Shelter Mountain (Virgin River #2)(97)

When she got inside, she went immediately to the phone before taking off her boots or coat. She lifted the cordless and punched some numbers, then listened. No ring went through. She disconnected and listened. No dial tone. Oh, crap, she thought.

Now it would be okay to cry, she told herself. She started to snivel a little bit, trying to calculate in her mind where she might be in her labor in a few hours, when it finally occurred to Jack to hitch a ride home. She flicked the light switch. Nothing. Okay, it was definitely okay to cry, she thought. No electricity, no phone, no doctor, only one idiot midwife on the premises. And baby coming. Coming.

Mel sat down at her kitchen table, her hand on her abdomen, and tried to collect herself. She took several deep, calming breaths. There was nothing to do but get ready, in case the baby came at home. She was dripping wet from the rain. She’d attempt to check her dilation, which could be a challenge, given the big bulge in the way. But first, she’d find a way to protect her mattress, gather some towels and blankets, basin or pan, medical bag by the bed. She’d take a quick shower—if she could get her boots off. That always proved harder than she thought, and before she had the second one off, the next contraction came.

She found a couple of plastic trash bags. She stripped off the bottom sheet on the bed and spread them across the mattress. Over the plastic, she smoothed out a couple of towels, then replaced the fitted sheet. A couple more towels on top of the sheet. She pulled extra pillows out of the closet to prop herself up. She gathered up the candles from the kitchen, living room, bedroom and set them up on her dresser and bedside table. Oh, she hoped she didn’t have to deliver herself by candlelight. In the middle of all this, she was hit again—big one. She had to sit on the edge of the bed for a few moments to get through it. Then she got the baby blankets and more towels and put them by the bed.

Finally set up, she headed for the shower. She started the water so it would get hot, stripped off her wet clothes, kicking them aside, washed her hands thoroughly and waited rather impatiently for another contraction to come and go. When it had, she squatted, legs apart. She held on to the bathroom sink with one hand to keep balance. Slipping one hand under her belly, she slid her fingers into her birth canal, reaching. This was the best she could do. She pushed gently, reaching. This was a damn difficult maneuver. One, two, three fingers and some room—God. Already seven-plus—she was cooked. She knew at that moment, she wasn’t going anywhere.

She pulled out her hand and with it came a gush of amniotic fluid, spilling between her legs onto the floor.

Okay. No shower.

She tossed some towels onto the floor to sop up the spill, then tried to dry herself off. If she were attending someone else in birth, she’d have the mother walking, squatting, rocking her h*ps side to side, using gravity to assist that baby downward and out—but this was a different ball game. She wanted some company—at least Jack, and preferably John Stone or Doc.

Her flannel granny gown would be a poor choice for a labor garment, so she chose one of Jack’s oversize T-shirts. She pulled the shirt up around her br**sts, got into bed atop a couple of thick, soft terry towels, covered her belly with the sheet and hoped to keep back the labor for a while. Long enough for someone to see that truck up against the tree; long enough for someone to try phoning her and discover the lines were down.

She pulled the fetoscope out of her bag and listened, very gratefully, to the baby’s strong and regular heartbeat.

Thank God Jack was a worry wart. It might come in handy for once. She felt another contraction and looked at her watch. Two minutes long. She waited—less than three minutes later, another, and with every one, more amniotic fluid was being pushed out. Another couple of minutes—oh, Jesus, this boy was going to come barreling out of her.

Jack tried to call Mel, just to be sure she made it back to the cabin without incident, because the storm had really picked up right after she left. But there was no answer. Maybe it took her a little longer—given the rain. He tried again ten minutes later, but there was still no answer.

“She pick up yet?” Rick asked.

“Not yet. She said she wanted to go home and take a shower, get into bed. She’s probably in the shower.”

It was nearing the dinner hour and there were a couple of people in the bar. Jack brought them drinks, then went back to the phone. No answer.

“Could she have turned the phone off?” Preacher asked him.

“Probably. To keep me from calling her every ten minutes to ask her how she’s doing.”

Paige was getting rolls ready to put in the oven. She laughed at him. “Jack, she’d call you if she needed you.”

“I know,” he said. But he dialed. Nothing.

A little while later he was pacing. “You think she could be sleeping through the phone ringing?” Preacher asked.

“I’d be surprised if she actually slept,” Jack said. “Her back is killing her.”

“I hope she isn’t having back labor,” Paige said rather absently. “I had a lot of that with Christopher. It’s awful.”

“She’d know if she was in labor,” Jack said.

“Yeah, I suppose. But I didn’t,” Paige said. “Not until it moved around to the front, and by then I was pretty far dilated.”

Jack threw a look at Preacher, at Rick—a stricken look. How long ago had she left? A half hour? Hour?