Lonetree Ranchers: Morgan

She brightened suddenly, as if she had the answer to the immediate problem. “What about a cell phone? Everyone has a cell phone these days. You can’t go to a movie or out to dinner without hearing one ring.”

“I have one, but certain areas of this region are dead zones,” he explained. “This is one of them. Even if I’d bothered to bring it with me, it would be useless without a signal.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but instead of words she let loose with a low moan. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up and his gut twisted into a tight knot. When she began to fold, Morgan pulled her to him and supported her weight while the pain held her in its grip.

Sweat popped out on his forehead and upper lip. This was going to be hard as hell to deal with. He didn’t like seeing anything in pain, and definitely not a woman. He’d rather climb a barbed wire fence buck naked than to see a female in pain.

How was he going to handle Samantha going through hours of labor and not be able to do a damned thing but watch? And what if things didn’t go like they were supposed to?

He swallowed around the lump forming in his throat. He knew all too well what could happen if something went wrong. At the age of seven he’d lost his own mother because of complications during the birth of his youngest brother, Colt. And she’d been in the hospital.

The pain ebbed and the woman he held took a deep breath. “I’ve got to maintain my focus,” she said, sounding determined. “It will make all of this much easier if I can do that.”

Morgan wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince him or herself. But at the moment, it didn’t matter. His biggest concern was to get her off her feet, make sure she was as comfortable as possible, then start gathering some of the supplies he’d need.

“Why don’t you sit by the fire while I get the couch pulled over here for you to lie down?” he asked, helping her lower herself to the raised stone hearth.

“You, um, haven’t by any chance done this before, have you?” she asked. Her hopeful tone caused the knot in his gut to tighten.

He refrained from answering as he pulled the drop cloth from the dingy green couch, threw it onto a chair and shoved the heavy piece of furniture closer to the warmth of the fire. He’d delivered hundreds, maybe thousands, of babies in his lifetime. But none of them had been human. And somehow, he didn’t think Samantha Peterson would be all that impressed with his expertise as a bovine obstetrician. With any luck she wouldn’t ask him again, and he wouldn’t have to tell her.

“Well, have you?” she persisted.

Morgan almost groaned out loud. Why couldn’t she just drop it and accept the inevitable? He was the best—the only—source of help she was going to get.

“Yes, and no.” He unfolded one of the sheets he’d retrieved from her car and arranged it over the sagging piece of furniture, along with a couple of pillows. “If you count the calves and colts I’ve delivered, yes, I’ve done this before.” He helped her up from the hearth and over to the couch. “If not, then no, I haven’t.”

She sat down suddenly and went into that trance-like state that she’d been in when he’d come in from trying to start the car. Fascinated, he watched her take deep, rhythmic breaths and lightly massage her swollen belly as she stared at the brim of his hat. Her porcelain cheeks colored a deep rose, but her determination to ride out the pain was evident in the set of her stubborn little chin and her unwavering concentration.

When she came out of the daze, she looked up at him and continued talking as if nothing had happened. It was the damnedest thing he’d ever witnessed.

“There’s a book on pregnancy in my handbag. I think it has emergency delivery instructions and a list of things you’ll need.” She nervously caught her lower lip between her teeth before she continued, “I hope you’re a quick study.”

If there was one thing Morgan admired, and a sure-fire way of judging what a person was made of, it was watching how they handled themselves in a tense situation. And he’d have to give credit where it was due. The little lady settling herself back against the pillows on the sagging green couch had her share of grit.

He could tell by the shadows in her pretty whiskey-colored eyes that she was scared witless. But the firm set of her perfectly shaped mouth indicated that she wasn’t going to panic. Whatever came their way, she was going to deal with it.

Giving her the most reassuring smile he was capable of under the circumstances, Morgan handed her the oversized purse. “You find that book. I’ll take care of the rest.”

She pulled the book from the depths of the bag, then, shoving it into his hands, went back into another one of her trances. While she took deep, even breaths and stared off into space, he quickly scanned the index of the book she’d given him for instructions on an emergency, at-home delivery.

Turning to the page the directory had indicated, he read the first entry. Calling 9-1-1 was out of the question. He skipped down to the second directive—if possible call for help.

Well hell, that was a no-brainer. If he could call someone else to assist, he’d call 9-1-1.

When his gaze dropped to the third instruction, he swallowed hard and glanced at her as she came back from wherever she went in her mind to escape the pain.

“What?” she asked when he continued to stare at her.

He cleared his throat. There was no easy way of breaking news like this to a woman he’d known for—he checked his watch—a little less than an hour.

