The Tender Stranger

Just so quickly, every bone in her body relaxed from the strain of the battle fought and won. Just so brutally, she felt an overwhelming weariness seize her, and she could only reach a hand to the man who held her babe.

“Let me see.” Erin’s words whispered from between dry lips. She blinked, willing her vision to clear, only vaguely aware that tears flowed in a steady stream. And then she saw the tiny, wizened face of a being so minute, so infinitely precious, it came near to halting the beat of her heart.

“I’m going to put him on your stomach, honey,” Quinn said quietly. “I’ll clean you up a little here and then tend to him.”

Erin felt a new series of tugging pains, felt Quinn’s hands against her flesh, but knew only the joy of watching the movements of her child. Quinn had wrapped him in a length of flannel from her belongings, and only the tiny face was visible to her. But his body trembled beneath the covering and she felt an urgency to hold him.

“Give him to me,” she whispered, holding up her arms, fearful of snatching him up from his precarious resting place, lest she drop him.

Quinn stood erect, his stance weary, and shot her a glance that pierced her to the depths. “Let me get rid of this first,” he said, wrapping a bundle and depositing it near the door. He turned back, and she felt a moment’s dread as he hesitated.

“What is it?” she asked hoarsely, lifting herself to her elbows to better see the mite of a babe.

“I fear he’s not big enough, Erin. He’s trying hard, but his breathing isn’t too good.” Quinn stepped quickly to where she lay and picked up the small bundle, cradling it in his two hands. He bent over her and she turned to her side, the better to hold his offering against her breast.

“He’ll be fine,” she said quickly. “Look, he’s moving his mouth.”

Quinn sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over her, one big hand against her back, giving welcome support. “I see him, honey.”

It was almost more than he could stand, watching this valiant woman cradling the poor little scrap of humanity against her bosom, as if she could pour strength into the baby she held. With blue lips parted, the child struggled to inhale, his efforts bringing harsh reality to the forefront.

“Erin…I’m afraid for him,” Quinn said, bending low to turn the baby to his back. He leaned to touch the blue lips with his own and blew his own breath in tiny puffs of air within the boy’s mouth. He watched as the miniature nostrils pinched in an effort to inhale.

Once more Quinn attempted to instill his own life force in the babe. And again he watched as the struggle worsened.

Erin’s eyes widened, pinning Quinn in place with her gaze. Her hands loosened their hold and she gave full access to the baby he’d delivered. As if she placed her trust in his knowledge, she joined his vigil, inhaling as he did, breathing small bits of air in time with his.

The small body they watched shivered, and Erin cried out, a wordless agony of sound. Again the soft bundle convulsed, and Erin’s cry was softer, desolate, as she sensed the end of the short, futile battle.

Quinn shook his head. “I don’t think we can help him. He’s so little, Erin. He didn’t have long enough to gain strength for this world.”

She was silent now, as if she accepted his words, and he shifted his attention to the pale oval of her face. Her eyes were no longer wet with tears, her lips barely trembled, as if she faced and accepted the pain of her loss.

“Poor little mite,” she crooned, gathering the still, silent bundle to her breast. She bent her head low, her mouth touching the soft, dark down upon bis head.

Quinn felt the tightening of his muscles, long misused in the hours of bending over the bed, his back and legs taut with pain of their own. Yet his would ease with movement. His would be forgotten by tomorrow.

That Erin’s hours of suffering should produce only more pain to come for this small, brave woman seemed hardly fair. And yet, during the years of his childhood, his mother had told him in no uncertain terms that no one had ever been guaranteed equality, that fair was a relevant word, that he could count on only whatever the Fates decreed.

He rose to his feet and backed to the rocking chair. If, for these few moments, Erin Wentworth needed to bid farewell to the babe she’d delivered, he could only grant her that. He’d spent the whole night waiting and watching. A few more minutes weren’t going to make much difference now.

Quinn wasn’t nearly so stoic in the light of day as he swung a pick and shovel at the hard side of the mountain. Such a tiny grave would have been simple to dig back in New York State. Here, the very roots of the trees wove together to thwart his efforts, and he began to reconsider his choice of a burial spot for Erin’s child.

And then the pick broke through the root he had been chopping at, and he found the going easier. Even the harsh cold surrounding him could not touch him this morning, it seemed. The day was dreary, the sun hiding above the low-hanging clouds, but he felt the chill wind as if it mattered little. He was already cold to his depths, dealing with the sense of defeat he’d carried with him since before dawn, when the baby had struggled for his last breath and lain peacefully at last in his mother’s arms.

