A Very Special Delivery (2 page)

What could she do? What choice did she have? Chester’s life depended on this gamma stuff, and as much as she wanted to argue the point, taking a baby out in this weather was unconscionable. Regardless of her family’s accusations, she’d never intentionally cause harm to anyone, especially a child.

She sighed, wishing she’d stayed in town with Aunt Patsy last night when the first warnings had come about the ice storm.

No, that was selfish. She didn’t wish that. She wished she wasn’t such a coward.

Ethan Hunter certainly wasn’t. This man with the baby was willing to put his own life at risk to help an old man he didn’t even know. And he was willing to put his child’s life in her less-than-capable hands to do it.

Lord, what a mess. Please help me know what to do.

She dropped into the overstuffed chair and rubbed at shoulder muscles gone as tight as cheap shoes.

“Ethan, you don’t even know me. How can you be sure I’ll take proper care of your daughter?”

He studied her for a long, serious moment then smiled. Molly’s breath caught in her throat. Goodness, gracious and mercy! Ethan Hunter was devastatingly handsome when he smiled.

“The eyes are the windows to the soul. That’s what my mama taught me.”

“Oh, so my eyes tell you that I’m good with children?”

He came toward her, hunkering down in front of the chair, the baby still in his arms. “They tell me you’re a good person. A little sad, maybe, and real scared of something, but a gentle, caring woman who’ll look after Laney with everything in you.”

Disturbed by his all-too-accurate assessment, Molly lowered her gaze to the baby, her stomach churning in trepidation. Chester’s life hung on her decision. Spending even an hour alone with a baby would be pure torture, but she had no choice. She had to do this. She only hoped the baby’s life wasn’t in jeopardy, too.

Chapter Two

M
olly stood at the window watching as the
delivery truck struggled down the driveway, this time leaving her alone with a
diaper bag and a small baby. The hazy fog of ice crystals blocked the van from
view in no time and the howling wind covered the hum of the disappearing motor.
He was gone. And she was alone for the first time in two years with someone
else’s baby.

She hadn’t had a panic attack in the last six months, had
believed she was finally past the painful valley of mourning, but she was near
the point of panic now. The terror that closed off the windpipe and rattled the
pulse wasn’t far from taking over. Drawing in a deep breath, she rested her
cheek against the frozen windowpane and quoted the scripture Aunt Patsy had made
her personalize and memorize.
God has not given me the
spirit of fear.

Even though she still struggled to believe that God was with
her, helping her, the scripture somehow calmed her terror. It hadn’t at first,
but over the months of constant repetition and Aunt Patsy’s gentle counsel,
she’d slowly gained control over the attacks.

A soft mewling sound issued from behind her. Whirling, hand at
her tight throat, Molly hurried to the couch. True to his word, Ethan had moved
the chair against the sofa and organized the cushions so that the baby wouldn’t
fall, but he’d been wrong about her staying asleep. Wide awake, blue eyes gazing
up at Molly, the child gnawed at a tiny pink fist.

“God has not given me the spirit of fear,” she mumbled as she
pulled a straight-backed chair next to the couch to be near the baby. Maybe if
she watched the child every second nothing terrible would happen.

The baby kicked and gooed, squirmed and sucked at her fist, but
she didn’t go back to sleep. Molly sat rigidly, afraid to move, afraid even to
blink. After fifteen minutes her neck muscles ached and she needed to go to the
bathroom, a dilemma that meant leaving the baby alone—unthinkable—or picking her
up—terrifying. The last baby she’d touched had been dead.

Her scalp prickled from the memory. Baby Zack, his little body
still warm, limp and lifeless against her chest as she ran screaming, screaming
into the front yard of her sister’s house. Neighbors had come running, she
didn’t know where from, though it was late summer when folks still enjoyed
puttering in their gardens and cooking outside. One man carried a garden hoe to
frighten away an attacker. But there was no attacker. And all the concerned
neighbors in Winding Stair, Oklahoma, couldn’t help baby Zack.

The panic started to crawl up Molly’s spine once more. Her grip
on the chair would surely leave the imprint of her fingers in the wood. She had
to hold on. She could not suffer a panic attack while this child was in her
care.

No telephone to call for help. No Aunt Patsy to talk her
through. This time she’d have to rely on God alone.

A glance at the anniversary clock resting on the fireplace
mantel told her that Ethan had been gone all of thirty minutes. At this rate
she’d be crazy before he returned.

She refocused her attention on the baby. With a jolt, she saw
that Laney’s eyes were now closed. Was she asleep or—? The awful thought forced
her to do what she dreaded most. Fingers trembling, she reached out, slowly,
slowly, and laid a hand on the flannel-clad chest.

A shudder of relief rippled through her at the gentle rise and
fall of the sleeping baby’s ribcage. Some nameless emotion stirred in Molly’s
chest at the soft feel of an infant. Even the smell of her, that wonderful baby
mixture of milk and lotion, made Molly’s chest ache with longing.

Until Zack’s death she’d always dreamed of getting married and
having a big family. Lots of kids. That’s what she’d told everyone. But now that
would never happen. Her sister Chloe’s healthy, perfect six-month-old son had
died while in her care. She must have done something wrong. Or maybe she hadn’t
watched him closely enough. That’s what her sister had said the last time Molly
had tried to ask forgiveness.

