Wyoming Bride

by Joan Johnston

The gunman missed. He didn’t.

  Flint heard Emaline scream and turned his attention to the confrontation in the street.

  Tucker was down. Ransom was still standing.

  “You goddamn son of a bitch! How the hell did you beat him to the draw?”

  When Flint heard Patton swear, he realized the threat wasn’t over. He rose and saw that Patton’s gun was aimed at Ransom’s back.

  “Patton!” he shouted.

  The wealthy rancher turned to confront Flint, his face a mask of fury. “You’re a dead man, Creed. You and your brother both!”

  Flint’s reflexes were so heightened, he saw everything in slow motion. Patton took hours to aim his gun, took aeons to finally fire.

  Flint bolted left the instant he saw a flash of gunfire. In that same moment, he thumbed back the hammer on his Colt and fired.

  Patton’s bullet missed.

  Flint’s did not.

  He saw Patton’s eyes widen in surprise, saw the look of agony contort his mouth, saw him stumble forward.

  Even so, the miscreant’s gun came up, and he shot twice more. His first bullet went wide, shattering a picture window in a nearby saloon. The second kicked up the dirt at Flint’s feet.

  Flint’s own gun had not been silent. Both of his bullets found a home in Patton’s chest. He watched as a look of stunned disbelief crossed Patton’s face before he dropped to his knees and fell forward.

  Flint stood frozen for an instant, before his body began to tremble. He knew it was only the aftereffects of adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream. His hand was visibly shaking as he returned his gun to the holster.

  Flint met his brother’s gaze and saw the thanks there. He could feel his heart pumping hard and took a deep breath and huffed it out, trying to settle himself down. He felt dazed, unable to believe both he and his brother—and their two silly wives—had escaped unscathed.

  He turned and found Hannah still in a heap on the ground. He helped her to her feet and said in a voice made harsh by leftover fear, “Don’t ever do anything like that again.”

  She dusted off the back of her skirt and replied pertly, “I trust it will never be necessary to do it again.” Then she took a look at his face and said, “You’re white as a ghost.”

  “A ghost is what I nearly was,” he shot back.

  She placed her hand tenderly against his cheek and said, “What you were was amazing.”

  Flint realized he was smiling. He took her into his arms and hugged her tight. “So were you.”

  “You’re squashing me,” she said breathlessly.

  He held on tight, his heart thundering with relief, now that the worst was over and they were all alive and well. “That’s the price you have to pay when you decide to put your life on the line for somebody.”

  “Oh,” she said in a small voice.

  She looked up at him, her face flushed, and he realized, She hasn’t said she loved me, but would a woman risk her life for a man she didn’t care for at least a little? Maybe there was hope for him yet.

  She winced, and he asked anxiously, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m not hurt,” she protested when he began to search her body for some sign of injury.

  He shook her and said, “What were you thinking, Hannah? What possessed you to put yourself in the middle of a gunfight?”

  “I know I shouldn’t have done it,” Hannah said. “It was foolish. And I can see, in hindsight, that it was completely unnecessary. But I didn’t want to lose you.”

  Flint was stunned into silence. It was the closest she’d ever come to saying she cared for him. He wanted to pursue the conversation, but Emaline marched over and announced, “Ransom is furious with me!”

  She glanced at Ransom’s stiff back as he spoke with the deputy sheriff, who’d arrived to hear explanations and collect the dead.

  Hannah winced again.

  Flint frowned. “Something’s wrong, Hannah. What is it?”

  Emaline took one look at Hannah, met Flint’s gaze with large, anxious eyes, and croaked, “I think she’s in labor.”

  “Hannah? Is that true?” Flint asked anxiously.

  “Of course not!” Hannah replied. “If it’s anything at all, it’s false labor again. Let’s get the buckboard and go home.”

  Flint didn’t know whether to believe her or not. Her forehead and the space above her upper lip were dotted with sweat. Her whole body looked tense. But that was hardly surprising, considering what they’d just been through. “Don’t lie to me about this, Hannah.”

