Montana Renegade

by Ramona Flightner

  “We know ye are no’ eating. Ye must eat, Warren.” Sorcha rose, tugging on her mittens. “And I must return home afore Cailean becomes worried.”

  Warren walked her to the door. “How is Annabelle?”

  “Ready to burst any moment. She’s the calmest woman I’ve ever met. Gives serenity a new definition.” Sorcha rolled her eyes. “Cailean’s the one on the verge of collapse. If she gasps, he’s at her side, worried it’s her time.”

  Warren grunted. “He won’t rest easy until she’s had the baby, and he can hold them both in his arms.”

  Sorcha nodded. “I fear he willna survive it.”

  Warren laughed. “If Annabelle can survive the pain, then he can survive the emotional torment.” He squeezed Sorcha’s arm as he opened the door. “Please give them my regard.”

  Helen woke with a start at the incessant knocking at her bedroom door. She rolled over, lit her lamp and rose. She shivered, pulling a throw blanket around her shoulders as she padded to the door. “Yes,” she asked around a large yawn.

  Frederick stood with barely restrained tension. “I need you, Helen. Get dressed, and come to the barn.”

  She grabbed his arm as he moved to rush away. Her grip on him tightened when he fought being detained. “No, wait. Why summon me in the middle of the night? There are no pregnant women here.”

  “My filly. My prize filly.” He stuttered out a breath. “She’s having trouble giving birth. I need your help.”

  Helen shifted, and a shaft of light illuminated Frederick. She blanched to see his pants coated in blood. “I know nothing about animal husbandry.”

  “Save your protests. Right now you’re my only hope.” He speared her with an intense look. “I have books opened for you in the barn, coffee brewed and plenty of men waiting to help, if they can. Please, Helen.”

  She nodded, releasing him. “Give me five minutes.” She slammed the door and donned her oldest clothes. After pulling on boots, her thick jacket and hat, she ventured outside on the clear frigid late-January night. When the warmth of the barn enveloped her, she sighed with relief.

  As she reached the large birthing stall, she saw the mare’s distress. She moved to pat the mare’s nose, stroking its head, before running her hands along its distended belly. She closed her eyes as she tried to discern what she felt. A hoof? A back? A head? She shook her head in frustration.

  She met Frederick’s determined gaze. “I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m feeling.” She shucked her jacket and outerwear, and moved to the books. After scanning them rapidly, she raised her head and met Frederick’s implacable stare. “I imagine you’ve already read these?”

  At his nod, she sighed. “Well, I won’t be able to do much. I’m too short, and my arm’s not nearly long enough.” She sized him up. “You, however, should do the job admirably.”

  He frowned and nodded to the small group of ranch hands mingling near the coffee. “I thought one of them would be a better choice.”

  She shook her head. “No, they can help keep her calm and in position. You, you care about this mare as your cherished filly. You should do this.” She tilted her chin up in challenge, and he glowered at her, before a hint of admiration entered his countenance.

  “Fine. I’ll need you by me to walk me through what I must do.” He shed his jacket and stripped off his flannel shirt until he was in a white undershirt. He moved to the mare, which lay on the floor of this large stall, and ran a hand over her belly, murmuring soft soothing words to her.

  “I think the foal is breech,” Helen said. “All we can see is its hind end when we should see a leg. You need to push the foal back in and turn it.” She gave Frederick a nod of encouragement as he took a deep breath.

  He reached forward, pushing with all his might and earning a grunt of displeasure from the mare. “I think the foal is in as far as possible,” he gasped as sweat poured off his brow. “How do I turn it?”

  “If you feel legs, those are the rear ones. Search for the front legs, as they should come out first,” Helen said. She nodded to Slims as he sat by the mare’s head, his hold gentle but firm. Helen ran her hands over the mare’s distended belly. “That’s it, keep trying,” Helen urged.

  Frederick’s entire arm was inside the mare, and he dug his feet into the hay to gain leverage.

  The mare’s belly convulsed like a wave, and Helen laughed. “Yes! That’s it! What do you feel?”

