Rachel's Choice (13 page)

There was a gush of bloody fluid, and something dark appeared between her legs. Chance stared as the object bulged slightly and then receded. “Is that the baby's head?”

“Yes, damn it!” she yelled. “Get it out!” The contraction passed, and Rachel took another deep breath.

“You can do this,” he said. “It's all right. You can do it,” he soothed.

This time, when the baby crowned, Chance forced himself to place his hands on either side of the wet head. Rachel groaned, pushing with all her might, and the baby's head slid out into his cupped palms. Another moment and more effort on Rachel's part, and the infant slipped completely out.

“I've got it!” Chance cried. “It's a boy.”

“A boy?”

Moisture clouded Chance's vision. The baby had a mop of thick, black hair and nails on his fingers and toes. He was so tiny. Chance hadn't expected a newborn to be so small and so perfect. Well, almost perfect … His head was a little pointy and his color pasty white.

Rachel leaned forward and reached out for the baby. “A boy? Let me see him.”

Chance didn't answer. Methodically he followed Rachel's earlier instructions, balancing the slippery infant in one hand while he cleaned out the mouth and tied and cut the thick cord with shaking hands.

The baby still wasn't moving, and his eyes were closed. He looked like he was asleep, and Chance didn't need Rachel to tell him that something was wrong.

“Why isn't he crying?”

“He's small, Rachel,” he answered. Awfully small.

“Chance?”

He turned the infant over his arm and smacked it on the back. “Come on,” he said. “Wake up, boy. It's time to wake up.”

“Give him to me,” Rachel insisted.

Her voice was weak. She was nearly as white as the pillowcase under her head.

He tried to think what to do. How could a baby be born perfect but not breathing? “Come on, little boy,” he urged thickly. “You can do it.”

Damn his eyes for watering! He could hardly see. He didn't know why they were clouding up.

“Give me my son.”

Chance wrapped the infant in a towel and laid him on the floor. The blankets under Rachel were stained with bloody fluid, and now more was running out between her legs. “I'm worried about your bleeding,” he said. “You—”

“Never mind me,” she protested. “It's the afterbirth coming. It's natural.”

He rolled up a blanket and put it under her legs. “Here,” he said. “Can you put these towels—”

“Yes, yes,” she said. “The baby! Is he breathing?” Her voice had taken on an edge of hysteria.

Chance shook his head.

“No! Please don't let him die. Please …”

He picked up the child and shifted him to the crook of his arm. The infant was so small, so fragile that he was afraid he'd break the tiny bones if he used too much force. He patted the babe's back, but there was no sound, no response. He might have been holding a rag doll.

Icy numbness swept over him in waves.
Stillborn.
Rachel's babe was stillborn. She'd lost her husband, and now her child was dead as well.

“Chance!”

One word, one word that pleaded her case more than an hour-long summation. Rachel trusted him; she believed
he had the power to save her baby. He couldn't let her down.

Seizing the tiny ankles, he lifted the still infant in the air as the towel fell away. With two fingers he tapped the blood-stained buttocks and was rewarded with a small choking gasp.

“Give him to me.”

“That's it,” Chance said to the child. “That's it. You can do it. Breathe. Breathe.” He smacked the baby's bottom again and listened.

Nothing.

It was too small to live, he thought with a sinking heart. No bigger than a pup.

And then he did something he hadn't done in a long time. He closed his eyes and prayed.
Dear God, let him be all right. Let this little one live.

Rachel was weeping now. “Give me my baby,” she repeated. “Please, please, give him to me.”

Chance grabbed the towel off the floor, swaddled the limp baby against his chest, and ran out of the room.

“No! Don't take him! Bring him back!”

Rachel's scream echoed in Chance's ears as he raced out of the barn clutching her lifeless baby. Branches tore at his face, and he hunched protectively over the small body as he left the path and dashed through the grove of cedars to the edge of the creek. Both dogs were hard on his heels.

