Jill Kemerer - Wyoming Christmas Quadruplets

“I had to use the bathroom.” She walked by Belle, who stood with one hip jutted out and a sour expression on her face. Ben started fussing. She mustered the last scraps of her patience. “The babies are about ready to eat. Why don’t you sit on the couch, and I’ll hand the boys to you?”

“Why the boys? Why not the girls?” Belle backed up a step, alarm running a fifty-meter dash in her eyes. Ainsley was too tired to feel sympathetic. Max let out a whimper, and Ben’s fussing turned into crying. She’d tried to engage Belle many times since arriving last week, but she’d yet to see Belle holding a baby. Ainsley kept trying, though.

“Fine. I’ll bring the girls to you. Let me warm their bottles. I’ll be right back.” She trudged to the kitchen and took out four bottles from the refrigerator. The sound of Grace joining the crying made her lean her elbows on the counter and drop her head. She’d learned the hard way that crying was contagious. The longer it went on, the harder it was to contain. It took everything inside her not to yell to Belle to pick up one of the babies and try to comfort them.

The woman had zero baby skills.

Or maybe she had no confidence.

Either way, Ainsley wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her. Don’t you want to be their mother? What is wrong with you?

From the living room, she heard Lila’s little cry. Lord, this is bad if even sweet Lila is crying. Why am I here? I can’t make a difference if their mother refuses to hold them. What will happen after the holidays when I leave?

As she warmed the bottles, tension gripped her throat. The babies’ cries grew more insistent. She tested two of the bottles—lukewarm—and marched back to the living room, ready to force Belle to feed a set of twins if need be.

But one look at the woman and she halted. Belle stood over the bouncy seats with her hands down by her sides. A trail of tears rushed down her cheeks, and her fingers were trembling.

How had Ainsley missed it?

Belle wasn’t an ambivalent mother. And this wasn’t a lack of confidence—this was naked fear.

Could Belle have postpartum depression?

The truth pierced her to the core. Ainsley needed to approach her differently. She pulled her shoulders back and calmly approached Belle. Using her most soothing voice, she said, “Go ahead and sit on the couch. Lila wants her mommy.”

Belle hastily wiped her tears away. “I...I’m really tired.” She took a step toward the hall, but Ainsley blocked her way.

“I know you’re tired. Sit with Lila. She’s so cuddly. You can rest on the couch, and I’ll put the television on.”

Belle licked her cracked lips. “I don’t know—”

Ainsley put her arm around her, steered her to the couch and handed her a bottle. Then she unstrapped Lila, cooed some baby talk to her and placed her in Belle’s arms. Belle stiffened, but Ainsley pretended not to notice.

“See? She’s better already.” Ainsley said a silent prayer of thanks when Lila stopped crying. She held her breath, waiting to see if Belle would offer the bottle to the baby. She did. And visibly relaxed. “I’ll get the boys’ bottles and be right back.”

Thank You, Lord!

Ainsley rolled up receiving blankets and propped the boys’ bottles on them in their bouncy seats. They both calmed immediately. Then she picked up Grace and sat on the other couch to feed her. With the babies quiet again, Ainsley turned on the television.

“What do you like to watch?”

“I don’t care.” Belle actually smiled at Lila.

“Well, with Thanksgiving a few days away, let’s drool over the cooking shows.” She clicked to the food channel and relaxed into the couch. Grace was warm and happy, and for the first time in days, Ainsley had a sense of peace.

Postpartum depression she could deal with. The color-coding and schedule had helped tremendously, too, but things had to change around here. If they didn’t, Belle wouldn’t be able to care for the babies on her own. And Ainsley couldn’t work twelve-hour days seven days a week or she’d get burned out.

Marshall came to mind. She hadn’t asked him about it, but she suspected he stopped by regularly to help with the babies at night. They weren’t doing Belle, Raleigh or the children any favors by doing all the work. Grace finished her bottle, so Ainsley lifted her to burp her. Darling little thing. Funny how the exhaustion and frustration dissipated as soon as one of the babies was in her arms.

“What do you and Raleigh usually do for Thanksgiving?” Ainsley patted Grace’s back and glanced at Belle.

She got a faraway look in her eyes, making her appear softer. “Since neither of us has any family left, I like to make a big dinner.” Her face fell. “But I don’t know about this year. It’s all too much.”

“If we help with the babies, would you want to make the dinner?” Maybe doing something she enjoyed would get Belle in a better frame of mind.

“I...I don’t know. It’s a lot of work.” Worry lines creased her forehead.

“Yes, it is.” Ainsley didn’t want her overwhelmed. “Maybe one of the guys could help you with cooking. I’m not very good in the kitchen.”

Belle turned to face her. She seemed to perk up. “No? Well, Raleigh is hopeless unless he’s grilling. I’ll ask Marshall.”

The fact Belle automatically fell back on Marshall concerned her. It was as if he was at her beck and call.

And he never turned his sister down.

Uneasiness slithered down her spine.

Ainsley could write the book on codependent relationships. She’d been in one with her father for twenty-one years. Three years ago, she’d broken free, and she’d promised herself she’d never be in one again.

Whatever was going on with Marshall and his sister didn’t seem healthy. If he didn’t set some boundaries, Ainsley didn’t know if she could stick out this baby nurse stint to completion. She’d discuss it with him at dinner. She just hoped he’d listen—for his sake, for Belle’s and, most of all, for the babies’.

* * *

Life was finally starting to feel manageable. Marshall finished brushing his horse and led him to the stall. After feeding and watering the animal, he strode back to his cabin. High winds had left the ground dry. It was almost 7:00 p.m., and his porch light beckoned under the dark sky. Inside his cabin, he took off his winter outerwear before scrubbing his hands and checking his appearance in the bathroom mirror.

Bags hung low beneath bloodshot eyes. His scruff had grown to an unruly level. He looked terrible.

What did he expect? He hadn’t gotten more than four hours of sleep at a time since the babies had come home from the hospital. He didn’t want to tell Ainsley, but Belle called him every night at around 1:00 a.m. in a panic. And worry twisted his insides until he figured it was best to run over and get the babies settled. It didn’t take long. They’d need a change and a bottle and they’d drift back to sleep in no time.

But then he’d get a text at 5:00 a.m., as well. And since Raleigh was out feeding cattle before that, Marshall knew she was all alone. So, he’d stop in at the main house. Running back and forth between the ranch and the babies left him exhausted.

After making himself presentable, he went to the kitchen and turned on the oven. He’d thawed out barbecue pulled pork earlier. He tossed it into a baking dish and slid it along with some frozen French fries into the oven. Then he threw on his coat and went out the door. If he didn’t collect Ainsley from the main house, she’d be there all night.

Guilt slowed his pace on the path. Ainsley was working twelve-hour days. He wanted to believe Belle was doing her fair share of the baby care, but deep down, he knew she wasn’t. And since he’d been Raleigh’s right-hand man for the calf sale, he’d been unable to help as much. Thankfully, as of yesterday, all the calves had shipped, and the ranch was back to normal operations.