“Any news of Hartville that I haven’t already heard?” Annie drew in a breath of beeswax and freshly starched curtains. Her travel-weary body ached for a hot bath and clothes not covered in grime and dust.
Josie flashed a mischievous grin. “As a matter of fact, there is. Two of the Hart boys have recently tied the knot.”
The mention of that family still had the power to pull the breath from her lungs. She forced a casual tone. “Oh. Which ones?”
Josie laughed, her keen eyes no doubt sensing her sister’s discomfort. “Not Travis. He’s still single. Of course, that wouldn’t matter a bit to you, now, would it? Come on, Robbie. Let’s see if we can rustle up some corn bread and milk.” Their footsteps clattered across the wood floor.
Annie dragged in a ragged breath. Why, oh why, did the very syllables of his name still have the strength to unravel her? As if she were an ancient tapestry, able to bear up under any strain but that.
Josie said his single state wouldn’t matter much to her.
Nor would it. Too much had happened since those days, far too much. Why, they probably wouldn’t even recognize each other, if they passed on the street.
Never mind that she had kept every line of his face, every shadow of his smile, hidden deep within her heart. As if their past was some long-ago burial mound, each bone carefully preserved.
Best left to molder in silence.
San Antonio, Texas
Wasn’t he supposed to be deriving some sort of pleasure from this long-awaited vacation?
Travis Hart ran his gaze across the hotel dining room. Crystal chandeliers. Cream linen tablecloths and napkins folded into odd-looking fan shapes. Black-jacketed waiters serving slices of iced cake, tall glasses bubbling with champagne.
And, of course, the bride and groom. One mustn’t forget them.
The happy couple, along with their families, sat at a long table at the head of the room. The groom, Matthew Wellington, leaned forward and placed a kiss against the lips of his bride, Eliza Littlefield. The young lady giggled and wrapped her arms around her new husband’s neck, both heedless of propriety and the indulgent smiles of their family and friends.
Fiddling with the silver fork next to his untouched plate of wedding confectionary, Travis looked away.
All he seemed to do was attend weddings these days. First his youngest brother, Hays. Then his other brother Chisholm. Today he’d witnessed the nuptials of his friend from the army, Matthew Wellington.
Of course, since Pa’s edict five months ago, weddings seemed to be the main topic of everyone’s thoughts. At least where the Hart family was concerned.
Not that Travis disliked marriage. Quite the reverse, in fact. He was happy for Matt and Eliza. The pair had endured more than their share of hardships in the years following the war, a war that both Matt and Travis had entered as first-year med students, and ended as men who had seen horrors that ought to belong only in nightmares. Only…
All right, he’d admit it. Every bride walking down the aisle, pretty and aglow in white, every groom waiting for her at the front of the church, every joining of hearts, lives, futures, lanced the wound he tried so hard to keep bandaged and out of sight.
Annie Parker.
It’d been too long since he allowed himself to think her name. Yet here, at this festive event, it entered his mind, demanding to be heard. Like a pain ignored until the agony became too great to allow for any course of action other than dealing with the source.
Even now, he saw her face, bright against the canvas of his mind. Even now, he could hear her voice, feel her hand brushing his. How beautiful she’d been, with that strawberry-blond hair, those ever-changeable eyes that could only be described as hazel. Her smile wasn’t an ordinary one, a mere turning up of the lips. No, it transformed her face, turned it aglow, and the room with it…
Enough. She was gone. Out of his life. For good.
He was at the wedding of his good friend. He would enjoy himself, even if he had to struggle through the doing of it like a new med student watching his first operation and trying not to keel over. Other women populated the world. He could still have a chance at fulfilling his father’s demand.
Travis stood, pushing in his chair, leaving the cake and champagne behind. In the flurry following the ceremony, and the short drive from the church to the hotel reception, he hadn’t properly wished his friend well. He wove his way through the clusters of tables, narrowly avoiding a collision with one of the waiters, who bore an alarmingly large tray of more cake.