Half sliding down the sandy bank, Chance nearly lost his footing, then vaulted the last distance into the shallows. He dropped to his knees and plunged the infant under the water.

When he lifted the child up, the baby tensed and kicked once, then went limp again. “Please,” Chance said. “Please God, give me this, if you never give me another thing.”

And then he placed his mouth over the minute nose and mouth and blew, gently filling the infant's lungs with air.

“What are you doing?” Rachel shouted.

He glanced up to see her standing unsteadily on the bank. Without answering her, he gave the baby two more breaths and dipped him again.

This time Chance felt the child's body convulse as
soon as the cold water closed over him. Limp muscle surged to life as Chance yanked the choking infant out. The babe's face darkened, he opened his tiny mouth, and he let out a man-size shriek.

“Yes, yes!” Chance cried. “That's it! Yell!” He nestled the now squirming babe in the crook of his arms again, scooped up a few drops of water, and made the sign of the cross over the infant's forehead. “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,” he whispered, “I christen thee—” He looked back at Rachel, speechless now in the moonlight. “James David Irons,” he finished quickly.

Chance could barely hold on to the wet, shivering infant as he waded back to shore. Wailing furiously, the babe arched his back and thrashed his arms and legs with surprising strength. Small fists thudded against Chance's chest, and a down-covered head wobbled precariously.

Rachel sank onto the ground and held out her arms. “Give him to me,” she begged.

Chance paused only long enough to wrap the protesting infant in the dry towel before handing him over to his mother. And as she clasped the child to her and covered his face with kisses, Chance turned away and wiped furiously at his eyes.

Within seconds the babe's angry screeches became soft gulps and whimpers. When Chance looked back, he understood why the infant had calmed so quickly. Rachel had drawn aside her nightgown and put him to her breast.

She raised her head and smiled at Chance. “You saved him for me,” she murmured. “If it wasn't for you …” She left the rest unspoken, and Chance felt the constriction in his throat grow even tighter.

“How did you know to do that?” she asked.

He shook his head. Bands of iron compressed his
chest, and he found it hard to breathe, let alone talk. The sight of her there, holding her living son, filled him with such emotion that he didn't know how to deal with it.

“We'd … we'd best get the two of you back to the house,” he said gruffly.

“I saw you,” she insisted. “You blew the breath of life into him.”

Chance shrugged. “I didn't know. I just …” He exhaled softly. “Hell, I saw my father's groom do that with a hound pup. The runt of the litter was born dead. Jethro dipped it in a bucket of cold water and then blew in the pup's mouth. It worked for a hound, so …”

“A hound?” She laughed, and the sound lifted the heaviness from his heart. “Hound or jackass, I don't care. Look at him,” she said. “Look at how strong he is. You said he was tiny. He's not tiny. He must be close to seven pounds.”

“He sure as hell looked tiny to me. And you said it was too early for him to be born—that you weren't due until July.”

“I thought so. I guess I made a mistake. I must have gotten pregnant earlier than I'd thought. He can't be more than two weeks early, that's certain. Look at his chubby legs.” She kissed the baby's fingertips.

Chance kicked at the dirt with a soggy boot. “You saw what else I did, too?”

“I did.”

He didn't know how a woman who'd suffered so much—who'd just given birth—could rally so, but he wasn't going to doubt a miracle when it was handed to him.

“James
David
Irons?” she demanded. “What was all that about?”

“I christened him,” Chance admitted.

“
You
christened him?
My
son? My Methodist son. You're a Catholic, aren't you?”

“Guilty.”

“And I suppose you think you've made my son one, too?”

“I didn't know if he'd live, Rachel. I didn't think. I just …”

“You were concerned for my son's soul.”

“Yes. It seemed important.” He corrected himself. “It is important.”

“I never took you for a religious man.”

He knelt beside her. “I never thought I was. It's been years since I went to confession or heard mass.” He cleared his throat. “If I've offended you …”

She laid a hand on his forearm. “You haven't,” she said softly. And then she laughed again. “I suppose I'm lucky you didn't name him Robert E. Lee Irons.”

