I freeze, pulling out quick and drawing back enough to see her face. Her brow’s tight, sweat starting at her temple, the color draining fast.
“Oh no,” she huffs, then holds her breath as if bracing herself.
“What’s wrong?”
She’s breathing quick now, both hands flying to her middle. “I think it’s starting,” she says through a shaky breath. “She’s coming.”
The words hit me like a gunshot. Everything inside me stills.
“Shit. You tellin’ me it’s time? Now?”
She don’t answer, she just screams in pain.
“Christ almighty. Holy hell.” My mind sputters, switching tracks. I draw in a breath. “All right. You just stay put, I’ll get the midwife.”
Then I’m moving—one heartbeat I’m staring at her, the next I’m yanking up my trousers, jumping into my boots and running out the door, bare-chested, half-dressed, the cold spring air slamming my lungs awake as I tear across the lawn to the inn.
“Fred!” I bellow, boots hitting the floorboards like gunfire. “We need to get the damn midwife!”
Fred bursts out of the side room, coat half on, looking more startled than I’ve ever seen him. “Now?”
“Now!” I roar. “Alice—she’s startin’!”
I’m already out the front door before he can answer, sprinting into the yard, mud splashing my legs. The sky’s bruised purple, April storm rolling in from the hills, thunder low and mean. Fred brings the carriage ’round, and when we hit the midwife’s door, I’m banging my fist against it like the house is on fire.
“Mrs. Clay!”
The door creaks open, and I’m staring at a man I ain’t expecting. Native, by the look of him. Tall, weather-lined, salt-and-pepper hair pulled back neat, dark eyes sharp even in the low light. I’d come looking for our little Appalachian midwife. I take a step back, look at the name on the house.
He gives me a long, measured look. “You’re here for Lula?”
“Mrs. Clay?”
He nods again and pulls the door wider, voice raising toward the back of the house. “Lula! There’s someone at the door for you!”
Mrs. Clay saunters out like she’s got all the time in the world, short and compact but sturdy on her feet, with arms that look like they could carry a baby in one hand and a cast iron skillet in the other. Shawl already in hand, she swings it over her shoulders. The thick wool smells of camphor and starch. She gives me a once-over, head to boots, like I’m some half-dressed fool hollering nonsense on her porch.
The man who answered the door stays back, watching, still and unreadable.
“It’s Alice,” I tell her through the screen door. My voice cracks. “It’s time.”
Mrs. Clay gives a slow nod and waves me inside like she’s inviting me to supper.
“Settle yourself now, Mr. Collier. You’re white as snow on a tombstone. Come in before the cold takes you under.”
“Please,” I rasp, stepping in to get out of the cold. “She’s hurtin’ bad.”
“All right,” she says, already turning for the hall. “I’ll go on and get my things.” No panic. No rush. Like she’s seen a thousand men look just like me.
“Who’s knockin’ like the world’s endin’?” Another man stomps into the front room—gray-bearded, flannel half-buttoned, boots still caked in fresh mud. He looks me over, top to toe. “Show up bangin’ like that, I figured somebody’d been shot.”
Before I can answer, the man who opened the door speaks up. “His wife is birthing a child.”
The wild-looking one blinks at that. Some of the edge slips from his face. His gaze drags over me again, this time softer. “Well, hell. Congrats.”
My jaw tightens. “I ain’t celebratin’ nothin’ yet. Mrs. Clay, please…”
She reappears just then, pulling on her coat, satchel already in hand.
