The Midwife

A fur robe was tucked over her lap, and Gar cast her one searching glance before he picked up the reins. Leah felt the heat of his body beside her, yet shivered as if an icy blast had cut through her covering.

“Sit closer,” he said bluntly. “You need to stay warm.” His big hand circled her shoulder, and he moved her across the seat until their thighs were brushing.

Leah swallowed words of protest that begged to be spoken. He was too big, too warm, too close; yet, for just a moment, she relished the warmth, the size and the nearness of the man. For just this short time, she allowed her mind to be blank of all else, to dwell only on the presence of Gar Lundstrom beside her.

The woman who labored on the big bed was as pitiful a sight as Leah had ever been exposed to. Hulda Lundstrom’s dry lips were drawn back over clenched teeth and her hair hung lank with sweat. She groaned unceasingly.

In less than a second, Leah cast a glance around the bedroom, tossed her cloak aside and placed her bag on a chair. “I need water to wash with, good hot water.”

“Right away.” Gar Lundstrom’s voice was gruff with emotion as he left the room, Leah’s cloak over his arm.

“How long have you been like this?” Leah asked Hulda Lundstrom, who panted harshly as her body convulsed with the pain of a violent contraction.

“Not long…a couple of hours maybe.” Her voice was raw, weakened by her pain, and Hulda opened her eyes to reveal a dull acceptance of her state. “It’s no worse than the other times.” She rested, taking deep breaths as the pain left her, her body seeming to sink into the depths of the mattress.

“How many other times have there been?” Leah asked, looking up as the door opened and Gar backed into the bedroom, his hands cradling a basin of steaming water.

“Two. No, three. But one was only three months gone and it was nothing.” Hulda’s gaze fastened on her husband. “You don’t need to be here, Gar. Go be with Kristofer,” she whispered. “It will be a long time yet.”

Leah turned to the man, anger rising in her throat. “You didn’t tell me your wife was having a difficult labor. I think you need to go back to town and find the doctor. If she has lost several babies already, we need to use every precaution this time.”

The wash water was deposited on the dressing table with care, lest it slosh over the edges. The tall man straightened to his full height, turning to face the bed.

“He won’t come.” There was a finality to his words that sent a chill down Leah’s spine.

“He told her the last time that she would not be able to deliver a live child, that her organs were damaged from the other times. He said he would not be responsible for encouraging her in her foolish efforts.”

“Foolish efforts.” Leah repeated the words without emotion, though her heart was pounding within her, and her anger rose even higher.

“I want to give my husband another child. Is that so bad?” Hulda’s eyes filled with tears as she turned her head to look at Leah. And even as she spoke, she stiffened, groaning as another contraction knotted her belly. Her hands spread wide over the mound, and her head tipped back against the pillow as the pain ravaged her.

Leah stepped to the side of the bed and sat next to the woman who labored now in silence before her audience. “Wring out a cloth in the warm water,” Leah said, glancing only momentarily at Gar, who watched from across the room.

He took a clean flannel square from atop a pile and wrung it out in the basin, then brought it to the bed. “Let me do this while you wash,” he said quietly.

Leah rose, giving way to him, and walked across the room, rolling up her sleeves as she went. Immutable sadness enveloped her as she scrubbed at her hands with the carbolic soap she carried in her bag. The chances of a live birth seemed small, given Hulda Lundstrom’s history. And yet, Leah must do all she could to birth a live child for this small, needy woman.

“Pull back the sheet,” she told Gar, returning to the bed. “Then put a clean sheet or blanket beneath her.”

“I don’t…” Hulda gasped for a breath, her face contorting as she allowed a groan to escape her lips. “Leave, Gar. Go…I don’t…”

“He can leave when he’s done as I asked,” Leah told her softly. “Let him lift you, Hulda. I want you to have clean bedding beneath you.”

A nod signified Hulda’s agreement, and Gar did as Leah had requested. His big hands were gentle as he slid them beneath his wife’s limbs to spread a clean, folded sheet under her lower body. He stood erect and looked at Leah, awaiting further instructions, and she was struck by the hopelessness in his eyes.

No longer the possessor of the dark, arrogant glare of a strong man, he cast her only a pleading, anxious look that begged mercy at her hands. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you want me.”

