Bethany Campbell - The Baby Gift

“Oh, Josh, she’s sick. She might be—so sick.”

He had the sensation of falling toward a devouring darkness. “How sick? Is she in the hospital?”

“I don’t know how sick. It’s in the early stages. She doesn’t know yet. Nobody knows.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Damn, his hands were shaking. His hands never shook.

“It’s a—an anemia,” she stammered. “It’s very rare. And—and serious.”

“What can I do?” He sat on the edge of the bathtub, his head down. He felt as if he was going to pass out.

She seemed to pull herself together, but she still sounded shattered. “Can you come home? I mean come here?”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll get on the first flight out. But what can we do for her?”

“Oh, Josh,” she said, despair naked in her voice, “I’ve thought and thought. I think there’s only one thing. One thing in the world.”

“What? I’ll do anything. You know that."

She was silent a long moment. He knew she was having trouble speaking. At last she whispered, “To save her, I think we have to have another baby.”

Dear Reader,

“Individuals in every generation must decide what they will preserve for those who follow.”

Those are the opening words of a fine book, The Heirloom Gardener by Carolyn Jabs. I bought two copies of this book, one for me and one for my dad.

My father taught me that to see a seed sprout, grow and change was a miracle. The Baby Gift is a story about miracles and how, in our time, miracles can get mixed up with science.

About the science, I tried to be accurate, but I have probably made errors, and for this I apologize. As for the art of growing things, I turned to the wonderful organization called Seed Savers. What I got right is due to them and the delightful Lyn Jabs. What I got wrong, I got wrong on my own, drat it.

Growing heirloom vegetables is a lovely and rewarding (and, okay, delicious) pastime. Anyone who would like more information about heirloom gardening can contact The Seed Savers Exchange, 3076 North Winn Road, Decorah, Iowa 52101. On the Internet, you can find information at www.seedsavers.org

Best wishes,

Bethany Campbell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Howard Martinson Bostwick, with love and gratitude.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE LITTLE GIRL dreamed of her daddy.

He was the handsomest daddy in the world and the funniest and the smartest—he knew things that nobody else’s daddy knew.

He knew, for instance, how to escape from a giant octopus.

The little girl lived hundreds of miles from any ocean, she had never seen the ocean or an octopus, but still, she wondered about situations like this.

“The thing to do is not to panic,” her daddy said. “If an octopus grabs you and wants to eat you, just stay calm.”

“Calm?” she said dubiously.

“Between his eyes the octopus has a bump like a wart. Surprise him—bite his wart!”

“Yuck!” said the little girl.

“No,” her father said, tapping her temple. “It’s using your smarts. All the octopus’s nerves are centered in that bump. When it hurts, he drops you and swims off fast as he can. He’ll never want to see you again.”

“Well,” she said with a thoughtful frown, “what if a giant clam grabs my foot and won’t let go?”

“Ah,” said Daddy, “that’s why you always carry a knife when you dive. If a giant clam snaps shut on you, cut his hinge. Snip-snip, you’re free. And he’s learned his lesson.”

“Will it kill him?” she asked. She wanted only to escape the clam, not murder it.

Her father shook his head. “No. He’ll have to lie low and grow his hinge back. Of course, some sand may drift in his shell, so maybe he’ll make a giant pearl while he’s waiting.”

“Hmm,” said the little girl. “Well, what about crocodiles?”

“Easiest of all,” said her daddy. “The crocodile has all sorts of muscles to snap his mouth shut. But he’s got very weak muscles to open it up. Grab him by the snoot when his mouth is closed. Then he can’t open it.”

“Then what?”

“Then move him someplace where he won’t bite people and where the hunters won’t get him.”

“Why would hunters want him?”

“To make wallets and suitcases and watch straps out of him. It’s a sad fate, becoming a watch strap.”

“Mm,” said the little girl. Then, as dreams do, hers drifted off. She was on an imaginary seashore, warm with caressing breezes. There, she and her faithful partner, Zorro the cat, stalked crocodiles. She was not afraid, because her daddy had taught her how to escape all dangers.

She strode across the sand, as fearless and strong as her father was. The sky was blue, the sun shone down with tropic brightness, and she moved, safe and invincible, through a world of eternal summer.

WHILE THE CHILD SLEPT, snow fell. It had fallen all morning.

It glistened, silver and white, on the greenhouse roofs. Like ragged lace, it covered the cold frames still empty of seedlings. It eddied around the corners of the barn, dancing with the wind as if alive and bewitched.

But the inside of the little farmhouse was warm. Briana had been up and working for almost an hour. The scents of coffee and bacon and biscuits hung in the kitchen air like country ambrosia.

It was a scene of almost perfect peace.

Then Briana smashed her finger with the hammer. A swear word flew to her mouth, but she sucked it back in pain. This almost made her swallow the spare tack she held between her teeth.

Through sheer willpower, she recovered and bit on the tack more firmly. She had a job to do, and with all her Missouri stubbornness, she meant to get it done.

She settled herself more steadily on the top rung of the ladder and gripped the hammer. She tapped the last crepe-paper streamer into place on the ceiling beam. Now kitchen, living room and dining room were festooned with spirals of red and white.

Briana cocked her head and examined the effect. It looked fine, it looked festive, it looked—happy.

Happy, she thought numbly. Good. I want things to look happy.

She climbed down the ladder and plucked the unused tack from her mouth, then thrust it into the pocket of her carpenter’s apron. She stowed her hammer in its proper drawer and hung the apron on its peg inside the pantry.

She checked the food warming in the oven, then called her daughter to breakfast. She made sure her voice was firm, steady and, above all, cheerful.

“Nealie! Up and at ’em. Breakfast time.”

From the bedroom came a groan that was impressively loud for such a small girl. “Agh!”

“No dramatics,” Briana ordered. “They scare the cat.”

With even greater drama, Nealie shouted, “I hate mornings!” This time her groan ended with a horrible gurgle. “Aargh-gack-gack.”

The black cat, Zorro, streaked out of Nealie’s room, down the stairs and to his sanctuary behind the washing machine. Zorro was of a nervous disposition.

Briana looked at all that remained visible of the cat, the twitching tip of his black tail. She crooked an eyebrow. “Good morning, Zorro. I’d hide, too, if I were you. Some mice were around earlier asking for you. Big mice. One of them had a baseball bat.”