Carolyn Davidson (5 page)

Yet it was more than comfort he ached to offer, and that need rose in a tumult of desire that shamed him with its fierce strength. She was alone, vulnerable, and on top of it all, she carried a child beneath that enveloping skirt she wore.

“Next time you go to town?” she asked quietly. “You’re not.”

“I’m…not moving you from this place, Erin, at least not right now. The weather is changing, you’re not fit to travel and I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.”

As if that settled the whole thing, Quinn levered himself from his position at the sink and headed for the door.

“Can I help with the deer?” she asked, rising from the table.

“Bring out the biggest kettle in the house and I’ll fill it at the pump outside. I’ll want to wash the meat. Then you can cook the neck roast in the oven for supper.”

“There’s a barrel in the shed. Maybe we could salt some of the meat down in it,” she offered.

“You got enough salt for that?”

She looked puzzled. “I don’t know how much it’ll take, but I’ve got ten pounds.”

He nodded. “We can put some of it in brine. In the meantime, I need to sharpen my knife.”

With a vengeful reminder of her vulnerability, the pain returned, sweeping from her belly to wash against her spine in waves that took her breath. She’d only carried the kettle outside—certainly not a heavy chore—then returned to the kitchen to sort out her dirty clothes for washing.

Not that she had any amount to worry about, but two dresses were ready for a scrubbing, and probably Quinn Yarborough had an assortment of laundry she could wash out for him. It was the least she could do, with him furnishing meat for her table.

She’d bent to empty the box she kept the soiled laundry in when the steadily rising ache turned to pain, a clawing pain that took her breath and brought tears to her eyes.

Erin lowered herself to a chair and held her breath. Her head bent, she waited out the grip of harsh discomfort, then released the air within her lungs in a steady stream.

She slid her palm across the rounding of her belly and waited, but no answering pressure greeted her seeking fingers. Her brow furrowed as she concentrated. Surely the baby had moved this morning? But the hours since rising had been fraught with worry over Quinn’s disappearance and the conflict he’d revealed on his return.

If the baby had moved, she’d been wrapped up in her
thoughts, unaware of the small shifting and wiggling it might have done.

Last night. Maybe she’d noticed it then. But her mind drew a blank, the long ride up the mountain a dim memory as she thought of the day past.

“Please move, baby.” It was an anguished whisper, and Erin felt hot tears slip from beneath her closed eyelids.

To no avail. The firm swelling that was her child was unmoving, and she rose to her feet, unwilling, unable to consider the fears that pressed upon her.

The daylight hours were spent tending the deer and working at the stove. At noon Erin fried thin slivers of meat from its haunch in her skillet, making sandwiches from the leftover biscuits for their dinner. It was as tender as Quinn had predicted, and she cooked up three apples for a lumpy bowl of sauce to go with it.

At twilight they ate supper. The neck roast was juicy, the meat falling off in long strings, but easily cut. She’d baked potatoes in the oven with it, and they ate by lantern light. Quinn refused to allow her to milk Daisy, and told her that his talents had grown to include the care of the cow.

She smiled at his quip, and gave in gracefully. The walk to the shed for chores was almost beyond her strength, and she nodded as he told her to stay inside.

The pain had come again, over and over during the afternoon, each time increasing in force, until she thought she’d drawn blood from biting at her lip.

In the midst of eating his supper, Quinn noticed, his watchful gaze finding the small swelling.

“What did you do to your mouth, Erin?” he asked,
leaning across the table to lift her chin with his index finger.

She drew back, for months unused to a man’s touch against her flesh. She’d borne—almost welcomed—the weight of Quinn’s hands on her shoulders, felt their heated width through the material of her dress.

But this was different Like a caress, it was imbued with a personal quality of caring she’d seldom felt in her life.

Certainly not in those three years past, while she’d lived in the same house with Damian Wentworth.

“Erin?”

“I must have bitten it,” she said, turning from him.

He waited, unmoving. “Are you all right?” As if he sensed her discomfort, he touched her again, this time with the palm of his hand at the small of her back.

