“I don’t blame the little tyke. I didn’t like it, either,” Caleb murmured, surprised to feel a ghost of levity rise in him. His neck burning from the necessary intimacy, he ran his hands down her legs, relieved to feel no obvious broken bones.
Her lips turned upward, and then she grimaced. “Oswald?”
In his focus on the woman, he’d forgotten about the driver. “Your husband?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know. But I’ll go find out.” Caleb spread the blanket over the woman, wondering if he should move her first. But he needed to see to the man, whose injuries might be more severe. He lifted the handkerchief to check her cut. The blood seemed to have stopped, so he balled up the linen, bloody area inside, and stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket.
Her eyelids drifted closed.
How could I have forgotten the man? Caleb rose, barely noticing the dampness of his trousers from kneeling on the ground. He hurried to the front of the wagon.
The horses looked at him. The one on the right kept its weight off a feathered foreleg. Probably a strain. But he couldn’t stop to check.
The caravan leaned drunkenly against the tree, the front side collapsed over the driver’s seat. Caleb assessed the caravan and doubted the wagon could be moved without extra help. “Oswald,” he called, straining to hear a sound. He moved closer to the seat and saw torn work pants, stocky, flaccid legs, and sensed he was too late. Caleb had to push and shove the wreckage up and back before he could see the rest of the driver.
Oswald’s head was cocked at an angle that indicated a broken neck. Blood from dozens of cuts congealed on his face and hands. His sightless blue eyes stared at the sky.
Caleb stared at the body for a brief moment. From the looks of the caravan, he’d expected a swarthy Gypsy-type wearing colorful clothing. Not a pale-faced man with brown stubble on his chin that matched his hair and patched canvas trousers.
When Caleb leaned over the body to check, he could feel no pulse under his fingers. The coppery smell of blood filled his nostrils, and he wanted to be sick. He lowered the man’s eyelids.
Straightening, he swallowed hard, struggled to hold down the nausea. He wiped both hands on the front of his coat. I’ve killed a man. His steps heavy, Caleb plodded back to the woman, feeling as if his whole body had turned to stone. How do I tell his wife?
She hadn’t stirred from her spot on the ground.
Caleb’s throat tightened, and he had to swallow before he could convey the news. “I’m afraid your husband is dead.” He crouched by her side. “I think he was killed instantly.”
She closed her eyes and turned her face away from him.
He floundered for something more to say, but he could only manage, “I’m so sorry.” Mere words that cannot possibly convey the depth of my remorse.
“Not your fault.” She turned back, groped for his hand, and squeezed.
Her palm was rough from menial labor, but the touch heartened him.
“Oswald was driving too fast.”
Caleb was determined not to hide the truth. “So was I.”
“He was out of control.”
“I wasn’t paying attention.”
“I tried to make him slow down, but he wouldn’t.” She gasped and placed a hand on her stomach. Her muscles tensed, and her eyes widened with obvious fear. “I felt a pain. A bad one. The babe’s moved lower.”
“No.” Caleb blurted the protest without thought.
She clutched his arm. “Yes.”
“You cannot go into labor,” Caleb ordered, anxiety clenching his innards.
“The baby is coming!” She enunciated every word.
“The doctor is a long day’s ride away in Sweetwater Springs, and there’s no woman for miles. You’ll just have to wait.”
As the contraction eased, the tightness in her body relaxed, and she gave him a wan smile. “Does everyone always do what you say?”
Is that levity in her voice? At a time like this? “They comply if I know what’s best, and I usually do.” Caleb strove for a humorous, rather than a pompous, tone and hoped he pulled it off. “I assure you, it’s best that you do not give birth out here in the wilderness.” He touched her arm. “I’m afraid to move you, but I must.”
“Everything hurts.”
“That settles it. I’m taking you home with me to Sweetwater Springs.”
CHAPTER TWO
Even through a haze of pain, Maggie could see worry in the handsome man’s dark eyes and could sense how much he wanted to hand off the problem of her and the impending birth to someone else. But he couldn’t, for the pains had become too strong and regular for her to even think of traveling in a moving vehicle.
