The Witch of Tin Mountain(14)

Mary covered her round face with her hands and backed away from the massive bed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s only . . . well, she couldn’t find no comfort like that.”

Mama shook her head. “Go make yourself useful and bring fresh linens.”

“Yes’m.” Mary rushed from the room.

“These city maids ain’t worth a damn when it comes to birthing babies.” Mama ran a shaky hand over her hair.

“What do you want me to do?” Deirdre asked.

“Keep her calm so her womb might open. A babe can come this way just fine, if she’ll stop fightin’ things, but I’ll need to turn it as it comes, lessen the cord wrap its neck.”

“God help me! Make it stop!” Hannah arched her back, her mouth pulled into a rictus of pain. Deirdre put aside her nausea, made worse by her relentless, pounding headache, and sat on the edge of the bed. She pulled Hannah’s hand into her own. The girl’s skin was cool and ashy, but her pulse raced faster than a derby stallion. Deirdre raked back Hannah’s hair—wavy, thick hair the color of the deepest red maple leaves in autumn—and pressed a wet cloth to her forehead.

“Can I have water? Please.”

“A little.” Deirdre reached for the cup at Hannah’s bedside and offered it to her. “Drink it slow or you might be sick.”

Hannah drank too greedily and sputtered, the water dripping onto her sweat-soaked shift. “Am I going to die tonight?”

A sudden vision of Hannah, wasted, still, and pale, intruded upon Deirdre’s mind. She shook it off and pulled in a steadying breath. “You won’t die, ma’am. Not tonight. Just you lay back now and breathe.” She put one hand on Hannah’s forehead, and laid the other on the swollen, blue-veined rise of her belly, ignoring the niggle of fear in her own. Deirdre closed her eyes and focused her thoughts until they were sharp as an arrow: Rest, Hannah. All is well. Let your body do the work and the baby will come.

Within a few moments, Hannah’s breathing settled into a steady whisper and her belly softened. She rocked her head toward Deirdre and blinked drowsily. “You sure do have the prettiest eyes, Miss Deirdre. Blue as a jay’s wing. And your hair, so fine and dark. Surely you’ve a beau?”

Deirdre glanced down at Mama, where she knelt at the foot of the bed. Mama gave an encouraging nod. Right. Keep her talking.

“I . . . I have a beau, though he’s yet to talk to my pa,” she whispered, low enough that Mama wouldn’t hear. “I reckon we’ll be betrothed soon.” If Pa ever returned from laying track out west. Indian raids on rail crews and accidents were a constant worry that kept her and Mama pacing the floors when too much time passed between his telegrams. Anything could happen out in the western territories. “How did you and Mr. Bledsoe meet? I’ve never heard your courtin’ story.”

“How funny, I was most certain we’d spoken of it. At my tea social, after we returned from our nuptials. Remember?”

The Bledsoes had never socialized with Deirdre or her family. Deirdre counted it as labor delirium that Hannah thought they’d shared such an intimate conversation. Hill women and city women didn’t mix, as a rule. But for all their differences, Deirdre was certain they were the same age. There was a kind of kinship in that. “I’m sure we did speak of it, but I’ve forgot. Tell me again, Mrs. Bledsoe?”

“Please call me Hannah. Oh—” Hannah’s words were stolen by another contraction. She knotted her hands in the coverlet and howled. The panic flared in her eyes, and she thrashed her legs, nearly kicking Mama in the head. “Holy Jesus! It’s like I’m being torn in two!”

“Just breathe,” Deirdre soothed, calling forth her healing touch once more as she placed a hand on Hannah’s pain-knotted brow. “Don’t fight it.”

“Don’t fight it,” Hannah echoed. After a few moments, the contraction eased. Outside, the rain started up, bringing a welcomed coolness to the humid room.

Mama was busy between Hannah’s legs, whispering prayers. “Baby’s comin’ fast now, Deirdre. Get her on her feet.”

“All right now, Hannah, it’s time.” Deirdre scrambled across the bed and grasped both Hannah’s legs behind the knee and swung them over the side of the bed. She gathered all her strength and lifted Hannah beneath the arms in a tight embrace.

“I can’t stand!” Hannah’s knees crumpled and threatened to pull Deirdre down to the floor. She was shaking harder than a spring sapling in a hard wind.

“Then stay right here in a squat and lean against me. We’re goin’ to have this baby now, hear?” Between Hannah’s thighs, Deirdre could see the baby dangling half-born, slicked with birth fluids and blood. It was a boy.

Mama cupped its tiny buttocks in her hands, and gently rocked back and forth, trying to help the shoulders slip free. The baby began to turn, guided by Mama’s motions. “Now, when I say so, push hard as you can, Mrs. Bledsoe.”

“I can’t!” Hannah howled.

“You can and you will!” Mama worked fast, her fingers disappearing inside Mrs. Bledsoe. Suddenly, the pulsing, tangled length of cord unfurled from Hannah’s womb. Relief flooded through Deirdre. They were almost there.

“Push!” Mama ordered.

“Push now, Hannah!” Deirdre hollered. “Hard as you can!”