The wind howled, rattling the panes in the window frames, shaking the fragile rafters, while melting sleet dripped down the chimney to sizzle on the burning logs in the hearth. The last time Spence had been out to the privy, he’d strung a rope up to guide them to it if the norther brought heavy snow. Right now, it was just slicker than wet oilcloth outside, but the way that wind was blowing, it was going to get a lot worse.
There was so much ice on the windows it was difficult to see much from them, but he didn’t guess it mattered, anyway. There wasn’t much to see, just a gray sky pouring freezing rain. Expecting the worst, he’d already secured Dolly, Clyde, and Sally in the lean-to he and Chen Li had built next to the privy. They’d put it there so anybody going out could take care of everything in one trip.
Laura was quieter than usual. She was in the rocker with a blanket wrapped around her, reading one of her books. Restive in the silence, he rose to get himself some coffee, then stood at the window to drink it. It was as though the world had shrunk to this one small room, and he was trapped in it. It was going to be a long winter, he could see that now. Dispirited, he turned back to his prison, wondering how he could last until May.
His gaze shifted to the woman in the chair, and he wondered how she could stand being cooped up in here with him. She was a remarkable woman, no question about that. Honest. Forthright. Hardworking. Wise beyond her years. As lovely inside as out. In a lot of ways, she reminded him of Bingham. He had to wonder if Taylor’d had any idea how rare she was.
Not that she wasn’t vexing. She had a stubborn streak nearly as wide as his own, and when she got something set in her head, she clung to it, turning it into a crusade. And she didn’t always know when to stop, he reflected soberly. There wasn’t a day he’d spent in this little cabin that she hadn’t managed to find some. way to talk about medicine, and it just plain made him feel pushed. And it was the same with their differences in class. He was supposed to feel some damned obligation to do good because Bingham had been rich enough to send him to medical school, because he hadn’t been poor. He just didn’t feel it anymore.
He didn’t feel much of anything, except hatred for Ross, frustration with his own lot, and a yearning for a little boy he didn’t even know. And there wasn’t much he could do about any of those things right now. His whole life was in abeyance, held hostage by things he couldn’t control. But the damned weather was the worst of it. It had kept him from going on. It had trapped him in this cabin. It had thrown him into the company of a woman with problems worse than his own. It had given him too many hours to brood on the emptiness of his life.
He didn’t know how Laura could face the world with such determination to survive, how she could get up each morning and face the day ahead, knowing all she could truly depend on was herself. Indomitable spirit, he guessed—a will to survive.
She was looking a little peaked, even frail, he realized with a start. And the book in her lap was closed. Her hands were gripping the arms of that rocking chair so hard her knuckles were white. She was rigid with fear.
“Are you all right?” he asked her.
“I don’t know,” she gasped. “I’m going to be sick, I think.”
He grabbed the washbasin and held it under her chin. “Maybe you shouldn’t have eaten that sausage this morning.”
“No.”
He could see the beads of sweat on her forehand, the cornered look in her eyes—like an animal about to die. Alarmed, he gripped her shoulder. “What is it?” he demanded urgently.
She swallowed hard. “The pain…and it’s too early…something’s wrong.” Closing her eyes against it, she cried, “Something’s wrong…it’s not my time!”
“My God—are you sure?”
“Yes—it’s not something I could forget! The baby’s coming early!”
“Just calm down now. There’s such a thing as false labor,” he reassured her. “Just lie down—I’ll help you to bed.”
“I can’t lose this baby … I just can’t … he’s all I’ve got of Jess!”
“Hysteria won’t help anything,” he said, trying to sound calm. “Come on—you’ve got to lie down.”
“I can’t! I’ll ruin the bed!”
“Breathe easy—don’t get ahead of yourself. We’ll put my bedroll under you—now, come on—everything’s going to be all right.” Bending over her, he got a hand under her arm and lifted her to stand. Bloody water gushed down her legs under her dress, soaking the rug at her feet. His first instinct was to go for the railroad doctor, but he didn’t want to leave her alone like that. “Come on,” he said again. “It’s going to be all right. You’re young and healthy.”
“I was young and healthy the last time, Dr. Hardin,” she managed.
“I’m going to help you.” Even as he said it, the words seemed ludicrous. Putting his arm around her, he tried to walk her toward the bed. He could hear her gulping for air. Something was wrong, all right— the pains were coming too hard too fast. She grabbed her distended belly with both hands and held on. Afraid she would collapse on him, Spence swung her up into his arms, staggered awkwardly, then made his way to her bed. Easing her onto the side of the mattress, he put one of her hands on the bedpost. “Hold on,” he ordered. “I’ll get my bedroll.”
