AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She sat, waited for him to join her.
“When I was in New Hope, I saw what people could and would do together. I saw how others tried to destroy that. You were a soldier.”
“Yeah.”
“So was Max, at the end. He made the choice to fight, to lead because it needed to be done. You did the same, killing to protect someone you barely knew. You gave the people who were here food you worked to grow, and that was a choice. The people who try to destroy won’t win because there will always be people like Max, like you, like the people I left behind who make the choice.”
She held a brighter view than he did at the moment. He didn’t mind the balance.
“I read one of his books. Not the one you have,” he said, when she stared at him. “One of the others. It was good. He was a good writer.”
“He was.” She smiled over the ache in her heart. “He was good.”
* * *
Habitually after a long day, after the evening meal and the evening chores, Simon worked in the barn. He usually wound down before bed in his mother’s library for an hour or two with a book.
He missed TV, and wasn’t shamed to admit it, but books made up for it. He missed beer, and had high hopes the group trying to put together a little brewery would succeed. He settled most nights for tea, and had—almost—acquired a taste for it.
That didn’t make up for the lack of beer.
The dogs generally settled down with him, making it a nice, easy way to end the day. He’d let them out for a last round before heading up.
The book took his mind off the work, the world, the woman sleeping upstairs. The work would always be there, he couldn’t do a damn thing about the world. And he limited his thoughts regarding Lana to a very narrow window.
The last few nights he studied. Books were good for that as much as entertainment.
He’d done plenty of scavenging in the months since his parents died. Running a farm the way things turned out was a different prospect than growing up on one the way things had been.
He’d added considerably to the library.
Books gave him instructions on beekeeping, on butchering—though he’d happily turned that task over to the settlement—on making butter, cheese, holistic medicines and treatments.
Cooking—before Lana had come along.
So he did what he thought of as his homework with a mixture of fascination and horror—laced with a good dose of dread.
When he heard her coming, it surprised him enough to have him slap the book shut and rise. She never stirred out of her room once she’d gone in, shut the door.
But she stepped in now, her hair tumbled over her shoulders, the big, baggy T-shirt flowing over Baby Mountain and barely reaching the middle of her thighs.
She had damn nice legs, he thought, then immediately shut that part of his brain down.
“Sorry. Couldn’t sleep.”
“No problem. Do you need something?”
“I thought maybe a book…” She trailed off as she caught sight of the one he held. “Home Birthing Guide?”
She’d distracted him, he realized. Her legs had distracted him, and he’d left the cover facing out.
“They’ve got a lot of books at the settlement you can borrow. I stole this one because I couldn’t figure out how to explain borrowing it. I figured I should know what the hell to do when the time comes.”
“Good idea, because that’ll make one of us.” She pressed a hand to the aching small of her back. “I talked to Rachel some—the doctor in New Hope—and we were going to start birthing lessons in September. That was the plan. Anyway, I thought maybe a book, and I’d make some tea.”
“I’ll make it. No, you look a little ragged.”
“I’d be insulted except I feel the same. Should I read that?”
“Not if you want to sleep tonight.” He added a smile that made her laugh.
And press a hand to her side. “Whoa.”
“Must be hard to sleep with her kicking you from the inside.”
“I don’t know—I don’t think. Rachel said Braxton-Hicks contractions are like a preview of coming attractions.” Her voice hitched through the words as she braced on the back of the sofa.
“You’re hurting?”
“It’s just … It’s not that bad. Enough to keep me up.” She let out a breath, straightened.
“Maybe it’s … the thing.”
“‘The thing’? Labor? Oh, no, it’s just those fake contractions. I’d know. I mean, I’d have to know. I think some chamomile tea and a book. Maybe just the tea, actually.”
“Okay.” He tossed down the book, went to the kitchen with her. “I can bring it up.”
“Thanks, but being up feels pretty good. I’m just restless. Looks like the dogs are, too. Should I let them out?”
“Yeah, go ahead.” He put on the kettle as she opened the door.
Wind moaned in.
“It’s really blowing,” she murmured, standing for a moment and letting the cool air blast over her. “Might be a storm coming in.”
He turned away from the vision of her hair flying, the shirt dancing high on her thighs, appalled by the attraction.
Pregnant woman, he reminded himself. A woman who trusted and depended on him. A woman grieving for the man she’d loved.
“Dark nights full of wonder when magicks poise to rise. Max wrote that, or something close to that. It’s what tonight feels like.”
On a quick sound of shock she wrapped an arm around her belly. And her water broke.
They stood, her at the door, the wind blowing, him at the stove, the kettle steaming, and stared at each other in complete shock.
“Oh my God. My water broke. Did you hear it? Did you? It went ping. Oh, Jesus Christ! I don’t think these are the fake ones.”
“Okay, okay. Wait.” He turned the kettle down. He’d need the boiling water to sterilize … Don’t think about it yet.
“I don’t think waiting’s an option.”
“I don’t mean wait. I mean … Okay.” Military training kicked in. He simply put himself in combat mode.
“Let’s get you upstairs.”
“My water broke all over the floor.”
“I’ll mop it up later. I’ve got what we need upstairs.”
“What we need?”
He solved the let’s-get-you-upstairs issue by picking her up. A hefty load, but he could handle it. “I read the book, right? Clean shower curtain, towels, blankets, stuff. I’ve got this.”
“I need to have this.”
“I’ve got a stopwatch. We need to time the contractions. So, you’ve had a couple—about what, five minutes apart?”
“I don’t know how many. I thought they were the other kind. Why are there another kind? Whose idea was that?”
One of them, at least one of them, had to keep calm. “Give me a ballpark on how long.”
“A couple of hours I guess. I’m an idiot.”
“A novice is different than an idiot.” He carried her into his parents’ room, stood her beside the old four-poster. “I’m going to get the stuff. Can you hang on here?”
“Yes. I feel okay.”
Since he didn’t know how long that would last, he made it fast. He had the stackable containers, came back with them, spread out the shower curtain, piled up the towels.
“’Cause it gets messy. Ah, I can get you another shirt. That one’s wet.”
She looked down at herself, up at him. Closed her eyes for just a moment. “I guess it’s past time to worry about being embarrassed.”
She pulled it off, stood in the dim glow of gaslight looking to his eyes like some sort of fertility goddess. Ripe, beautiful, unearthly.
What she was, he reminded himself, was a woman in labor.
And he was the designated medic.
“I’m going to help you into bed, then I’ve got to get the rest of the stuff.”
He eased her onto the bed, spread a blanket over her, switched on the little gas fireplace his mother had loved.
“Be right back. Ah, breathe through it, right? In through the nose, out through the mouth. Wait, here.” He pushed a stopwatch into her hand. “Time the next one. How long it lasts, then start timing how long between.”
He moved fast, sterilized scissors, lengths of sturdy string, a cup of ice, a bowl of warm water, and cloths. He scrubbed his hands, under his nails, wished he’d thought to scavenge some doctor’s gloves from somewhere.
He organized everything while she breathed through a contraction.
“They’re harder. Really harder. That was like a minute after four minutes between.”
“Got it. So, the book says when you’re getting close I can see the kid’s head pushing against … down there. I should, ah, look. The next contraction.”
Propped up against pillows, she stared straight into his eyes. “When’s your birthday?”
“My birthday?”
