Brides of Texas (16 page)

“We canna recall where he went.” The man sounded as though he’d been forced to gargle vinegar before making that confession. His gaze swept the house. “Where’s your sister? We need all the help we can get.”

“Ismelda is at Otto’s, helping his mother. She’ll be back by six for supper.”

“Why can’t everyone stay put? Especially Rob. A man who’s about to become a father has no business gallivanting off.”

“He’s a doctor,” Carmen pointed out.

“Exactly.” Duncan glowered at her. “And just who else is supposed to be helping Mercy through her travail?”

He’d left the door wide open when he barged in, so Carmen stepped out onto the veranda. Cool days like this always made her left leg ache. She’d broken it as a child, and the bones hadn’t healed correctly.
It’s nothing—especially in comparison to Mercy’s travail
.

Duncan cupped Carmen’s elbow. “I’m worried about her.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine.” She reached to shut the door.

Duncan muttered, “This is takin’ too long.” He shut the door, swept her into his brawny arms, and carried her across the street to the clinic. Once inside, he roared, “Where’d you put her, Chris?”

Silence met them.

Carmen tried to wiggle so he’d put her down. Bad enough her crippled leg kept her from being able to dash around in an emergency—but for him to cart her any farther rated as complete humiliation. “They’re probably still at home.”

Duncan’s face went colorless. “Oh no.” He kept possession of her, plowing out the back door and across the yard to the house he shared with his brothers and new sister-in-law. “I’m counting on you.”

“I’d do my best, but I’ve never helped at a birth.”

“And you shouldn’t have to.” Under other circumstances, his scandalized reaction would have amused her, but Carmen couldn’t make fun of Duncan. The poor man looked downright sick. “I’m countin’ on you to talk sense into Mercy. Tell her she has to wait awhile to have the babe. And be sure to make her promise to go to the clinic. ’Tis safer there.”

“Safer?”

“Aye.” Dark head bobbing emphatically, Duncan declared, “Rob’s got enough medical equipment and drugs there to cure every man, woman, child, and beast in three counties. Whate’er Mercy needs, he’ll have it on hand.” He kicked open the front door and strode in. “Chris! What’s takin’ you so long? You were to have Mercy at the—”

“She’s refusing to budge.” Christopher Gregor looked thoroughly disgruntled.

“Hi, Carmen.” Mercy sat in the rocking chair and patted her tummy. “It looks as if we’re going to have a New Year’s Eve baby.”

“Not if I can help it.” Chris glowered at her. “You could cooperate and wait a day or so.”

“At least go to the clinic,” Duncan tacked on as he let go of Carmen’s legs and slipped her to the floor. The man looked terrified, yet he instinctively handled her with consideration and didn’t turn loose until he was certain she’d become stable on her feet. “Don’t you think that’s a grand notion, Carmen?”

“I—”

Mercy curled her hands around the chair’s arms and rocked faster. Carmen wasn’t sure who moaned—but it wasn’t Mercy. About a minute later, Mercy relaxed. “I’m having this baby here, Duncan, and you’re not going to change my mind.”

“We’ll see to things.” Upon making that declaration, Duncan nodded to Chris. The brothers bracketed the rocking chair and hefted it.

Mercy let out a surprised yelp.

“What are you men doing?” Carmen stared at the odd scene.

“She wants to be in the rocking chair. We’re humoring the lass.” Chris spoke as if she’d turned into a half-wit.

Duncan jerked his jaw in the direction of the door. “Run on ahead to the clinic, Carmen. Aren’t you supposed to be boiling water or something?”

“The reservoir on the stove is full.” Mercy tapped Duncan and Chris on their shoulders. “And unless you put me down, the roast in the oven is going to burn.”

“Don’t care about the roast. I’m more worried about the wee little bun in your oven.” Duncan ignored her insistent tapping and started to walk. Ostensibly not to be dissuaded from his convictions, Chris followed suit.

“If you men carry me to the clinic, I’m just going to walk right back here.”

“The pangs are addling her mind,” Duncan muttered.

