Rachel's Choice (12 page)

Yes, Mary was the perfect woman for him. But he'd dallied a bit too long with the scarlet ladies, and he'd put off formalizing a relationship he'd taken for granted. And
when Travis confided that he intended to ask Mary for her hand, Chance had bitten back his disappointment, gotten drunk, and wished them both well. And he'd stood up as Travis's best man.

Over the years his infatuation with Mary had softened to friendship, but that wouldn't make his task any easier. She always had been able to see through his excuses.

Exasperated, Chance rose and lit the kerosene lantern and dressed. His shoulder was still stiff and painful, but the flesh around the wound showed no signs of mortification. There was no reason for him to remain here for a few more days. That was putting off the inevitable. A day could make all the difference in whether Travis lived or died. He could take food from the kitchen and leave tonight. Rachel's farm was in as good shape as it was likely to be, and he was no farmhand.

He would need provisions, but there was food aplenty in buckets in the well where Rachel had hung the perishables to keep them cool. He'd take enough to last him for a day. There was no need to leave her a note; she'd likely have the soldiers on his trail soon enough when she found that he was gone. And she should consider herself lucky he was taking her boat instead of the horse.

Since Rachel took the dogs into the house with her at night, he didn't think the animals would hear him in the yard. After what had nearly happened between them, he wanted to avoid a confrontation with Rachel. If that made him a coward, so be it. He'd be doing her a favor to get out of her life as quickly as possible.

Chance yanked on the boots she'd provided, opened the door leading into the barn, and stopped short.

Rachel stood just outside in bare feet and a lacy white nightgown. Masses of dark hair hung loose around her
shoulders, and her cheeks were ghostly pale. “Chance!” she cried, wide-eyed and frightened. “Help me!”

Then he saw the wet spots staining the hem of her garment. “What is it?” he demanded. “What happened?”

“I—” She gasped and doubled over, clasping her hands to her swollen abdomen. “My water's broken,” she said. “It's the baby—come too soon.”

Chance's skin prickled. “Rachel?”

He set the lantern on the floor and managed to catch her as she crumbled. Pain knifed through his injured shoulder as he swept her into his arms.

“Help me,” she said between clenched teeth.

“I'll fetch a doctor,” he offered as he carried her in to his bed.

“No!” She gripped his forearm so tightly that her nails dug into his flesh. “No!”

The spasm eased and she sucked in a jagged breath. She fell back against the pillow and licked her bottom lip where she'd bitten it. A thin trickle of blood ran down her chin, and he wiped it away with his finger.

“Rachel, I can't do this,” he said in a rush. “I don't know anything about delivering babies. Hell, I've never even seen a newborn.”

She closed her eyes, and he noticed again how thick and dark her lashes were against her cheeks. As black as a crow's wing, he thought.

His shoulder wound throbbed, but he would have welcomed the hurting and more if he could have taken her pain. His voice grew husky with concern. “I'll go for help.”

“No, you can't. They'll arrest you if you do.”

“It doesn't matter. You need—”

“No time,” she answered. “The baby's coming. You can't … can't leave me alone.”

Raw fear skittered down his spine. “I'm not the person to do this.”

“You're all I've got.” She fixed him with a pleading stare. “If you leave me, the baby will come and I won't be able to—” Another contraction seized her, and she covered her mouth with her hand to keep from crying out.

Chance waited helplessly for what seemed an eternity until the spasm passed. And when it finally did, he asked her, “What shall I do?”

She took several deep, slow breaths. “Go to the house—”

“Shall I carry you there?”

Rachel shook her head. “No. Don't move me. I don't want to hurt the baby. Go inside and fetch clean sheets and towels. You'll need hot water. In the reservoir in the stove. Roll up your sleeves and wash with lye soap. Wash harder than you've ever done before, then pour liniment over your hands. There's some on the tack-room shelf.”

“Yes. I know where it is.” His knees felt weak.

