Cassie Miles - Mountain Midwife

“A cabin.” Her voice trembled on the edge of a sob. “Thank God, it’s a cabin.”

He helped her up the small embankment, and they approached the rear of the cabin. No lights shone from inside.

The front door was sheltered by a small porch. Cole hammered against the green painted door with his frozen fist. No answer. Nobody home.

He tried the door handle and found it locked. He was carrying lock picks, but it was too cold to try a delicate manipulation of lock tumblers. He stepped back, prepared to use his body as a battering ram.

“Wait,” Rachel said. “Run your hand over the top sill. They might have left a key.”

“We need to get inside.” He was too damned cold and tired to perform a subtle search. “Why the hell would anybody bother to lock up and then leave a key?”

“This isn’t the city,” she said. “Some of these little cabins are weekend getaways with different families coming and going. Give it a try.”

He peeled off his glove. His fingers were wet and stiff, but he didn’t see the whitened skin indicating the first stage of frostbite. When he felt along the ledge above the door, he touched a key. It seemed that their luck had turned.

Shivering, he fitted the key into the lock and pushed open the door. He and Rachel tumbled inside. When he shut the door against the elements, an ominous silence wrapped around them.

RACHEL DISCARDED HER GLOVES and hit the light switch beside the door. The glow from an overhead light fixture spilled down upon them. They had electricity. So far, so good.

She unzipped her parka, glad that when she left the house this morning—an eternity ago—she’d been smart enough to dress for subzero weather. This jacket might have saved her life … and Goldie’s as well. She looked down at the tiny bundle she carried in the sling against her chest. The baby’s eyes were closed. She wasn’t moving. Please, God, let her be all right.

Cole hovered beside her, and she knew he was thinking the same thing.

Rachel slipped out of her jacket. Carefully, she braced the baby in her arms and adjusted the sling. Please, God.

Goldie’s eyes popped open and she let out a wail.

Rachel had never heard a more beautiful sound. “She’s okay. Yes, you are, Goldie. You’re all right.”

Looking up, she saw a similar relief in Cole’s ruddy face. He’d torn off his cap and his hair stood up in spikes. His lips were chapped and swollen. Moisture dripped from his leather jacket. In spite of his obvious discomfort, he smiled.

Grateful tears rose behind her eyelids, but she couldn’t let herself fall apart. “Are we safe?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Tell me what Goldie needs.”

The interior of the cabin was one big, open room with a couple of sofas and chairs at one end and a large wooden table at the other. The kitchen area formed an L shape. A closed door against the back wall probably led into the bedroom. The most important feature, in her mind, was the freestanding propane gas fireplace. “See if you can get that heater going.”

She held Goldie against her shoulder, patting her back and soothing her cries. The poor little thing had to be starving. There was powdered formula in the backpack of supplies, but they needed water.

In the kitchen, Rachel turned the faucet in the sink and was rewarded with a steady flow. This simple, little cabin—probably a weekend getaway—had been well-prepared for winter. No doubt the owners had left the electricity on because the water pipes were wrapped in heat tape. The stove was electric.

Cole joined her. “The fireplace is on. What’s next?”

He looked like hell. Hiking through the blizzard had been more difficult for him than for her. Not only did he go first, but his jacket and boots also weren’t anywhere near as well-insulated as hers. She wanted to tell him to get out of his wet clothes, warm up and take care of himself, but she didn’t want to insult his masculine pride by suggesting he wasn’t in as good a shape as she was.

“Help me get stuff out of the backpack.”

Near the cheery blaze in the propane fireplace, they dug through the baby supplies and put together a nest of blankets for Goldie. When Rachel laid the baby down on the blankets, her cries faded. Goldie wriggled as her diaper was changed.

Cole frowned. “Is she supposed to look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like a plucked chicken. I thought babies were supposed to have chubby arms and legs.”

“Don’t listen to him.” Rachel stroked Goldie’s fine, dark hair. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Yeah, people always say that. But not all babies are beautiful.”

“This is a golden child.” She zipped Goldie into a yellow micro-fleece sleep sack. “She’s beautiful, strong and brave—not even a day old and she’s already escaped a gang of thugs and made it through a blizzard.”

The baby’s chin tilted, and she seemed to be looking directly at Cole with her lips pursed.

He laughed. “She’s a tough little monkey.”

“Newborns are surprisingly resilient.” She held Goldie against her breast and stood. “I’m going to the kitchen to prepare the formula. Maybe you want to get out of those wet clothes.”

“What about you?”

Her jeans were wet and cold against her legs, and her feet were cold in spite of her lined, waterproof boots. “I’d love to take off my boots.”

“Sit,” he ordered.

Still holding the baby, she sank onto a rocking chair. The heat from the fireplace was making a difference in the room temperature. She couldn’t allow herself to get too comfortable or she’d surely fall asleep. This had been the longest day of her life; she’d attended at two birthings, been kidnapped and escaped through a blizzard.

Cole knelt before her and unfastened the laces on her boots. He eased the boot off her right foot, cradled her heel in his hand and massaged through her wool sock. His touch felt so good that she groaned with pleasure.

“Your feet are almost dry,” Cole said. “Where do I get boots like this?”

“Any outdoor clothing and equipment store.” Anyone who lived in the mountains knew how to shop for snow gear. “You’re not from around here.”

“L.A.,” he said.

This was the first bit of personal information he’d volunteered. She’d entrusted this man with her life even though she knew next to nothing about him. “What’s your last name?”

“McClure.” He pulled off the other boot. “And I’m not who you think I am.”

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