“No, they’re not.” Mercy wheedled, “It’s still early. Robert’s books say labor is likely to last twelve hours, if not twice that long. You can’t expect me to spend my first New Year’s Eve as a married woman anywhere other than in my husband’s wonderful home.”

Carmen secretly admired Mercy’s wiles. She’d obviously come to understand she couldn’t fight both of her brothers-in-law, so she’d divided them by appealing to Christopher’s pride at having built the house. Chris stopped walking, and Carmen suspected as anxious as Duncan had grown, he’d carry Mercy in circles all night if someone didn’t intervene.

“I’m relieved to see you men are trying to protect Mercy from any eventuality.” Carmen smiled at Duncan. “It’s going to grow nippy tonight. Just in case Mercy relents and decides to have the baby in the clinic, you’d better go light a fire in the stove there so she won’t catch a chill.”

“Put water on to boil, too,” Chris demanded.

“I’ll stay right here with her.” Carmen motioned to set down the rocker.

Two hours later, Duncan stared at Carmen and ground out, “Cookie cutters?”

“Of course.” Mercy concentrated on cracking eggs into an earthenware bowl. “When everyone comes to visit the baby, we need to show them hospitality. You don’t want to shame me by making me face them without cookies.”

“Plenty of cookies don’t require cookie cutters.” Chris scowled as he motioned behind his back to make Duncan put away the ironing board. Until Mercy took a mind to bake cookies, she’d ironed every shirt in the house twice.

“But those are everyday cookies.” Mercy dumped two cups of sugar into the mixture. “Guests should receive special cookies.”

“Anyone paying a visit to a house with a new baby ought to be bringing the cookies.” Duncan paced from one end of the kitchen to the other. During his third transit, he tucked away the ironing board. “Aye, no doubt about it; they should be bringing the cookies. I distinctly recall Ma taking food when she went to a home where there’d been sickness or death.”

“I’m neither sick nor dying.” Mercy looked suitably appalled at his comment.

Chris mopped his brow. “But you’re going to be the death of us, trying to have this babe with no help at hand.”

“Don’t you insult my dear friend that way.” Mercy waved a wooden spoon in Carmen’s direction. “She’ll help me. Won’t you, Carmen?”

Though her apprehension far outweighed her confidence, Carmen nodded. After all, her friend needed her, and loyalty demanded she be a staunch ally.

Duncan pulled Carmen from the kitchen. “Some kind of help you are! You were supposed to get her to the clinic, not to the oven!”

“I had a choice to make—either I make you happy or I comfort my friend who happens to be in labor.” Carmen stabbed her finger into the center of his broad chest. “I didn’t think I’d have to listen to a grown man whine—especially when a woman under his roof is in labor and has yet to let out a single cry.”

“I dinna whine!” He looked thoroughly affronted. “I’m reminding you of what’s important. Cookies willna matter a whit if she or the babe dinna get through the ordeal.”

“You need to have more faith,” she whispered. “Now go on over to my house. Ismelda just used the cookie cutters yesterday. They’re in the orange box to the left of the sink.”

“This is it, woman. I’ll not be humoring any more of these ridiculous requests.”

Carmen pretended she didn’t hear him. Truthfully, for the last couple of hours, Carmen had concocted a variety of tasks for Chris and Duncan to accomplish. It kept them from hovering, at least part of the time.

Duncan shook his finger at her. “Dinna feign innocence. You ken full well what I mean.”

“You could cooperate. Staying busy has kept Mercy from panicking about the fact that Robert’s not here.”

“He’d best better hie on home.” Duncan’s brows knit. “Chris sent Connant after him over an hour ago.”

“We have to stay calm. You go get the cookie cutters. I’ll set the table.” Carmen returned to the kitchen. Mercy urgently motioned to her, and Carmen headed her way. With every step, she promised God she’d do any number of good deeds as long as she didn’t have to deliver this baby on her own.

Mercy pulled Carmen close. “I’ve done it now.”

C
armen clamped her lips together to hold back a moan.

“I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t just add sugar to the cookies. I added a whole cupful to the mashed potatoes!”

Disbelief forced Carmen to laugh. She tightened her apron strings. “I’ll add a few eggs to make them hold together, then fry slabs.”