When he came back, he could see the stain spreading along the hem of her dress. Dumping his blankets on the bed, he spread them out, doubling them in the middle. While she held onto the post, he knelt to unlace and remove her shoes. Rolling down the black cotton stockings over her garters down to her toes, he managed to get them off, too. Her plain white drawers were soaked clear to her knees.
“We’ve got to get you undressed.”
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t move.”
She was panicked, that was all, he told himself as he worked the drawers down to her ankles. Noticing for the first time the puffiness there, he asked quickly, “You haven’t been having trouble passing water, have you?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say something? You should have told me!” Shouting at her served nothing, he told himself. “I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his voice.
She closed her eyes again, this time to hide from him. “It didn’t seem proper,” she managed.
She was sweating, but her skin was warmer than his. “All right. Losing one baby doesn’t mean you’ll lose another. The last one was breech, that was all.”
“It was early—this one’s early, too.”
“But the circumstances are different. You’ve got to get hold of yourself, Laura—I’m right here with you. We’re going to do our best to help the baby. I’m going to help you, but you have to tell yourself this is going to turn out all right—you understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He was surprised by his own calmness now. He’d trained as a surgeon, not as a practitioner, and if she’d needed a limb amputated, this would be easy. Instead, she was in labor and showing signs of kidney problems. “All right,” he repeated matter-of-factly. “Let’s get to work. I’m going to get you out of these clothes so I can see what’s going on. Then you’re going to lie down, and I’m going to get my bag in case I have to make this a little easier for you.” Scanning her face, he could tell she was mortified. “Look—it’s all right. I’m a trained physician.”
Another contraction doubled her over, sending blood down her bare leg. He could see how hard it tightened her belly, and he knew it wasn’t normal. It was as though her body was trying to rid itself of the baby in one painful contraction. Reaching up under her dress, he felt between her legs for the head. It wasn’t down there, and she wasn’t wide enough yet to deliver.
Silently cursing the excessive clothing women wore, he worked feverishly to undress her, then swung her legs onto the bed. She rolled onto her side and drew up her knees as he searched for his medical bag. He was out of nearly everything, but there was no sense in letting her know it. “Jesse didn’t have any whiskey, did he?” he asked, coming back to her.
“He liked beer.”
Beer. “Do you still have any of it?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s not that important,” he lied. “Anything with alcohol in it?”
“Cough medicine. He…he…Clutching her stomach, she held on until the pain eased. “He had a cough last summer … I made some.”
“With what?”
“Honey…lemon…mash whiskey … I borrowed some—”
“Where is it?”
She hurt too bad to think. “Cupboard.”
She had a lot of stuff on those narrow shelves, but he found a bottle of something. Opening it, he took a whiff and smelled the whiskey in it. “There’s half a bottle here, Laura—I want you to drink all of it down,” he said, lifting her shoulders to keep her from choking.
She gagged as it went down. She felt her whole abdomen convulse, bearing down, but she could tell the baby wasn’t going anywhere. “It’s not moving, Dr. Hardin—it’s not!” she cried.
“Then there’s a reason. We’ll just have to compensate for whatever it is.” Moving to the kitchen again, he washed his hands in lye soap and cold water. “We’ve got time to fix it.”
“How?”
“Close your eyes. I’m going to find the baby.” Placing one hand on her abdomen, he palpated it, trying to feel the head. It wasn’t in the birth canal. “This could be false labor,” he lied again.
“Not with the water,” she gasped.
“Maybe.” It didn’t seem possible that it could happen twice, but the baby was lying transversely. “We’re going to give it a little longer to move down to where I can reach it, then I’ll have to turn it into the canal,” he told her frankly. “Don’t worry—I’m not letting this go on for days.” Reaching for her hand, he squeezed it reassuringly. “We’ll make it.”
“I hope so.”
Sitting on the bed beside her, he reviewed his options silently. If he could turn it, he expected the labor to progress normally. If he couldn’t, he was a surgeon, he told himself. He could get it out of her, but that wasn’t anything he wanted to do. The baby would almost certainly die, and she’d never have another. No, he had to turn it, even if it came out breech again. If he didn’t let her get too weak, she could deliver it. “I’m not going to let you get too tired,” he told her again.