  “I’m okay. Really.” She attempted a smile but it was cut short by a wince. “Please,” she said. “Can we go home?”

  She was clearly more afraid of one of Patton’s cronies coming after them than she was of labor, if that’s what was going on with her. He thought of taking her to the doctor anyway, then remembered he wasn’t in his office. Besides, the sooner they were out of Cheyenne, the better.

  “Are you all right, Emaline?” Flint asked.

  She nodded. “But Ransom is mad at me.”

  “He’ll get over it,” Flint said. Patton was dead, but there would be other Pattons in the future. Before that next confrontation arrived, he was going to have a long, hard talk with his wife. He could fight his own battles. If Hannah really cared for him, she would trust him to take care of them both.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s collect Ransom and get the hell out of here.”

  Hannah was in labor. Not false labor, the real thing. The twinges she’d felt in Cheyenne had gone away. But this morning, on their last day of travel before reaching home, she knew the baby had decided to come early. Contractions had started in earnest.

  She was surprised, because she’d thought when labor started, it would mean constant pain. The pain came at regular intervals, but it didn’t last long, maybe ten seconds, and the contractions were far apart, only three in an entire hour.

  At least, that was true in the beginning. As they drew closer to home, the pains were longer, stronger, and they came more often. Hannah had said nothing, because she knew from her mother’s experience that the time from the beginning of labor to birth was likely to be as much as twelve hours. That was plenty of time to arrive home before the child was born.

  The weather was beautiful, sunny and surprisingly warm, considering that the ground was still patched with snow. It had been necessary for Hannah to drive the buckboard because she didn’t want to ask for any special favors, thereby revealing her delicate condition.

  She had to keep her labor secret until they’d passed by all their nearest neighbors’ ranches. Otherwise, she was sure Flint would have insisted they stop somewhere until the baby came. Hannah intended to give birth at home. She wanted this baby to be a part of Flint’s life from its very first breath.

  Assuming it had a first breath.

  She hadn’t allowed herself to focus on the fact that the baby was coming three-and-a-half weeks early. Flint had made it clear that his family would start with the next child. Mr. McMurtry’s child was welcome in his home, but it would be “McMurtry’s kid.”

  Hannah couldn’t allow that to happen.

  She wanted Flint to acknowledge this baby as his own. She wanted him invested in the child’s survival from the very beginning.

  Hannah did her best to keep from wincing as she felt another labor pain begin and held her breath until it was over. They weren’t far from home now. She decided to wait until they arrived to announce that she was in labor.

  She wished Flint wasn’t so angry with her. He hadn’t spoken another word of rebuke for her venture into the street to break up Ransom’s gunfight, but his lips had been pressed into a flat line for most of the journey.

  Ransom, on the other hand, had been chastising Emaline without relief every hour of the way.

  “Please,” Hannah said, bracing herself as a hard contraction kept going … and going. “Stop. That’s enough.”

  Her plea caused Ransom to turn on her and snap, “Y
ou two could have been killed!”

  “But we weren’t,” Hannah replied, her rigid shoulders slumping as the contraction finally ended. “Can’t you leave it at that?”

  “No,” Ransom said. “Not when my sister-in-law and my wife—two pregnant women—felt it necessary to come to my rescue in front of the whole town.” He turned cold blue eyes on Hannah and demanded, “What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking it would be better if you didn’t get yourself killed!” she snapped as another contraction came right on the heels of the one that had finished. It was too soon. Too soon! “I was thinking it was stupid to get yourself into a gunfight that might leave your wife a widow and your brother alone to run a ranch too big for one person to manage. I was thinking you’re an idiot to take that kind of chance!”

  Ransom’s jaw dropped.

  Flint’s mouth curved with the hint of a smile. “I have to agree.”

  “Et tu, Brute?” Ransom said.

  “What?” Hannah gasped.

  “It’s Shakespeare,” Emaline explained. “My idiot husband doesn’t appreciate his brother siding with you.”

