Page 138 of The Frozen River

THE PARSONAGE TUESDAY, APRIL 20

We ride, hell-for-leather. The wind tears at my face and whips my hair into a frenzy. There was no time to pull it back before leaving. I’d had to saddle Brutus as well. Not to mention pack my medical bag and change into my riding dress. I met Doctor at the trees, and we were off.

Now we gallop, heads down; Brutus and Goliath sense the urgency and propel us forward as mud kicks up at our heels.

“Rebecca Foster did not send for you,” Doctor shouts, and the wind nearly rips her voice away.

“What do you mean?”

“Her husband called for me at the cabin. He was very specific that I not alert you.”

“Then why did you?” I shout.

“Because Rebecca is your patient. I know you care for her.” Doctor points one long finger at me. “And I have long since learned that people only come to me when they are keeping secrets. You will forgive me for being wary of such motives.”

It stings, this knowledge that Rebecca would hide her labor from me. That she wouldn’t want me there. I delivered both of her sons.

“How long has it been? Since you saw Isaac?”

“Less than an hour,” Doctor says.

“When did her pains begin?”

“I do not know.”

It is nearing one o’clock in the morning now, and I urge Brutus faster. At a full-blown gallop, it will be a ten-minute ride to the Hook. Without knowing her condition, it could be ten minutes too long.

The sky is clear and dark as ink, with only a slice of waning crescent moon to guide us. If not for that and the scattered stars, we would have no light at all. As we cross over Mill Creek Bridge, I see a shadow dart out of our way. Black and silver with eyes of amber.

Tempest watches us speed away.

We can hear screaming from the yard.

Doctor slides off Goliath’s back and tosses the reins to me. “I will meet you inside,” she says.

I dismount, then lead both horses to the hitching post to tie them off. They’ve run hard and bend their heads to the trough for a long, cold drink.

I gather my medical bag, uncertain what’s waiting for us inside. Isaac is nowhere to be seen, but I know my way around and go directly to the bedroom.

Rebecca is arched back against a stack of pillows, shift rucked up to her ribs. Legs open. Knees bent. Eyes closed. A fine trickle of sweat drips down her temple. Her hands fist the quilt beneath her, and her jaw is clenched.

Doctor looks at me in that calm, unnerving way of hers and shakes her head slightly.

“Is she ready?”

“Non,” she says, indicating the hard ball of Rebecca’s stomach. It is still high, under her ribs instead of flat and wide at her hips the way it needs to be for her to push. Doctor waves me over. “Come.”

I slide out of my riding cloak and set my bag at the foot of the bed. A single glance tells me that the baby’s head has not yet dropped, that despite the pain, this labor is far from over.

Once the contraction subsides, Rebecca’s eyes flutter open. If she is surprised to see me, she doesn’t show it. Or perhaps she doesn’t care.

“I asked for Doctor,” she says.

“I know. But I am here regardless. I will not leave you alone in this. Where is Isaac?”

Rebecca lifts her arm and points to the ceiling. “Upstairs,” she pants. “With the boys. They’re scared.”

She has no women to attend this birth. No family. No friends. It is only Doctor and I. And I fear we will not be enough.