One Pink Rose; One White Rose; One Red Rose (18 page)

“Yes?”

“About the delivery. Have you ever helped a woman give birth?”

He decided to ease her worry by hedging his answer. “I've had a little experience.”
With horses,
he silently added.

“Will you know what to do if something goes wrong?”

“Nothing's going to go wrong.” The authority in his voice didn't leave any room for doubts. “I know you're scared and feeling alone . . .”

“I'm not alone . . . Oh, God, you're not going to leave me, are you?”

“Don't get excited. I'm not going anywhere.”

She let out a little sigh and tucked her head under his chin as soon as he stepped outside the barn. The rain was still coming down hard, and he was sorry he didn't have anything to wrap around her. The log cabin she called home was approximately fifty yards away, and by the time he had carried her to the door, she was as drenched as he was.

A single lantern provided the only light inside the cabin. The atmosphere was warm and inviting, but what he noticed most of all was the scent of roses that filled the air. To the right of the entrance was an oblong table covered with a yellow-and-white-checked gingham tablecloth, and in its center sat a crystal vase filled with at least a dozen white roses in full bloom. It was obvious she had tried to bring beauty and joy into the stark reality of her life, and the simple, feminine gesture made him ache for her.

The cabin was spotless. A stone fireplace faced the door, and on the mantel was a cluster of silver frames with photographs. A rocking chair with a yellow-and-white-checked cushion had been placed to the left of the hearth and a tall-backed wooden chair with spindly legs sat on the opposite side. Two knitting needles protruded from a burgundy ball of yarn on the footrest, and long strands coiled down to the colorful braided rag rug.

“You've got a real nice place,” he said.

“Thank you. I wish my kitchen were larger. I put up the drape to separate it from the main room. It's always such a clutter. I was going to clean it up after I finished in the barn.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“Did you notice the roses? Aren't they beautiful? They grow wild near the tree line behind the field. Parker planted more on the side of the house, but they haven't taken root yet.”

Douglas's practical nature reasserted itself. “You shouldn't have gone out by yourself. You could have fallen.”

“It gave me pleasure to bring them inside, and I'm certain the exercise was good for me. I hate being cooped up all day. Please let me stand. I'm feeling fine now.”

He did as she requested but continued to hold on to her arm until he was sure she was steady. “What can I do to help?”

“Would you start a fire? I put the wood in the hearth, but I didn't want to light it until I got back from the barn.”

“You carried wood inside?”

“It is my fault the baby's coming early, isn't it? I carried wood down from the hills early this morning. I went back up again this afternoon to collect more. It gets so cold and damp at night . . . I wasn't thinking, and now my baby's going to—”

He interrupted before she could get all worked up again. “Calm down, Isabel. Lots of women do chores right up to the delivery. I was just concerned about the possibility of falling. That's all.”

“Then why did you say . . .”

“Falling,” he said again. “That's all I was thinking about. You didn't fall, so no harm was done. Now, stop worrying.”

She nodded and started across the room. He grabbed hold of her arm, told her to lean on him, and slowed the pace to a crawl.

“It's going to take me an hour to get to the bedroom if you keep treating me like an invalid.”

He moved ahead and opened the door. It was pitch black inside.

“Don't move until I get the lantern. I don't want you to—”

“Fall? You seem terribly worried about that possibility.”

“No offense, but you're so big in the middle you can't possibly see your own feet. Of course I'm worried you'll fall.”

She actually laughed, and she hadn't done that in such a long time.

“You need to get out of your wet clothes,” he reminded her.

“There's a pair of candles on the dresser to your right.”

He was happy to have something to do. He felt awkward and totally out of his element. He didn't realize his hands were shaking until he tried to light the candles. It took him three attempts before he succeeded. When he turned around, she was already folding back a colorful quilt on the bed.

“You're drenched. You really need to get out of your wet clothes before you do anything else,” he said.

“What about you? Do you have a change of clothes?” she asked.

“In my saddlebags. If you don't need help, I'll start the fire; then I'll go back to the barn and take care of the horses. Have yours been fed?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Be careful with Pegasus. He doesn't like strangers.” She stared down at the floor with her hands folded together. As Douglas turned to leave, she called out to him, “You're coming back, aren't you?”

She was fretting again. The last thing she needed to worry about now was being left alone. He had a feeling they were in for one hell of a night, and he wanted her to conserve her strength for the more important task ahead.

“You're going to have to trust me.”

“Yes . . . I'll try.”

She still looked scared. He leaned against the doorframe and tried to think of something to say that would convince her he wasn't going to abandon her.

“It's getting late,” she said.

He straightened away from the door and went to her. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Yes.”

He pulled the gold watch out of his pocket, unclipped the chain, and handed it to her. The chain dangled down between her fingers.

“This is the most valuable thing I own. My Mama Rose gave it to me, and I don't want anything to happen to it. Pegasus might get in a lucky kick, or I might drop it while I'm drying down my sorrel. Keep it safe for me.”

“Oh, yes, I'll keep it safe.”

As soon as he had left the room, she pressed the watch against her heart and closed her eyes. She and her baby were safe again, and for the first time in a long while, Isabel felt calm and in control.

S
he had turned into a raving maniac. She didn't care. She knew she was losing the last shreds of her control, and somewhere in the back of her mind lurked the realization that she wasn't being reasonable. She didn't care about that either.

She wanted to die. It was a cowardly thought, but she wasn't in the mood to feel at all guilty about it. Death would be a welcome respite from the hellish pain she was enduring, and at this stage, when one excruciating cramp was coming right on top of another and another and another, death was all she was interested in thinking about.

