Page 127 of The Frozen River

“Yes. There.”

“The baby is putting pressure on your back. You might ask Sam to rub it a bit at night. If he wouldn’t mind.”

I can see only her profile, but a dimple breaks that one cheek. “It’s never taken much convincing for him to put his hands on my arse.”

I’m delighted that May is comfortable enough with me now to joke. There is nothing more important in a birthing room than trust. “I’ll make sure to tell him myself, as well, before I leave. Where is he?”

May pushes up on her elbow and blows a strand of hair out of her eyes. “The barn. Working on the yoke, I think. He wants to start training the new oxen at first thaw.”

I look out the window to the dirty, gray landscape and the pines no longer frosted white. Hallowell shows every indication of going from ice directly to mud.

“He’s optimistic,” I say.

“He’s a farmer. He has to be.”

I help May off the bed and back into her dress. Together we go downstairs, and I leave her with a syrup of goldenrod and bearberry to help reduce the swelling in her ankles.

“Only one teaspoon per day. Any more than that and you’ll be thirsty,” I instruct. “Take it just before bed so it can work overnight. But don’t be surprised if you’re up several times to use the chamber pot.”

May thanks me, then sees me to the door, and I am startled to realize the air is neither frigid nor unwelcoming. I drape my riding cloak over my arm instead of my shoulders.

Brutus is tied at the hitching post, fidgety and kicking at a dirty mound of old snow.

“Just give me a moment,” I tell him, “then we’ll go home.”

I walk around the side of the house and toward the barn. I can hear Sam inside, banging on something and cursing rather artfully. “You piece of shite! You broken, filthy cock robin.” Two loud thumps as though something heavy has been dropped, then kicked. “Dirty bastard.”

Uncertain what I might find inside, I tap the barn door with my knuckles before stepping through. I was right about the kicking. The oxen yoke lies on the barn floor, bent at a strange angle, and Sam gives it one more good whack with his boot. He’s been at it for quite a while by the looks of him. Hair askew. Jacket off. Sleeves rolled up and shirt damp from sweat along his back.

“I’ve never known a thing to get fixed by being kicked,” I say. “What’s wrong with it?”

Sam looks up, startled. Then he points at the yoke. “The beam is twisted.”

“And cursing it helps?”

“Aye. Helps me feel better about being stupid enough to leave it out all winter to get wet and warped under the snow.”

Sam shrugs then and lifts the heavy piece of wood off the ground to hang it on a rack by the stall. His forearms are bare, veined and covered with the same coarse red hair that sits on his head.

“Let me pay you,” he says, shoving his hand into his pocket. When he pulls it out there is a mishmash of things in his palm: an old button, a rusted nail, a chunk of salt, a strip of tattered lace, an arrowhead, a piece of twine, and a handful of coins. The flotsam and jetsam typical of any man who works with his hands throughout the day. He starts to count out the money.

“Save your fee until the child is born,” I tell him. “These visits are included.”

He looks at his palm and frowns, but he doesn’t argue as he returns the collection of odds and ends to his pocket. His hands are filthy from work, and when he notices my careful observation, he drags them down the front of his shirt.

“How is May?” he asks.

“Very pregnant and uncomfortable,” I say.

“She’s well, though? Nothing is wrong?”

“She thinks that she’s carrying twins.”

The look on Sam’s face is one of abject terror. “Is she?”

“Just the one, as far as I can tell. Though it does seem to be rather large. Like its father.”

“Is that dangerous?”