As the hours wore on, she lost all sense of modesty or dignity. It no longer mattered that she was naked, or that his hands touched the most intimate part of her body. Between contractions, his voice soothed her; during them, his hand gripped hers.
Every labor he’d seen in medical school had been without complication, but as he sat there in the waning hours of the afternoon, he called to memory the textbook cases that exceeded the norm, reviewing everything he could remember. His hands followed the progress of the child within her until he knew she’d done all she could without help.
Despite the risk of hemorrhage, he decided to attempt turning it into the birth canal manually. With one hand outside, pressing downward, and the other in the canal itself, he moved the baby. Blood gushed down his arm, forcing him to hurry. Finally, he felt the head tilt downward; then his hand touched the small cranium. Reaching behind him, he retrieved a scalpel and cut the tautly stretched perineum to give the child more room.
“The next hard one, bear down with everything you’ve got left, and we’ll know if we’re going to make it, he told Laura.
She took a deep breath, holding it against the coming pain, and when the gut-wrenching contraction hit, she pushed so hard she thought she’d split open. Somewhere a scream pierced the air, shattering it.
He could see the caul on the head now. Gripping it, he told her, “One more, and it’s over.” As the pain intensified, the head slid into his hands, and he pulled the infant out. One glance told him it was too small. A second glance made his heart pause. Laura was bleeding profusely, and the afterbirth was coming. It slipped like a mass of dark red jelly onto the bed.
Laying the baby by her leg, he massaged its body, trying to bring life to it. Above him, Laura Taylor wept. She knew it wasn’t breathing.
“It was just too early—I knew it was too early,” she whispered brokenly.
“Maybe not.”
With his clean hand, he opened the little mouth to poke a finger down its throat, clearing mucus. It was blue, but it was warm. He smacked the tiny feet, hoping the infant would respond, and he heard a choking sound, but no cry. Cradling the bloody infant’s head with both hands, he bent his head to it and forced his breath into its mouth. At first he felt nothing; then the chest walls expanded. His forefinger pressed on the tiny breastbone, expelling the air before he tried again. He didn’t know whether he just wished it to be so, or whether the blueness was receding. Stopping long enough to see if it breathed on its own, he waited, unsure if he saw anything. Finally, he turned it upside down across his knee, and there was a gasp, followed by a thin, reedy wail.
“Well, aren’t you something?” he said softly. His face split into a full grin as he watched the baby girl turn pink, then red from the exertion of squalling. “Laura, you’ve got a daughter,” he announced proudly. “She’s little, but she’s here to stay.”
Exhausted, she closed her eyes. She had a daughter. Not a son, but a daughter. A moment of disappointment washed over her, followed by pure joy. Her daughter was alive.
“Thank you,” she whispered as the tears streamed down her cheeks. “Spencer Hardin, you’re wonderful,”
He felt the intense emotion himself. “No—you were magnificent.” Placing the shaking infant in her arms, he murmured, “We’re not quite done, but almost. Now we’ve got to fix you up. I’ve got to sew together what I cut,”
Overwhelmed by what he’d done, by the miracle he’d witnessed, he fought his own tears as he started stitching. Laura Taylor was crooning to the tiny daughter he’d brought into this world, and right now nothing else mattered.
“You’ll freeze to death down there,” he heard 1 her tell him.
Shivering, he drew his knees up against his chest, seeking warmth from his own cold body. “I’m all right,” he mumbled in the darkness.
“You can’t be. You don’t even have a blanket on.”
Opening his eyes, he stared into the dying coals of last night’s fire. He rolled over, touching the hem of Laura’s nightdress, then came fully awake. “What’s the matter?”
“Aren’t you cold?”
“You shouldn’t be up on your feet yet.” Pulling his coat closer, he sat up. Every joint in his body felt as if it needed oiling. He was stiff, sore, and chilled to the bone. The rag rug hadn’t made much of a mattress, he realized ruefully. “What time is it?”
“Two o’clock.”
“In the morning?” It was a foolish question, considering it was pitch-black out. “Go back to sleep.”
“I haven’t slept a wink yet. For one thing, I’m afraid I’ll take the covers off the baby in my sleep,” she admitted. “For another, I’m afraid I’ll smother her.”
He could hear the wind still howling. If anything, it was eerier than the sound of a wolf pack cornering a hapless animal. Dragging himself up, he groped his way across the room to the wood box by the door. “Damned fire’s about out,” he muttered.