Douglas kept telling her everything was going to be just fine, and she decided she wanted to stay alive long enough to kill him. How dare he be so calm and rational? What did he know about anything? He was a man, for the love of God, and as far as she was concerned, he was totally responsible for her agony.

“I don't want to do this any longer, Douglas. Do you hear me? I don't want to do this any longer.”

She hadn't whispered her demand. She'd bellowed it.

“Just a few more minutes, Isabel,” he promised, his voice a soothing whisper.

She told him to drop dead.

Honest to God, he would have liked to accommodate her. He hated having to watch her in such misery. He felt helpless, inept, and so damned scared, he could barely think what to do.

On the surface, he was presenting a stoic facade, but he wasn't at all certain how long he could keep up the pretense. Any moment now she was bound to notice how his hands were shaking. Then she would probably become afraid again. He much preferred her anger to her fear, and if it made her feel better to rant at him, he wouldn't try to stop her.

She accidentally knocked the water basin over when she threw the wet cloth he'd pressed against her forehead.

“If you were a gentleman, you'd do what I asked.”

“Isabel, I'm not going to knock you out.”

“Just a little clip under the chin. I need to rest.”

He shook his head.

She started crying. “How long has it been? Tell me how long?”

“Just six hours,” he answered.

“Just
six hours? I hate you, Douglas Clayborne.”

“I know you do, Isabel.”

“I can't do this any longer.”

“The contractions are close together now. Soon you'll be holding your baby in your arms.”

“I'm not having a baby,” she shouted. “I made up my mind, Douglas.”

“All right, Isabel. You don't have to have the baby.”

“Thank you.”

She stopped crying and closed her eyes. She told him she was sorry for all the vile names she had called him. He calculated he had a few minutes left to mop up the water from the floor and go get more towels before another contraction hit. He was pulling the door closed behind him when she called out.

“Leave it open so you can hear me.”

She had to be joking. She was shouting loud enough for most of Montana to hear. His ears were still ringing from her last bellow, but he didn't think it would be a good idea to tell her so.

He agreed instead. About three hours earlier, he'd learned not to contradict a woman in pain. Trying to get Isabel to be reasonable was impossible. Oh, yes, it was much easier to agree with everything she said, no matter how outlandish it was.

Douglas carried the porcelain bowl to the curtained alcove Isabel used as a kitchen, grabbed a stack of fresh towels, and headed back. He made it past the hearth before the reality of the situation finally crashed down on him. He had to deliver a baby. He felt the floor shift under his feet. He dropped the towels and slammed back against the wall. Doubling over, he braced his hands on his knees and closed his eyes while he desperately tried to face the inevitable.

His brother Cole had taught him a trick to use when preparing for a shoot-out. Cole said to think of the worst possible situation, put yourself smack in the middle of it, and then picture yourself winning. Douglas had always thought his brother's mental game was a waste of time, but it was all he had now, and he decided to give it a try.

I can do this. Hell with that. I can't do it. No, no, it won't be bad, and I can handle it. All right, I'm standing in front of Tommy's Tavern in Hammond. Five . . . no, ten bloodthirsty killers are waiting for me to come inside. There isn't any choice. I have to go in. I know that, and I'm ready. I know the bastards have all got their weapons drawn and cocked. I can beat them though. I'll get five of them with the gun in my left hand, and the other five with the gun in my right hand while I'm diving for cover. It's going to be as smooth and easy as a drink of fine whiskey. Yeah, I can take them all right.

He drew a deep breath.
And I sure as certain can deliver this baby.

Cole's game wasn't working. Douglas was gulping down air now and letting it out faster and faster.

Isabel could feel the beginning of another contraction. This one felt as if it was going to be a doozy. She squeezed her eyes shut in preparation and was about to scream for Douglas when she heard a peculiar noise. It sounded like someone breathing heavily, as though he'd just run a long distance. Douglas? No, it couldn't be Douglas. Dear God, she was imagining things now. It had finally happened; her mind had snapped.

The contraction eased up while she was distracted. A few seconds later, it gained her full attention with a vengeance. She felt as though her body were being shredded into a thousand pieces, and as the spasm intensified, her whimper turned into a bloodcurdling scream.

Douglas was suddenly by her side. He put his arms around her shoulders and lifted her up against him.

“Hold on to me, sugar. Just hold on tight until it stops.”

She was sobbing by the time the contraction ended. And then she was immediately struck with another one.

“It's time, Douglas. The baby's coming.”

She was right about that. Ten minutes later, he held her son in his arms. The baby was long of limb, deadly pale, and so terribly thin Douglas didn't think the little one had enough strength to open his eyes . . . or last a full day. His breathing was shallow, and when at last he cried, the sound was pitifully weak.

“Is the baby all right?” she whispered.

“It's a boy, Isabel. I'll let you hold him as soon as I get him cleaned up. He's awfully thin,” he warned her. “But I'm sure he's going to be fine, just fine.”

Douglas didn't know if he was giving her false hope or not. He honestly didn't know how the baby could possibly survive. He was small enough to fit in Douglas's hands, yet he could open and close his eyes and squirm about. Dear Lord, his fingers and toes were so tiny, Douglas was afraid to touch them for fear they'd crumble. He gently shifted his hold and gingerly pressed his fingertip against the baby's chest. He felt the heart beating. How could anything this little be so perfectly formed? It was amazing that the baby could breathe at all. And yet he did.