A Different Blue(114)

I would lose my composure. I wrapped both of my hands around his and held on gratefully. After

several deep breaths, I whispered my thanks as another wave of pressure and pain built within

me.





Chapter Twenty-One





My assigned nurse was in and out. Wilson always made sure to sit at the head of the bed, trying

desperately to respect my modesty as much as possible. He kept his eyes on my face as she

checked and pronounced me at five centimeters, then six and then six and a half. And then the

progress stalled.

“You wanna get up and walk a little? Sometimes it helps things along,” the nurse suggested

after an hour of watching the clock and counting contractions with no improvement. I didn't want

to walk. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to cancel the whole event.

“Come on, Blue. I'll help you. Lean on me.” Wilson helped me sit and with the nurse's help I

pulled another hospital gown around my back like a robe, tying the strings in front so I

wouldn't moon the folks as I strolled. And we walked, up and down the hallways, my slippered

feet trudging along beside Wilson's longer stride. When the pain was too great to move and my

legs shook with the strain of keeping upright, Wilson locked his arms around me and pulled my

forehead into his chest, talking quietly as if standing in his embrace was the most natural

thing in the world. And it was. My hands clutched his upper arms as I trembled and groaned, and

I whispered my gratitude to him again and again. When the pain would ease and I would regain my

breath we would retrace our halting steps once more, and when I was desperate for distraction

from the relentless waves, I poked at Wilson.

“Tell me a story, Wilson. It can even be a long, boring, dusty English tome.”

“Wow! Tome. Learn a new word, Echohawk?” Wilson wrapped his arms around me as I sagged against

him.

“I think you taught me that one, Mr. Dictionary.” I tried not to whimper as the pain swept

through me.

[page]“How about Lord of the Flies?”

“How about you just kill me now?” I ground out, my teeth gritted against the onslaught,

appreciative of Wilson's diversionary tactics if not his choice in stories.

Wilson's laughter made his chest rumble against my cheek. “Hmm. Too realistic and depressing,

right? Let's see . . . dusty tomes . . . how about Ivanhoe?”

“Ivan's Ho'? Sounds like Russian porn,” I quipped tiredly. Wilson laughed again, a sputtering

groan. He was practically carrying me at this point and looked almost as exhausted as I felt.

“How about I tell you one,” I offered as the pain eased, and I stepped back from the circle of

his arms. “It's my favorite story. I used to beg Jimmy to tell it to me.”

“All right. Let's make our way back to your room and see if all this walking has done any good.

”

“This is the story of Waupee –”

“Whoopee?”

“Very funny, Wilson. Fine. I won't use his Indian name. This is the story of White Hawk, the

great hunter, and the Star Maiden. One day, White Hawk was out in the woods hunting and he found

a strange circle in a clearing. He hid at the edge of the clearing and watched, wondering what

made the strange markings.

“Ahhh. Now I will discover the origin of the crop circles,” Wilson interrupted once more.