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It was three hours later and the pains had decreased to eight minutes apart when Anne woke Blane. She managed to wiggle to sit upright between labor pains and switched on her table lamp. Blane came awake instantly.
“What’s wrong?”
It always amazed Anne how he could be deep asleep and then suddenly he was as wide awake as if he’d had three cups of coffee and been up for hours. There was no grogginess, no rubbing his eyes, no yawning. Just instant alertness.
Anne looked at him…and smiled. “It’s time.”
His eyes widened. “Really? How do you know?”
“My labor pains started a few hours ago. They’re eight minutes apart now. I think we should go to the hospital.”
Blane sprang from the bed and rushed to get dressed. Anne watched in some amusement as he stumbled while stuffing his legs into a pair of jeans and jerked on a black t-shirt. He grabbed a pair of socks then stopped to press a hard kiss to her mouth before putting them on. Shoes came next then he brought her waffle weave robe and helped her into it. Anne didn’t see the point of getting dressed to go to the hospital at four in the morning when they’d put her in a gown anyway.
He'd finished putting on her shoes when another pain hit.
“Wait,” she gasped, sitting back down on the bed. She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing. It helped a little, but she had the feeling it wasn’t going to do much as the pains increased in intensity.
Blane watched her anxiously. She couldn’t spare the concentration to reassure him. After a couple of minutes which felt much longer, the pain eased and she took a deep breath.
“Okay. It’s over. Let’s go.”
Blane all but carried her down the stairs, her already-packed suitcase in his other hand. Agent Simpson was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a paper and sipping coffee. He glanced up and when he saw them—Anne clutching her stomach and Blane carrying a suitcase—and jumped to his feet.
“We’re heading to the hospital,” Blane announced.
Simpson held the underside of his wrist to his mouth. “Buckner. Treasure is popping. Repeat. Treasure is popping.”
Anne took a moment to shoot him a glare. Popping? Really? Ugh.
Buckner came bounding up the stairs from the basement. They had two bedrooms downstairs in the finished basement and took turns being on duty at night. Buckner looked like he’d literally thrown on his clothes—his shirt was mis-buttoned and his tie was hanging loose around his neck. His eyes were a little wild.
“How far apart are the contractions?” Simpson asked. “And how long do they last?”
I tuned them out as Blane answered. All three men were discussing how long the contractions should be and when did they start, etc. etc.
“Honey,” Anne interrupted, “can we head to the hospital now?”
“Oh God, I’m sorry. Yes, let’s go.”
He hustled her to their new SUV and bundled her inside. Simpson and Buckner ran to their sedan and piled in. Another labor pain began and Anne quit paying attention to the Secret Service agents. Blane fired up the engine and tore out of the driveway.
A little moan escaped as the pain reached its zenith. The car sped up. Anne would’ve laughed if the pain wasn’t so consuming.
Her seatbelt locked as Blane brought the car to a screeching halt outside the ER.
Within a crazy short amount of time, Anne was in a room, changed into a gown, hooked up to several monitors, and had an IV going. Blane hovered nearby, peppering the nurses with questions. They were incredibly patient as they answered while still getting Anne situated and the equipment going. Anne figured they probably had had more than their share of anxious fathers over the years. Finally, she and Blane were alone.
“Where are Simpson and Buckner?” she asked.
“They’ve set up shop in the hallway.”
Knowing two armed agents were only feet away reassured Anne. They wouldn’t let anyone get by them.
Blane pulled up a chair next to the bed and held her hand as the labor pains came and went. They had decreased to seven minutes apart and had increased in intensity to the point where Anne made little noises every time one went through her.
Her doctor arrived a little after six. Anne crankily decided he was too jovial for this hour.
“Good morning!” he enthused. Anne mumbled a response. “From your chart, it looks like this is the real deal,” he continued, flipping through said chart. “Only two weeks early. That’s not bad for twins.” He set aside the chart. “I’m going to do an exam and see how far along you are.” He glanced at Blane. “Did you want your husband to stay?”