“I was thinking about sitting up for a while,” she told him quietly. “If you get the fire going, I’ll bring the baby over here, and you can have the bed. I’m too excited to sleep, anyway. I just want to look at her.”
“Yeah.” Yesterday, he would have thought the idea was just plain silly, but he felt it, too. “I did— twice.”
“I know.” Taking a match from the box she kept near the hearth, she lit the lantern, sending grotesque shadows up the wall. “She surely is something, isn’t she? I just wish she was a little bigger, that’s all. I’m afraid she’s too small to get a proper start.”
“Well, there’s no way to put her back, so she’ll just have to grow.” Kneeling on the hearth, he blew on tinder, trying to get it to catch. He didn’t want to tell her, but the baby’s size still worried him also. “She’ll grow,” he said, reassuring himself as well as her.
“As little as she is, I’m almost afraid to pick her up, but I expect I’ll get over that soon.”
“Yeah.” He watched the small flame spread up a dry twig. “If I put them together, she just about fits in the palms of my hands.”
She sank into the rocking chair beside him. “You know, I was going to name a boy Jesse for his daddy—I didn’t even think about a girl. I didn’t have any girl’s name picked out.”
“Name her Jessica and call her Jessie,” he suggested.
“I could do that,” she allowed. “Jessica Taylor…I don’t know,” she mused slowly. “I’d have to think about it for a day or two before I make up my mind for sure. I always wished Mama had thought of something besides Laura, but I had to live with it.”
“What’s wrong with Laura? I think it’s pretty myself.”
“I always thought it rather old-fashioned.”
“Well, it isn’t. Old-fashioned would be something like Jane or Anne or Mary.”
She was silent for a while, rocking while she watched him work on the fire. “I’d like for her to have your name, too, if you don’t mind it, she said finally. “She wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”
He rocked back on his heels as if he’d been hit. “What? Oh, no you don’t—I didn’t make a good husband the first time, and I’m not about to try that again,” he declared flatly.
“You think that I—?” Taken aback by his reaction, she hastened to set him straight. “Well, I didn’t mean anything like that, I hope to tell you. I was just wanting to ask if you minded being her middle name. Believe me, I’m not looking for another husband either. I already told you that, but I guess you just weren’t listening.”
Now he felt like a damned fool. “I guess I’m just too tired to think straight. It’s been one hell of a night.”
“Well—do you? Mind, I mean?”
“No, but neither Spencer nor Hardin is much of a name for a girl.”
“Do you have a middle one?”
“David.”
“Spencer David Hardin, she said softly. “It even sounds highfalutin.”
“Well, it isn’t,” he retorted. “Spencer was my mother’s maiden name, and my father’s was David, so I came by all of it honestly.”
“Jessica Spencer Taylor. Jessica Hardin Taylor.”
“It’ll sound like she’s married before she’s even out of the cradle. Why don’t you give her a name that’ll mean something to her later? Why not use your mother’s?”
“Because I promised her I wouldn’t. She was Nellie Mae Parrish before she was married, and hated being Nellie. And I’d never name anybody Mae, either.”
“Oh. Well, I can’t say as I blame you,” he admitted. It looked as though the fire was spreading from the tinder to the logs. Standing, Spence brushed the soot from his clothes. “Look, I don’t care if you use mine, but ten or fifteen years from now, she might.”
“When she knows you brought her into the world, she’ll think it’s fitting. I’m going to tell, her that if it wasn’t for you, she wouldn’t be here.”
“Maybe.”
“No, it’s true. And I’ll always be grateful for what you did for us.” Looking up at him, she added, “Jesse said you were the best doctor he’d ever met, and I believe that, too. I don’t know how you can even think of giving up medicine when you can do so much good with it.”
“Well, I have, and I did. Hell will freeze solid before I saw off any more limbs—or deliver any more babies, either. I’ve had about all of the blood on my hands I can take,” he declared emphatically. “I don’t want any more.”
She digested that for a moment, then shook her head. “If you kill him, that’s what you’ll get,” she told him quietly.
“What?”
“You’ve still got it in your mind to kill that Ross fellow, don’t you? You’ll get more blood on your hands by taking a life than by saving one.”
“Damn, but you never give up, do you?” Exasperated, he demanded, “Who appointed you my conscience, anyway?”
