Just Fire

by Dawn Mattox

  Paige started to rise and then sank back onto the couch. “I am right where I need to be,” she said with conviction. She surveyed the cabin.

  “So this is where Logan . . .”

  “We need to go. I am getting you out of here.”

  “I’m not going to a hospital, so you can stop with all the ER talk. It's not going to happen.” Paige was adamant.

  “That’s what you think,” I said, raising my voice. “You have no say. We are leaving—now. Think of the baby!”

  Paige sighed. “I am thinking of the baby, and I’m not going anywhere. I think about the baby all the time. You can’t know. You’ll never understand. Not really. Besides . . . you’d never forgive me.”

  Anger battled with curiosity, the two emotions using me as a punching bag. I struggled with the truth—Paige was having Chance’s baby. The certainty pierced like a sword in the heart, although ax in the back might be more accurate. I couldn’t think about that now. I needed to stuff my emotions, knowing they would wait, lurking in fearful shadows in the corner of my mind. More critical thoughts pressed in.

  “You can apologize later,” I said. “We have to go.”

  Paige fell back, lying on the sofa, talking to the ceiling. “If I go to the hospital, they will find me. They will find us. They’ll take my baby . . . and I am not going to let that happen.” Her face was set, her voice grim. “This is the only safe place, and you’re going to have to help me, like it or not.”

  I felt my jaw bounce off my knees. I couldn’t possibly have heard right. I needed to stick my fingers in my ears and shake them until they unplugged. That, or shake Paige until her teeth rattled and the baby fell out. Not really. But almost.

  “Don’t freak out on me,” said Paige. “Women have been having kids forever. How hard can it be?” She lifted her brows dismissively, then scrunched her face and curled upward, clutching her belly and crying out as if in answer to her own question. Falling back, Paige breathed heavily as her eyes took on a glassy, otherworld look.

  “Mexico,” she said in a voice as soft as the falling snow and just as chilling. “It was so bad that it kind of blurs . . . one man after another. It never stopped.” Paige’s eyes darted back and forth as if she were flipping through a picture book of horror stories.

  “At first, I fought to live because I knew my dad would rescue me. I kept thinking; if I can just make it through today.”

  A single tear formed at the edge of her eye, as bright and hard as a diamond stud shimmering in the light of the kerosene lamp. “The next day came . . . but my dad never did . . . not for a really long time.” She sniffed and the cloud lifted. Her expression hardened. “They won’t find me here.”

  “Nobody wants you, Paige.” I winced. “Sorry. That’s not exactly what I meant. I meant to say that the cartel wants me, not you. They want the guns and money that Logan stole from them. Listen, I need to go get help.” I could make it to Joyce and Kenny’s house before dark if I ran.

  I had a plan. “My neighbor—my friend—Joyce has given birth nine times. She can help you while Kenny and I drive out to the road and call an ambulance.”

  Paige moaned—louder this time. I glanced at the clock. Her contractions were about ten minutes apart. I considered Search and Rescue and rolled my eyes. Where is Chance when I need him? “I’ll go get help. Maybe they can medevac you out of here.”

  “No, don’t leave me,” Paige pleaded as she grabbed my arm, “promise me. Promise!”

  “Okay, okay,” I promised, rubbing my arm. Paige left me no choice as she succumbed to another, stronger contraction.

  “You need to calm down and take a deep breath—count one, two, three, four,” I said.

  I was not a midwife. I was an advocate, and I had never given birth. Since this was the only breathing technique I knew, I offered up a silent prayer and instructed Paige in the way Chance had taught me.

  “Breathe in, one, two, three, four. Hold, one, two, three, four. Breathe out, one, two, three, four. Hold, one, two, three, four. Let’s do it together.”

  Okay, this wasn’t exactly in the Lamaze handbook. The breathing technique was designed to prevent heart failure. I figured if it didn’t help Paige, it might help me.

  Paige let loose with a yelp that caused my heart to skip a beat—or maybe two or three.

  I helped Paige undress between contractions and wrapped her in my bathrobe, grabbed scissors from the junk drawer in the kitchen, put a pot of water on the stove to boil, and brought some towels down from upstairs—because that was what they always did in the movies.