He slipped his hand under her back as if to move her.
Maggie pushed aside the blanket and reached for his arm to hold him in place. “I can’t.”
“Madame, you must.”
“Maggie.” If I die, I want him to know my given name. “Magdalena Petra Baxter. But I’m called Maggie.”
“Mrs. Baxter, my name is Caleb Livingston. I’m a banker and hotel owner in Sweetwater Springs.” He eased away from her grip. “I have no knowledge about babies, especially delivering one. We must go.” Carefully, he slid his hands under her body and lifted Maggie. He carried her as if she weighed no more than a child instead of the ungainly creature she’d become. Holding in a groan of pain at the pressure of her bruised hip against his body, she slipped an arm around his neck.
He gave her a smile full of charm. “Given our informal circumstances, why don’t you call me Caleb? And if I may be so bold as to use your given name?”
“Of course.” Maggie stretched out a shaky hand toward the vardo. “The horses.” She couldn’t leave Pete and Patty to fend for themselves.
“I’ll unhitch your team and tie them to the surrey.” His eyebrows pulled together. “The back of your dress is damp from lying on the ground. Why aren’t you wearing a coat?”
“I no longer fit in it.” She touched the blanket. “I had this wrapped around me.”
“We must get you changed.”
Maggie became aware of the wet cloth of her knickers. How embarrassing. But she knew things were about to become far more intimate and humiliating. This man, for all he protested the coming of the baby, was about to assist her child into the world—whether he liked it or not. She sensed he wouldn’t abandon her in this time of need. “I have clothes in the vardo,” was all she said, not wanting to frighten him any further with talk of the child about to arrive. He apparently needed some time to come to terms with her labor.
“Vardo?” he asked. “All right.”
A glance at the ruined vardo made her heart ache. Maggie mourned the loss of her home far more than the death of her husband. Does that make me a bad person? She laid her head on Caleb’s shoulder, feeling an odd sense of trust.
Her lower back slowly seized up, wiping out all thought as pain took over her body. She gasped through the agony.
“What’s wrong?” Caleb questioned, his expression urgent. He tightened his grip. “Maggie?”
Caught up in her travail, Maggie couldn’t answer until the contraction subsided. Taking a deeper breath, she prepared to break the unwelcome news. “The baby has decided not to obey your orders and is about to make an appearance.” She tried to make her statement sound light and matter of fact, but her voice quivered on the last word.
His eyes widened, and he shook his head. “But—!”
If she weren’t so scared, Maggie would have laughed at his panicked expression. “You can’t stop the tide,” she murmured one of her grandmother’s expressions.
“Oh, dear Lord.” His words were half a curse, half a prayer. “What are we going to do?” He glanced up the hill as if debating about carrying her to the road.
“Caleb, we need to stay here. I have bedding. Supplies.”
His jaw firmed, and his gaze swept the area. “There’s nowhere comfortable for you.”
&
nbsp; Maggie glanced around the small clearing. “Over there.” She pointed. “The spot under that tree is almost flat.”
Caleb’s gaze followed. “Almost is correct.” His tone was wry.
“We’ll just have to make do,” Maggie said, making sure to sound strong. “Put me down near the vardo door, and I can tell you where everything is. You can climb inside and get the items.”
He carried her down the hill toward the caravan.
Not for the first time, Maggie felt grateful her grandfather had built a door into the back, as well as having one in front.
When they reached the caravan, Caleb lowered her to the ground, keeping a steadying arm around her waist.
Once her left foot touched the ground, pain lanced through her ankle. Maggie cringed and picked up her foot, leaning against him.
“Another contraction?”
“My ankle. I think I sprained it.” Please, God, it can’t be broken. Not with the baby coming. “Let me try again.”
He cocked an eyebrow in obvious skepticism.
“No,” she protested. “I can stand. I’ll put my weight on the other one.”
Caleb eased the pressure of his hold.