  “Like my arm’s about to be vised off me,” Frederick gasped. “I think I feel legs, but I don’t know if they are front or rear.”

  “Well, at this point, ease one out, and we’ll help her birth the foal,” Helen said. She smiled encouragingly at Frederick. “That’s it!” Helen urged. She now stood behind Frederick, coaxing him on. “Gentle but firm.”

  On the next contraction, a hoof appeared and then a leg. Soon the mare gave a deep moan, and the foal dropped to the ground.

  Frederick backed away, covered in muck. He stared at the mare, his concern abating as she passed the afterbirth and began licking and prodding her foal. She then whinnied at the others around her, and they eased away to give the mare more space with her young.

  “I see no evidence of excessive bleeding from the mother, and her foal appears healthy,” Helen whispered. “But I don’t know much about horses.”

  “Give me a minute,” Frederick muttered.

  She watched as he stripped off his filthy undershirt, revealing a strong chest sprinkled with black hair. He strode to the pump in the corner of the barn, where he splashed cold water over his head, neck, chest and arms, before scrubbing at his hands. One of the men threw him a towel, and he scrubbed himself dry. She flushed as he raised his head and caught her watching him.

  After he donned a fresh shirt, he rejoined her at the edge of the stall. “Thank you, Helen. Having your help made this much easier.”

  “I don’t know as I did much more than read the book and walk you through it. Any of the men could have done it.”

  Frederick shrugged. “Perhaps. But you are used to births. You don’t become skittish around this sort of thing.” He heard her yawn. “Go to bed. Don’t worry about cooking tomorrow. Today. Whatever it is. Take it easy. You’ve earned it.”

  Helen smiled. “I might take the morning off.” She flushed. “Forgive me for staring.”

  Frederick laughed. “I should apologize for acting as though you were one of the men. I should know better.”

  Her flush deepened, and she left to return to her room. When she arrived there, she took off her boots and her dress, then lay back on her bed, reliving the night, not even caring to don her nightclothes. She had enjoyed working with Frederick, the comradeship he showed her. She recalled watching him strip off his shirt, and, other than a clinical fascination, she had felt nothing.

  She turned, punching at her pillow in frustration. Frederick would be the perfect man to help ease her torment over Warren. And yet he was more a brother to her than her own had ever been. She suspected he felt the same way toward her. She tumbled into sleep with a small smile, dreaming of Warren tugging his shirt over his head.

  Chapter 7

  January froze into February with Valentine’s Day passing with little fanfare. On a cold February Sunday, Annabelle stood in the kitchen, preparing a dessert for after dinner, when she gasped. The mixing bowl fell from her hands, shattering to the floor. She gripped the back of a nearby dining chair, panting through an intense pain.

  Sorcha poked her head into the kitchen, then ran out the door. “Cailean!” she screamed as she barreled into the livery. “Cailean, come now,” she gasped. “’Tis finally time.”

  Cailean dropped the pitchfork, his astute gaze taking in Sorcha’s panic in one glance. “Belle?” he asked. He ran past Sorcha and into the house. By the time he arrived, Annabelle was massaging her back as she walked around the kitchen. “Where’s your sister?” he asked as he pulled Belle into his arms, sheltering her in his embrace for a moment.

  “She doesn
’t want to be a part of the birth,” Annabelle gasped out. “I must respect her wishes.” She smiled tremulously at her husband as he cupped her face.

  “I thought our bairn would never be born,” he whispered, bending over to kiss her belly. “’Tis already a month later than we expected.”

  She nodded as she ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “Our baby is teaching us that we will not be in control.”

  He chuckled as Sorcha burst into the room, cleaned up the broken bowl and batter, then said, “I’ll go for the doctor.”

  “No,” Annabelle whispered. “Have Alistair get the midwife. I trust her. I want you both here with me.”

  Sorcha shared a long look with Cailean and then nodded her agreement.

  Alistair poked his head in and raised an eyebrow. “Midwife or doc?”

  “Midwife,” Annabelle gasped, reaching for the back of a chair again as another pain struck. Cailean took her hand, while holding her as she attempted to breathe. “I thought it was supposed to be slow to start,” she whispered.