She closed her eyes, suppressing a groan. There, where his hand pressed with care, the pain had dwelt with harsh tentacles. Now her flesh felt as though it quivered, seeking the comforting presence of his palm.

“Are you all right?” His tone was genuinely worried now and he turned her to face him. “Erin?”

Another sweeping, drawing sensation began, centering in the depths of her belly this time, quickly spreading to release an avalanche of pain to the middle of her back.

“No, I’m not,” she admitted in a thin, anxious wail. “I think something’s wrong, Quinn. I don’t know what it feels like to birth a child, but I think that’s what’s happening.”

“How long have you had pains?” He clutched her shoulders as if he would squeeze the answer from her flesh.

“Today, since early on. Several times over the past
week or so, but just once in a while.” She chewed at her lip, and he nudged her chin with his finger.

“Don’t, Erin. You’ll draw blood.”

“If the baby comes now, it’ll be too early. He’ll be too small!” Her voice sobbed the final words and he drew her to lean against him, her head drooping to rest on his broad chest.

The pain surged, hitting her again, this time with the strength of a runaway train, and she almost collapsed under the sudden onslaught. Her groan escaped before she could close her lips against its release, and she reached with both hands for the tight rounding of her belly.

“Come on,” Quinn told her, lifting her with ease. “You’ll feel better on the bed.” In moments he’d pulled back the quilts and sheet, easing her down, watching as she curled on her side.

“Let me take off your shoes and stockings,” he said quietly, as if unwilling to mar the silence of her misery.

She nodded, allowing his touch as he slid his hands up her calves beneath the folds of her dress to draw down the round garters she wore, bringing her knit stockings with them. His hands turned her to her back, and she complied.

“Do you think you should get undressed?” he asked, clearly awkward at this stage of her disrobing.

Erin nodded, aware of the cessation of the pain. It had held her in its grip longer, much longer, than the last one and she feared its return.

“I’ll put on my nightgown,” she told him, swinging her legs in an awkward movement to the edge of the bed.

“Where is it?” He watched her, and she realized with
a blend of embarrassment and relief that he Was not going to leave her alone.

“Under my pillow.”

He reached past her and grasped the gown, shaking it out and holding it up before himself. “Get your dress off,” he told her, and his tone would brook no argument.

Her fingers were shaking as she unbuttoned her dress and slid it from her arms to the bed. The chemise was next, and she forced herself to tug it up, rising a bit from the bed to draw it over her head, then holding it against her breasts.

Her face flaming, she reached for the hem of the gown, hanging like a shield between man and woman. Quinn was there, just two layers of flannel from view, and she slid the gown over her head, tugging at it, until he lowered it in place.

She pushed her arms into the sleeves and he bent to straighten it on her shoulders, meeting her gaze. He smiled, a mere twitch of his lips, as if he would encourage her thus.

“Stand up and let me get rid of your clothes,” he told her, and she obeyed, rising with his help, as if the process of birth, barely begun, had already robbed her of her strength.

He reached beneath the gown, his hands impersonal and circumspect as he drew her petticoat and drawers down with the voluminous fabric of her dress. Balancing herself with one hand on his shoulder, Erin stepped out of the rumpled pile of fabric, and drew in a deep breath.

The pain was returning. Too soon…too soon! Fear wrapped her in greedy arms as she bit against the bruised lip once more. Only the knowledge that Quinn Yarborough
stood between her and the terrible night to come gave her courage.

Only his quiet presence and his hands holding hers in silent support allowed her to close her eyes, gritting her teeth against the raging beast that consumed her.

Q
uinn’s hands were gentle, promising kindness, as did the warm glow of his eyes. Against her chilled flesh his fingers soothed, kneading the muscles of her calves as cramps beset her. His gaze comforted her, though how she sensed the compassion Erin could not have said. Yet there was, within his dark eyes, a generosity of spirit, a silent bathing of her pain, as if he would take it as his own.

