oversized purse. “You find that book. I’ll take care of the rest.”
She pulled the book from the depths of the bag, then, shoving it into his hands, went back into another one of her trances. While she took deep, even breaths and stared off into space, he quickly scanned the index of the book she’d given him for instructions on an emergency, at-home delivery.
Turning to the page the directory had indicated, he read the first entry. Calling 9-1-1 was out of the question. He skipped down to the second directive—if possible call for help.
Well hell, that was a no-brainer. If he could call someone else to assist, he’d call 9-1-1.
When his gaze dropped to the third instruction, he swallowed hard and glanced at her as she came back from wherever she went in her mind to escape the pain.
“What?” she asked when he continued to stare at her.
He cleared his throat. There was no easy way of breaking news like this to a woman he’d known for—he checked his watch—a little less than an hour.
“It says you need to strip from the waist down,” he finally answered, making sure to keep his voice even and his gaze steady.
“Is that necessary right now?” she asked just as calmly. He wasn’t sure, but it looked as if her already flushed cheeks turned a deeper shade of crimson.
Shrugging, Morgan handed her the book and walked into the kitchen to find another pot. He needed to get some water boiling in order to sterilize a few things he would have to use during the delivery. And she needed to come to grips with the way things had to be.
When he walked back into the living room on his way to set a couple of pots outside to collect rainwater for boiling, he noticed that she’d used one of the blankets he’d brought in from the car to drape over her lap. Glancing to the end of the couch, he saw that her jeans were neatly folded on the arm, while her tennis shoes and socks sat on the floor beside it. She didn’t look his way and he didn’t comment on the fact that she’d obviously done as the book had indicated.
“Would you feel better lying down?” he asked when he returned from placing the pots on the porch steps.
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
Sweat beaded her forehead as she handed him the book and, once again, focused her energy on riding the current wave of pain. Standing there watching her, Morgan had never felt more useless in his entire life. He wanted to help her, but he didn’t have a clue how to go about it.
Needing to do something, anything, he turned to the woodbox by the fireplace, removed several logs, then carefully stacked them on the dying fire in the grate. Even though it was early May, and fairly warm, there was a damp chill to the room, and he figured he would need all the light he could get when the time came for the baby’s grand entrance. Besides, he needed something to keep himself busy in order to take his mind off what Samantha was going through.
The dry wood caught immediately and the fire blazed high, chasing away the approaching shadows of late afternoon. He shrugged out of his duster and tossing it toward the chair where he’d thrown the drop cloth, went in search of some other source of light. Fortunately, he found two kerosene lamps in the pantry with full reservoirs. He returned to the living room, placed them on the mantel and lit the wicks with some stick matches he’d found in the kitchen, then sat on the hearth and picked up the book. Running his finger down the list of preparations, he glanced up. Where the hell was he going to find two pieces of sturdy string to tie off the cord?
He scanned the room, then zeroed in on Samantha’s tennis shoes sitting where she’d placed them by the end of the couch. Her shoe laces would have to do. He checked the book again. It didn’t say anything about sterilizing what he used to tie the cord, but he figured it couldn’t hurt. Just to be on the safe side, he’d toss them in the boiling water along with his pocket knife. Even if the hot water caused them to shrink, they should still be long enough for what he needed.
He laid the book within easy reach, then stood up and unfastened the cuffs of his chambray shirt. Rolling the long sleeves to the middle of his forearms, he waited for Samantha to relax her intense focus.
“The book says we need to start timing your contractions in order to tell how you’re progressing. Let me know when you feel another one coming on.”
She nodded. “They’re coming closer together.”
They were getting stronger, too. That much he could tell from the tiny strain lines bracketing her mouth. On impulse he reached out and took her hand in his. Giving it a gentle squeeze, he tried to reassure her. “You’re going to do just fine, Samantha.”
She squeezed back. “Remind me of that in a few hours.”
“Will do,” he said, nodding. He had no idea why the trust she was placing in him caused his chest to swell, but it did. Deciding that he could analyze what it meant later, he released her hand and started for the door. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go get the rainwater I’ve been collecting so that I can put it on the fire to boil.”
“Morgan?”
The sound of his name on her soft voice sent a tingle up his spine. He swallowed hard and turned back to face her. “What, Samantha?”
“Thank you for being so calm. It really helps.” The look she gave him clearly stated that she was counting on him to get her through whatever happened.
At a loss for words, he nodded and walked out to the porch to get the pots of water. Samantha had no way of knowing that his insides were churning like a damned cement mixer from thoughts of all the things that could go wrong, as they had with his mother.
Morgan took a deep breath, then slowly released it. And if it was the last thing he ever did, he had no intention of letting her find out.
Two
Four hours later, Morgan sat on the hearth in front of Samantha where she perched on the edge of the couch. For the last hour he’d watched her alternate between sitting forward and leaning back against the pillows in her effort to get comfortable. She had his hand in a death grip as she rode the current wave of pain and it surprised him how strong she was. It felt more like a lumberjack had a hold of his hand than a woman, and her nails digging into his palm felt as if she might draw blood. But if it helped her get through this, he’d gladly let her rip the skin clean off.
As he watched her stare off into space and pant her way through the contraction, his admiration for her grew by leaps and bounds. She was in tremendous pain, but her determination to stay on top of it, to ride it out, was amazing.
He was sure she was in what the book called “active labor” because of the duration of her contractions and the time between them. He glanced at his watch. They still had the “transitional labor” to go through and, if the book was right, they probably had another couple of hours before they got to the actual delivery. He just hoped he could last that long. With every contraction Samantha had, his gut twisted tighter and he felt a little more helpless than he had only moments before.
When she blew out a deep breath, signaling that the contraction had ended, he asked, “Is there anything else I can do? The book says that you might have some back pain? Do you need your back rubbed?”
“Would you mind?” she asked, releasing his hand. She winced. “My back is killing me.”