Matt and his bride were oblivious to all else around them, his hand on her waist, her lifting a champagne glass to take a sip, then putting it to her groom’s lips. Travis hesitated. Should he intrude? Yet after making the seven-hour trip from Hartville to San Antonio, he at least wanted to say a few words, give some good wishes.
Travis put his hand on the back of his friend’s chair. Matt turned, a grin stretching his mouth.
“Well, if it isn’t old Trav Hart. Why didn’t you come over earlier? I didn’t even know you were here.”
Travis smiled. “Looks like you’ve been pretty well occupied.”
Matt chuckled. “Pretty well. I still can’t believe my good fortune.” He sent a long and loving look in Eliza’s direction. “For a man to have a woman such as this to walk through life with, is a blessing that only God, in His great mercy, could provide. You should try this business of marriage one of these days, my friend. You might find it suits you.”
“It obviously suits you. So tell me, Mrs. Wellington. Do you have a lasso ready to keep my friend in line? If not, you’d better let me rustle one up. Matt here can be quite the—”
Thud.
In an instant, Travis shoved past Matt. Eliza’s portly mother had fallen facedown onto the table. Supporting her head and shoulders, Travis assessed the woman. Still breathing. Pulse fast but not dangerous. A faint. Nothing more serious, as far as he could tell. But until she awoke…
Matt crouched at Travis’s side, both working as the team they had once been. Travis undid the buttons securing the top of her too-tight collar. Matt left his side, returning seconds later with a bottle of salts volatile.
Travis uncapped the bottle and waved it under the woman’s nose. Within a couple of seconds, a slight movement of the eyelashes told him she was reviving.
“Oh … my…” Mrs. Littlefield stared up at Travis with a dazed expression.
“Are you all right, Mother?” Eliza’s eyes were wide and worry-filled.
“I … I believe so.” Mrs. Littlefield’s fingers fluttered to her collar. Her hand shook.
“You’re perfectly fine, Mrs. Littlefield. You fainted. How much water have you drunk today?”
“Well … what with the wedding and the preparations and the guests … not nearly enough, I’m afraid.” She took the tumbler proffered by Matt and managed a few swallows. “How can I ever thank you?” Mrs. Littlefield’s voice became stronger, her face turning a more normal shade of pink.
Travis smiled, gently releasing his hold upon the woman. “I’m a doctor, ma’am. It’s my job to help people.”
“You’re just fortunate Dr. Hart responded so quickly. If it had been something more serious…” Eliza shuddered and buried her face against her groom’s chest.
“God’s timing is always perfect.” Travis patted the older woman on the shoulder. “My advice to you would be to drink several glasses of water per day, especially in this heat. And wear less constrictive attire.”
“Oh, I will. I will.” Mrs. Littlefield bobbed her head. “Thank you so much again, Dr. Hart.”
“Now, if you all will excuse me, it’s time for me to start heading home. I think I can safely release you into the care of your more-than-competent son-in-law.” Travis said his good-byes to Matt and Eliza, then exited the opulent dining room. It had been a relaxing couple of days, a chance to see some of his San Antonio colleagues and attend the wedding of his friend. But he would be glad to see the road to the 7
Heart Ranch and even gladder to return to his patients.
Helping people, healing them, was his life’s work. Hadn’t the past few minutes proved that? After the years of war, his profession gave him security. A calm consistency to his future. One that didn’t need marriage to be brimful with purpose.
His father’s edict notwithstanding.
Chapter Two
It might have been midnight. Or one. Whatever the hour, no matter the weather, the passing seconds filled Annie with a mix of exhilaration and dread. Every fiber of her body focused on one goal—arriving at the home of the mother-to-be.
The road, dark and unlit as a graveyard at night, lay uncharted before her. She gripped the reins of her mount, one of her father’s dappled gray mares, as the animal stumbled over some obstruction. A rock, perhaps. Beside her, Mr. Tatum urged his horse to move faster with a whip of the reins. A universal thing, that. No matter if the expected baby was their first or eleventh, good fathers were always anxious. Always eager to return to their wives’ sides with a midwife to aid.