And at the same time he was forthright, willing her with his soft-spoken encouragement to be at ease with his presence. For surely he sensed that she was totally unused to being viewed and handled in such a familiar manner by a man. Certainly not a man whose acquaintance she had made only several days ago.

“I’d say this is one hell of a time to get charley horses, ma’am,” he muttered, his hands working-to ease her pain. And as he spoke, he cast her a grin that could only be described as impertinent.

Erin bit at her lip, torn between embarrassment and gratitude. That this man would accept the task of delivering her child was more than she could imagine If he’d
hightailed it down the mountain and left her to fend for herself, she would not have blamed him.

Indeed, she’d been stunned speechless when Quinn had taken it upon himself to ready her as best he could for the imminent birth of her babe. He’d lifted her from the bed to deposit her in the rocking chair while he spread a piece of canvas from the shed over her mattress, then covered it with the sheet.

She’d watched, her body convulsing twice in the throes of labor before he finished his task. Quinn’s eyes had watched her closely as she rubbed her belly and moaned at the peak of each throbbing pain. Then, with care, he had held her arm and lifted her from the rocking chair as she made her way back to the bed.

Giving birth was a messy business, she’d already discovered. Her water had broken midway across the floor, and only Quinn’s easy manner had allowed her any degree of calm.

“Happens every time one of God’s creatures gets ready to deliver its burden,” he’d said cheerfully. Then as he cleaned up both her and the floor he’d told her about the various animals he’d helped into the world.

The cramps in her legs had begun soon afterward, and she shivered within the folds of her last clean nightgown.

“You’ve not delivered a child, have you?” Erin managed to ask, trying not to notice as his hands massaged her thigh, where another knotted muscle made her cry out.

“Would you feel better if I told you a tall tale?” he asked, and then smiled as she hesitated to answer.

“I’ve hauled calves and colts into this world. I’ve watched cats and dogs deliver more blind little creatures than you can shake a stick at. And in every case, things worked out as they were supposed to.”

He eased his body straighter, tugging her gown down to cover her knees. “There, that seems to have done the trick.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, feeling the flush creep up from her breasts to bring heat to her face. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I’m just not used to.”

Quinn smiled again, and his eyes were crinkled at the corners. “We’re in this together, honey. I can’t say it’s what I’d have chosen, but I’m sure as hell glad I’m here. You’d be in sad shape if you were facing this alone.”

Erin nodded. “I know that.” And then she drew up her legs, turning her head aside as another pain began its assault. Again the tension mounted, and once more the muscles of her belly and back rebelled as her womb drew in upon itself. Erin closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall, her fingers widespread against the hard surface of her abdomen.

“Try to relax,” Quinn said, his own big hands covering hers, as if he would lend his strength to her endeavor.

She nodded, inhaling sharply as the pain reached a pinnacle. It began a downward slide, and she counted the throbbing beats of her heart as her body softened and relaxed against the sheet beneath her.

It was the middle of the night before the pain took a new twist, and Erin cried out for the first time as she was caught up in the vise that gripped her. Barely had she caught her breath when the onslaught began anew.

“Don’t fight against your body,” Quinn murmured, his fingers offering hers a place to grip. She clutched at him, abandoning all pretense of dignity as she was engulfed by the white-hot torture her body could only accept.

Whether it lasted for minutes or hours, she could not
have judged. Only the blurred edges of Quinn Yarborough’s face remained in her line of vision, and she squinted her eyes as she sought some measure of reassurance there. If his smile was strained, she ignored it. If his brow was furrowed, she was too intent on her own suffering to pay it any mind.

Survival was the issue, and Erin was determined to find ease from the agony of this night. If that meant using her muscles to push the baby into the cruel realities of the world, then she would do as this man asked and push with all of her strength.

“That’s the way,” Quinn said, his voice coming to her in the mist of her misery. “Push, Erin. Push hard.”

She heard her wail of despair as if it came from another’s mouth, and cringed at the message it delivered.