  “Idiot husband?” Ransom protested.

  “I don’t agree with what you did, either,” Flint said, speaking to Hannah at last. “I think you were every bit as foolish as Ransom.”

  “Foolish?” Ransom interjected. “Now I’m a foolish idiot?”

  “Yes,” Flint said, a hard edge to his voice. “Because you played right into Patton’s hand. Another gunman was waiting to see if you survived your showdown with Tucker, so he could put a bullet into you, if need be. If I hadn’t gotten there when I did, things might have ended very differently.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Ransom flared.

  “You can’t think only of yourself anymore,” Flint argued. “You have a wife and a baby on the way.”

  Ransom glanced at Hannah, and she saw the blame in his eyes for her interference. “I’d do it again,” she said. “I’d rather have people think you’re hiding behind skirts than have you dead.”

  “I wouldn’t be dead,” Ransom argued. “I’m a good shot. And Flint had Patton covered.”

  “Only because we showed up in the nick of—” Hannah stopped in mid-speech, dropped the reins, grabbed her belly, and moaned.

  “What’s wrong?” Flint asked, angling his horse closer to the buckboard.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Emaline said as she picked up the reins Hannah had dropped.

  “What’s going on?” Ransom said.

  “I think this time she really is in labor!” Emaline cried.

  “Are you, Hannah?” Flint demanded.

  Hannah didn’t answer because the contraction hurt so much it robbed her of speech. She waited endlessly for it to pass. Then she met Flint’s gaze and gasped, “Yes. I am.”

  Flint swore, using epithets Hannah had never heard. At last he said, “How close together are they?”

  Hannah went rigid again, and Flint had his answer without her having to say a word.

  She glanced at Flint and saw the look of stark terror in his eyes before his gaze shifted to Ransom.

  “Don’t look at me,” she heard Ransom say. “It’s your baby.”

  “Not mine. McMurtry’s,” Flint corrected.

  Hannah didn’t contradict him because she was concentrating on the horses’ rumps in front of her, watching them plod, willing them to get where they were going before this baby was born. Flint’s attitude toward the child she was carrying convinced her she’d done the right thing. Once he delivered this baby, once he held the tiny being in his large hands, he couldn’t help but love it as though it were his own flesh and blood.

  The contraction finally ended, and Hannah let out a long, soughing breath of air.

  “It’s another five minutes to the house, Hannah,” Flint said. “Take it easy, if you can.”

  Hannah smiled ruefully. “I don’t seem to have much control of the situation. The baby’s making all the decisions.”

  “Scoot over, Emaline. You, too, Hannah,” Flint said as he maneuvered from his saddle onto the buckboard’s bench seat next to Hannah. He tied his horse’s reins on an iron ring, then took the buckboard reins from Emaline. “I don’t know what you thought you were doing, Hannah. Why the hell didn’t you say something sooner?”

  “I wanted this baby to be born at home,” she replied.

  “Hang on,” he said to both women. Then he lashed the horses from a walk to a fast trot. “Are you okay with this?” he asked Hannah as the buckboard bumped and heaved over the rutted road.

  She replied by grabbing her stomach to protect the baby inside from being jolted. Another contraction attacked her, causing her to wince and moan.

  Emaline’s arm came around her shoulders to steady her. “What can I do, Hannah?” she asked. “How can I help?”

  In the grip of an excruciating contraction, Hannah said nothing. She clutched Flint’s forearm with one hand and grasped Emaline’s hand with the other, then closed her eyes and held on for dear life.

  The contraction seemed endless. Hannah was counting the seconds. By the time she got to thirty, she thought she would go mad. When would it end? How much longer? She was in agony.

  She sobbed when the contraction ended and opened her eyes to discover that the wagon was stopped at the kitchen door of the ranch house. Emaline climbed down off the buckboard on her own, while Ransom ran to open the back door. Flint was already on the ground and reaching for Hannah.

  She slid gratefully into his arms and leaned her head against his chest as he carried her inside and up the stairs.