“Nobody. But it just goes against everything you stand for.” Noting the set of his jaw, she decided to drop the matter for now. “I didn’t get up to fuss at you, even if it sounds like it, she said, sighing. “I was just going to sit here by the fire and rock my baby, and I thought maybe you’d like to take the bed for a while. After all, it was me that ruined your bedroll,” she reminded him.
“You belong in bed yourself.”
“In a day or two, when she’s squalling at all hours, maybe I’ll get over feeling like this, but right now, I just want to look at her.” When he didn’t say anything, she added, “There’s two feather beds on that bed, and it’s real warm between them. Besides, if you get down sick, we’re going to be in a real pickle. The way it’s coming down, that snow’s going to be three feet deep, and I sure can’t dig myself out right now.”
Tempted, he realized he was sore, tired, and cold. “All right,” he said finally. “I guess if you need me, you’ll wake me up. But you’d better get that rocker close to the fire and bundle up or you’re both apt to catch pneumonia. As little as she is, she’s got to be kept as warm as she was before she was born. She should’ve stayed in there another month,” he reminded Laura.
“I know.”
As soon as he was satisfied that the fire was putting out enough heat, he crawled gratefully between the feather beds, savoring the lingering warmth her body had left there. Too tired to think, he closed his eyes and slid into a deep, dreamless sleep. Neither the raging storm nor the steady creak of the rocker disturbed him.
“Dr. Hardin! Oh, my God—Dr. Hardin!” Laura cried. “My baby!”
He nearly tripped himself scrambling blindly from the bed. “What the…? What is it?” he asked sleepily, groping for a lantern.
“I don’t think she’s breathing!”
“I thought a snake or something,” he mumbled, not comprehending yet.
“She’s not breathing, I’m telling you! Something’s bad wrong!”
His mind snapped awake at that. Taking the infant from her, he said over his shoulder, “Bring the lantern to the table. I can’t see anything in the dark.” Positioning the tiny girl on the table, he ordered, “Hold it at my shoulder—yeah, that’s right.” Unwrapping her, he looked for signs of life. “When did this happen?”
“I must’ve dozed in the chair … I don’t know . . . I just realized she was too quiet, that I couldn’t hear her breathe. Before she was making a little chirp, but now there’s nothing.”
His hands ran over the little body, rubbing the fragile skin. It was warm. Repeating what he’d done earlier, he cleared her throat of mucus, and he heard her sigh. “She’s all right,” he said shortly. She hiccoughed, confirming that she breathed.
“Oh, thank God!”
He didn’t know what had happened, but as the weak wail grew stronger, crescendoing in a howl that would have done a coyote proud, he thought maybe she’d sucked mucous down her trachea, maybe the. chirp Laura’d heard had been the infant’s attempt to expel it. But she was sure getting enough air now.
“You’re sure she’s all right?” Laura asked anxiously at his shoulder.
“I think so. But you could put just about everything I know about babies in a thimble, and you’d have plenty of room to spare,” he admitted.
“You’re a doctor,” she reminded him.
“I was more interested in surgery.” Lifting the infant, he held her close, stunned again by the seeming fragility of that little body, amazed by the life in it “You go on to bed—I’ll sit up with her.”
“I couldn’t—I just couldn’t,” Laura protested.
“Look, one of us needs to sleep, so it might as well be you. Come morning, she’s going to want to eat, and I sure as hell can’t help her there. Besides, whether you realize it or not, you’ve lost a lot of blood. You’re weaker than you think.”
“Yes, but—”
“Just try,”
He looked so big, her daughter so very small. It was as though his hands covered all but the soft down on the baby’s head.
“Please, I’m asking you to do this,” Spence said quietly. “I’m going to watch her sleep to see if anything seems out of the ordinary. Just give me that shawl so I can keep her warm.”
“All right,” she said finally. “But if anything happens, you’ll wake me, won’t you?”
“You’re her mother—I’m just her doctor,” Looking at the perfect little face, the tiny button nose, the miniature fists doubled up in the air, he felt an extraordinary tenderness for this baby, and at the same time, a profound sense of loss for missing his own son’s birth.
As she went to bed, he held the infant to his shoulder and sank carefully into the rocker. Pulling the shawl close, he began rocking slowly, rhythmically beside the crackling fire, his ears alert to every sound she made. She was just so small, so terribly small, that he found himself praying she’d survive, repeating the plea over and over. She was so still, so quiet that he eased her from his shoulder to the crook of his arm to watch her. The tiny lips moved, and he realized suddenly that she sucked silently in her sleep. And the thought crossed his mind that when Laura’s milk came in tomorrow, she probably wouldn’t have much trouble getting. her daughter to nurse.
