Christina’s in labor. Heading to cottage now, then hospital. Meet us there.
The first fat drops of rain hit the windshield as they drove around the lake. By the time they reached the cottage five minutes later, it was a downpour—sheets of water cascading from the sky. The smell hit Tara the moment she opened the truck door: petrichor, thick and earthy, the scent of dry ground drinking in rain after too many hot days.
She ran for the cottage, not bothering with an umbrella. The screen door banged behind her as she burst inside.
Christina was on the couch, both hands pressed to her belly, face pale and covered with sweat. She looked up at Tara with eyes that were still her little girl’s eyes, still looking for someone to make it better.
“I’m here.” Tara crossed to her in three steps, kneeling beside the couch, pushing damp hair back from Christina’s forehead. “I’m here, honey. How are you feeling?”
“It hurts more now. Like—” Christina’s face contorted, her grip finding Tara’s hand and squeezing hard. “Like that.”
Tara counted the seconds—forty-five, fifty, sixty—before Christina’s body relaxed.
“Okay. That was a contraction. A real one.” She kept her voice calm. “When did they start?”
“I don’t know. Maybe... an hour ago? I thought it was just Braxton Hicks.”
Will appeared in the doorway, rain dripping from his hair. “I called the hospital. They’re expecting us. How far apart?”
“That was the second one since I got here, so?—”
“Eight minutes,” Christina said. “I’ve been timing them on my phone.”
Eight minutes. That was good. That meant they had time to get to the hospital, time for the doctors to check her over, time for everything to proceed the way it was supposed to.
But Violet was two weeks early. And Christina was alone and scared, and somewhere out in this storm, Ryan was probably on his way back from walking Angus and didn’t know his sister was about to become a mother.
“I’ll find Ryan,” Will said. “You get her to the hospital. I’ll bring him.”
Tara nodded, helping Christina to her feet. Her daughter leaned heavily against her, one hand still pressed to her belly where Violet was making her entrance into the world—ready or not.
“I packed a bag,” Christina said. “It’s by the door. I did that last week, just in case?—”
“Smart girl.” Tara grabbed the bag with her free hand. “Come on. Let’s go meet your daughter.”
They made it to the porch before the next contraction hit. Christina doubled over, gripping the railing, and Tara held her through it—counting the seconds, murmuring reassurances, watching the rain pour down in silver curtains all around them.
“Seven minutes,” Christina gasped when it passed. “They’re getting closer.”
“Then we need to move.”
Will had pulled his truck up to the porch steps, close enough that they only had to cross a few feet of rain to reach it.
“Hey sis,” Ryan called out from the back. “I can’t wait to be an uncle.”
Her daughter nodded, a grimace on her face as she blew out a breath.
Before Tara could ask, Will said, “Angus is in the apartment.”
Tara helped Christina into the back seat, then ran around to climb in the front. Will peeled out before she’d even closed the door.
The hospital was twenty minutes away on a good day. In this rain, on these winding mountain roads, it would take longer. Tara watched Christina’s face in the glow of passing headlights—eyes closed, lips moving silently, hands clasped over her belly.
“What are you doing?” Tara asked softly.
“Talking to her.” Christina’s voice was barely a whisper. “Telling her it’s okay. That I’m here. That she’s safe.”
As she watched, Ryan reached over and took his sister’s hand.
