Chapter 45 #2
I think she’s just losing herself in the moment until her hands clutch at me, hard, and a low groan tears from her throat that don’t sound like pleasure at all.
“Bear,” she gasps. “Something’s—”
I freeze, pulling out quick and drawing back enough to see her face. Her brow’s tight, sweat starting at her temple, the color draining fast.
“Oh no,” she huffs, then holds her breath as if bracing herself.
“What’s wrong?”
She’s breathing quick now, both hands flying to her middle. “I think it’s starting,” she says through a shaky breath. “She’s coming.”
The words hit me like a gunshot. Everything inside me stills.
“Shit. You tellin’ me it’s time? Now?”
She don’t answer, she just screams in pain.
“Christ almighty. Holy hell.” My mind sputters, switching tracks. I draw in a breath. “All right. You just stay put, I’ll get the midwife.”
Then I’m moving—one heartbeat I’m staring at her, the next I’m yanking up my trousers, jumping into my boots and running out the door, bare-chested, half-dressed, the cold spring air slamming my lungs awake as I tear across the lawn to the inn.
“Fred!” I bellow, boots hitting the floorboards like gunfire. “We need to get the damn midwife!”
Fred bursts out of the side room, coat half on, looking more startled than I’ve ever seen him. “Now?”
“Now!” I roar. “Alice—she’s startin’!”
I’m already out the front door before he can answer, sprinting into the yard, mud splashing my legs.
The sky’s bruised purple, April storm rolling in from the hills, thunder low and mean.
Fred brings the carriage ’round, and when we hit the midwife’s door, I’m banging my fist against it like the house is on fire.
“Mrs. Clay!”
The door creaks open, and I’m staring at a man I ain’t expecting. Native, by the look of him. Tall, weather-lined, salt-and-pepper hair pulled back neat, dark eyes sharp even in the low light. I’d come looking for our little Appalachian midwife. I take a step back, look at the name on the house.
He gives me a long, measured look. “You’re here for Lula?”
“Mrs. Clay?”
He nods again and pulls the door wider, voice raising toward the back of the house. “Lula! There’s someone at the door for you!”
Mrs. Clay saunters out like she’s got all the time in the world, short and compact but sturdy on her feet, with arms that look like they could carry a baby in one hand and a cast iron skillet in the other.
Shawl already in hand, she swings it over her shoulders.
The thick wool smells of camphor and starch.
She gives me a once-over, head to boots, like I’m some half-dressed fool hollering nonsense on her porch.
The man who answered the door stays back, watching, still and unreadable.
“It’s Alice,” I tell her through the screen door. My voice cracks. “It’s time.”
Mrs. Clay gives a slow nod and waves me inside like she’s inviting me to supper.
“Settle yourself now, Mr. Collier. You’re white as snow on a tombstone. Come in before the cold takes you under.”
“Please,” I rasp, stepping in to get out of the cold. “She’s hurtin’ bad.”
“All right,” she says, already turning for the hall. “I’ll go on and get my things.” No panic. No rush. Like she’s seen a thousand men look just like me.
“Who’s knockin’ like the world’s endin’?” Another man stomps into the front room—gray-bearded, flannel half-buttoned, boots still caked in fresh mud. He looks me over, top to toe. “Show up bangin’ like that, I figured somebody’d been shot.”
Before I can answer, the man who opened the door speaks up. “His wife is birthing a child.”
The wild-looking one blinks at that. Some of the edge slips from his face. His gaze drags over me again, this time softer. “Well, hell. Congrats.”
My jaw tightens. “I ain’t celebratin’ nothin’ yet. Mrs. Clay, please…”
She reappears just then, pulling on her coat, satchel already in hand.
“You look like you’ve been runnin’ through fire,” the wild one mutters. Then, “First?”
I nod once. Can’t speak around the knot in my throat.
“Big thing,” he says.
The first man steps in, calm as ever, hands up like he’s trying to reassure me. “Lula’s delivered near every baby in this valley. If there’s anyone who knows what to do, it’s her.”
The other one nods, arms folded now. “Ain’t no one better.”
“Can we go?” I ask, sharper than I mean to. “Please.”
They don’t flinch. Mrs. Clay lifts her shawl and heads for the door without another word. I’m right behind her. I scoop her up onto the wagon myself, climb up, and snap the reins like my life depends on it. Every tick of the clock stretching my nerves tighter.
I keep hearing my ma’s name in my head, seeing the ghost I never knew. Not again. Not this time.
By the time we reach the house, I can hear Alice from the porch—those pained sounds she’s making twisting my insides. I follow them up the stairs, my heart pounding so loud it drowns out everything else.
Mrs. Clay don’t waste a second, shoves me toward the hall. “Out,” she orders. “I’ll call when she’s through.”
“I ain’t leavin’ her.”
“You’ll do her no good fainting at my feet,” she snaps. “Go fetch water, boil it, and keep your hands busy if you can’t keep your head.”
