Year One (Chronicles of The One #1)(126)

“I don’t think waiting’s an option.”

“I don’t mean wait. I mean … Okay.” Military training kicked in. He simply put himself in combat mode.

“Let’s get you upstairs.”

“My water broke all over the floor.”

“I’ll mop it up later. I’ve got what we need upstairs.”

“What we need?”

He solved the let’s-get-you-upstairs issue by picking her up. A hefty load, but he could handle it. “I read the book, right? Clean shower curtain, towels, blankets, stuff. I’ve got this.”

“I need to have this.”

“I’ve got a stopwatch. We need to time the contractions. So, you’ve had a couple—about what, five minutes apart?”

“I don’t know how many. I thought they were the other kind. Why are there another kind? Whose idea was that?”

One of them, at least one of them, had to keep calm. “Give me a ballpark on how long.”

“A couple of hours I guess. I’m an idiot.”

“A novice is different than an idiot.” He carried her into his parents’ room, stood her beside the old four-poster. “I’m going to get the stuff. Can you hang on here?”

“Yes. I feel okay.”

Since he didn’t know how long that would last, he made it fast. He had the stackable containers, came back with them, spread out the shower curtain, piled up the towels.

“’Cause it gets messy. Ah, I can get you another shirt. That one’s wet.”

She looked down at herself, up at him. Closed her eyes for just a moment. “I guess it’s past time to worry about being embarrassed.”

She pulled it off, stood in the dim glow of gaslight looking to his eyes like some sort of fertility goddess. Ripe, beautiful, unearthly.

What she was, he reminded himself, was a woman in labor.

And he was the designated medic.

“I’m going to help you into bed, then I’ve got to get the rest of the stuff.”

He eased her onto the bed, spread a blanket over her, switched on the little gas fireplace his mother had loved.

“Be right back. Ah, breathe through it, right? In through the nose, out through the mouth. Wait, here.” He pushed a stopwatch into her hand. “Time the next one. How long it lasts, then start timing how long between.”

He moved fast, sterilized scissors, lengths of sturdy string, a cup of ice, a bowl of warm water, and cloths. He scrubbed his hands, under his nails, wished he’d thought to scavenge some doctor’s gloves from somewhere.

He organized everything while she breathed through a contraction.

“They’re harder. Really harder. That was like a minute after four minutes between.”

“Got it. So, the book says when you’re getting close I can see the kid’s head pushing against … down there. I should, ah, look. The next contraction.”

Propped up against pillows, she stared straight into his eyes. “When’s your birthday?”

“My birthday?”

“I need to know something more personal about you.”

“Weird, but June second.”

“Your middle name.”

He smiled a little. “James.”

“The first time you had sex.”

“Come on.”

“I’m serious. You’re about to study my vagina.” She arched her eyebrows when he winced. “If you’re going to study it, you should be able to handle the name for it. And compared to that, I asked a casual question.”

“I was sixteen. Before you ask, her name was Jessica Hobbs, and we fumbled through it one night in my thirdhand pickup on the side of the lane. Second time was better for both of us.”

“All right.” She looked toward the window. “Did you let the dogs back in? It’s really blowing out there.”

“Yeah, they’re in. Sleeping in my room. Do you want—”

She pushed up on a gasp. “Here it comes.”

He lifted the blanket, gently shifted her legs so the flats of her feet sat on the bed.

Don’t think, don’t react, he ordered himself. He’d seen cows calve, mares foal. He’d … Holy God.

“I don’t see her yet, so we’ve got some time.”

He dampened a cloth, wiped at her sweaty face, and wondered why the female of any species agreed to the process of perpetuating it.

Three insane hours later, he knew damn well there had to be a better system. Technology, medical science should’ve found a way. As the contractions came harder, closer, he wiped at her sweat with his good hand. She’d pretty much crushed the bones in the other gripping it each time the pain peaked.

He fed her ice chips like the book suggested, ran down for more between bouts. Every few contractions he checked for the money shot, and wondered if he’d ever be able to have sex with a woman again.

He breathed with her as the wind screamed outside, as her pain-glazed eyes stared into his—as he sacrificed the future use of his right hand—Jesus, the woman had a grip.

Toward hour four she collapsed back against the mound of pillows, the ring she wore on a chain glinting between her breasts.

“Why won’t she come out!”

“The book says the first one especially can take awhile.” At a loss, he brushed the sweat-dampened hair back from her face. “I remember my mom saying I took about twelve hours.”