I frowned. “You all right?” I asked, though, judging by Lessie’s complexion, she very much was not all right.
Lessie swayed slightly, her breath going shallow, and then, as the coach hit an obnoxiously large rut, one I was sure could have been avoided, she promptly collapsed onto my shoulder.
“Oh, come on, Lessie,” I muttered. We were thirty hours away. Couldn’t she hold on for two days?
I was never getting to Carsondale.
The coach gave another brutal lurch. Now actively holding up a full-grown woman, I whipped my head toward the front of the coach, motioning wildly at the nearest person who seemed to have some pull with the driver.
“Whoa!” I barked, waving my arms. “We have to stop!”
The driver did not immediately comply. Instead, he sucked his teeth, glanced over his shoulder, and then drawled, “We can’t get off schedule.”
I resisted the very real urge to throttle him. “Oh, well, let me just inform the baby that it’s a bad time!” I snapped. “Maybe it’ll climb back in for a few more miles.”
The driver did not look impressed. He looked at me. Really looked at me, and I was once again all too aware of the wave of my hair in the stifling heat. He was likely weighing if this cargo was worth the trouble. The other passengers, previously contentto ignore Lessie, now muttered nervously, concern bubbling up in unhelpful whispers.
I took a sharp breath, turning to look at Lessie, now fully unconscious and slipping farther down the seat. One of the many practical skills Spelman had equipped me with, including how to properly humiliate a man in polite conversation, kicked in.
I scanned the horizon, running calculations in my mind. Ten miles back, there had been an inn and a general store, meaning water and—if we were lucky—a set of clean cloths and someone with at leastoneuseful medical opinion. This was a well-traveled route, which meant someone here had probably seen a baby being born before. Or at the very least, had the common decency to panic alongside me.
“If you don’t stop,” I said, “this woman may expire in your expensive little carriage. And passengers who have gone to meet their maker don’t pay.”
The driver blinked. That got his attention.
“There is a fort a few miles up, just outside Boulder. That fort can’t supply anemptywagon, much less a wagon of nine souls. If we stop there, I’ll have to continue on without you. The horses need feed and rest.”
I sighed. “I’ll take my chances.”
“And it’ll be hell finding a wagon to stop there for…”
He didn’t have to finish:for Negro women and a baby.
When we reached what truly was an abandoned fort, the driver yanked the reins, pulling the coach to a shuddering halt. The dust kicked up in angry little swirls, but I barely noticed. Lessie had lost her water in a wet rush down her simple dress. Everyone in the carriage wanted this problem gone. I took her and was already moving, barking out orders, enlisting the help of whoever had the good sense to listen.
Major, solid thing on this whole journey, swung down from his perch and, without a word, moved to assist, his hands steady, his expression unreadable. I ignored him. Absolutely refused to acknowledge the embarrassing fact that I was damned grateful for his stabilizing presence.
UNBEARABLE COMPETENCE
The fort was a sorry thing, more suggestion than structure. They called it a fort, but I had been to church picnics more defensible. Supplies were low, and the first officer overcharged us for cold coffee. His buttons were mismatched; his face looked unfinished, like God had decided to scrap the project mid-creation.
The baby was coming, the mother was sick, and the whole ordeal was swiftly becoming the kind of situation I had spent my entire life avoiding. That is, one that required both improvisation and excessive sweating.
Major, bless him, had rolled up his sleeves and was now, utterly unbothered, boiling cloths like he’d been doing it since boyhood. It was both infuriating and helpful. I chose not to tell him which. When my hair was puffy from the sweat and fell in my face, Major pulled it away and tied it with his handkerchief. The soft brush of his fingertips on my neck made the hair rise there.
Lessie drifted between groaning and prayer.
“Why’d you get off with me?” she asked suddenly, voice tight with pain.
I shrugged, dabbing her brow with a clean cloth and pretending not to hear the honest note in her voice. I didn’t have an answer I liked—at least not one that wouldn’t lead to uncomfortable warmth or, worse, mutual respect. What would we do when we parted ways on this trip? Cry? I couldn’t open myself up to that. And truth be told, she shouldn’t be looking at me like I’m worth a hill of beans anyway. I don’t know if a week ago I would have gotten off that wagon. Lessie was dark as a rubber tire and poor asa mouse, and a big part of me is ashamed to know that would’ve once been reason enough for me not to get involved.
“I suppose I like a challenge,” I muttered, reaching for more rags and studiously not making eye contact. She snorted, then promptly grimaced into the next contraction.
She was tough in the way women are when life never gives them permission to be anything else. Just a body that knew how to survive.
“You hear this, Major? She”—Lessie groaned—“likes a challenge.”
Major ran a hand over her forehead.
