Linda Goodnight - Jingle-Bell Baby

Her eyes glazed over and she made that deep groaning sound again. His pulse ricocheted off his rib cage. He’d heard this particular moan before from cows and mares. The woman was right. They were out of time.

“All right, miss, take it easy,” he said, as much to calm his own nerves as hers. “Everything will be okay.”

She nodded again, her huge eyes locked on his face, clinging to his words, trusting him, a total stranger. Dax got the weirdest feeling in his chest.

“How far along are you? I mean, is it time for the baby?”

“Two weeks away.”

Close enough to know this was the real deal. Dang. Dang. Dang.

“How long have you been in labor?” he asked again.

Her body answered for her. Dax was smart enough to know that contractions this close could only mean one thing. Birth was imminent.

Think, Dax, think. What did he need? What could he do, other than wait for the inevitable?

“I’ll be right back,” he said past a tongue gone dry as an August day.

She managed to lever up, almost heaving toward him. “No! Don’t leave. Please. Please.”

Her pleading voice ebbed away on the wing of pain, but not before the sound hit Dax in the solar plexus. What kind of jerk did she take him for?

Guilt pinched him. Okay, so he’d resented the interruption to his afternoon. He’d wanted to drive right past. The point was he hadn’t. He might be a jerk, but he wasn’t a complete slimeball. Most of the time.

He touched her foot, hoping to reassure her. She was barefoot. A pair of fancy-looking silver shoes, complete with a perky bow, rested on the floor. He had the silliest thought that her feet were pretty. Slim and elegant like one of those ballet dancers.

What the devil was she doing out here alone?

“I need some things from my truck,” he said. “It’s right behind us. Not far at all. I’ll only be a minute.”

He loped to his Ford and dug out any—and everything he could find in the cab that might be of some use. There wasn’t much, but he had an old blanket and plenty of water. A rancher could never be certain when he might be ten miles from the house and need water or a blanket. At least he could wash his hands and wrap the baby when it arrived. A bright-red bandanna on the floorboard caught his eye. Gavin had left it behind. Though the cloth was likely none too clean, he grabbed it anyway and drenched the soft cotton with water.

Back at the car, he leaned in to wipe the wet bandanna over the woman’s damp forehead.

“It’s me again,” he said and then felt stupid for saying it. Who else would it be? The Seventh Cavalry?

The little mama made a small humming noise he took for gratitude. She must have been in between a contraction because her eyes were closed and her expression less tense.

As he straightened, he caught a whiff of some sweet-scented flower. Imagine, smelling like flowers at a time like this. She looked like a nightmare, but she smelled good.

He wondered one final time if he could toss her in the truck and get to the hospital in Saddleback in time.

Just as the thought flitted across his mind, her eyes flew open, distressed. “Oh, no. It’s coming again.”

She grabbed for his hand and squeezed with a grip that would have taken down a sumo wrestler.

“Easy now. Easy,” he said, talking to her the way he would a first-time mare. What else could he do? He was no doctor.

All right, Coleman, he said to himself. You’ve delivered plenty of calves and foals. A baby can’t be much different.

If he believed that he would have gone into the delivery room when Gavin was born.

“You’re doing great. Long, deep breaths. Work with the pain, not against it.” He didn’t know where the advice was coming from, but she seemed to do better when he was talking. “Attagirl. You’re doing good.”

The contraction subsided and she dropped her head back again. Dax shared her relief. This babydelivering business was hard work. His back ached from bending over the seat and his pulse pounded so hard against his eardrums, he thought he heard tomtoms.

Having long since tossed his hat aside, Dax wiped a sleeve across his forehead. Even with a cool breeze floating through the open door, he was sweating like a pig. But then, so was the little mama.

Drenched in sweat, her hair a wet wad around her face, she reminded Dax of a drowned kitten. Pitiful-looking little thing. Somebody, somewhere was going to be real upset that she was out here alone on the Texas plains having a baby.

He wondered about the baby’s father. About her family. She was young. Though her age was hard to discern at the moment, to an over-the-hill thirtysomething like him she looked like a kid. She needed her family at a time like this, not some broken-down old cowboy with a bad attitude, who wanted to be anywhere but here.

She was a brave little thing. He’d give her that. Tough as a pine knot. She had to be scared out of her mind, young as she was, but she hadn’t screamed or fought or carried on the way Reba had. She hadn’t cussed him or the baby, either.

Dax tasted gall as the old humiliating memory thrust itself into his consciousness.

The little mama shifted slightly, emitting a murmur of dread. Another contraction must be on its way.

He gently rubbed her toes. She captured his eyes; a tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Dax felt oddly heartened.

Here they were in about as intimate a situation as he could think of, and he didn’t even know her name. What if something went wrong?

No, he wouldn’t think of that. Even if his life was ruled by Murphy’s Law, he was not going to allow anything bad to happen to this gritty little lady.

“Name’s Dax,” he said. “You feel like telling me yours?”

Something odd flickered behind pain-clouded eyes. She licked dry lips. Then her gaze slid away.

Before Dax could decide if her silence was fatigue or reluctance, the wave of nature took over again. As her shoulders rolled forward, straining, she whispered, “I wanted to be brave, but I’m so scared. Don’t let anything happen to my baby.”

The admission touched Dax somewhere in the cold lump he called a heart. “You’re doing fine, little mama.”

He wanted to say a lot of other encouraging things, to tell her how courageous he thought she was, but with the blood rushing in his temples and his gut twisting with anxiety at the huge responsibility before him, he just patted her pretty foot and muttered nonsense.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes though it felt like a lifetime when suddenly she gave one last heaving groan and it was over. She fell back against the car seat, her exhausted breathing loud in the quiet.

A baby, the smallest thing Dax could imagine, slipped into his waiting hands. He’d expected her to be pink and squalling the way Gavin had been. Instead, the tiny form was silent, limp and purplish.

His heart, already jumping and pumping to beat Dixie, rose into his throat. He glanced at the little mama and then down at the infant.

Please God, no. Not this.

THE BROWN-HAIRED BOY barreling across the yard of The Southpaw in cowboy boots and an open jean jacket lifted Dax’s flagging spirits. The last few hours had been rough to say the least.

“Daddy!”

A swell of love bigger than his fifteen-hundred acre ranch expanded in Dax’s chest. He stopped in midyard and hunkered down. The sturdy little boy, smelling of pizza and backyard dirt, slammed into him. Small arms encircled his neck and squeezed.

Dax pressed the slender body to him, clinging to the thought that his son was alive and well. He didn’t know what he would do if anything should ever happen to Gavin, a fact that had come home to him with a vengeance during these last few hours with the little mama.