  “So did I.” He kissed her forehead. “Come. Let’s get you to our room. I want you as comfortable as possible.” He helped her up the stairs to their bedroom. When they arrived, Sorcha was removing from the bed the ornate quilt she had given them for their anniversary and had already set out a large nightgown for Annabelle. Cailean shook his head at his sister’s thoughtful preparations. “I’ll help my wife change.”

  When Sorcha left, Cailean eased Annabelle onto the edge of the bed and helped her from her clothes. When he slipped the nightgown over her head, he attempted to lay her back into bed. Instead, she gripped his hand. “What is it, my love?”

  “I need to walk.” She rose with his help and took small steps as she paused every few moments with a sharp pain. “I love you, Cailean.”

  “I love you, my Belle,” he whispered, leaning forward to kiss her on her brow. He glared at their bedroom door at the insistent knock. He waited until Annabelle was perched on the edge of the bed again before he opened the door. “What?” He glared at Alistair.

  “The midwife is at a birth miles away. Not expected to return until at least tomorrow. Maybe the day after. The new doc is up at some mining disaster in the hills.” He failed to hide the panic in his gaze as Annabelle groaned behind them.

  Cailean shook his head, raising a shaking hand to rub over his face. “I can’t, Al.”

  “No, ye can no’.” He gripped his brother’s arm. “Let me ask Irene. She always seems to ken what to do.” He bolted down the hallway and stairs, the front door slamming behind him.

  Cailean turned to his wife, rocking and panting on the bed, and forced a smile. “Someone will be here to help soon,” he whispered. “For now, let me help you.” He fought panic as Annabelle cried out in pain, while he battled his memories of another birthing room that had only led to death.

  Alistair burst into the bustling café, his gaze searching. “Harold, where’s Irene?” he gasped, as he attempted to catch his breath after his mad dash from Cailean’s house. When Harold pointed to the kitchen, Alistair jogged to the back area of the café.

  “Irene, we need your help,” Alistair blurted out. When she paused what she was doing and focused completely on him, he continued. “Annabelle is having the baby, but there’s no one to deliver it. We … Can ye help us?”

  Irene paled. “How is that brother of yours?”

  Alistair’s gaze was filled with panic. “Terrified. He canna lose another wife to a birth.”

  Irene nodded. “I’m no midwife, but I can help a little. If I were you, I’d saddle up and ride hell for leather to Frederick’s and bring Helen back. She’s who you need.”

  Alistair frowned. “I dinna understand.”

  Irene threw off her apron and bellowed for her husband. “I thought you MacKinnons were astute enough to know when a person was more than they appeared to be. That Helen Jameson is a fine healer. She’s been secretly studying with the midwife for over a year. It’s why she would be missing some nights.”

  Alistair hesitated a moment. “She’s not your grandson’s … paramour?”

  Irene laughed. “Goodness no. She’s his cook, for now.” She made a shooing motion. “Go. Go get her. If all goes well, we won’t need her. But if we do …” She left the sentence unsaid as Harold poked his head into the kitchen. He frowned when he saw Irene without an apron on. “Emergency at the MacKinnons,” she said to him by way of explanation.

  Alistair slapped Harold on the back, saying, “If ye can cook, I’ll have Leticia here within ten minutes to help out front.” Alistair paused to face them both before racing out the door. “Thank ye.”

  Helen sat at the table, smiling, as the men ate their fill of her simple but delicious food. She rose to refill a bowl of mashed potatoes and frowned to see a lone rider barreling up the drive. “Frederick, who is that?”

  He rose, paused a moment and then strode out the side door. “I’m not certain, but I’ll find out.”

  She moved to the table, her good mood fading the longer Frederick remained outside. When the door opened, she tensed.

  “Helen, if you would come with me,” Frederick said. He waited for her to pull on her jacket and precede him outside.

  “Alistair!” Helen gasped as she walked down the stairs and to the front drive. “Is everyone all right? Is it Warren?”

  Alistair shook his head. “He’s fine, except for that hard head of his that can no’ have sense knocked into it. It’s Annabelle. She’s havin’ her bairn, and there’s no one to help. Please, Helen.”