  “Set some water to boil,” she heard him tell Ransom. Then he turned to Emaline and said, “Get me some clean sheets, some newspaper, twine, and a pair of scissors. Have Ransom bring that water up when it’s hot.”

  Hannah was in the middle of another contraction by the time he reached their bedroom door. The guttural groan that erupted from her mouth sounded like the death throes of a wounded animal.

  “Easy, Hannah. Easy, girl. I’ve got you. You’re all right. It’ll all be over soon.”

  Hannah didn’t recognize the words Flint spoke, just the tone of his comforting voice. He promised it would all be over soon. She prayed it would, because she wasn’t sure how much more of this agony she could bear.

  Flint tried to set her down on the bed, but she clung to him, in the clutches of yet another unending contraction. By the time she went limp, Ransom was at the door asking, “What else can I do?”

  “Pull down the covers,” Flint said. “And put a match to that wood in the fireplace.”

  By then Emaline had arrived with some of the supplies Flint had asked her to retrieve, and he ordered, “Spread the sheets with newspaper.”

  As soon as she was done, Flint laid Hannah down and adjusted a pillow under her head. He spread the clean sheet and used it to cover her.

  “I’ll undress her,” Emaline volunteered.

  Hannah saw the fear in her eyes and said, “I can undress myself.”

  “I’ll help her,” Flint said. “Leave us alone.”

  “You sure, Flint?” Ransom asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  A moment later, the door was shut, and they were alone.

  “You’re cold,” Flint said when he saw Hannah shiver.

  “The fire will warm me up.”

  Quickly and efficiently, Flint got Hannah out of her coat and boots. He left her socks on, because he could still see his breath in the bedroom. By the time he was done, she was in the grip of another contraction. She clung tightly to his hands until it passed.

  He could see the torment in her eyes as she met his gaze. His heart was beating so hard he thought she must be able to hear it. “Are you all right?” he asked as she relaxed her hands and let out a whoosh of air.

  Despite the cold, sweat had popped out on Hannah’s forehead. “Labor is well named,” she muttered.

  Flint couldn’t believe he was going to have to deliver
McMurtry’s baby. What if something went wrong and the child died? Would Hannah blame him for the loss of the last thing tying her to her first husband? He’d often wondered whether Hannah had loved McMurtry, but he’d never asked because he was afraid of the answer. Maybe she was still in love with a ghost. Maybe that was why she’d never said she loved him.

  “Let’s get you out of those clothes and into a nightgown.”

  “I can do it myself,” she said, ducking her head shyly. “I’m enormous.”

  Flint met her gaze solemnly and said, “Yes, you are. Enormously beautiful.”

  She looked up at him in surprise. “What?”

  He laid his hands on her pregnant stomach, so he felt the next contraction begin. Her hands grabbed his wrists, and he watched with awe as her body struggled in an effort to expel the child inside her. When the contraction ended, he swallowed past the sudden knot in his throat and said, “That was amazing.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” she said irritably.

  He resisted the urge to smile. “Let’s get you more comfortable.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible,” she shot back.

  He went to the clothes chest and looked in the two drawers Hannah used until he found one of her nightgowns. He returned to the bed and undid the buttons on her dress, then pulled it off over her head. He drew the nightgown down over her head and waited while she shimmied out of her underclothes. Before he could even throw the clothing aside, she was caught by another shuddering contraction.

  “Let me know when you have to push,” he told Hannah.

  Hannah wasn’t speaking. She was grunting, animalistic, guttural sounds that seemed to come from her very core, as the contraction went on … and on … and on.

  Flint was afraid to count the seconds. Toward the end of labor, he knew the contractions were longer and closer together. Hannah seemed racked with pain, and he had no laudanum to ease it.

  “I wish you’d said something sooner, Hannah. The baby’s early. We could have used a doctor.”

  Hannah exhaled noisily when the contraction ended and then gulped air into her heaving lungs. “It’s too late now, Flint.” She looked up at him and said, “I trust you.”