“Like potato pan–caaa—” Mercy curled forward and lost the last part of the word. When the pain ended, she fretted, “I wanted this supper to be perfect.”

“You’ve talked the men into wearing their kilts, Chris brought in a log that could burn for a month, and the pewter candlesticks are at least a half inch shorter after you set Duncan to polishing them. It’ll be a supper they remember for a long time.”

Mercy let out a doleful sigh. “I was talking about the food.”

“The roast is big enough to feed everyone for three days.” Carmen cast a quick look at the door. “Duncan and Chris are so worried that I don’t think they’ll taste a single bite they wolf down tonight, anyway.”

“It’s taking Robert a long time.”

“You yourself said it’ll be hours yet.” Carmen hoped with every fiber of her being that her words were true.

“
Ja
. You work on the potatoes. I’ll start rolling out the cookie dough—oh, and put the apple cider on the back burner. I want to mull some spices in it and serve it with dessert.”

“I think,” Carmen glanced about furtively before continuing, “we ought to have Chris and Duncan take the cookies over to the clinic to bake.”

“They’ll burn half of them.” Mercy grinned.

“Fine. We’ll have to mix up another batch. That’ll keep them occupied a little longer. I’ll hurry and start boiling rice. It’ll go with the roast and gravy.”

Chris and Duncan fought over who got to go bake the cookies. It was then Carmen fully appreciated just how terrified they were that they might have to help with the delivery. She sent both. They’d return to the house only long enough for Mercy to plop the next round of cookies on the sheets, then run off to the clinic oven again.

“That’s the last of them,” Mercy announced as she handed her brothers-in-law the cookie-laden sheets. “Chris, you and Duncan, when you’ve baked them, change into your kilts, and we’ll have supper on the table when you come back.” She waited until they were gone, then pled, “Can you haul me out of this chair? I’m not moving so good.”

“Sure.” Carmen helped her up.

Mercy stood, curled forward, and moaned with the next pang. When it was over, she straightened and said, “The table looks beautiful. I wish my husband were here to see it.”

“I’m sure he’ll get here soon, Mercy.”
He’d better. I’m starting to get as nervous as Duncan. Well, I’m not going to let Mercy see that. If she can stay calm, so will I
. “The only thing left is for me to make the gravy.”

“I can do that. Will you get some honey from the pantry?”

“Sure.”

The door opened, and Ismelda came in. Holding the plate with the destroyed flan, she gave Carmen an uncertain look.

“Oh, flan!” Mercy sounded truly thrilled over the mess. “I love your flan.”

Ismelda asked, “
¿Olvidó de traer este
?”

“Yes,” Carmen answered her sister in English, “I forgot to bring that. I was excited because Mercy’s in labor.”

“How wonderful!”

“Tell that to Duncan and Chris.” Mercy’s wry smile slid into a grimace.

By the time they sat down to supper, Carmen tried not to fault Chris and Duncan for seating Mercy, then hastening to the chairs farthest from her for themselves. After all, they were gentlemanly enough to pause long enough to seat Ismelda and her on either side of Mercy. Folding his hands, Duncan said, “I’ll ask the blessing.”

Carmen bowed her head. Duncan’s prayers never ceased to touch her. He spoke to the Lord in a way she’d never heard a man pray—with a rich blend of reverence, respect, humility, and love. Tonight’s prayer ought to be particularly special.

“Lord, the food looks good, but the only blessing I’m asking tonight is for You to help our Mercy through and for the babe to be all right. Amen.”

“ ’Men,” Chris chimed in.

While Carmen blinked in astonishment over the prayer, Chris picked up the carving knife and proceeded to hack a picture-perfect roast into an assortment of chunks spanning every possible shape and size. Carmen consoled herself that the irregular hunks would hide how lumpy the gravy was. And the gravy would add moisture to the rice, because it turned out a tad dry. Those paltry facts were lost on the men, who inhaled the food with blinding speed.

Mercy barely picked at her plate.

“What’s wrong?” Chris squinted at her.

“Nothing.” Her lips thinned, and she went silent.