Erin hadn’t cried since. She, who had borne pain and suffering to a degree he wouldn’t have believed had he not seen it himself, had seemed to wither like a flower without rain. She’d tucked that small body against her heart as if she could warm its fast-cooling flesh with her own.

Even when he bent to take the tiny mite from her hold, placing it in a wooden box he’d put together with a few nails, she’d shown no emotion. Only lifted sad eyes to his and watched as he wrapped a second piece of blanket about the still form.

“What will you name him?” he asked, fitting the lid to the box. No bigger than a shoe box, he held it in one hand, tucked against his side as he awaited her reply.

“Name him?” Her voice was thin, her eyes dark pools of pain.

“I’ll baptize him, if you like, Erin.” He’d never done such a thing, didn’t even know if it was proper, but if saying words over the boy would comfort her, he’d sing hymns and recite a hundred prayers.

“Call him John,” she said after a moment. “It was my father’s name. I think his soul must already be in heaven, but I doubt saying the words over him would hurt anything.”

Quinn nodded, silently agreeing.

“Quinn! Let me go with you,” she cried, suddenly a bundle of motion as she threw back the covers. Her feet touched the floor before he could gain her side, and with one hand he reached for her, his fingers spread wide across her chest.

Beneath his palm her heart beat rapidly, and for that he was thankful. She was stronger than he’d thought, sturdier than he’d given her credit for. Her breasts rose and fell beneath his hand and he held her thus, shaking his head.

“No. It’s too damn cold out there for you, Erin. I don’t war r to have to dig another grave.” His words sounded harsh to his own ears, and he hesitated a moment. “I don’t mean to be cruel, but I don’t think you can make it, honey. It’s bitter cold and coming up snow again.

Her protest was almost mute, only a small, wounded sound that might have been acquiescence as she crumpled beneath his touch.

He relented. “I’ll pull the chair over to the window. You can watch from there,” he told her, waiting until she nodded agreement. Placing the small box…at the end of Erin’s bed, Quinn pulled the rocker the short distance to the window and then returned for the woman who waited.

He lifted her, wrapped in a quilt, and placed her in the chair, tucking the warm covering in place. From the window, the spot he’d chosen was visible, though snow was now beginning to fall steadily.

“Will you name him? Or shall I?” he asked, returning to her side.

“You.” The one syllable, harsh and borne on a breath that touched his hand with its warmth, answered him as she bent low oyer the box he held.

He lifted the lid and then placed his hand against the window, where moisture dampened the glass. He transferred the bit of water, touching the downy head with two fingers.

“I baptize you John Wentworth, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Within his chest Quinn felt pain of his own, that he should be the one to bury not only the babe, but the hopes and dreams of its mother, in that hole he’d dug. His gaze swept over Erin, pausing on the tender bend of her neck, her dark hair haloed in the light from the lamp on the table.

She pressed her index finger against her mouth and transferred the caress to her child’s forehead, then sat erect once more.

“I’ll not be long,” Quinn told her, easing the lid back over the still form. Four nails were in his pocket, the hammer on the table, and he snatched it up as he moved to the door.

“Quinn.” Her voice halted him and he turned back.

“Thank you.” Her lips barely moved as she spoke the words. Her eyes held immense sorrow, but no tears, and he nodded, closing the door behind him.

Strangely, he’d feel better about the whole thing if she’d weep, he thought, trudging across the small clearing. But from the looks of her, she’d shed tears enough, at least for today.

The snow fell heavily for two days, and then the sun came out, rising like a pale golden ball in the east. Quinn peered from the window, still tousled from sleep, his bare feet-feeling half-frozen. His gaze turned to the small mound, covered with snow, just across the clearing. And behind him he heard the rustle of bedcoverings as Erin roused from sleep.

“Quinn?” She spoke his name with a distinct lack of emotion in her voice, and his eyes closed as his head bowed, forehead touching the damp window glass.

“You’re awake.” He turned, his gaze seeking hers, scanning her wan features. She hadn’t eaten enough in the past two days to keep her alive. He’d vowed to him-self that today would be the turning point. Today he’d sit beside her until she finished breakfast, or at least made a good attempt.

There wasn’t enough flesh on her bones to draw from. Either she began to gain back some strength or he would fear for her health.