Open Country (46 page)

“I have to wash my hands first.”

“Says who?”

“Aunt Molly. You should wash yours too.”

“We didn’t wash before,” Hank pointed out.

“I forgot.”

Hank sighed. But not wanting to undermine his wife, he poured water into the bowl on the bureau, and he and Charlie washed.

“Now can we eat?” he asked as he took his seat at the table.

“After we say grace.”

“Another rule of Aunt Molly’s?” Hank reminded himself to remember to have a word with his wife. Too many rules could stifle a growing boy. Or anyone.

Charlie said grace.

“Anything else?” Hank asked, trying to ignore the rumbling in his stomach.

“No, sir.”

They ate in silence. Hank was pleased the boy wasn’t a chatterbox like his little sister. It wasn’t that he minded talking, but sometimes all those words interfered with productive thinking. And right then he was thinking about how to fix Penny’s cat so the damn head would stop falling off. That, and bosoms.

After they’d finished eating, Hank carried the tray to the hall then returned to his post by the window. Charlie remained slouched at the small table, bouncing his foot against the leg of his chair.

Hank tolerated it as long as he could. “You play poker?” he finally asked.

Charlie found the question amusing. “I’m not allowed.”

“Says who? Wait, let me guess. Aunt Molly.”

Charlie grinned.

“What does she have against poker?”

“She doesn’t like gambling.”

“Poker’s not gambling,” Hank argued. “Not if you don’t bet. And if you did bet, you’d be a fool to bet on a losing hand, wouldn’t you?”

“I guess.”

“And if you knew you had a winning hand, what would be the gamble?”

Charlie thought that over and, being a logical thinker, found the flaw. “What if the other guy thinks he has a winning hand too?”

“Then you have to outthink him. Fish the deck of cards out of my saddlebag over there, and I’ll show you how.”

Charlie retrieved the packet of cards and returned to his seat. “Aunt Molly won’t like it,” he said, watching Hank shuffle.

“Think of it as working on your numbers.”

“She still won’t like it.”

“I’ll make her see reason.”

“How?”

Hank grinned, all kinds of ideas churning in his head. “Oh, I’ll think of something.”

MOLLY AWOKE BEFORE DAWN TO A LOUD BANGING ON THE door. Rising, she flung it open to find a white-faced Maria Garcia hovering in the hall. “
Señora, ven ahora! Los bebés—
”

“The babies?”

“
Sí, sí. Ahora.
”

“I’ll be there in a moment.” Rushing into the dressing room, Molly pulled on the old work dress and apron she’d left hanging in readiness on a hook, tied a kerchief around her head, grabbed her medicine satchel, and headed to the birthing room that had been set up in the west wing.

Brady met her at the door. He looked ghastly. Setting her satchel in the hall, she pulled him outside and closed the door behind him. “You shouldn’t be in there.”

“She needs me.” He tried to step back into the room, but she blocked his way.

“No, Brady. She needs calmness. She needs quiet. She needs to concentrate on bringing these babies into the world and not wasting her strength worrying about you.” At his stricken expression, she softened her tone. “I know you’re worried. But this is woman’s work, and I’m here to see that everything goes smoothly. You must stay out of the way and not add to her burden with your fears. Do you understand?”

“But—”

She patted his arm. “I’ll call if I need you, or if there are any problems. I’ll keep you informed, I promise. But for now you can help by keeping the children occupied and seeing that nothing disturbs her. Can you do that?”

“But what if something goes wrong? I should be there in case—”

“Nothing is going to go wrong,” she cut in, trying to keep her voice from betraying her impatience. “You must trust me, Brady. You trusted me with your brother, and you know I’ll work just as hard for your wife. But I can’t do my best with you underfoot.”

He raked a hand through his hair and took a step back. “All right. Okay.”

“Good.” She picked up her satchel. “Now go take care of your family.”

Jessica was in the early stages of the birthing process, and everything seemed to be progressing normally. Knowing that a patient under stress did better in a quiet, softly lit room, Molly pulled the drapes and left only a few lamps burning, then sent everyone else from the room except Consuelo, who sat quietly in a corner, working her rosary and humming. Setting a chair beside the bed, Molly held Jessica’s hand and spoke of mundane things to keep her distracted.

And herself as well. She was worried about what Charlie might be going through. Hopefully once Fletcher was behind bars, the boy would return to the happy child he had once been. Under Hank’s guidance, he’d already made progress.

One hour led to two, then three. Jessica rested when she could, but by midmorning, the pains came more often and lasted longer.

Molly tied cotton straps with loops to the headboard for Jessica to grip when it came time to push. But that was a ways ahead yet, so meanwhile she concentrated on keeping her as calm and relaxed as possible while quietly monitoring the movements and heart rates of the fetuses with the stethoscope. Even though Jessica was tiring, all seemed to be progressing well.

At noon, Molly set Consuelo at Jessica’s side and hurried to the kitchen to gather up the ligatures and assorted medical and obstetrical instruments she had put on to boil earlier. After directing Maria Garcia to carry up to the birthing room the toweling, fresh bedding, and infant items she’d set aside earlier, Molly went to report Jessica’s progress to Brady, who sat with Dougal in the great room, reading to the children while he watched all the comings and goings from the west wing.

As soon as he saw Molly approach, he lurched to his feet, dumping children and books onto the floor. “How is she?”

“Doing very well,” Molly assured him, setting Abigail upright. “It shouldn’t be long now.”

