Rocky Mountain Ride (Rocky Mountain Bride Series Book 7) (21 page)

“Bishop Bernardo.”

“Of course. Thank you for telling me, Ana. Could we keep it between us for now? Leave the Señora out of it?”

“Si. That is why I told you. But what can we do?”

“Nothing. We wait. And hope for rain. Typical farmer’s life, is it not?” He winked at her, and she gave a small smile. He waited until she turned away to let his grin fall from his face. Father Bernardo was spreading rumors, drought was upon them, and, deep in the valley’s foothills, the Royal Mountain gang lurked to make trouble. Sebastian worked dawn to dusk with no end in sight, but at least he was helping. For the first time in his life, he felt useful.

He would write to his father and remind him of his need for funds. He hadn’t heard from the duke from when he wrote home about Francesca the first time. His wife deserved a knight in shining armor; he would be one for her, if she could wait a little while.

*

One night, a hard rap on the door in the middle of the night roused them.

“My lady, you are needed,” Ana whispered.

Francesca was out of bed and pulling on her boots before Sebastian even realized what was going on.

“Sebastian. The baby.”

He hurried to follow.

Outside the young butcher’s son, Pepito, waited with an anxious face.

“How is your mother?” Francesca asked.

“Señora, she is not well. She has been crying out since earlier today.”

“What? Why did you not come for me?”

“Papa would not allow it. But mama is ill, she needs you.”

Francesca swapped worried glances with Sebastian, but took the boy’s hand.

“I will go to her quickly and we will make her better.”

They ran all the way to the house. From the street, Sebastian could hear the laboring woman’s moans. Francesca paused. “Pepito, your mama is going to be alright. Do you have friends nearby who you can stay with?”

“The señora there offered mama help, but papa turned her away. She said I could stay with her family.”

“Good. You are a good boy to come and get me. You did the right thing and helped your mama.”

Francesca waited until the boy was out of earshot before entering the house. Sebastian could see her shoulders square as she geared up for a fight.

Inside, the butcher sat frowning while his wife labored in the corner.

“How long?” Francesca asked.

“Since this morning,” Camila said. The woman’s sweaty hair stuck to her face, and Francesca cast about for a water bucket and cloth. Sebastian found one and brought it to her and the midwife helped the mother drink before sponging her brow. A contraction hit and Francesca counted. Her brow furrowed.

“Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“He doesn’t want to pay you,” Camila panted.

The butcher said nothing.

“Come onto your hands and knees. You will feel better.” Francesca helped the woman, then scowled at the husband.

“You fool. I would do it for free, to help my friend. Where is her family? Where are the people?”

“She has already had a child,” the butcher finally spoke up. “We don’t need you. She should know what to do.”

Camila let out a moan. Francesca put her hands on the woman’s belly.

“The baby is facing the wrong way. That is why there is trouble. I can turn him. Come.” She motioned to Sebastian. “Go find a wide board. Ask the neighbors. Pry it away from a wall if you have to.”

“I do not like asking for help,” the butcher protested.

“You are an idiot,” Francesca said.

“Come on.” Sebastian drew the man out of the room, afraid what his wife would do to the foolish husband if left alone.

When Sebastian returned with the board, Francesca was massaging the woman’s belly, whispering comforting things. She paused to direct Sebastian to set up the board, leaning it against the bed.

“I will try cold compresses, and then we will have her lay with her feet up. The baby must turn.” Francesca ducked her head, whispering to her husband. “This labor…it is hard. The baby is turned and will not go. But I have more tricks up my sleeve.”

Sebastian gripped his wife’s shoulders, massaging them for a second. “Tell me what you need.” So he became a birth attendant, finding clean cloths and cool water to soak them in, boiling water to clean the ones that had been used. Dawn broke, and the butcher left, saying he could not miss a day of work.

“She should have family here,” Francesca whispered while the laboring woman was snatching a few minutes of sleep. “At least a sister. But the butcher has kept her here without family or friends. I do not think it is a good situation. I suspected something was wrong, but she never shared.”

“One thing at a time,” he said, kneading her stiff shoulders. “Let’s get the baby out.”

Biting her lip, Francesca nodded.

The sun climbed in the sky, and still the woman labored. Francesca alternated between having the woman move into different positions, or eating a little and resting. Sebastian made several trips for water, stopping to talk to the concerned neighbors. Whenever they offered help, or food, he thanked them. By noon, the butcher’s hut was filled with good food, and another two neighbors had taken the laundry.

Around dusk, the butcher returned.

“How is she?” he asked, standing on the threshhold. Inside his wife rested between contractions.

“Things are progressing,” Francesca said shortly. “The baby is being difficult, but your wife is very strong.”

“Where is Pepito?”

“Your son is with the neighbors.”

The man nodded absently. “I’m hungry,” he announced, as if his laboring wife would get up and cook him dinner.

“There is food. The neighbors brought some stew.”

The butcher frowned. “I do not want people coming around. Camila knows I don’t want to owe anyone.”

Sebastian wanted to hit him. “You already owe my wife a debt of gratitude, for remaining at your wife’s side all this while. She hasn’t even taken a break to eat.” Striding to the stew, Sebastian dished it up for the butcher, then handed it to him.

“Come on, old boy. Let’s fill your belly.”

As the butcher ate, Sebastian couldn’t resist lecturing him.

“Your wife needs your support. She is working incredibly hard.”

An angry flush crossed the man’s face. “My wife is usually a good worker, but not lately.”

Biting back a retort, Sebastian looked up to see a man in long robes coming up the road.

“Bishop Bernardo.” He stepped in front of the door. “So kind of you to visit.”