Leah nodded and took his place on the side of the bed. “Pull up your gown, Hulda,” she said quietly. “I want to feel the child.”

Hulda’s fingers twisted in the white flannel cloth, and she tugged it high over her stomach, exposing the swollen mound that contained her child. As Leah watched, it rippled, the muscles still strong as the womb fought to expel its contents. She placed her hand against the hard surface, closing her eyes as she felt for the body parts within.

Nothing nudged her hand, no trace of movement, only the pulsing rhythm of the pain that would not cease until the child was delivered.

“Has the baby moved since you began laboring?” she asked once the spasm had passed.

Hulda shook her head, her eyes closed. “For a bit, then not so much.” A sob escaped, and she spoke between gritted teeth. “This time he must live. I cannot do this again.”

For the first time, a cry passed through the lips of the woman who suffered, and Leah called out for Gar, pulling Hulda’s gown down over her writhing belly.

“Look in my bag and find the containers of dried roots. I need the ones marked baneberry and wild yam. Brew one piece of each, please, and make a cup of strong tea with it,” she ordered, not ever looking up as he awaited her orders near the doorway. “It will ease her pain.”

Gar hastened to do as she asked, and Leah heard the rattle of a kettle in the kitchen. In less than ten minutes, he was back.

“Here.” He placed the cup on the bedside table and hovered for a moment. “There is more when this is gone. Can I do anything else?”

Her tone was sharp as Leah glanced up at him, rebuffing his offer. “You’ve done enough already.”

His eyes narrowed as he caught her meaning and he retreated, shoulders stiff, as if he would deflect any further insult. The door closed behind him, and Leah picked up the cup and stirred the brew.

She filled the spoon, blowing a bit on its contents, then lifted it to. Hulda’s lips. “Here, open your mouth for me, Hulda,” she said quietly.

Hulda obeyed, allowing the warm liquid to enter her mouth, and swallowed. Leah repeated the movements until the tea was half-gone. Then she swirled it in the cup, deeming it cool enough to drink.

“I want you to lift up, just a bit, and drink this down,” she said, careful that the woman did not choke on the liquid as she drank.

There was no cessation of the labor, but as the tea began to work its magic, Leah whispered a prayer of thanksgiving. She lifted Hulda’s gown again, easing her hands beneath, spreading them wide on the distended belly as another contraction made itself known. Then, as it reached its peak, Leah bent to watch for the sight of a baby’s head, hoping fervently that the hours of labor had begun to reap some results.

There was no sign of imminent birth, only a steady leaking of bloody fluid. The skin beneath her hand was stretched and taut as Hulda’s body tried to complete this process.

It was not going well. Leah shook her head. She needed to know what was going on inside, there where the mouth of the womb held its prisoner. It must be done, she thought grimly, readying her hand with a coating of oil. She slid it within the straining woman’s body and sought the opening of Hulda’s womb. There, instead of the rounded head she prayed to come in contact with, she found twin globes—the buttocks of a baby. Too large to be born in this manner, the child was slowly tearing his mother asunder.

Leah withdrew her hand and sighed. “Is he dead?” Hulda whispered in a faint, hopeless voice. She had begun to perspire from every pore, it seemed, drenching her nightgown and the bed beneath her.

“No, he’s alive,” Leah said quietly. “It’s a breech birth, Hulda. Our only chance is for me to turn the baby around.”

“Then do what you must,” the woman said, each word punctuated by a moan. “If I cannot give Garlan another son, I don’t want to live.”

“Your life is worth more to your husband than another child,” Leah whispered fiercely.

Hulda shook her head in a hopeless gesture. “Nay, not so. But if I give him another live child, another son, perhaps he will love me.”

Leah’s eyes filled with useless tears, and she brushed at them with her forearm. “You will not die,” she vowed. “You will not.”

Chapter Two (#ulink_4a1185b6-6afa-5122-888e-ff6eb80bdcf3)

Gar Lundstrom’s face was pale and twisted with anguish, his eyes sunk deep from lack of sleep. His fists hung at his sides, and he swayed in place. As if he gathered energy from some unknown source, he lifted both hands beseechingly, then twisted them together as he glared at the woman who faced him.

“Why?” The single word seared the air, and Leah felt its lash, bracing herself against the scorn of the man before her.