“Go into the parlor,” she said. “There's a black bag beside the stove. It's …” Her eyes glazed with pain and she gritted her teeth. “Go! Damn it!”

Chance ran.

She's going to die, he thought. Mother of God, I'm going to foul this up, and she's going to die in front of my eyes.

It was like looking into a black abyss. One minute he was out the door and on his way back to rescue Travis, and the next, nothing mattered but saving the woman that lay in agony in the barn.

Nothing.

Rachel Irons had suddenly and irrevocably become his concern. He had to help her, but he didn't have the slightest inkling how. And he knew if he failed, his life would lose something precious.

When he came back with what she had asked for, he found Rachel on her feet, leaning against the wall. “What are you doing out of bed?” he demanded, reaching for her arm.

“Are your hands clean?” she asked. “Don't touch the floor, or you have to wash all over again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cora Wright told me. Her mothers don't die of childbed fever like so many other women do. She says everything must be clean—sheets, her hands, the patient. I don't know why it works, but it does. And she makes her mothers get up and walk within twenty-four hours. She claims it drains away the bad spirits.”

“You're not an ignorant woman, Rachel. How can you talk such nonsense when you're having a baby? Bad spirits? Listen to yourself.”

She walked unsteadily back to the bunk and sat down. Chance saw that the bottom half of her nightgown was soaked in fluid. She was breathing in short, regular pants.

“My grandmother was … was Lenape. Indian. I told you that. She said that Cora was right, that—agggh.” She pressed her abdomen and a shudder ran through her body.

Chance slipped his hand into hers, and Rachel squeezed until he thought his bones would break.

When she could speak again, she whispered hoarsely, “When the baby starts to come out, you'll see the head. Take it in your hands, but don't pull. Just support and
guide it. It will be slippery. Don't drop it when it slides out.”

“Jesus,” he whispered.

“As soon as it's here,” she continued painfully, “clean out the mouth so that it can breathe. There's silk thread in my bag. Knot the cord in two places, close to the baby's navel. Then cut between the knots. There are scissors in the bag. Pour alcohol over them first. In the blue bottle, marked ‘Dr. Jay's Laxative Bitters,' is corn whiskey. Use that.”

“Laxative Bitters,” he repeated dumbly. Once, in the Battle of Williamsburg, he and Travis had dismounted to save Joseph Sutherland, another man in their company who'd had his horse shot from under him. Sutherland's right leg was shattered, and Travis had tied a leather strap around Sutherland's thigh to stem the loss of blood until they could get him to a physician. Chance hadn't felt as helpless then as he did now.

“Keep the baby warm,” she insisted. “I think it's early. It may be very small. Don't let it take a chill.”

“Can't I go for this Cora Wright?” he insisted. “I can take the horse and bring her back—”

“No,” Rachel repeated. “I told you. It's coming too fast. If I pass out, I can't help the baby. He—she could suffocate. You have to be sure it can breathe. I can't lose James's baby.”

“Why the hell isn't James here to do this for you?” Chance demanded. “He should be doing this, not me.”

“Because he's dead. That's why! You killed him! He's dead and buried in Barratt's Chapel.”

“Me?” He stared down at her as if she'd lost her mind. “How could I kill him? I didn't even know him.”

“You were at Gettysburg, weren't you?” she accused. “James was shot at—oh, oh, my …”

Her face turned a deep red as the labor contractions intensified. They were coming closer together, and each one seemed stronger. Even Chance knew that meant birth was imminent.

His stomach churned. He'd never considered himself to have much of a yellow streak, but right now he felt like running.

“I didn't kill your husband.” He dipped the corner of a towel in the basin of water and wiped the perspiration from her face. “I didn't kill anybody at Gettysburg. Not unless you count my horse.”

This time when the pain passed, she sat up and clutched his good arm. “I've got to walk,” she insisted. “Help me walk.”

“You stay right where you are.” Having babies must make women crazy, he thought. Crazier than they already were.

“I need to walk!”

“You told me not to touch you.”

She thumped him with her fist. “Will you help me or not? If not, get out of my way.”