I want to argue, but another scream rips through the door, and my knees damn near buckle. So I run—anything to keep from losing my mind.
At the stove, I fill the kettle, my hands shaking so bad I spill half of it, the water scalding my hands. Steam hisses, metal clatters, and I whisper to myself.
“She’s strong. She’s stronger’n anyone I ever knew. She’ll be fine. She’s gotta be fine.”
Evening falls and she’s crying out, but now I can hear Mrs. Clay’s voice, calm and firm, coaching her through the birthing pains. It guts me hearing my woman suffering, fighting hard, and me stuck down here useless as boots in a flood.
Finally, sometime past midnight, there’s a lull.
No crying. No shouting. Just silence.
And that’s worse than anything.
I’m halfway up the stairs when I hear it—a low moan, then her voice, wrecked and breathless, saying, “I can’t…I can’t…”
My whole soul flinches.
But Mrs. Clay, cool as ever, replies, “You can, Alice. You are. Baby’s almost here. You just breathe through it.”
I sit on the step. Head in my hands. Sweat dripping down my back. I don’t even realize I’m crying till my shirt’s damp at the collar.
The screen door creaks.
I turn, thinking maybe Fred again, but it ain’t.
It’s Gideon.
He’s barefoot, dressed in his nightshirt, hair mussed like he rolled outta bed in a hurry. He don’t say nothing at first—just stands there. “How’s Miss Alice?”
I blink at him. For a second, I can’t even talk. That lump in my throat swells damn near choking me. “She’s still goin’ up there.”
He nods once and climbs the steps quiet as a whisper. Sits down next to me, shoulder to mine.
We don’t speak.
Not for a long while.
Just sit there together listening to her fight.
Then, real soft, he says, “She’s gonna be fine.”
I glance over. He’s looking straight ahead, jaw set like a man twice his age.
He adds, “She always is.”
I scrub my hands down my face and nod. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, she is.”
The night stretches long, cruel and slow.
The storm rolls off just before dawn, leaving everything slick and silver outside. I’ve been sitting on these damn steps so long my back aches and my legs have gone numb, but I don’t move. Can’t.
Gideon’s head slumped against my shoulder sometime after three. He’s breathing slow, passed out cold. I didn’t have the heart to wake him.
Upstairs, Alice’s cries deepen with grit and fury and pain.
Mrs. Clay’s voice cuts through, gentle and reassuring: “That’s it, Alice. You bear down. Don’t you hold back now, girl. You’ve got her almost here.”
I press my fist hard to my mouth.
Lord, you don’t take her from me.
Then—I hear it.
A cry, high and wet. Tiny lungs testing the world for the first time.
I realize I ain’t breathed in what feels like a full minute.
Gideon stirs beside me. Lifts his head, blinking. “That the baby?” he asks.
I nod once, but my throat’s too tight for words.
There’s scuffing upstairs, hushed voices. Then soft footsteps on the stairs.
Mrs. Clay appears, framed in the pale light of dawn. She’s smiling. Just barely. “She’s here,” she says. “Your wife’s all right. Baby too.”
I make a sound—could be relief, could be a sob, maybe a mix of both.
“Come meet your daughter, Mr. Collier.” She steps aside.
So I stand.
And I go.
Up the stairs I ran down what feels like a lifetime ago.
The door creaks as I push it open. Light of dawn filters through the lace curtain, pale and gold. And there she is.
Alice.
Propped against the pillows, hair damp and clinging to her temple, eyes heavy.
She’s got a bundle in her arms, wrapped up tight in a yellow blanket Mrs. Baxter knit as a gift.
The little thing is tucked in so careful, just the tiniest pink face peeking out, lips pursed, nose scrunched like she’s already pissed off with the world.
Alice lifts her eyes to me. “She’s perfect,” she whispers.
Something breaks clean open in my chest. I cross the room. I can’t speak. Just look.
Alice shifts the bundle, easing the baby toward me. “Kodiak…meet your daughter.”
“Lord above,” I whisper, like anything louder might break her. “She’s so small.”
My hands hover in the air like I don’t dare touch her, but Alice nods gentle. I sit on the edge of the bed, and Alice lays her in my arms.
She’s warm. Lighter than I expected. Delicate, like her momma.
Her tiny fingers flex once, then curl back in like she’s ready for her first fight. She’s mine all right.
I swallow hard, trying to keep it together. The baby—our baby—lets out a sigh, like she’s bored of the fuss.
“What do we call her?” I ask.
Alice smiles. “Stella.”
“Stella,” I echo. “Like the stars.”
Alice nods, eyes welling with tears. “Because she came from the sky. Like we asked.”
I press my lips to the downy crown of our daughter’s head, and something inside me settles. All that fear, all that running…it goes still.
She’s here.
She’s real.
Our spark of love and strength.
I’d lay down all I am to keep her safe…until the stars quit shining.