  Maybe Paige is right. Maybe I can do this. My mother gave birth to me right here. I was born in this cabin. My father caught me with one hand and a hook.

  The single-pane windows nearly shattered with Paige’s next contraction. Her cries echoed through the mountains sounding more like the death throes of a wounded animal than the ushering in of new life.

  Throwing another log in the heater, I paused at the door to look up the road—searching for a miracle, when I saw . . . something.

  Probably snow sliding off a tree. Maybe a deer.

  I dared to hope, but I didn’t budge.

  Something darker than the encroaching night bolted from behind a tree and disappeared behind another.

  Paige struggled to sit up. “What’s wrong?” she panted. Her loose hair resembled a blonde cotton mop wrung with fear and pain. Strands clung to her face with long wet fingers that magnified her look of terror.

  “I think something. . . or someone is out there.”

  “Ohmygod!” Paige sobbed.

  “Shut up, Paige! I can’t think,” I said, clenching my teeth and spinning away from the door. “You brought this on yourself. On both of us! You should be in a hospital with security, not here.”

  “I’m sorry. I'm sorry, Sunny. I am so sorry!”

  “Too late for sorry,” I tossed the words over my shoulder, crouched, and continued my surveillance. Nothing happened. I crept back to Paige. “What’s really going on?”

  “He’s here,” she gasped, hanging on my arm. I pushed her back down and pulled up the blanket. “He’s here . . . Oh God . . . I am so sorry . . . sorry for everything.” Paige fell back in exhaustion, heaving, and sobbing.

  CHAPTER 24

  I stared at her with an open mouth and ever-widening eyes. “Good God Almighty! What have you done? Who the hell is out there?” I pressed Paige, mad enough to choke her. “Who. Is. It?”

  Paige’s scream recalibrated and then dropped, from brain-piercing shrill to a series of determined grunts from behind clenched teeth. Her eyes bulged, mirroring her swollen belly as she pushed against the armrests with her hands and feet. The baby was coming regardless of our wishes, regrets, or fears.

  I glanced at Paige, then the front door, and then the upstairs bedroom. “Fuck!” My obscenity trailed me through the house as I raced for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Frantically digging through my closet, I tossed sheets from the shelf and kicked shoes and boots across the floor. Logan’s ghost probably laughed as my heart thudded in my ears.

  There! There it was—in the furthest corner. A furry brown teddy bear dressed in black leathers, wearing a happy smile beneath a Harley Davidson cap and a black leather vest with little silver chain extenders. The bear had been a Christmas gift from my father when I was ten. Right now, it was the best gift of all.

  With a shout of triumph, I hastened back down the narrow stairs, clutching the bear to my breast.

  “Wake up, Daddy! It’s Christmas! Get up!” I bounced on my father’s bed with all the exuberance of a Labrador puppy.

  Lefty yawned and rolled over in his otherwise empty bed. “It’s too early, girl! Christmas isn’t until next weekend.”

  “Da-deee!” I exclaimed in exaggerated distress.

  “Merry Christmas, baby girl.” He laughed, sweeping me into his bear hug, planting a big sloppy kiss on my cheek and tickling me before advising, “Now, you scoot downstairs before I get o
ut of bed and you see something you shouldn’t,” he warned.

  Screaming a little girl’s shrill scream of ecstatic joy, I flew down the stairs to let Frito outside while Lefty got into his trousers and headed down to join me. Then I tugged the sliding glass door open, letting Frito back in and the heat out as he yapped and barked and danced around us. We all gathered dutifully around a scrawny Christmas tree that I had cut myself and strung with dried cranberries, popcorn, pine cones, and chicken feathers. I thought it was beautiful.

  Lefty held a package behind his back in his good right hand, scratching his beard with the hook on his left. It was good to see my father smile. He’d hardly ever smiled since Starla had left us on the Fourth of July. I supposed that had been her way of declaring her independence. Lefty planted another kiss on my forehead, and I hugged and kissed him back. Starla would have rolled her eyes and told me I was too old for such nonsense if she had been there. There were times like this when I was glad she was gone. We don’t need her, I told myself, although I secretly hoped that she might come home for Christmas, of all days.

