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Varina’s words ended in a gasp as another contraction seized her swollen body. Donovan reached for his sister’s hands and clasped them tight. Varina’s work-worn nails clawed into his palms as she twisted in agony. She would not cry out if she could help it, he knew. Her two younger children, Katy, six, and Samuel, a stoic four, sat huddled on the puncheon bench next to the cookstove. The sounds of their mother’s travail would frighten and upset them.
Donovan had sent eight-year-old Annie posthaste down the gulch for the midwife when Varina’s pains began in earnest. But that had been more than two hours ago, and in the interim it had begun to snow—the big, wet, feathery flakes of a spring blizzard. Annie could be anywhere, but he dared not leave Varina to go looking for her. He could only pray that the plucky child would be safe.
Donovan cursed silently as he stroked his sister’s hands. He cursed the snow and the unplanned early onset of Varina’s labor. He cursed Varina’s gold-chasing husband, Charlie Sutton, and the fool’s dream that had lured him to this miserable place. He cursed the mine cave-in, five weeks ago, that had left Varina widowed with three young children and another on the way.
Donovan had received the news about Charlie by letter. He had taken leave from his sheriff’s job, planning to fetch his sister and her children back to Kansas. Only on his arrival in Miner’s Gulch had he learned that Varina was in no condition to travel. And only then had he discovered her abject living conditions.
The first sight of the isolated, one-room hovel had wrenched Donovan’s stomach. Ten years ago, Varina had been a belle, with dancing hazel eyes and flame red hair. She’d been raised to a gracious plantation life, pampered by slaves and courted by some of the finest young bloods in Virginia. Seeing her brought to this was almost more than he could stand. If flighty Charlie Sutton had been here to answer for how he’d done by her, Donovan would have given him the whipping of his life.
The contraction had passed. Varina lay exhausted on the sweat-soaked pillows, her lashes pale against paler cheeks. Leaving her for a moment, Donovan crossed the cabin and stepped out onto the rickety front porch. He needed a little time alone to think about what came next.
Snow swirled around him, blurring the ghost white trunks of the aspens that stood around the cabin. Even when he strained his eyes, Donovan could see no more than a stone’s throw into the icy mountain twilight. What if young Annie had gotten lost out there? What if she’d fallen off a precipice or run afoul of a marauding cougar?
A wave of panic swept over him. “Annie!” he shouted, cupping his mouth with his hands. “Annie!”
The only answer was his own voice, echoing off the rocky cliffs. He was overreacting, Donovan admonished himself. Annie had grown up in Miner’s Gulch. She could find her way blindfolded. Most likely, she’d simply had trouble locating the midwife in town—yes, that could be it. Or maybe the wretched female was too busy to come right away, and Annie was having to wait for her.
Donovan had met the midwife briefly on her last visit to check Varina. He had not been impressed. She was a spinsterly creature with pince-nez spectacles, skinned-back hair, and a Yankee’s crackling, brittle speech—an odd presence in a town where nearly everyone had come from the South. When introduced to Donovan, she had not even raised her face to meet his eyes. She’d turned away so fast, in fact, that he’d scarcely gotten a decent look at her.
All the same, something about the woman had plucked a familiar chord in him. It was almost as if he’d seen her somewhere before. Try as he might, however, Donovan could not place her. He was imagining things, he’d concluded at last. Such an unsettling Yankee female would not have escaped his memory in the first place.
What had the children called her? Miss Sarah—that was it. Miss Sarah Parker. And when she wasn’t delivering babies, they said, she ran a school in the rooms she rented above the general store. Oh, he knew the type. A Bibletoting, hymn-singing do-gooder. She probably wore long woolen underwear that scratched—on purpose.
Donovan glared into the snow-speckled darkness, swearing under his breath. If Miss Sarah Parker did not get here soon, he would have to deliver Varina’s baby himself. He could manage a normal, easy birth, he supposed. But Lord, what if things didn’t go as they should? How would he know what to do?
Lamplight from the open doorway flooded the porch as little Katy’s voice shattered his thoughts. “Uncle Donovan, Mama needs you! She says to come right away!”
The baby! Donovan lunged back into the cabin, fighting paroxysms of cold fear. Why did it have to be now? What if he did something wrong? The infant could die. So could Varina.
“Sit with your brother and keep him quiet,” he ordered the wide-eyed Katy. “Tell me if you hear anyone coming.”
He stepped behind the quilt to see Varina writhing in the bed, her back arched in agony. “It’s…time,” she gasped. “I need Sarah—”
“Sarah’s not here yet. You’ll have to make do with me for now.” Donovan leaned over her, praying silently for strength. “Tell me what to do, Varina.”
“There’s a bundle in that reed chest…right on top. Get it….”
Fumbling in his haste, Donovan cleared the clutter from the top of the chest and raised the lid. The bundle was there, as she’d said. With shaking hands, he unrolled it on the foot of the bed. Inside were some threadbare cloths stiff from laundering, a string, a small, sharp kitchen knife, and a pint of cheap whiskey in a flat, brown bottle. He could imagine the purpose of the cloths. And the knife and string, he supposed, were for cutting and tying the birth cord. But what the devil was he supposed to do with the whiskey? Wash with it? Force it down his sister? Take a swig himself?
“Hurry—” Varina’s hands clawed the patchwork coverlet. How did she find the strength to keep from screaming? Donovan wondered as he jerked back the bedclothes and, with effort, spread the clean cloths under the lower part of her twisting body. He would have sent the two children outside to wait on the porch, but in this damnable snowstorm—”
Donovan—” Varina caught his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh. “It’s…coming!”
Sweat broke out like rain over Donovan’s body. It was almost over, he reassured himself. Minutes from now, Varina would be nestling her newborn child in her arms, and he would be looking on in pride and joy, wondering why he’d been so scared.
Heart racing, he seized her hands. “Hold on tight!” he rasped. “Hold on and push for all you’re worth!”
Varina’s fingers taloned on his knuckles. Donovan could feel the strain in her, feel the excruciating effort as she struggled to give birth. Her face was a contorted mask in the yellow lamplight. The cords along her neck stood out like ropes.
“That’s it!” Donovan urged as if he were prodding a faltering horse. “Come on, you can do it!”
“No—” Varina fell back on the pillow with an exhausted sob. “I can’t,” she whimpered softly, her head rolling from side to side. “Something’s…wrong.”
“What—?”
“I don’t know—my other babies were easy—” She gasped as the next pain ripped through her tired body. Again she arched and struggled, battling vainly to push her child into the world.
Sick with fear, Donovan stroked her hands. Women died this way, he reminded himself. If he didn’t do the right thing, and do it quickly, he would lose both Varina and her child.
But what was the right thing? He’d had no experience in birthing, not even with the animals on the plantation. An old slave named Abner had taken care of such matters. What he wouldn’t give now for Abner’s capable, dark hands, or for the quiet presence of Abner’s wife, Vashti, who’d attended the slave women. Donovan felt as helpless as a child. And he was the only hope Varina had.
Damnation, where was that midwife?
Donovan bent