“All right, all right. But don't blame me if your babe falls on the floor.” He supported her as she got to her feet and began to circle the small room.

“I thought women were supposed to be sweet and motherly when they were giving birth,” he said. “You're as testy as a judge with hemorrhoids.” Sweet Mary. Had he actually said that to a lady? He must be as demented as she was to forget his manners and speak so. “Forgive me, Rachel,” he said. “I shouldn't have—”

“What? Lied to me about murdering my husband?” She leaned against him and caught her breath.

“I told you, I didn't fire my pistol that day. It's true we charged a Union position, but I never got close enough to–”

“Why should I believe a traitorous rebel dog? Worse than a hound dog—a Virginia lawyer.”

“And who told me that her husband was alive? Alive and coming home? That wasn't exactly the truth, was it, lady?”

“You Southern son of a snake! No gentleman would remind a woman of innocent fabrications made in desperation to protect herself.”

“This Southern son of a snake lawyer is all that's keeping you from—”

“What? You're threatening me? You're going to leave me to die?”

“I didn't say that, Rachel,” he soothed. “You're simply the—” He broke off, unable to say anything that would soften what he wanted to say. “I'm sorry your husband is dead.”

“I'm sure.”

“I am,” he answered. “You're a good woman. You deserve more than you've had.”

“You don't know what I've had. You don't know anything about me.”

“I know you've got a good heart—good enough to nurse me back to health when you could have turned me in for a reward.”

“I didn't do it to be good,” she replied. “I did it to save my farm.”

“I don't think so.”

“I did. Why should I care if another traitor dies?”

“You're talking nonsense, Rachel. This war is at fault. It—”

“Your doing, not ours. You fired on Fort Sumter.”

“Not me,” he replied. “It must have been another Chance Chancellor. I was delivering the closing arguments on Earl Mosby's charge of horse stealing before the honorable judge Byron Jeffries. My bullets wouldn't have carried that far from Richmond or my client would be doing twenty years.”

He could see her preparing a blistering counterattack when another contraction racked her body and she doubled over. This time a stifled moan escaped her clenched teeth.

His anger vanished. “Shall I take you back to bed?”

Rachel shook her head. “No. No. It will pass.”

He cradled her against his chest and buried his face in her soft, sweet-smelling hair. “Scream if you want to,” he whispered. “You don't have to be brave.”

“Shut up.”

They walked for what seemed like hours while sweat soaked her body. Her breathing became a quick hard panting when the contractions took hold, then eased in the short space between.

“Talk to me,” he urged.

“What do I say?”

“Anything. Tell me about your childhood … your family.”

She shuddered. “I think I'd better lie down.”

He half carried her to the bed and held her hand while she gritted her teeth against the pain. “I wish I could do this for you,” he rasped. She was as courageous as any soldier under fire, but his own sense of dread increased with each contraction.

“I was a love child,” she whispered. “Did I tell you that? My father never married my mother.”

Chance laid a damp cloth on her forehead. “Yes, I'm listening, Rachel. Go on.”

“No one ever told me why. Maybe it was because he was an educated doctor and she had Indian blood. Some people said … said he had a wife in Philadelphia. I don't know.”

“Your mother never said?”

Rachel shook her head. “She died … when I was born. I never … never knew her. Him, I knew later. My grandparents raised me. They didn't like him, but they didn't stop me from seeing him when I was older. They never forgave him.”

“He must have loved your mother.”

“Maybe … He never said. He wasn't good with people … my father. But he cared about his work, and he was a good physician.”

Chance stroked her hair away from her face. “Keep talking,” he said.

“My grandparents loved me. My father never did, but he taught me. I was grateful for that. I—” She broke off, and her eyes widened. “Oh! It's coming! Now! Chance!” She struck his bad shoulder with her fist. “Do something!”

Pain arced through his body. He bit back a groan and crouched at the end of the narrow cot. Rachel's fingers knotted into tight balls as she drew up her knees.