“David was my grandfather's name. He was a good person, Rachel.”

“Even if he was a Virginian?”

“You would have liked him, Rachel. He was an honorable man who never turned the needy from his door, regardless of the color of their skin.”

“Maybe I would have liked him,” she replied.

Chance stroked the back of the baby's head with two fingers. His hair was silky, as soft as duck down, and the small, squeaking noises the infant uttered filled Chance with an overwhelming protective feeling. He wanted to gather both mother and child into his arms and hold them.

He never wanted to let them go.

He inhaled deeply of the warm night, savoring the rich
scent of fresh-turned earth, the sight of the moonlight glinting like silver off the waters of the creek, and the far-off hoo-hoo of a great horned owl. He wanted to hold on to this moment, to lock it away so that he could summon it up in the midst of cannon fire and the sound of dying men and horses.

“I think I can walk if you'll let me lean on you,” Rachel said.

“What about him?”

“I've got him,” she answered.

“I could carry you,” Chance offered. “I think …”

“I ran here, I can damn well walk back.”

“But …” He knew he should take command of the situation, but he felt shaken, unwilling to argue with her. “You were bleeding so badly—”

“That's natural,” she said. “The afterbirth. I'm all right now. Really.”

“I'm a poor midwife,” he admitted.

“I think you're a fine one,” she said. “And wee David thinks so, too.”

“You call him David?”

Her mood grew tender. “You gave him life, Chance. I think calling him by your grandfather's name is a small price to pay for such a gift.”

Two weeks later Chance hunched forward, attempting to hold the heavy cultivator upright and guide the horse between the rows of vegetables at the same time. If he reined the horse too far from the beans, he'd miss most of the weeds, and if the metal blades cut too close, he'd destroy the plants.

“Whoa, whoa there, Blackie,” he called to the horse. This experience gave him an entirely new perspective on
farming, and greater respect for those who spent a lifetime tilling the soil. There was much more to growing vegetables than he'd thought.

Rachel's instructions had seemed simple. The horse was trained to pull, and the ground had been worked only two weeks before. So why did he have blisters on each hand, a pain in his back, and dirt in his mouth?

“Straighten up!” Rachel called. “You're cutting too deep in the center!”

“Too deep, too shallow,” Chance muttered under his breath. What did she want out of him? He was no field-hand. He was trained for the law, for pity's sake.

Blackie reached the end of the row and cut across the end of the onions, digging out the last three feet and burying the sets in a heap of dirt.

“Chance!” Rachel cried.

“Whoa!” He reined in the horse and surveyed the damage. His last row wasn't bad, if you didn't count the beans crushed by Blackie's hooves. He might need to make a second run or finish up with a hoe. But the onions would definitely have to be replanted, if he could salvage them.

The horse swung his head around and gave Chance a sly look. Then he snatched a sprig of corn and began to chew steadily.

“Devil beast!” Chance shouted.

They'd been at this business for most of the morning; rather, he had been at it. Rachel and the baby sat in the shade of an oak tree and supervised.

Not that he'd expect her to do the actual labor. Davy kept her busy day and night. Chance hadn't realized how often a baby needed to eat, or that he wouldn't be born knowing the difference between day and night.

Davy spent most of his daylight hours asleep or nursing, and his nights crying. Colic was Rachel's opinion, and Chance had to agree, since he didn't have any other suggestions.

But other than being overly red and a little wrinkled, Chance had to admit little Davy was coming along far better than he'd expected. His head had even assumed a nice round shape, and once he'd dried off, all that peach fuzz on top had become a thatch of black hair.

Chance had never taken much notice of infants before, but this one was different. Davy seemed to have a personality all his own. A man could read the intelligence in those big eyes, eyes that had started out a deep blue and darkened every day. And he had a way of holding on to Chance's finger that made Chance feel like he'd drawn a royal flush in a high-stakes poker game.