“Guess what?” Penny shouted. “Uncle Brady gave us candy, and I didn’t even puke it up yet.”

“Did he now?” Molly sent Brady a teasing look. “Then he has something to look forward to, doesn’t he?”

“And guess what else? Dougal wears long pants
and
a dress!”

Ben rolled onto his back and laughed. Abigail crawled over his stomach.

“ ’Tis no’ a dress. ’Tis a kilt!”

That Brady didn’t enter into the fray told Molly he was in desperate need of distraction. “Dougal, could you keep an eye on the children for a few minutes? I need Brady to bring up more firewood.”

“Aye, lass. But no puking, Miss Penny. I’ll no’ stand for it.”

“Papa-Hank has a dress, but he doesn’t wear it anymore. I don’t think Aunt Molly likes him to.”

Molly waited at the porch door while Brady gathered an armload of wood, then accompanied him up the stairs to the birthing room. “You can see for yourself she’s doing well, but you may only stay for a minute.”

He gave her an expression that was part gratitude, part terror.

“Smile,” she whispered as she opened the door and motioned for Consuelo to step into the hall. “I’ll knock when it’s time to leave.”

He didn’t look quite so terrified a few minutes later when he left.

Molly returned to her post beside Jessica’s bed. She looked more relaxed too. “Have you decided on names?” she asked, once again taking Jessica’s hand in hers.

“For girls, I was thinking Heather, to remind me of home, and Adeline because that was my mother’s name.”

“And boys?”

Jessica’s grip on Molly’s hand tightened for a moment, then loosened. She let out a deep breath. “I’ve been threatening Nigel and Aubrey to goad Brady. His family has a tradition of naming children after American statesmen.”

Molly smiled. “I heard.”

Another contraction brought Jessica’s shoulders off the pillows. “My, that was a strong one,” she said with a shaky smile when it eased.

“What are Brady’s preferences?” Molly prodded, mentally counting the seconds between contractions.

“He wants to name them Thomas Jefferson and Samuel Thornton. Samuel, for his brother, and Thornton for my family. Truth to tell, I don’t care. I simply want them healthy. Oooouch!”

Molly reminded her to try to keep her body relaxed and take short, shallow breaths when the cramps came. “If you clench against the pain, you’re fighting your body’s efforts to expel the baby.”

“Oh, really?” Jessica gave her a thin-lipped glare. “I have two melon-sized creatures trying to thrash their way out of my body and you tell me to relax? Honestly, Molly, don’t be absurd—oh!”

“Sometimes it helps to keep your hands loose,” Molly offered calmly as she extricated her mashed fingers from Jessica’s grip. Papa said women in the latter stages of parturition often became combative. She could certainly see why.

“I really don’t want to chat right now, Molly, truly I don’t. Ahoooh!” She half rose off the bed then after almost forty seconds fell back, panting.

“I think my waters have broken.”

THE JUDGE ARRIVED EARLIER THAN EXPECTED, AND FOLEY came for Hank and Charlie just after they’d finished their noon meal.

Hank was greatly relieved. After spending nearly twenty-four hours cooped up in a small room with an eight-year-old, he was ready to get this over with. Not that Charlie wasn’t good company. But Hank had already lost two thousand imaginary dollars to the kid, and he was tired of being humiliated by a boy who was barely out of short pants and who still had to count on his fingers before he made a bet. An imaginary bet. “Where are we meeting with him?” Hank asked Foley as he reached for his gun belt.

“The jail. There’s an office in back that’ll be private. You won’t need that.”

Hank looked up, the gun belt hanging in his hand.

“We’ll be with you. If there’s a problem, we don’t need civilians waving guns around.”

Hank looked at him.

Foley looked back.

“I don’t wave guns,” Hank snapped. “I shoot them. And I don’t trust anybody but me to watch out for Charlie.”

Foley’s dark eyes narrowed. His muttonchop sideburns twitched over his clenched jaw. “Leave the gun or stay here. Your men too.”

Realizing the only way to win this confrontation was to knock the mule-headed sonofabitch down, which might upset the judge or frighten Charlie, Hank tossed the gun belt and revolver on the bed.

Langley was waiting in the hall with Rikker’s deputy, Eldon Whittaker, a man who possessed the intellect of a radish and was so lacking in gun skills that Rikker didn’t even issue bullets to him. Unwilling to give up total control of a potentially dangerous situation, Hank pulled Langley out of earshot of Foley and explained the situation.

“You come with us, but unarmed. Have Curly and Bishop keep their guns, but hang back unless there’s trouble.”

Langley nodded. Removing his gun belt, he handed it to Curly, spoke to him and Bishop for a moment, then came to stand on the other side of Charlie.

They started down the stairs, Foley in the lead. With Charlie sandwiched between Hank and Langley and closely followed by the deputy, they left the hotel, crossed the muddy street, and moved quickly down the boardwalk to the sheriff’s office. Rikker met them at the door and ushered them past the empty cells to his office in back. Except for a desk, a rack of rifles, two chairs, and a small coal stove, the room was empty. At Hank’s questioning look, Rikker said, “Judge Utley is on his way. Got caught in a snow squall and had to stop off to change.” He waved them to seats, then realized there were only two and offered coffee, instead.

Hank and Langley declined. Rikker didn’t have any either. They’d all had Eldon’s coffee. Foley took some, tasted it, then set it aside.