“You are a wonder,” he whispered, tracing the baby’s soft cheek with his fingertip. “A little wonder.”
Hours later, Laura stirred, painfully aware of her full breasts, then turned to look across the small room. The lantern was out, the fire was low, and the two windows were a solid white. Her gaze sought the rocking chair, and her question died on her lips. Spencer Hardin’s black hair was rumpled, his head arched back to touch the wooden rail, unaware the baby girl nuzzled his neck eagerly, her little mouth hunting for food. It was a sight she was sure she’d never forget
As she swung her feet over the side of the bed, she discovered she was almost too sore to sit. “I see you gave up watching,” she said, waking him.
“Huh?” His blue eyes flew open, and he felt the baby rubbing her face in his neck again. “What the? Oh. I must’ve gone to sleep,” he admitted sheepishly. “She didn’t seem to have any more trouble breathing.” His hand smoothed the soft, downy hair as he sat up. “If it’s breakfast you’re looking for, Jessie, you’re in the wrong place,” he murmured to the baby, “You want your mama for that.” Looking down as he lifted her to his shoulder, he discovered the wet circle in the middle of his shirt. “Yes, ma’am, you sure do want your mama.” Rising from the rocker, he carried her to Laura. “Her mouth’s not the only thing that works,” he noted ruefully, handing her over. “While you take care of business, I’d better find myself another shirt, then I’ll throw some more wood on the fire, he added awkwardly. “I expect you’re getting cold.”
“No, but I think it’d be a good idea,” she murmured, coloring.
After he placed two cottonwood logs on the coals, he spent a good ten minutes on his knees with his back to her, pretending he couldn’t get the fire going, so she’d have some privacy. When he finally stood up, a quick glance reassured him that the baby instinctively knew what to do with a nipple. Then he realized Laura was in obvious pain.
“What’s the matter?”
“It … it hurts,” she managed. “I’m too sore for this.”
“Let me see,” he said without thinking. Moving to the bed, he leaned down to touch the swollen breast while he tried to remember everything he’d read in medical school on the subject. As small as she was, that baby would have to eat every couple of hours, and if Laura couldn’t feed her, she’d be in real trouble fast “I guess maybe if we’d tried this a little earlier, you might not be so tender there. I’d say you filled up a little fast.”
Embarrassed, Laura turned her head and gritted her teeth as he rubbed her sore nipple between his thumb and forefinger, releasing a trickle of milk, while the thwarted baby cried shrilly. Closing her eyes, she managed to whisper, “It’s not supposed to be like this, is it?”
“Maybe she’s not strong enough yet to do much good for you,” he guessed. “I’m going to see if getting rid of some of this will make it any easier on you.” Straightening, he went to the cupboard and removed a ragged towel from the drawer. Returning to sit down beside her, he covered the breast with the towel arid gently massaged the nipple while she sucked in her breath and bit her lip. “Feel any better?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“If it does, she’s not been sucking hard enough.”
“She made enough noise at it.”
“But she can’t take very much.” Transferring the towel to the other breast, he released more milk. “All right—let her try again.”
Too mortified to meet his eyes, Laura nodded, then placed the infant against her nipple, and the squalling stopped.
“Any better?”
“Maybe.”
The rosebud mouth was sure working at it. Touching the baby’s lower lip with a fingertip, he could see the little tongue working, and Laura’s milk bubbling around it. “She’s going at it now,” he murmured. “Just keep at it until she wants to quit, and I’ll be back in a little while.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, alarmed. “How do I know when she’s had enough?”
“Outside—and she won’t take anymore,” he responded, answering both questions. “If I can get out, I need to make sure the animals are all right. With that wind still blowing, and the snow already up over the windows, I figure it’s going to get even worse. I need to see if I can even find the rope I strung between the door and the privy, because I sure don’t want to get lost out there.”
“No.”
“There’s no two ways about it, he added soberly. “You’ll have to use the chamberpot, so when I get back, I’ll try to rig up a curtain of some kind for you to get behind.”
Thinking she’d already lost most of her dignity, that he’d seen the most intimate parts of her body, she was nonetheless touched by his attempt to preserve that small corner of privacy for her.
“Thank you” she said sincerely. “I was getting worried.”
