After the Storm - Lenora Worth

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company outright. Now Mack would have to decide what to do about expanding the company in a strained economy. Jared was out of the picture. Completely. Once he’d signed the final papers earlier today, selling out his shares to his partner, there had been no turning back. Jared should have felt relief, but instead he’d just felt drained and sick. Old and washed-out. Empty and betrayed.

      We took too many risks, Jared thought now as the wind and rain whistled around his dark hair. And Mack had taken the one risk that had ended their friendship forever. Only, that risk had nothing to do with business. It had been strictly personal.

      Nothing like a best friend stealing a fiancée right out from under a man’s nose to bring that man to a crashing midlife crisis.

      “I’m too young for this,” Jared reasoned as he battled the cold wind and the even colder water hitting his face. Too young for a crisis, but too stupid to see what had been so clear and right in front of his eyes.

      Well, he could see now. Or at least by the time he’d trailed all the hills and bluffs of Dover Mountain, he’d have it all figured out.

      The cold air caused Jared’s eyes to tear up and his nose to turn red. It was a wet spring night, unusually cold for April. Not a good night to be out on a lonely mountain road. Instead of helping him get his mind off things, being here only brought home the problems he’d left behind in his fancy Atlanta penthouse and the memories he’d tried so hard to leave behind in his mind. Maybe he should just turn around and go back to the city. But he didn’t want to turn around. Jared’s failures were chasing him up this mountain as surely as the driving storm was chasing at the trees.

      He turned to the right and saw a single light shining from a cabin up the lane.

      Always leave a light burning.

      His grandparents had taught Jared that. Always leave the door open for hope, they’d said. Jared had come back here in hopes of finding some of the faith and strength his grandparents had tried to instill in him. And maybe finally to face his own shortcomings. He wondered if he’d be able to conquer those shortcomings.

      Or even to make it up this drenched mountain to that beckoning light.

      She was in trouble.

      Alisha Emerson held one hand to her protruding stomach as yet another pain shot through her with the ferocity of a lit fuse. With her other hand, Alisha held the wall as she struggled toward the bedroom. Could this be it? Was her baby coming? But it wasn’t time yet. The doctor and the midwife had both told her another two weeks.

      In spite of the chilly Saturday night, sweat trickled down Alisha’s face. She could feel the cold sweat of fear and anticipation moving down her back. She wished that she’d had a phone installed six months ago when she’d moved here, but Alisha knew it was too late to do any second-guessing now. She had refused a phone because she wanted to save money, and she didn’t want to talk to anyone. She didn’t want anyone to find her. Or call her. She’d been trying to protect herself and her unborn child. But now, she wished she’d thought ahead, just in case.

      She’d thought she had everything planned out. Mrs. Wilkes had offered to let her oldest daughter, Geneva, come to stay with Alisha just before the baby came and even afterward. But Geneva wasn’t due back in Dover Mountain for another week. She lived in Fort Stewart with her new husband, but had planned on coming home to stay during the spring while he went away on temporary duty in Iraq. The girl had readily agreed to the job, since she could use the money Alisha had offered, and since it would help to ease her own loneliness, too.

      Lonely.

      Alisha had never felt so lonely in her life. With a groan, she made it to the bedroom where a single kerosene lamp burned on a small grapevine table. At least she had that one source of light, since the storm had knocked out the electricity. The next round of labor pains knocked her down on the bed. Alisha grabbed the baby-blue chenille bedspread that had belonged to her mother, her fingers digging against the worn, plush fabric. Even the pain brought her a small measure of comfort on this dark night, since she knew that meant she’d soon have her baby in her arms.

      But she wanted that baby to be born safe and warm, without any problems. She needed help. She’d never make it up the mountain to the Wilkeses’ trailer with this terrible storm brewing outside. She probably couldn’t even make it to the next cabin up the hill. And if she did, she might not find anyone there anyway. Loretta Wilkes had told her a renter was coming to stay for a month or so. But Alisha wasn’t sure when the renter was due to arrive.

      And besides, she didn’t like strangers.

      “Lord, I need Your help now,” she whispered in a fevered prayer. “I need You, Lord. You brought me here, You protected my baby in the womb. Please protect this birth. Please, Lord, bless this birth. Send me somebody, Lord.”

      Alisha’s prayer became a constant plea as she struggled through the first stages of labor. Her water hadn’t broken yet, so if she could hold on until morning, she might have a chance. She could at least go out on the road and wait for someone to come down the mountain then. The few commuters to Dalton and the other surrounding towns usually drove down the mountain around five each morning, but then with this storm…

      Alisha let out a gasp as another realization hit her almost as hard as her labor pains. “Tomorrow’s Sunday.” No one would be coming down the mountain. They’d all be headed to church.

      Tomorrow was Easter Sunday.

      Telling herself not to worry, she realized this could just be false labor. She’d read about that. It was probably a false alarm, a welcoming warning of the real thing. No need to get all worried until things got worse.

      Things got worse in the next hour. The pain in her stomach felt like a vise grip pressing on her center, her fear increased with each beat of her heart, and her back was hurting all over. She twisted to her side to relieve the pressure on her back, but the pain seemed to keep on coming.

      Outside, the storm hit with the same intensity as the pains in her stomach. She could hear the wind moaning, could hear falling limbs crashing against the shingled roof of the tiny cabin. Thunder and lightning banged and hissed through the night, making her own pain seem more frantic and fast-paced.

      Grimacing, she shifted so she could see the windup clock by the bed. Well after midnight, but still a long time until morning. Trying to stay calm, Alisha began timing her contractions. They were coming about every ten minutes and lasting about thirty seconds. From everything she’d read in her pregnancy books, this was all right for now. If she could just stand the pain. She didn’t think beyond what she would do if they started coming faster and lasting longer. She didn’t think beyond the timings.

      “But I have to think,” she said to the silent, creaking cabin. “I have to be prepared. Didn’t I learn that lesson a long time ago?”

      Deciding to take matters into her own hands, Alisha managed to get up and gather some clean blankets and sheets and place them on the rocking chair by the bed. She held onto the wall by the window for a while, watching the driving rain just past the tiny porch. The woods and trees looked so angry and full of turmoil as water and wind covered them in a heavy whitewash. Alisha longed to go out into the rain, to be washed clean again. To be pure and fresh again. To find some beauty. Every now and again, the wind would pick up and the rain would blow past the window in a great huffing breath of swirls and water.

      As she stood there, Alisha realized that she was utterly and completely alone. After a while, another contraction hit her. She held on to the wall, her gaze on the trees being tossed about out in the forest, her prayers trapped inside her throat as she worked against the increasing pain and fear. Then she went back to the bed and tried to rest.

      A few minutes later, Alisha lay back as another contraction passed, her eyes focused on the driftwood-and-seashell cross hanging on the planked wall across from the bed. Her now-deceased mother had given her the beautiful cross when Alisha had gotten married over ten years earlier.

      “Never forget who gives us strength, honey,” her diminutive mother had told her in a tear-strained voice.

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