Diana Whitney - Ooh Baby, Baby

Travis jerked his eyes from the road to the mirror and back again, but it was too late. The mud slide loomed like a mountain. And they were heading right for it.

Travis yanked the wheel. The woman shrieked. The cab spun doughnuts on wet gravel, then sank to its hubcaps in the mucky shoulder.

He gunned the engine. The tires spat mud and sank deeper. Logically, Travis understood that the vehicle was irretrievably mired, but panic was not a logical emotion. He jammed the cab into first gear and stomped the gas pedal to the floor. The engine revved madly. Black goo shot from beneath the spinning tires.

“Aa-a-ah!”

A quick glance into the rearview mirror confirmed that the situation in the back seat was not going at all well. Sweat trickled into his eyes. He snatched up the microphone. “We’ve got big trouble! Send an ambulance to Virginia Road, about three miles down from the turnoff. For God’s sake, hurry, Sue Anne. We’re fixing to have a baby here!”

The radio crackled. “Say again?”

“A baby, a baby!”

“Ayeee-ee!” The woman gasped, bolted upright. “It’s coming! Oh, God, it’s coming!”

Travis spun in his seat. “Not yet, ma’am, please. Help is on the way. Just hold on a few more minutes, okay?”

She went limp and fell back against the door, panting. “I need to push.”

“Oh, Lordy, don’t do that!”

“I have to.”

“No, no, you don’t.” Frantic, Travis dropped the microphone and hoisted his torso over the headrest far enough to grasp her cold hand. “Think of something real calming, you know, like a pasture of grazing horses or maybe a pretty little creek. That always helps me to hold off during, uh, well, you know.”

She gave him a look that could freeze meat.

Travis swallowed hard. “I guess maybe you’re not in the mood to think about that sort of thing right now.”

Her eyes were green slits. “Oh, I’m thinking about it, cowboy. Believe me, I’m thinking about it— Ah! Oh! Oh!”

As the contraction hit, she clutched his wrist with both hands, hauling half his torso into the back seat. Behind him, a voice cracked over the radio, but Travis couldn’t deal with that because the thrashing woman with a death grip on his arm was shrieking distinctly unladylike epithets along with horribly graphic, gender-specific alterations she planned to perform on a man named Clyde.

Sue Anne’s voice crackled from the radio. “Travis! Travis, pick up. I’m patching you through to Vanderbilt Memorial’s ER. Travis!”

The driver’s headrest pressed Travis’s throbbing ribs as he teetered over the seat back, struggling to extricate himself from the woman’s clenched fingers. When he freed himself, he scooped up the microphone.

Before he could scream into the speaker, a crisp, female voice crackled out. “This is Dr. Jennings—”

Travis plunged his thumb on the mike switch. “Help!” he blurted. “She wants to push!”

“How close are the contractions?”

Travis shifted a wary glance toward the thrashing woman. “One right after another. Geez, they just won’t stop.”

“Can you see the baby’s head?”

“Huh?” Travis frowned at the microphone. “You’re kidding, right?”

The doctor gentled her tone. “My name is Amanda. What’s yours?”

“Travis, ma’am.”

“Well, Travis, you’re going to deliver this baby—”

“The hell I am!”

“And I’m going to help you.”

“Uh-uh, no way.” Travis shook his head so hard his hat shifted. “This is not going to happen—”

“It’s coming!” the woman screamed, then curled forward, teeth gritted as her face folded in on itself.

Travis dove into the back seat, dragging the microphone with him. “She says it’s coming!” he shouted, yanking the mike cord taut. “What do I do?”

The doctor’s voice was crisp, competent. “Remove her clothing and see if the head is crowning.”

Defeated, Travis issued a pained sigh, licked his lips and mumbled, “I’m real sorry, ma’am, but we, ah, need to adjust your skirt and such.”

The woman bared her teeth, allowed him to do what had to be done, then snarled like cornered prey.

Taken aback, Travis wiped his forehead, blinking at the woman who appeared ready to rip out his Adam’s apple and shove it up his nose. But he saw something else in her eyes. He saw terror.

Her snarl slipped into a broken sob. “Please,” she whispered. “Help me.”

Travis’s heart melted. “I will, ma’am. Don’t you fret. I’ll take real good care of you and your baby.”

Her gaze was skeptical, but tinged with hope. “Have you done this before?”

“Hmm? Oh, sure. Dozens of times.” Since the reassurance seemed to calm her, Travis chose not to mention that all of his previous patients had hooves.

A split second later the woman was convulsing again, locked in the throes of the worst contraction yet. Travis grabbed the mike. “The baby’s coming, all right. I can see its head.”

“Good,” the doctor said. “You’ll need something to grip the child with. Do you have a towel, or any kind of clean cloth?”

“Well, ah.” Travis plucked at his muddy shirt. “I don’t think so.”

“Valise,” the woman mumbled when the pain eased.

“Hmm?” Travis followed her weak gesture to the tapestry bag on the floorboard. “Oh. Wait a minute, Doc.” He snapped the bag open and pulled out a handful of items, including a couple of adult-size nighties, a robe, some baby gowns and two tiny blankets. “Okay, I got some stuff.” A guttural moan caught his attention. He froze for a moment, then stuttered, “Sh-she’s going at it again, Doc. Oh, Lordy, the baby’s coming out!”

“Reach down and support the child’s head,” Dr. Jennings said brusquely. “During the next contraction, ease the shoulders out of the birth canal.”

Instantly forgetting the doctor’s instruction about using a cloth, Travis dropped the flowered nightie, lurched forward and made a clumsy grab for the tiny wet skull. “Its eyes are open. It’s looking at me—”

The woman sucked in a rasping gulp of air, squeezed her eyes shut and pushed for all she was worth. A wriggling infant slipped into Travis’s waiting hands…then squirted right out of them. The baby landed fortuitously on the woman’s stomach, where it emitted a startled gasp, screwed up its purple face and began to howl lustily.

Travis fell back, horrified by how close he’d come to dropping the slippery little guy. He didn’t know squat about babies—hell, he’d never even touched one before—but it didn’t take a genius to realize that bouncing one off the floorboard was a really bad idea.

The exhausted woman peeled open an eyelid and smiled. “A boy,” she murmured. “A perfect little boy. Isn’t he beautiful?” She beamed expectantly.

Travis eyed the ugly, wrinkled creature and decided God would forgive a small lie. “Yes’m, he’s real pretty.”

The radio crackled. “Travis? What’s going on there?”

He took a shuddering breath and picked up the microphone that was dangling over the headrest by its cord. “The baby’s here, Doc, and it’s yelling something fierce.”

Dr. Jennings chuckled. “Good job, Travis, but your work isn’t done yet.”

After answering several questions about the child’s appearance and the mother’s condition, Travis managed to follow the doctor’s instructions about clearing the infant’s nose and mouth, then used a strip of flowered cloth to tie off the umbilical cord. He’d just draped one of the blankets over the still-howling child when the woman went rigid.

“Ma’am?” Travis blinked sweat out of his eyes. “Oh, Lordy, ma’am, why are you doing that again?”