“I know. I thought you had about all you could handle already. Besides, if it’s as deep as I think it is out there, I may have to use it part of the time myself. We’ll just have to get used to living real close for a while, but I’ll do what I can to make it easier on you.”
“You already have, just by being here.”
“Well, we’re both kind of stuck here, so we might as well accept it. Come May, I expect you’ll be damned happy to see the last of me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite that way. I’ll probably be a little sad to see you go, because I’ll be used to your ways by then. I’ll probably be lonesome for a little while, to tell the truth. But we’ll do fine.”
“You just can’t stay here—there’s no two ways about it—you can’t winter out here again. I wouldn’t send my worst enemy to Nebraska in the winter. And if you try to follow the railroad, you’ll be in a worse place this time next year.”
“I don’t know—we’ll see. When she’s a little older, I’ll have a better notion of what I need to do.”
“Go back to North Carolina.”
“I aim to think about it. I’m going to do what’s best for her first, then worry about myself later.”
“I’m telling you what you ought to do.”
“But it isn’t up to you to tell me,” she reminded him. “I’m the one that has to live with what I decide, not you.”
“You watch out—that stubborn streak you’ve got just might take you to hell in a handbasket if you don’t stomp on it.”
Irritated because she never seemed to listen to good advice, he wrenched the door, trying to open it. It wouldn’t budge, and looking down, he saw why. The earlier sleet had thawed enough to seep underneath; then the force of that arctic wind had refrozen it into a ridge of ice. Inwardly cursing the folly of living in such a place, he found a knife and started chiseling the ice away from the door. Standing again, he pulled the wooden slab inward, and as the rest of the ice broke, it opened. A wall of snow as high as his shoulders collapsed, sending an avalanche of the stuff into the cabin, making it impossible to shut the door again. The wind filled the whole room with a burst of bitterly cold air.
“Get the baby under the covers,” he ordered tersely as he stared at the mound of snow. “It’s going to take me a while to dig out.”
Quickly bundling the infant, Laura tucked her under the edge of the top feather bed, then she rose to pull on a dress over her nightgown. “I’ll get the broom and help.”
“I’ll do it,” he muttered.
“Two work faster than one,” she declared, putting an end to the discussion. “You take the ash pan and start shoveling.”
They started digging and pushing with broom, shovel, and bare hands, fighting against that bitter, biting wind to get the snow outside. Finally, he broke through enough of the stuff to plunge into the icy maelstrom, while she finished clearing the threshold enough to force the door closed after him.
Afraid he’d lose his way in the blinding, swirling snow and freeze to death outside, she shouted, “Be careful!”
Shivering, Laura made her way back to the bed, where the baby lay squalling so hard she quivered. Sitting down, she moved gown and dress out of the way, then cradled her daughter against her breast. The crying ceased instantly, and within five minutes the baby was sucking in her sleep.
For a long moment, Laura gazed on the delicate little face, feeling an intense sadness that Jesse would never see this beautiful little girl they’d made. He would have been a proud daddy right now if it hadn’t been for that terrible accident. As hard as he’d worked for the better life he’d wanted so desperately, he’d lost it all. Closing her eyes, she fought tears as she realized she didn’t even have a photograph of him to show her daughter. His child would never know what her daddy looked like. From now until she was grown, it’d be just the two of them. It was a daunting thought.
Alone with the baby in this rough little cabin, with a blizzard raging around it, she felt terribly vulnerable. Before, as lonely and desperate as things were, she’d been able to delude herself into believing she could survive, but now, as she cradled her child, she was painfully aware she had more than her own destiny in her hands. She couldn’t help wondering if she could give her daughter any kind of life at all, or if this little girl faced the same endless poverty she’d endured her whole life. It seemed now as though she’d worked as hard as she knew how for as long as she could remember, and she didn’t have much of anything to show for it. Except this baby.
Jessie. Jessie Spencer Taylor. Jessie Hardin Taylor. No, Jessica Spencer Taylor. It did have an elegant sound to it. Highfalutin, as they’d say back in Salisbury, North Carolina. Her fingertip traced the tiny cheek, the little nose, feeling the soft breath there.
“Dear God,” she whispered, “don’t let me fail her. Give me the means to take care of her properly.” And the wind seemed to answer, calming her fears. If the Lord wanted to test her mettle, He wouldn’t find her wanting. No matter how hard she had to work, she’d see Jessie got what she needed.