gal was presentable, Mark carried her around the edge of the bed to meet her mama.

  “You have a daughter, Fern.” The infant was red and wrinkly, hairy and noisy, and since he had no idea what to do with the umbilical cord, she had a tubular protrusion extending from her midsection. Nonetheless, the little charmer utterly captured Mark’s heart as he cradled her close to his chest. “She’s beautiful.”

  He bent low and extended the baby toward her mother.

  Instead of reaching for her child, Fern recoiled. She turned her face away. “No.”

  No? What did she mean, no? Mark frowned. This was her child.

  Trying to coax Fern into accepting her baby, Mark started to lay the little girl on Fern’s chest, but the instant the baby’s fist bumped against her breast, Fern winced and jerked forward.

  Mark snatched the baby back to his chest.

  The muscles in Fern’s neck tightened again. “Something else is coming out,” she moaned.

  Something else? Please don’t let there be another baby. It’s a miracle this one survived my ineptitude.

  Cradling the infant in his left arm, Mark maneuvered down the side of the bed, taking care not to tangle the cord even as he tried to hurry. He didn’t see another head crowning, thank the Lord, but he did see blood.

  “Help.” The whispered plea was all he could squeeze out through the panic-strangled walls of his throat. Not that there was anyone around to hear it. Except the same God who thought it a brilliant idea to stick him with baby duty in the first place.

  “Wallace?” A deep voice called from outside.

  Jonah.

  Relief hit Mark with such a keen edge, he had to blink away tears. Thank God. I never should have doubted you.

  “In here!” he yelled back. “Hurry.”

  Footsteps pounded up the steps and into the cabin. Two sets. Thank God again.

  “I brought the doctor.” Jonah steered a shorter man in a black suit in front of him. “Name’s Hampton.”

  Fern shook her head. “No. No doctor. Only Wendell. Wendell’s supposed to come. I did my part.” She moaned, her eyes sliding closed as tears slid from beneath her lashes. “I did my part.”

  Mark had given up trying to make sense of Fern, and frankly, he was a bit disgusted by her refusal to appreciate her daughter. So he ignored her ranting and turned his attention to Dr. Hampton. “The babe came about three or four minutes ago. I cleaned her up as best I could, but I didn’t know what to do about the cord. And now Fern is bleeding, and I don’t know why. Is there another baby?”

  “Most likely it’s just the placenta,” Dr. Hampton said as he pulled off his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

  Jonah took the doctor’s coat, hung it on a nail protruding from the wall behind him, then took up sentry duty in the most out-of-the-way corner available in the small room. Dr. Hampton shoved his hands into the water basin Mark had left by the edge of the bed, shook them dry, then placed one hand on Fern’s abdomen and pressed down slightly.

  “Fern?” He grasped her shoulder with his other hand and gave her a little shake so she would open her eyes. “You need to let your baby nurse. It will help your body purge the placenta.”

  “No.” She started to sob. “Wendell’s coming. I did my part.”

  Dr. Hampton sighed, then met Mark’s gaze. “I’m going to cut the cord. Then I want you to wash the baby and place her against the skin of your chest. She needs to be warm, and that’s the most efficient method. Plus, the human contact of skin against skin will calm her.”

  Mark gave a sharp nod, thankful to have someone with actual medical training giving the orders. As soon as the cord tethering mother to baby was cut, Mark moved to the corner where Jonah stood and set to work carrying out the doctor’s instructions. Once the little lady was snuggled against his chest, her cries mellowed into sniffles, then quieted altogether.

  “You know,” Mark said as he leaned his back against the wall and secured his hold on the newborn, “I think I need to write my mother a letter of apology for all the pain I caused her during my arrival.”

  Jonah smirked. “That was only one day. What about all the rest of the trouble you caused her in the twenty-eight years since?”

  Mark chuckled softly. “Valid point. Guess it’ll be a long letter.” His gaze returned to Fern as she feebly tried to fend off the doctor’s ministrations, and he sobered. “At least our mothers accepted us.”

  Memories of his mother holding him in her lap, combing his hair with her fingers, or singing a lullaby swamped him. So much love. He never once questioned his belonging in the family. Never doubted her affection.

  He looked down at the babe snuggled securely against his chest. Felt the rise and
fall of her breaths. “How can a mother turn her back on her own child?”

  Jonah reached toward the windowsill where he’d stashed Fern’s pistol before leaving to fetch the doctor. As Mark watched, he pushed open the cylinder and emptied the five unspent bullets into his palm, then tucked those into his trouser pocket.

  Mark raised a brow. Fern wasn’t exactly a threat, currently. Why empty the gun now?

  Jonah set the empty gun back on the sill. “Her husband died three months ago. Doc said she’s tried to join him at least once since the burial. Everyone hoped her grief would lift by the time the baby came, but I’m startin’ to think she didn’t bring this pistol with her to fend off interfering Good Samaritans. I’m thinkin’ she planned to join her husband as soon as the babe was delivered.”

  “Lord have mercy.”

  The angels will take care of our baby. Fern’s deluded words came back to him. I’ve done my part. She’d lived long enough to bring their child into the world and now wanted to reunite with her dearly departed Wendell.

  Heart throbbing, Mark crooked a finger and caressed the baby’s cheek. “Why can’t she see that Wendell lives on in you?”

  Dr. Hampton approached, drying his hands on a scrap of towel. “Fern is stable for the moment. At least physically.” He shook his head. “I have reinforcements on the way who will hopefully be able to bolster her mental state. I’ve never seen such severe melancholia. She’ll have to be kept under strict observation for quite some time.”

  “And the baby?” Mark tightened his hold on the tiny bundle. “Who’s going to take care of her?”

  “Kingsland is about as close to us as Llano, and there’s a foundling home there. You’ll have to ford the Llano River, but if you use Harvey’s Crossing, you’ll be fine. The ladies that run the home have contacts in the area and should be able to locate a wet nurse for the babe. Be sure to tell them the mother might want her child returned to her eventually. Some women experience a greater-than-normal sinking of the spirits during and following pregnancy. My prayer is that once the chemicals in Fern’s body balance, her mood will improve and her mind will strengthen. I also plan to search out relatives who might be able to offer assistance. In the meantime, though, this little one has needs only another mother can meet.”