A stream of light glimmered up ahead, casting dark and shapeless shadows. As they drew closer, Annie made out a farmhouse, middling size with a wraparound porch.
Mr. Tatum dismounted first. Annie flung her legs over her animal’s side and landed on the ground. She grabbed her saddlebag and rushed to the door.
Blinking at the sudden wash of light, she made her way down the hall, following the sound of groans she had come to recognize as oncoming labor. The two Tatum children stood at the foot of the stairs, sleepy-eyed and nightshirt-clad. She gave them a quick smile and then hurried onward.
Candles lit the room. A woman in her late twenties lay on the bed, legs drawn up, face damp with perspiration. Annie had met Helen Tatum once before, when she’d visited each of Mrs. Miller’s patients to inform them of the switch in caretakers.
She placed her saddlebag on the chest of drawers, just as the sound of Mr. Tatum’s heavy boots clunked down the hall, and he stepped into the room. He stared at his moaning wife, hands hanging helpless at his sides.
“Hot water. Lots of it. Towels, clean ones. Now, scoot!” Annie washed her hands in the basin and pitcher that sat atop the chest of drawers and tied on her apron. At least this family had a standard of cleanliness. She’d seen a thousand times worse.
“Are your pains often?” She dried her hands with the coarse towel and laid out her supplies atop the bureau. String to tie off the cord. Surgical scissors to cut it. Binding sheet for bandaging the cord stump. Remedies like castor oil and a tin of specially concocted herbal tea.
Helen didn’t answer, her features contorting as she gasped, panting. Fetal stethoscope in hand, Annie waited until the contraction passed. She bent low, moving the instrument across the woman’s distended middle, ears straining to locate the fetal heartbeat.
Her own breath quickened, pulse hammering. Annie laid aside the stethoscope and gently probed Helen’s abdomen.
No. It couldn’t be. Her first case as the midwife of Hartville, and the baby was presenting breech. A scenario she’d only seen twice. Twice!
God, please. Protect this woman and her unborn child. Give me strength and knowledge.
She couldn’t, in good conscience, deliver this baby without a doctor’s supervision. Had they been miles from medical help, she would have done her best. But Hartville was only half an hour away. What if forceps were needed? Only doctors were trained in the use of the instrument, something she and Mrs. Campbell, the midwife she had worked with in Galveston, thought ridiculous.
More boots clomping. Mr. Tatum entered with an armload of towels—far more than needed.
Annie explained the situation in a few quiet words, passing lightly over the possible dangers so as not to alarm the man overmuch. He listened, jaw tense with anxiety, then bolted down the hall to fetch the doctor, like a racehorse at the final stretch. The slam of the front door reverberated through the house.
She returned to Helen’s bedside, performing an internal examination, which only confirmed the breech presentation.
“Everything all right?” Helen shifted on the bed.
Annie gave a quick smile. “There’s nothing you need be alarmed about. But your baby is presenting breech, which means we’re going to have to move you a bit.”
“You mean my baby’s coming out wrong end first?” Helen bit her lip, sucking in a breath.
She nodded. “I’m afraid so. We’re doing this together, Helen. I’m going to work with you every second of the way. Now, I’m going to help you scoot down to the end of the bed, with your legs hanging off just a little. That will help when it comes time to push this baby out. Ready?” Annie supported Helen’s shoulders, the woman’s weight making her own back ache.
After Helen was in the proper position, Annie did another examination. Between contractions, Helen gasped out that her waters had broken two hours ago.
Annie’s throat went dry. This baby wasn’t about to wait for any doctor. The buttocks were already in sight.
Helen’s shrill cries smote the air like gunfire. Writhing and moaning, the woman obviously wanted to push.
“Slow pushes, Helen. Not too hard. On your next contraction, I’m going to hook my fingers under the baby’s legs and bring them out. I need you to remain completely still and try to relax.” Annie’s voice shook as she positioned her hands in time for the next contraction. Perspiration dripping down her face, she reached inside the birth canal, carefully sliding out first one leg, then the other.
Helen wailed. “Make it go away! Please, just make it go away.”