Maggie tugged the blanket around her shoulders and braced herself against the back wall of the vardo, embarrassed that he must have noticed the run-down state of the caravan, and then dismissed the thought. We have more important things to concern ourselves with. She glanced up at his face.
Caleb watched her, his brow furrowed. He relaxed his grip but didn’t lift his hands. His palms stayed in gentle contact with her shoulders.
Gentle? When have I last been touched with gentleness by a man? Not since my grandfather. . . . Before she could remember when, a pain seized Maggie’s middle like a vise. She gasped and stiffened.
“Another?”
Her whole concentration centered on enduring the wave of pain across her belly. She didn’t reply until the wave ceased. “The baby’s coming,” she gasped out, in case he hadn’t understood the first time she’d told him. “Whether you like it or not. . . .”
Caleb shook his head but said nothing. Instead, he took off his coat, eased the blanket from her grasp, and dropped it to the ground. He wrapped the coat around her shoulders, guiding her arms inside.
“You’ll have to accept that I’m about to deliver,” Maggie said, her tone firm.
Admiration glinted in Caleb’s brown eyes. “You should be having hysterics right now. You’re a rare woman, Magdalena Petra Baxter.”
“I have no choice.”
He touched her chin. “You’re keeping your head high, making the best of this wretched situation, instead of sniveling and feeling sorry for yourself.”
I’ve already done that. The dark day when Maggie realized she’d married a monster would be forever imprinted in her memory. After Oswald’s first beating, she’d lain on the bed in the vardo, too sore to move, and she wept.
Narrow-eyed, Caleb turned his attention to the caravan. The frame had bent, and he had to wrench open the door.
They peered inside. With the left side smashed, the inside was in shambles. Shards of china and glass covered the floor. Light shone through the roof and side where the caravan had crashed into the tree, ruining the faded mural of a Gypsy encampment painted on the ceiling.
Everything’s destroyed! Maggie couldn’t help the wail of grief that escaped. Her mother had treasured that china—a wedding present from her husband.
Caleb dropped an arm around her shoulder and gave her a supportive hug.
For a moment, Maggie leaned against him. Then she felt ashamed to have shown such selfish emotion with Oswald dead and straightened.
He lowered his arm.
How sad to mourn dishes but not a husband. Maggie strove for composure, tried to think of what she’d need for the birth. She unhooked the ladder and attempted to pull it down, but it was too warped to move.
Caleb moved her hands from the rung. “Allow me.” He wrestled the ladder down.
“If you lift that—” Maggie pointed at the table, which was in the lowered position. “There’s a drawer with an oiled tablecloth inside that also serves as a ground cloth. We’ll need the bedding. My, uh. . . .” Heat flushed her face, and Maggie forced herself to continue. “My nightgown is under the pillow.”
Caleb climbed inside. He braced one foot on the slanted wall and the other on the floor and gingerly stepped to the center of the vardo. Glass crunched under his feet. He lifted the table and took out the brown oilcloth.
Careful to keep her injured foot off the ground, Maggie braced herself with one hand on the doorframe. A contraction bent her double. When it passed, she leaned inside, her other hand outstretched.
Caleb stretched to give the tablecloth to her. Then he inched toward the bed and gathered up the bedding, tucking her nightgown into the folds so as not to drop the garment on the littered floor. With his arms full, he shuffled back to the doorway.
Maggie hopped out of the way so he could climb out.
For a man with his arms full of bedding, Caleb moved with powerful grace, a contrast to stocky Oswald who’d always lumbered in and out of the caravan, often complaining about the height from the ground. He’d broken one of the rungs of the ladder and had never bothered to repair it.
Maggie dropped the blanket by her feet. Without it, she could feel the wind chilling her back. She set the tablecloth just inside the door and extended her arms to Caleb. “Let me have the bedding. You take the oilcloth.”
Careful not to jostle her, Caleb transferred his bundle to her arms and picked up the tablecloth.