  “What did you get me, Daddy?” Excitement flashed from my father’s eyes, like the morning sun off the snow after a hard night’s freeze.

  Lefty produced a dark-brown biker teddy bear, dressed in black leathers and a black vest, wearing a Harley Davidson biker cap. My father had modified the bear with a little metal hook where his left paw should have been. Squealing with joy, I threw my arms around his neck. “Oh, Daddy, I love it! It looks just like you.” I held it to my heart.

  Lefty roared with laughter. “So where’s my gift?” he asked.

  I shyly brought out the school project I had worked so hard on and hidden last night beneath a pillow on the sofa. It was my school picture, trimmed and glued onto a papier-mâché sun with red and orange glitter flames fanning out around it and a braided yellow yarn loop to hang it up.

  I had never seen my father cry before. He was a tough man. Sometimes a violent man. My dad had been feared with good reason. Yet tears that I would always treasure twinkled like jewels in the corner of his eyes. “It’s perfect,” he said. “This is the best gift any dad could ask for.” He wiped his eyes. “Time to stoke the fire and get us some breakfast. I love you, Sunny girl.”

  “I love you, Daddy. Merry Christmas.”

  Grabbing the scissors from the end table, I attacked the teddy bear, repeatedly stabbing it in the back until a gaping wound allowed me to reach inside and pull out the small .22 caliber pistol that now lay in my hand like a troubled heart waiting for defibrillation.

  Looking around, I stuffed a small flashlight into the waistband of my pants and blew out the lanterns, sending the oily scent of kerosene into the air. We were out of time. Moving back into the living room, I studied the area up near the gate. Deer don’t hide behind trees, and neither do honest people. The old window rattled in protest as I raised it a few inches. Only six bullets. I knew I had to make each one count.

  Taking careful aim, I waited. And waited. The metal was cold against my sweating palm. It had been a while since I’d shot a gun, but told myself that it was like riding a bicycle; I just needed to keep my balance, keep my head, and focus on where I wanted it to go.

  The shadow darted from behind a distant Ponderosa, sprinting forward. I squeezed the trigger; the sound magnified in the little room, bouncing off the walls and causing Paige to cry out in fear. The shadow froze for a heartbeat and then stumbled forward through the snow, throwing itself behind a thick cedar. The odds of hitting my target in the failing light, through a curtain of snow at that distance with a little .22, were zilch. I could only hope to slow his progress and buy some time. Let him know that I was armed and dangerous.

  “I can’t do this.” Paige gasped, falling back on the couch. “I’m going to die. I brought this on myself. It’s him. It’s my—my—eee . . . uhhh . . .”

  Spotlighting Paige with the flashlight, she cried out with a deafening bellow of fierce determination as she curled her upper body, gripping a pillow between her hands while pushing her feet against the armrest. I saw with mounting horror a red stain blooming on the sheet beneath her.

  So much blood.

  I crept over and lifted the corner of her robe, and as I did, a tiny face emerged from Paige’s body. Without a thought, I reached for the baby as it slid from a warm, safe world into a cold, dangerous one, right into my outstretched hands.

  I had never seen anything born. Breathless, trembling with the awesomeness of the moment, I was torn between the exquisite freshness of new life and the utter terror of the threat lurking just outside. Worse still, I was terrified of accidentally killing the baby through ignorance.

  Time stopped for a few beats—and then, it was as if a divine shot of adrenaline coursed through my body, jump-starting my heart once more. Letting go with one hand, I reached tentatively to touch the wrinkled little face—its first contact with the outside world—protesting, batting tiny fists furiously in the air. A feeble wail followed—as thin and fragile as a snowflake, but piercing enough to unleash an avalanche of events, sending out vibrations of new life—created life—life born with a purpose.

  “Oh, Paige!” My voice shook as I set the baby on the sheet between her legs and reached for the scissors on the end table. Still shaking, I cut the end of my finger as I severed the umbilical cord, watching in amazement as blood from my finger dripped onto the baby's forehead as if sealing our destiny.

  "Paige… it’s a . . .”