Annie gave an encouraging smile. Helen’s pain was no doubt a good deal worse than a normal third-time delivery. Poor woman. “You’re doing wonderfully, Helen. In just a few more minutes, your baby will be born. Pant now.”
Footsteps came up behind her. Annie scarcely heeded them. Another couple of pushes and the rest of the body emerged. Only the shoulders and head remained inside the birth canal.
Someone handed her a towel. She took it, not bothering to see whether it was Mr. Tatum or the doctor. The latter, probably. Mr. Tatum likely didn’t know the first thing about the importance of these next moments, the risk of asphyxiation if the baby gasped due to an onslaught of cold air.
“Nearly over now. You’ll get to hold your baby, Helen. Keep thinking about that.” Midwives could produce encouraging smiles on command, and Mrs. Campbell had trained Annie well.
Helen only groaned as Annie turned the baby a quarter circle. On the next contraction, the shoulders slipped out.
It seemed to take an eternity for another contraction to arrive. It came, finally. Annie grasped the towel-wrapped baby as the head was born.
A moment later, the little girl emitted the sound that was music to every mother and midwife—a hearty cry.
Annie repositioned her hold on the baby. She had been kneeling on the floor for what seemed like hours—in reality only less than two. How would she ever manage to get to her feet? No matter. She’d marshal her legs later. The cord. It needed to be tied off.
A hand produced scissors and string. She tied and cut the cord, then passed the baby to Helen. The woman cradled the infant in her arms, tears of joy replacing those of pain.
Annie’s hands and the front of her apron were in need of a thorough scrubbing. She clambered to her feet with the grace of a drunken barkeep.
A man stood just behind her. In an instant, the space of thirteen years vanished with the speed of winter twilight.
Rumpled dark hair. Liquid brown eyes, flecked with gold. A face that had brought her to tears, haunted her dreams, lingered in so many memories.
Travis Hart.
In all his imaginings about their meeting, he never thought it would happen like this. Travis had been roused from his bed in the middle of the night by a frantic Andy Tatum. He’d thrown on some professionalism, along with a few clothes, and stifled his yawns on the ride to the Tatum residence.
He expected to find Mrs. Miller.
And instead encountered the woman he’d been powerless to forget.
The years had changed her. When he’d seen her last, thirteen years ago, she’d been a slight girl. Beautiful then. Even more so now. She was still thin, but some of her slender fragility had vanished. Erased by the war and the years after, no doubt. Circles ringed her hazel eyes. Stains from the evening’s events covered her apron, her gray skirt creased and wrinkled.
He’d yet to see a sight he found lovelier.
“Annie.”
“Y–yes…” She stared at him as if he were an apparition from the grave.
A thousand questions raced through his mind like unbridled horses on a stampede. Why are you here? How could I have not known you were in Hartville? Have you even once thought of me?
Yet his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, mobile as cement.
The infant’s mewling cries snapped him to reality. There was the afterbirth to be delivered, the baby to be cleaned and checked over.
Annie seemed to come to the same conclusion. Instantly she became the professional midwife; he, the dedicated physician. They worked in silence, passing instruments back and forth, changing the bedsheets. Annie cared for Mrs. Tatum, while he washed and assessed the baby. The newborn girl kicked tiny feet, her lips puckering. Holding an infant during its first moments on earth had always seemed to him a miracle. Proof of God’s goodness, His hand on every season of life. Tonight, that miracle was twofold. The woman he never expected to see again had come back into his life.
Would he once again be forced to let her go?
Travis placed the clean, swaddled infant back into the mother’s arms. Helen gave a sleepy smile of pure contentment.
“Thank you both for everything,” Mr. Tatum said.
“We’re—I’m glad to be of help.” Annie placed the last instrument in her bag and closed the clasps. She’d worked with greater efficiency than most doctors, setting both mother and room to rights in very little time. Admiration filled Travis. “I’ll come by tomorrow to check on you and your baby, but for now, everything seems to be in order.”
Seven Brides for Seven Texans Romance Collection Page 18