“It says you need to strip from the waist down,” he finally answered, making sure to keep his voice even and his gaze steady.

“Is that necessary right now?” she asked just as calmly. He wasn’t sure, but it looked as if her already flushed cheeks turned a deeper shade of crimson.

Shrugging, Morgan handed her the book and walked into the kitchen to find another pot. He needed to get some water boiling in order to sterilize a few things he would have to use during the delivery. And she needed to come to grips with the way things had to be.

When he walked back into the living room on his way to set a couple of pots outside to collect rainwater for boiling, he noticed that she’d used one of the blankets he’d brought in from the car to drape over her lap. Glancing to the end of the couch, he saw that her jeans were neatly folded on the arm, while her tennis shoes and socks sat on the floor beside it. She didn’t look his way and he didn’t comment on the fact that she’d obviously done as the book had indicated.

“Would you feel better lying down?” he asked when he returned from placing the pots on the porch steps.

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

Sweat beaded her forehead as she handed him the book and, once again, focused her energy on riding the current wave of pain. Standing there watching her, Morgan had never felt more useless in his entire life. He wanted to help her, but he didn’t have a clue how to go about it.

Needing to do something, anything, he turned to the woodbox by the fireplace, removed several logs, then carefully stacked them on the dying fire in the grate. Even though it was early May, and fairly warm, there was a damp chill to the room, and he figured he would need all the light he could get when the time came for the baby’s grand entrance. Besides, he needed something to keep himself busy in order to take his mind off what Samantha was going through.

The dry wood caught immediately and the fire blazed high, chasing away the approaching shadows of late afternoon. He shrugged out of his duster and tossing it toward the chair where he’d thrown the drop cloth, went in search of some other source of light. Fortunately, he found two kerosene lamps in the pantry with full reservoirs. He returned to the living room, placed them on the mantel and lit the wicks with some stick matches he’d found in the kitchen, then sat on the hearth and picked up the book. Running his finger down the list of preparations, he glanced up. Where the hell was he going to find two pieces of sturdy string to tie off the cord?

He scanned the room, then zeroed in on Samantha’s tennis shoes sitting where she’d placed them by the end of the couch. Her shoe laces would have to do. He checked the book again. It didn’t say anything about sterilizing what he used to tie the cord, but he figured it couldn’t hurt. Just to be on the safe side, he’d toss them in the boiling water along with his pocket knife. Even if the hot water caused them to shrink, they should still be long enough for what he needed.

He laid the book within easy reach, then stood up and unfastened the cuffs of his chambray shirt. Rolling the long sleeves to the middle of his forearms, he waited for Samantha to relax her intense focus.

“The book says we need to start timing your contractions in order to tell how you’re progressing. Let me know when you feel another one coming on.”

She nodded. “They’re coming closer together.”

They were getting stronger, too. That much he could tell from the tiny strain lines bracketing her mouth. On impulse he reached out and took her hand in his. Giving it a gentle squeeze, he tried to reassure her. “You’re going to do just fine, Samantha.”

She squeezed back. “Remind me of that in a few hours.”

“Will do,” he said, nodding. He had no idea why the trust she was placing in him caused his chest to swell, but it did. Deciding that he could analyze what it meant later, he released her hand and started for the door. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go get the rainwater I’ve been collecting so that I can put it on the fire to boil.”

“Morgan?”

The sound of his name on her soft voice sent a tingle up his spine. He swallowed hard and turned back to face her. “What, Samantha?”

“Thank you for being so calm. It really helps.” The look she gave him clearly stated that she was counting on him to get her through whatever happened.

At a loss for words, he nodded and walked out to the porch to get the pots of water. Samantha had no way of knowing that his insides were churning like a damned cement mixer from thoughts of all the things that could go wrong, as they had with his mother.

Morgan took a deep breath, then slowly released it. And if it was the last thing he ever did, he had no intention of letting her find out.

Two

Four hours later, Morgan sat on the hearth in front of Samantha where she perched on the edge of the couch. For the last hour he’d watched her alternate between sitting forward and leaning back against the pillows in her effort to get comfortable. She had his hand in a death grip as she rode the current wave of pain and it surprised him how strong she was. It felt more like a lumberjack had a hold of his hand than a woman, and her nails digging into his palm felt as if she might draw blood. But if it helped her get through this, he’d gladly let her rip the skin clean off.

As he watched her stare off into space and pant her way through the contraction, his admiration for her grew by leaps and bounds. She was in tremendous pain, but her determination to stay on top of it, to ride it out, was amazing.