Evie.
The curvy brunette I’d had my eye on for two years.
She was from New York, but had moved to town to work at Sugar Moon, the syrup conglomerate that was headquartered in town. She generally kept to herself, though I’d spotted her from time to time at yoga, at the farmers’ market, and giggling with friends at the Drip Line.
She was buttoned up, never sparing me more than a polite nod. But today she was pale and sweat soaked, and the raw scream that escaped her was one of pure pain.
“What’s wrong with her?” Frankie Dunne demanded, mopping her forehead with a napkin. She was one of the few people Evie socialized with, from what I could tell.
“Give me a minute to assess her.” I set my bag on the table and dropped to my knees beside the booth, scanning her, searching for signs that would help me determine the problem.
“Evie,” I said, using the gentle tone I always adopted in these situations. “It’s Jasper Lawrence, can you hear me?”
She gasped, her voice strained. “Pain. Everywhere. Stomach, back.”
Softly grasping her wrist, I checked her pulse. It was racing, her breathing shallow and her skin clammy.
I peered out the windows that lined the front of the restaurant, taking in the chaos, and grabbed for the microphonepart of my radio attached to my shoulder. I needed transport, and fast.
“Marty,” I said, head turned to one side so the mic would pick up my voice. “This is Lawrence. Need a rig at the pizza shop. Patient in distress. Call it into the hospital. Over.”
“Copy,” Marty replied. “Body found at the sugar shack. Our unit is over there. I’ll call over to Birch Hollow.”
Aw, shit. That could take a while.
Evie cried out again, curling her legs up. Like this, I could see the back of her leggings. The black fabric was wet, and fluid was gathering on the seat of the booth.
“It comes in waves,” Frankie explained, stroking Evie’s hair. “Every few minutes.”
With a hand on her calf to get her attention, I asked, “May I examine you?”
Evie nodded, her face screwed up with pain.
I palpated her abdomen, noting how swollen and hard it was. As I was assessing her, her abdominal muscles contracted, and she whimpered, her eyes squeezing shut. After several seconds, they relaxed again.
“This fluid?” I asked.
Frankie glared at me, her brows pulled together severely.
“It just gushed out of me,” Evie said. “And there was some blood.”
“I need to press down a bit more,” I said. “This might hurt.” I moved my hands, checking her fundal height. As I suspected, her uterus was distended up to her rib cage.
She was pregnant.
And in hard labor.
My radio crackled. “The rig from Birch Hollow is on the way. Fifteen minutes out.”
Thank God. If her screams were any indication, her contractions were still several minutes apart. We had time.
“Evie,” I murmured. “You’re in labor.”
She lurched, lifting her head off the seat. “No,” she said, her expression panicked. “Not possible.”
I examined her abdomen again. “This is labor,” I told her, keeping my tone low. “Comes in waves. I can feel your uterus contracting. Do you feel pressure in your pelvis?”
She nodded. “Yes. So much pressure.”