  Paige laid silent, motionless, eyes closed, semi-conscious. I thought she was dead. Quickly, I wrapped the infant in a towel and placed it next to her. I pressed my fingers to Paige’s neck, silently cursing Chance. Alive, I thought, although I wouldn’t know a weak pulse from a strong one. Chance was the one with EMT skills, not me.

  Paige released a deep sigh of relief—the kind of sigh a laborer gives marking the end of a hard day—as the placenta slithered onto the sheet beneath her. Another gush of blood.

  Too much blood. I knew “bad” when I saw it. No time. I simply wadded the extra towel and snugged it between her legs, pulled the robe down and blankets up, expecting the door to be kicked open at any moment.

  “I’m sorry, Paige. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I’ve got to go. It’s me they want me, not you.”

  Paige cast about with her eyes as if searching for an answer, finally nodding. She whispered, “Take the baby.”

  “They don’t want you or the baby,” I assured her.

  Precious seconds were slipping away.

  Armed with the .22, I crept back into the living room and crouched below the window. Scanning the forest through the dim snow-lit night, I studied the scene with the instincts of a hunter until; at last, a movement caught my eye. I spotted the figure, who was dressed in black that was two shades darker than the encroaching twilight. He had continued his forward motion, closing half the distance from the bottom of the driveway to the cabin since I’d first spotted him. I had about two minutes left to make life-or-death decisions. Doing nothing was not an option. I pulled the trigger, firing a second shot.

  Paige didn’t scream this time, but the baby wailed. Pulling on my coat, I stuffed the flashlight in my pocket. Giving the gun to Paige, I kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll bring back help. I promise. If anyone comes through that door, shoot him—and don’t stop until you’re out of bullets. You understand? You guys will be okay.”

  Paige’s voice garnered strength as she did the unthinkable. Pressing the .22 to the side of her head, she snarled in fierce determination, “You will take my baby, or I will pull this trigger.”

  CHAPTER 25

  “Okay, okay. Don’t do anything crazy. Put down the gun. For God’s sake, put it down. Save the frickin’ bullets for whoever is coming through that door.”

  I picked up the baby with trepidation. God, it’s so little. A deep breath to steady myself, “I’ll do it, but I’m not responsible,” I said as I swaddled the mysterious creature
within my fleece throw.

  The kitchen door opened with hardly a sound as I stepped onto the raised porch and then dropped down. We fled through the orchard, where the last shades of twilight faded the snow to dingy lavender, plunging toward the dark purple shadows that pooled beneath the forest canopy. Past the bomb shelter and down past the Maidu grinding stones, into the steep dry wash that ran along the backside of the property—leaving a trail as plain as a freeway exit.

  The baby whimpered softly from deep within the bundle as I loped, heading away from the paved road, into the woods and toward the safety of Joyce and Kenny’s home. It was labor-intensive. Plowing my way through the half foot of snow was like trying to run through sand. I couldn’t move fast enough.

  Pop!

  A single shot cracked the night.

  Tripping, stumbling, catching myself, breathing hard, I turned to look back, uncertain, wiping my face with the back of my hand, then stumbled on to the end of the wash.

  A branch snapped somewhere behind, cracking like a hot streak of lightning, splitting the muffled hush of the falling snow and sparking terror another degree. Veering sharply from the wash was a steep bank that led to the crest. Not far, but steep.

  A deadly silence reigned, only broken by an occasional swish and thump of snow sliding from laden branches. Then a crunch. The sound propelled me forward as I struggled up the bank. Freezing air tore at my lungs as the sting of sweat trickled into my eyes.

  Constant praying, “Oh God, tell me I’m not smothering the baby, not killing the baby, not hurting the baby . . . please don’t let the baby cry.”

  Almost there.

  These were my woods, and I knew where I was. My playhouse wasn’t far now. Launching over the top of the ridge, fiercely clutching the tiny bundle, I planted my butt in the snow, scooting and sliding down the steep embankment on the other side until coming to an abrupt stop against an ancient oak. Not just any old oak. This tree held a secret within its heart, a heart that had been slashed by lightning, burned by fire, and hollowed by time. The keeper of secrets—where Frito and I had played and whiled away many happy hours of imaginative fun—was now my refuge. My temple. I crawled inside the heart of the oak and prayed.