“I can’t. I can’t do this anymore!” Surely that wasn’t her speaking those words of surrender. Her breath rasped loudly as she inhaled and concentrated on the words Quinn spoke once more.

“Yes, you can! Listen to me, Erin. Take a deep breath again. Now, push. Hear me? Push!” His tone was filled with command now. He’d done with being kind, she decided, and almost laughed at the thought. As if a laugh could have been formed from her throat. As if she could think of anything but the rending of her body.

And then there was a silence that threatened to swallow her whole, perhaps lasting for only a moment after all, ending with the fragile wail of her child. Her mind welcomed it as she was swallowed up by the bed beneath her.

Just so quickly, every bone in her body relaxed from the strain of the battle fought and won. Just so brutally, she felt an overwhelming weariness seize her, and she could only reach a hand to the man who held her babe.

“Let me see.” Erin’s words whispered from between dry lips. She blinked, willing her vision to clear, only vaguely aware that tears flowed in a steady stream. And then she saw the tiny, wizened face of a being so minute, so infinitely precious, it came near to halting the beat of her heart.

“I’m going to put him on your stomach, honey,” Quinn said quietly. “I’ll clean you up a little here and then tend to him.”

Erin felt a new series of tugging pains, felt Quinn’s hands against her flesh, but knew only the joy of watching the movements of her child. Quinn had wrapped him in a length of flannel from her belongings, and only the tiny face was visible to her. But his body trembled beneath the covering and she felt an urgency to hold him.

“Give him to me,” she whispered, holding up her arms, fearful of snatching him up from his precarious resting place, lest she drop him.

Quinn stood erect, his stance weary, and shot her a glance that pierced her to the depths. “Let me get rid of this first,” he said, wrapping a bundle and depositing it near the door. He turned back, and she felt a moment’s dread as he hesitated.

“What is it?” she asked hoarsely, lifting herself to her elbows to better see the mite of a babe.

“I fear he’s not big enough, Erin. He’s trying hard, but his breathing isn’t too good.” Quinn stepped quickly to where she lay and picked up the small bundle, cradling it in his two hands. He bent over her and she turned to her side, the better to hold his offering against her breast.

“He’ll be fine,” she said quickly. “Look, he’s moving his mouth.”

Quinn sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over her,
one big hand against her back, giving welcome support. “I see him, honey.”

It was almost more than he could stand, watching this valiant woman cradling the poor little scrap of humanity against her bosom, as if she could pour strength into the baby she held. With blue lips parted, the child struggled to inhale, his efforts bringing harsh reality to the forefront.

“Erin…I’m afraid for him,” Quinn said, bending low to turn the baby to his back. He leaned to touch the blue lips with his own and blew his own breath in tiny puffs of air within the boy’s mouth. He watched as the miniature nostrils pinched in an effort to inhale.

Once more Quinn attempted to instill his own life force in the babe. And again he watched as the struggle worsened.

Erin’s eyes widened, pinning Quinn in place with her gaze. Her hands loosened their hold and she gave full access to the baby he’d delivered. As if she placed her trust in his knowledge, she joined his vigil, inhaling as he did, breathing small bits of air in time with his.

The small body they watched shivered, and Erin cried out, a wordless agony of sound. Again the soft bundle convulsed, and Erin’s cry was softer, desolate, as she sensed the end of the short, futile battle.

Quinn shook his head. “I don’t think we can help him. He’s so little, Erin. He didn’t have long enough to gain strength for this world.”

She was silent now, as if she accepted his words, and he shifted his attention to the pale oval of her face. Her eyes were no longer wet with tears, her lips barely trembled, as if she faced and accepted the pain of her loss.

“Poor little mite,” she crooned, gathering the still,
silent bundle to her breast. She bent her head low, her mouth touching the soft, dark down upon bis head.

Quinn felt the tightening of his muscles, long misused in the hours of bending over the bed, his back and legs taut with pain of their own. Yet his would ease with movement. His would be forgotten by tomorrow.