“Hello,” the priest greeted the butcher, with only a glance at Sebastian. “I heard Camila is still in labor.”

“Si, padre,” the butcher started. He was cut off by his wife’s cries.

“Sebastian,” Francesca called.

“Excuse me.” Sebastian entered the house, shutting the door.

His wife knelt in the corner with the woman. “I have done all I can. It is time to try the board.”

Nodding, Sebastian started to help Camila into place, upside down lying on the board.

“You let this man put his hands on your wife?” Bishop Bernardo said from the door. He and the butcher entered the house to watch.

“It should be you,” Francesca said to the butcher. “But you have not been any help.”

“I am here, if you need me,” Bernardo told the butcher. “And I have heard, if a woman is not strong enough, it is better to cut the baby out. She will die, but the baby will live.”

“But your wife will die.” Sebastian’s mouth dropped open. “What sort of barbary is this?”

“Oh, dios, let me die. I am so tired. I cannot do this,” the woman cried out.

“You are doing it,” Francesca said fiercely. She moved to the woman’s head. “Listen to me, Camila, you are strong, and powerful and your body is already birthing your son. It is all natural, even the pain.”

The contraction ended and Francesca turned a furious face to the bishop and butcher. “Get that fear monger out of this house,” she bit out. Her body shook with rage.

Sebastian snapped to it. “Every male, out of this house.”

His fingers itched to find a whip and drive them out, like Jesus with the temple moneylenders, but they went without a fuss.

“If you need me,” the bishop told the husband. “I will remain close. I can be at this house quickly, for the procedure or for the last rites.”

“For heaven’s sake.” Sebastian lost it. “You tonsure-pated fool,” he addressed the priest. “You know nothing of birth, of babies or of women. Go into a closet and pray, if you truly want to help.”

He didn’t give the bishop a chance to answer before turning to the butcher.

“Start acting like a husband and a father. Your wife needs you, if not at her side, then out here gathering support, not talking about her death.”

Unable to stand them any longer, he went back into the house.

Francesca was squeezing out a wet cloth. He could tell she was still fuming. “She is strong enough to live for this baby and push it out. Making her afraid will do nothing.”

“I know, my darling.”

Together, they worked to help the mother. Francesca put cold compresses on the highest part of Camila’s belly, and instructed Sebastian to find a wide board to lean against a chair. The butcher came in and watched as Francesca and Sebastian helped his wife into position, her feet up and her body upside down on the plank.

“This will help turn the baby,” Francesca said.

Camila let out a wild moan. The butcher winced.

“Come,” Sebastian said. “Help her.” He moved so the reluctant husband could take his place, steadying his wife.

“Oh, Pepe, I am trying.”

“The baby is turning,” Francesca crowed. “He wants to come. We will help him along.”

The woman nodded and then moaned into a contraction.

“Pepe, here.” Francesca waved the man over, grabbed his shoulders and positioned him at his wife’s feet, looking down. “Call to your child. Speak to the baby, tell him to come to you. Sing out, Pepe.”

Panic crossed the man’s face, and Sebastian couldn’t blame him. A crowded hut, a moaning woman upside down on her back, it didn’t seem the time to burst into a rousing round of “Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies.”

“Pepe,” Camila gasped. “Please.”

To Sebastian’s astonishment, the butcher hummed a lullaby, and broke into a beautiful bass.

The pregnant woman cried out.

“Ha,” Francesca said, triumphant. “The child has turned. Camila, just let go and let the baby come.”

The three of them helped the laboring mother to her feet. Through it all, the husband kept crooning a lullaby, even after he held his new daughter in his arms.

*

Around midnight, Sebastian entered the dark hacienda, Francesca a limp bundle in his arms. She’d stayed to clean up the hut, until he’d gone and found a neighbor to help. The baby nursed, and Pepito met his baby sister. When Sebastian left with Francesca, she glanced up and down the street.

“He’s gone,” Sebastian reported. The bishop had disappeared sometime after the neighbors had rallied around the butcher’s family.

“It’s my fault,” Francesca said. “Bernardo hates me, and wishes me ill. I made Camila a target. Pregnancy is a fragile time; a few words and fears blossom.”

“But it turned out all right in the end,” Sebastian said, making a mental note to find a way to deal with the padre.

As they walked, Francesca leaned on her husband. Her head sunk lower and lower, all the power she’d put into helping her laboring mother draining out of her. He waited until she almost stumbled, then carried her the rest of the way.

He made her eat and drink something, then curled his body around her small, sleeping form. If his father didn’t wire money in the next week, he would be out of funds. He’d figure out a way for them to survive. With everything in him, he would protect this amazing woman who allowed him in her bed, and in her heart.

Morning came and went, and Francesca still slept.

Finally he came with hot tea and soup and roused her.

“Have you heard of Camila?” She yawned, pushing back the black mess of hair.

“One of the neighbor’s children came to report. Camila is fine. The baby is eating. The butcher even stayed home from work a day to care for his daughter and help his wife.”

“Good.” Francesca smiled sleepily, and he couldn’t resist kissing her.

“Mmmm,” she purred. “I know what I want for breakfast.”

“Darling, you didn’t eat the whole day…perhaps you should…”

She pushed up and took his mouth, her hands gripping his lapels until he was on top of her. “I am not hungry for food.”

He made love to her slowly, gently, watching her satisfied face.

When he’d shuddered and spent himself, he frowned.

“Francesca, you did not…”

“It is all right.” She looked content, but it didn’t sit right with him that she did not find release. He wasn’t some aging husband, ready to rut and then fall asleep. He wanted to own her pleasure, body and soul.