  She took a step back and instinctively shook her head. “I … The last birth … didn’t go well.”

  “Frederick was just explainin’ that to me. Hopefully Anna willna need yer help. But, if she does, an’ ye were no’ there …” He was unable to hide the panic from his gaze. “Please.”

  She stood there as indecisiveness raged within.

  “You did fine with the filly,” Frederick murmured.

  “Annabelle isn’t a horse,” Helen snapped.

  “I know. But you know what you’re doing with Annabelle, whereas you only had a book and your instincts to guide you with my prized mare.” He ignored Alistair and gripped Helen’s shoulders, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Be brave, Helen.”

  She met his intense, encouraging gaze. “Give me five minutes,” she whispered. She ran inside and grabbed a small pouch she had hidden among her clothes. She put on sturdy boots that Frederick had purchased for her and raced outside. When she arrived, two fresh horses had been saddled.

  “The sleigh or a wagon would be too slow,” Alistair said.

  “That’s fine,” she said. “Although I can’t ride as fast as you coming down the drive.” She saw him nod, grip Frederick’s hand, and then she gasped as he hefted her into the saddle.

  “I’ll take care of her,” Alistair said by way of parting.

  Frederick nodded. “Know you always have a home here, Helen.” He held her bridle until she was settled, and Alistair had mounted. “Good luck.”

  Helen rode beside Alistair, their pace fast, although not at breakneck speed. It prevented them from talking much, although it did not keep her from imagining all the calamities that could occur when she walked into the birthing room. She took deep breaths in an attempt to calm her nerves and focused on the passing scenery. The road was nearly bare dirt from the frequent travel on it, but a layer of fresh snow blanketed the mountains, the evergreen trees a dusty white with their coating of snow. Even the creek running through the valley was now invisible as it was frozen over. A low breeze blew, sending shards of frozen snow that felt like needles at them, and Helen tied her scarf over her face.

  “I ken what ye’re thinkin’. Nothin’ ye do will ease my tension. No’ until ye tell me that I have a healthy niece or nephew an’ that Anna is safe.” He shifted in the saddle.

  “I’m trying to help myself, not you,” she snapped as her breath exhaled in a quick burst. “I have my own dem
ons to face.” Her words came out stuttered as she bounced along on horseback.

  “Whatever ye do will be more than anyone else is able to. Remember that. Remember ye were willin’ to return to render aid after bein’ treated unfairly.” He paused. “Thank ye.” He then half smiled. “Let’s see if we can go a bit faster.”

  She groaned but increased her speed to a trot. When they arrived at Cailean’s house next to the livery, her fingers were numb from their grip on the reins. Her legs buckled when Alistair lifted her again to set her down, and she gripped him for a minute before regaining strength in her legs. “I beg your pardon.”

  He pulled her along, up the front steps and through the front door. A glance in the parlor revealed a pacing Ewan and a distraught Cailean. Alistair nodded to them both as he led Helen upstairs. “Remember what I said. Ye have knowledge no one else here does. Thank ye.” He squeezed her shoulder once before opening the door. He blanched as he saw Annabelle arch her back and scream in pain.

  Helen pushed away from him, her focus on the suffering woman. After washing her hands, she placed her palms over Annabelle’s belly. She frowned when her touch elicited a whimper. “It’s all right, Annabelle. Everything is fine.” She spoke in a soothing voice. “Your baby is in the right place but seems a bit impatient to meet you.” Helen looked to Irene. “When did her water break?”

  “Four hours ago.” She held a cloth to Annabelle’s forehead. “And she is having pains about every five minutes.”

  Helen grasped Annabelle’s hand. “Everything is going well, Anna. You have friends and family around you. Soon you will meet your son or daughter.”

  Annabelle gripped her hand. “This pain is normal?”

  Helen smiled. “Yes. Everything seems to be going well. You aren’t bleeding too much. Your baby is well positioned. I know you have a sense that you need to push. But I would wait a little while before pushing again. I think your body isn’t quite ready yet for that.”