That Erin’s hours of suffering should produce only more pain to come for this small, brave woman seemed hardly fair. And yet, during the years of his childhood, his mother had told him in no uncertain terms that no one had ever been guaranteed equality, that fair was a relevant word, that he could count on only whatever the Fates decreed.

He rose to his feet and backed to the rocking chair. If, for these few moments, Erin Wentworth needed to bid farewell to the babe she’d delivered, he could only grant her that. He’d spent the whole night waiting and watching. A few more minutes weren’t going to make much difference now.

Quinn wasn’t nearly so stoic in the light of day as he swung a pick and shovel at the hard side of the mountain. Such a tiny grave would have been simple to dig back in New York State. Here, the very roots of the trees wove together to thwart his efforts, and he began to reconsider his choice of a burial spot for Erin’s child.

And then the pick broke through the root he had been chopping at, and he found the going easier. Even the harsh cold surrounding him could not touch him this morning, it seemed. The day was dreary, the sun hiding above the low-hanging clouds, but he felt the chill wind as if it mattered little. He was already cold to his depths, dealing with the sense of defeat he’d carried with him since before dawn, when the baby had struggled for his
last breath and lain peacefully at last in his mother’s arms.

Erin hadn’t cried since. She, who had borne pain and suffering to a degree he wouldn’t have believed had he not seen it himself, had seemed to wither like a flower without rain. She’d tucked that small body against her heart as if she could warm its fast-cooling flesh with her own.

Even when he bent to take the tiny mite from her hold, placing it in a wooden box he’d put together with a few nails, she’d shown no emotion. Only lifted sad eyes to his and watched as he wrapped a second piece of blanket about the still form.

“What will you name him?” he asked, fitting the lid to the box. No bigger than a shoe box, he held it in one hand, tucked against his side as he awaited her reply.

“Name him?” Her voice was thin, her eyes dark pools of pain.

“I’ll baptize him, if you like, Erin.” He’d never done such a thing, didn’t even know if it was proper, but if saying words over the boy would comfort her, he’d sing hymns and recite a hundred prayers.

“Call him John,” she said after a moment. “It was my father’s name. I think his soul must already be in heaven, but I doubt saying the words over him would hurt anything.”

Quinn nodded, silently agreeing.

“Quinn! Let me go with you,” she cried, suddenly a bundle of motion as she threw back the covers. Her feet touched the floor before he could gain her side, and with one hand he reached for her, his fingers spread wide across her chest.

Beneath his palm her heart beat rapidly, and for that he was thankful. She was stronger than he’d thought,
sturdier than he’d given her credit for. Her breasts rose and fell beneath his hand and he held her thus, shaking his head.

“No. It’s too damn cold out there for you, Erin. I don’t war r to have to dig another grave.” His words sounded harsh to his own ears, and he hesitated a moment. “I don’t mean to be cruel, but I don’t think you can make it, honey. It’s bitter cold and coming up snow again.

Her protest was almost mute, only a small, wounded sound that might have been acquiescence as she crumpled beneath his touch.

He relented. “I’ll pull the chair over to the window. You can watch from there,” he told her, waiting until she nodded agreement. Placing the small box…at the end of Erin’s bed, Quinn pulled the rocker the short distance to the window and then returned for the woman who waited.

He lifted her, wrapped in a quilt, and placed her in the chair, tucking the warm covering in place. From the window, the spot he’d chosen was visible, though snow was now beginning to fall steadily.

“Will you name him? Or shall I?” he asked, returning to her side.

“You.” The one syllable, harsh and borne on a breath that touched his hand with its warmth, answered him as she bent low oyer the box he held.

He lifted the lid and then placed his hand against the window, where moisture dampened the glass. He transferred the bit of water, touching the downy head with two fingers.

“I baptize you John Wentworth, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Within his chest Quinn felt pain of his own, that he
should be the one to bury not only the babe, but the hopes and dreams of its mother, in that hole he’d dug. His gaze swept over Erin, pausing on the tender bend of her neck, her dark hair haloed in the light from the lamp on the table.