The hair around her face had pulled from her braid and lay matted across her cheek. He reached to brush it back, but caught himself just before his fingers touched her skin. Maybe she wouldn't appreciate such an intimate action. But he had a feeling they were about to become even more familiar than this, and his job here was to do whatever he could to help during the ordeal.
So he shifted the hair aside, his coarse stubby fingers probably scratching her delicate skin. As he stroked the soft locks into place, the velvety feel of the strands nearly made him weave his fingers deeper. Did every woman's hair feel so rich?
She opened her eyes, jerking him from the thought. He pulled his hand back and cleared his throat as he scrambled for something to say. "Do you want some water? Or should I make you tea?"
She opened her mouth, drawing his attention to her parched lips. "Water." Her voice rasped. The drink would help her throat, and he had some grease saved that would soften the chapping of her lips.
When he brought the cup, she raised up on an elbow to take it. Then he opened the tin of grease and handed it over. "This will help your lips."
After drinking half the cupful, she sank back to the blankets and handed the mug to him, taking the grease.
Hopefully she wouldn't mind another question or two. "Do you know, um, about how much time you have left? I mean, how long until the baby…?”
She rubbed the grease over her mouth. “I don't know. Sometime in the night, I think." Her gaze glanced to his, then away again. "I don't really…I mean, I think it's hard to say for sure."
He nodded. "I imagine so." But he didn't miss the uncertainty in her expression.
How afraid she must be, having to endure this experience on the side of a mountain, in the elements, and with no doctor less than a week's ride away. With only the knowledge from a chapter in a housewifery book and a few stories told her as a child.
And withhimher only help.
Well, he’d do everything in his power to aid, and he'd give as much encouragement as he could. And he'd arm himself with knowledge. "Do you mind if I read that chapter you mentioned?"
A bit of color slipped into her cheeks, but she pointed to her carpet bag. "It shouldn't be hard to find in there."
He reached for the case, and thankfully, as soon as he unfastened the latch, the book’s spine stared up at him.
As he returned the bag to its place, a groan from behind made him spin around. Mrs. Barlow's eyes squeezed tight again, and her grip on the stick whitened once more.
Lord, give her strength. Show me what I can do to help. And let this babe come quickly.
He moved back to her side and settled in withThe Tennessee Housewifery. He had a lot of studying to do.
* * *
The book must be wrong.
Either that or the author had been afraid to go into the true detail of what a woman would endure in this awful process.
Aaron’s entire body clenched as Mrs. Barlow released a guttural howl, a sound that began deep in her belly where the pain must be unendurable. She knelt on hands and knees as she fought the intensity of whatever agony clenched her. In the firelight, the back of her skirt showed a darker blue from whatever wetness had leaked out all over her several hours ago.
It couldn't be easier to endure the pain on her hands and knees, though she might be trying to crawl away from whatever clawed inside her.
As soon as this round eased, he spoke. "Why don't you come back to the blankets? Surely that will be more comfortable."
She only groaned, this time a quieter sound, yet from just as deep a place. Then she lowered her head to the ground, coming down onto her elbows. "There's nowhere comfortable. When will this end?"
He’d been begging God to answer that same question for hours now. "Surely you’re close. Do you want more water?" It was such a flimsy offering, yet he could think of nothing else to bring any sort of relief.
She didn't answer, just stayed in that position with her head on the ground and her rear in the air.
Surely there was something he could say to distract her from her misery. Maybe get her thinking about the reward for all this hard work. "Mrs. Barlow, I—"
"Don't call me that." Her voice came out soft, almost mellow. But the words were anything but relaxed. "My name is Katie."
What did she mean? Had she not been married? Or was Barlow not her surname? Or maybe she couldn't stand to think of her past at a time like this. Her deceased husband who should be here with her now.
No matter the reason, this was a request he could easily oblige. "All right, Katie. Call me Aaron." It did seem like they could use Christian names at this point. "I was going to ask if you’d picked out a name for the baby."
