She ignored his question, merely shrugging. “I must fetch my bonnet.”
“Yes,” he said, his voice showing his weariness. “Yes, you should. You’re becoming quite red.”
14
San Francisco
“Now, Molly, you’re an old hand at this. Breathe slowly, light shallow breaths. That’s it.” Saint gently wiped Molly Tyson’s sweating brow with a cool damp cloth.
“I was so scared you wouldn’t be here,” Molly said as a contraction eased. “I heard you’d gone off to those Hawaiian Islands.”
“Yes, I did, but my timing is always exquisite, and so, it appears, is yours. That’s it, Molly . . . no, don’t tense up. Here, squeeze my hand. That’s it.”
“Damn, it hurts,” Molly gasped. “How could I have forgotten how bad it hurts?”
“I know. Scream if you want to. I know I would.” Saint winced as she wrung his hand, her back arched up, her body rigid, in a contraction. “All right, Molly, the pains are coming closer now. Let me see how far along this little fellow is.”
He rose and walked to the basin of hot water that Molly’s eldest daughter, Elizabeth, had provided. He washed his hands, then returned to the bed. He wished there were another woman to be with her, but there wasn’t, and he wasn’t about to let twelve-year-old Elizabeth in here. As for Ranger Tyson—the man was useless as a fish flopping on the beach when Molly had a baby. As Saint eased his hand into her, he was grateful that Molly wasn’t embarrassed or a prude. Lord knew, he’d had to deliver babies when the women were suffering as much from embarrassment at his presence as from their labor pains. “Things are coming along just fine,” he said after a moment. “Not much longer, Molly.” He returned to the chair beside her bed and took her hand into his again.
“In a little while I’ll give you some chloroform. No, don’t tense up. Incidentally, did I tell you that Queen Victoria had chloroform used when she birthed her seventh child last year? If the Queen of England allows it, it’s sure to spread.”
“I don’t know, Saint, Ranger isn’t so certain, and Father O’Banyon says that the Bible preaches that women should have pain with childbirth and—”
“To hell with Ranger and Father O’Banyon,” Saint said, interrupting her. “Neither of those blessed gentlemen has to do any of the hurting. I’ve heard that ridiculous argument about women and sorrow until I’m ready to kill. Now, you just think about this new little tyke. You’re lucky you aren’t an Indian wife, Molly. Did I tell you about the Indian tribe—I can’t remember the name—but if a woman in labor wasn’t birthing quickly enough, they tied her to a stake out in a field. Yes, indeed, it’s true.” He grinned at her incredulous look, knowing she was now distracted. “Then, Molly, a brave would ride full tilt toward her, veering away only at the last instant.”
“Oh God, that’s awful!”
“Yes, but you can imagine that such a fright would do something. Evidently it worked, or I can’t imagine that they’d continue scaring the woman out of her wits. That’s it, Molly, pant.”
He administered the chloroform about ten minutes later. The birth of Molly’s third child, a boy, came quickly after that. The chloroform didn’t stop all pain, but it certainly lessened the utter agony a woman felt in the last minutes of labor.
“You just get your breath, Molly,” Saint said, grinning down at her, “and I’ll take your beautiful baby out to Elizabeth.”
“Tell Ranger, if he isn’t too drunk, Saint. He wanted another boy.”
Over an hour later, Saint mounted his horse, Spartan, and rode north back to the city. Ranger Tyson was partner in Hobson’s Stables in San Francisco. Instead of money in payment for his services, Saint had bargained himself free stabling and feed for Spartan for six months.
Saint breathed in deeply the crisp, fog-filled air. It was near to dawn, and streaks of crimson had started to slash across the horizon. Why, he wondered, rubbing his jaw wearily, did women always tend to start their labor at night? He’d left Jules asleep, at least he hoped she’d been asleep.
They’d arrived in San Francisco three days before on a foggy, chill afternoon. Jules, used to the balmy weather of the islands, was shivering violently by the time they’d gotten to his house. Lydia Mullens, bless her, had wrapped Jules up and poured hot chocolate down her. He remembered clearly his feeling when he’d stepped into his surgery. It was as if he’d been living out of time. Everything was again as it had been, as it should be, except that he had a shivering wife upstairs. She hadn’t been cold before, he remembered, but then, she’d spent all her time in his house.
“Damn,” he said aloud with no particular heat, rubbing his hand over Spartan’s satiny black neck.
Spartan nickered.
Saint grinned, staring between his horse’s ears. “Well, old boy,” he said to his horse, “life isn’t the way we left it, is it? The question is, what the hell is going to happen now?” Spartan wasn’t obliging enough to nicker again.
Saint was tired to his bones, but it was a comforting physical weariness that he appreciated. At least he wouldn’t have to endure those damned draining erotic dreams for a while. As for Jane Branigan, she’d behaved with great understanding when he’d visited her the day before. It was almost as if she’d expected it, he realized, thinking back to her words.
“She isn’t all that much a child then, I gather,” she’d said, pouring him a cup of coffee in her small kitchen.
“She’s nineteen,” Saint had said. “Not a child, no.” Had he given her the idea that Jules was still in puberty?
“And I don’t suppose, you being as you are, that we’ll be seeing much of you anymore.”
“Of course you’ll be seeing me. I’m fond of the boys, Jane. It’s just that—”
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