Judy Duarte - Her Best Christmas Ever

“Yes, I am.” Doc was in Brighton Valley, which was about ten minutes away. And the hospital in Wexler was about thirty miles beyond that. He’d probably tell her to grab her bag and come right away.

Instead, he said, “I’m afraid there’s no way you or anyone else can get in or out of there right now because of the flooding.”

Had she imagined a raw edge to his grandfatherly voice? A tinge of fear?

Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach, and her voice took on high-pitched tone. “What am I going to do?”

“Don’t worry. Usually, once the rain stops for a while, the county road opens up again.”

She wanted to believe him, but it was a real struggle. She placed a hand on her womb as though she could convince the baby to stay inside and wait for a more convenient time to arrive.

“The weather report says that the rains are supposed to start easing by midnight,” Doc added, “and it won’t take long for the road to open up after that. So you should be okay until then.”

Should be? But what if she wasn’t? What if the baby needed medical intervention? Or what if she did?

“Can an ambulance get through?” Connie asked. “Or maybe you can send a helicopter.” Somehow, she had to get to a hospital.

“I’m afraid not. The ambulance can’t make it any sooner than I can. And the chopper can’t take off right now. But in a couple of hours…”

“ Hours?” Connie asked.

“Edna’s an old hand at this,” Doc said. “She’s helped me deliver a few babies over the years. So if worse comes to worst, you’ll be in good hands.”

“But Granny isn’t here. ” Connie’s voice had risen a couple of decibels and was bordering on sheer panic.

“Who’s with you?” Doc asked. “You’re not alone, are you?”

Connie slid a glance at Greg, watching as he came into the family room and dropped a towel onto the floor to dry up the fluid.

“No,” she told the doctor. “I’m not alone. Greg’s with me.”

“Good. He’s been raised around cattle and horses. He’ll know what to do if it comes to that.”

What did he mean by “if it comes to that”?

Was he suggesting that a country singer be her midwife? And not just any singer, but the one and only Greg Clayton?

She blew out a sigh. Greg had been raised around cattle and horses, Doc had said. Was that supposed to make Connie feel better?

She didn’t care if the guy had a degree in veterinary medicine. She wanted a doctor—her doctor. And she wanted to have her baby in a hospital.

After giving her a few do’s and don’ts, Doc added, “As soon as the rainfall stops and the water recedes, I’ll drive out to the ranch. If the weatherman was right and this storm strikes hard and quick, I should be able to get through that road before dawn.”

Connie glanced out the window, where the rain continued to pound as though it would never end.

“For what it’s worth,” Doc added, “first babies usually take their time being born. You have hours to go. In fact, you probably won’t even deliver until tomorrow night.”

She hoped he was right. If anyone had a handle on this sort of thing it was Doc.

But that didn’t make Connie feel any better about being stuck out on the ranch without a physician—or even a veterinarian.

What was Greg going to do—sing the baby a lullaby?

Greg had never been so scared in his entire life. And that was saying a lot.

Before he’d moved in with Granny, he’d had plenty of reasons to be afraid. Like being left at a Mexican orphanage when he was six years old. And going mano a mano with a furious, unbalanced, thirty-something migrant worker when Greg had been only thirteen.

Now, as he sat in Connie’s bedroom with every candle and flashlight he could find glowing, it seemed as though he was even more out of his element than he’d ever been before.

It was just after midnight, and he’d been planted in a chair beside her bed for three hours, afraid to leave her alone—even to take a bathroom break.

Her pain had grown progressively worse. But at least she hadn’t cried out, which would have really wrung the ice-cold sweat out of him.

After another brutal contraction eased, she seemed to regroup. So he took the wet cloth he’d been using to wipe her brow, dipped it into a bowl of cool water, then dabbed it across her forehead.

He didn’t knowif thatwas helping or not, but he’d seen someone do that in a movie once. And he wanted to do something, even if he felt about as useful as a sow bug on the underside of a rock.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Not bad when I’m between contractions,” she said, obviously attempting to make light of all of this.

His best guess was that her pains were lasting nearly two minutes, and her reprieve wasn’t even that long. But he had to give her credit for not screaming. He’d really be in a fix then. His nerves, which he’d once thought were like cords of steel, reminded him of cooked spaghetti noodles now.

“According to Doc Graham,” she said, “first babies take hours to be born. And he should be here by the time we need him.”

“That’s good to know.” Greg wondered who she was trying to make feel better—him or her. It didn’t matter, he supposed. Either way, they were in this mess together.

And what a mess it was. Talk about being at a loss and completely out of his comfort zone.

Greg had watched his share of births on the ranch, but they’d all been animals. He glanced down at Connie, at the grimace on her face, and his fear deepened.

What if something went wrong? What if he didn’t know what to do or how to help her?

He did his best to tamp down the concern and worry, as they continued to ride out the storm—the one raging outside, as well as the one going on in her body.

Finally, just after one o’clock, she turned her head toward him. Pain clouded her eyes.

As she wrapped her gaze around his, threatening to pull him under as he dog-paddled around in a sea of his own anxiety, she reached for him and locked her fingers around his forearm. “Will the road be closed much longer?”

“The rain has really let up, so the water should start receding as soon as the downpour stops completely.”

“This is getting to be unbearable,” she said. “So I hope you’re right.”

Greg hoped so, too.

What if something went wrong—like it had the night he was born?

His biological mother, Maria Vasquez, had been nearly nine months pregnant and living inMexico when she’d decided to return to the United States to have her baby. She’d been born in Houston, but after the death of her parents, she’d moved back to Mexico to live with an older sister.And since Greg’s father had been a drifter who hadn’t been willing to marry her or accept responsibility for the child he’d helped create, she knew she was on her own.

Maria had been a dreamer, while her sister Guadalupe had never been one to take risks. But Maria knew having U.S. citizenship, like she had,would provide her child advantages hewouldn’t have in Mexico. So she managed to finally talk Guadalupe into leaving the small village where they lived and going to Texas with her.

Unfortunately, they’d no more than crossed the border when Maria’s water broke, and she went into labor.

They’d tried to reach Houston, but her labor progressed too quickly. So they’d decided to stop at the very next town they came to. But by that time, it was late at night, and there was nothing open—no gas station, no motel, no diner…

When they spotted a small church, Guadalupe stopped the car and banged on the door until a priest answered. He’d called an ambulance and done his best to make Maria comfortable, but medical help didn’t arrive in time. Maria died from complications of childbirth and was later buried in the church cemetery.