“Lay this on the ground, on the spot I selected for the birth,” she commanded, using her chin to point to the tablecloth. She caught herself and cringed, knowing what would happen if she spoke to Oswald in that tone. Holding her breath, she studied the man for his reaction. Is he angry?
Caleb didn’t seem to mind her taking charge. He tilted his head, listening with an intent expression, apparently waiting for her to continue.
When a blow wasn’t forthcoming, Maggie allowed herself to breathe. “Fold the bedding in half and put it on top of one side of the tablecloth, and fold the other side over the bedding. Childbirth is supposed to be. . .ah. . .untidy, and I don’t want to soil my bedding or have it become damp from the ground.” She eyed his clothes and shook her head.
“What?”
“You will ruin your fine clothes.”
“I have a change of clothing with me.”
“Only a rich man would say such a thing.” She pointed her chin toward the vardo. “My apron is hanging behind the door. Best fetch it.”
“I’m not wearing an apron.”
She placed a hand on the bulge of her stomach and tried her luck with forthrightness again. “Will you argue with a woman about to give birth?”
His gaze followed her hand. Caleb let out a sigh of mock long-suffering and shrugged. “You win.” He tied on the covering.
Laughter gurgled up in her, something Maggie hadn’t thought to feel at such a time.
At her chuckle, his expression lightened. “Be warned. You won’t be in labor for long. Afterward, you’ll lose your advantage.”
His smile took her breath away, and the laughter died within her. She knew all too well what ugliness might lie behind a handsome countenance. Maggie flapped her hand in the direction of the tree where she’d chosen to make the bed. “Go on with you, then,” she said, trying to sound confident like Mrs. Morgan. “We don’t have time to stand here chattering.”
Indeed, she’d spoken the truth. The pain came hard this time. She gasped, bent, and panted. At last, she straightened.
“Seems like your labor pains are more frequent—about five or so minutes apart.”
“And stronger, too!”
He followed her direction, walking to the flat area about twenty feet from the vardo under the tree. He pulled out a pocketknife from his trousers and cut pine boughs, laying them thickly on the ground before sna
pping out the tablecloth and floating it to cover the makeshift mattress. He strode back to her to take the bedding.
Maggie leaned against the back of the vardo, her hand on her distended belly, feeling the baby move. Soon, my little one. She closed her eyes, aching everywhere from being thrown from the wagon. A miracle my child still lives. Weariness tried to overtake her, and she wondered how she would make it through this.
The next contraction increased in strength, forcing her nearly to her knees. She grabbed the door frame and hung on. She rubbed her belly, finding the massage oddly comforting.
“Maggie.” Caleb came at a run. “Let me take you to the bed.”
She shook her head, holding onto his arm instead until the discomfort faded. “Now you can.”
He scooped her up and carried her to the nest of bedding, gently lowering her.
Even so, contact with the ground made her bruises throb, and Maggie lay still until the worst passed. With a sigh of relief, she allowed herself to relax, wondering if she should have him brew some willowbark tea for her bruises, and then decided drinking the tonic might impact the childbirth. Instead, she decided to ask for raspberry leaf tea, which would help with the birthing.
Caleb knelt beside Maggie and brushed her hair back from her forehead. “We need to get you comfortable.” He moved the pillow under her head.
In the past year, she had known only small comforts—a sewing circle and the gay chatter of women, a campfire on a fine clear night, spending time with her horses. But now. . .Maggie held back a sob. Without a husband, I have no idea how the baby and I will survive.
I don’t think my life will be comfortable for a long time to come.
Caleb hurriedly collected all four horses. He found hobbles for the piebalds in a box beneath the caravan’s seat and tied his own team to the conveyance with leads long enough to permit grazing. He found no grain in the wagon, so he distributed what he’d brought for his animals among the four.
After seeing to the needs of the horses, he used one of the blankets from his bedroll and wrapped Oswald’s body for burial later. He didn’t know when he’d capitulated to his fate as a midwife, but he was in it now. When Caleb could no longer postpone the inevitable, he returned to Maggie.
Mystic Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 6) Page 2