As much as she’d wanted children, she could never take such a
chance again. Chloe was right. Babies just weren’t safe with her.

Rubbing gentle circles on the chest of the one now in her care,
Molly felt an undeniable sense of loss.

“You sure are a pretty thing,” she whispered.

Dark eyelashes curled against rose-over-ivory cheeks, and her
round face was topped by a cap of fine, dark hair. Molly couldn’t help but
wonder about the mother. What had happened to her? And why had Ethan’s face gone
all tense when Molly had asked about her?

Healthy and well cared for, the baby looked to be about three
or four months old, younger than Zack, but not by much. Her pink sleepers,
emblazoned with the words Daddy’s Girl were clean and neat. Whatever Ethan
Hunter’s situation with Laney’s mother, he loved his little girl.

Samson rose from his spot near the fireplace, stretched his
long gray feline body then padded across the room. Before Molly saw what he was
about, the cat leaped onto the couch and tiptoed quietly toward the sleeping
child.

“Samson, no. Get down.”

The cat, as usual, ignored her. He sniffed curiously at Laney’s
mouth, an act that must have tickled, for the baby’s face scrunched up and she
turned her head. Suddenly Laney remembered the old wives’ tale that a cat could
steal a baby’s breath.

With more force than she intended, she grabbed Samson and
sailed him onto the floor. The shocked animal stared at her in resentment,
flicked his tail and stalked to his rug by the crackling fireplace.

Feeling worse than ever, Molly returned to her post beside the
sleeping child. Cautiously, she placed her hand on the little chest once again
and felt the movements that assured her the baby was breathing. If she had to
sit this way all night long, she would. But oh, how she prayed that Ethan Hunter
would soon return and take this responsibility off her shoulders.

* * *

Nearing midnight, eyes burning from staring into the
frozen night, Ethan started back down the mountain. He hadn’t reached the
Stubbs’s remote cabin until nearly nine o’clock, and the grateful couple had
fortified him with coffee and brownies while the gamma infused into Chester’s
blood system.

During those hours with his patient the storm outside had
worsened. The world around him was white and crystallized, a fairy tale turned
into a nightmare. Chester and Mamie Stubbs had invited him to spend the night,
but he’d refused. Laney was waiting. And from Molly’s reaction to his child, she
was waiting, too—waiting for him to return and take the baby off her hands.

A mighty gust whipped across an open pasture and the van rocked
precariously.

Ethan couldn’t remember ever driving—or flying—in an ice storm
of this caliber. Since leaving the Stubbs’s farm he’d stopped over and over
again to break ice off his windshield wipers. The delivery van wasn’t made to
handle these conditions, and even chains on the tires wouldn’t have helped on
what was now a solid sheet of ice.

Shoulders hunched over the wheel, he stared hard into the
night. His headlights reached only a few feet out into the blinding shower of
white pellets. He could hardly tell where the road ended and the ditch began.
Visibility was next to nothing. During his years as a paramedic helicopter pilot
for a medical service he’d grown accustomed to flying by instruments when
necessary. Too bad ground transport didn’t offer the same technology.

Inch by inch, the van ground slowly forward. Like a shower of
tiny rocks, ice tapped relentlessly against the outside. At this rate, he’d be
hours getting back to Molly’s place. In the past he would have thrown caution to
the wind and taken the necessary risks, but no more. Speeding up was a deadly
game, and he had a baby waiting for him.

Since the moment Twila had told him she was pregnant, Laney had
become his sole focus in life. Though he’d felt safe in doing so, he disliked
leaving her with Molly McCreight, a woman who obviously didn’t embrace the idea
of caring for an infant. His jaw tensed, remembering Laney’s mother. What was
the matter with women these days? Weren’t females naturally supposed to enjoy
babies?

He sighed heavily and squinted into the darkness. Maybe not.
Maybe his was an old-fashioned dream. Just because his mother was a nurturer
whose life had revolved around her kids, didn’t mean modern women felt the same.
Mom was from a different era when home and family mattered.

He’d had no choice but to leave Laney at the warm, safe farm.
Even though she didn’t want Laney there, Ethan knew in his heart Molly McCreight
would take good care of her. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. His baby
was in good hands.

Ice-coated wipers scraped across the windshield, doing little
good, even with the defrosters blasting constant heat. Time to stop again and
clear them off. The window, too, was coated in ever-thickening sleet. Easing to
a crunching halt, he put the truck in Park, and took the can of de-icer and the
ice scraper from the seat beside him. As he leaped from the truck the ice
pellets hit him with the force of a sandblaster, driving into his cheeks and
neck. He shuddered once, hunched his shoulders against the cold before setting
to work.

The world around him was a foreign place. Fence lines had
disappeared and electric poles leaned threateningly. Before long there would be
few landmarks to guide him. He’d have to be very careful.

“Just me and You, Lord,” he said, and the wind slammed ice
against his teeth.

In the few short months since he’d become a Christian he’d said
those words plenty of times. And now, as every time, he’d felt that calm
assurance that he was not alone. No matter what happened, God would be here with
him.

Windshield cleared for the moment, he slammed back into the
warm truck and dropped the gear into Low. The wheels spun but the van didn’t
move. Accelerating slightly, Ethan felt the tires start to slide sideways. He
fought against the skid, used every bit of his considerable expertise to bring
the vehicle under control, but the ice was too much. In seconds, one side of the
van tilted sideways into a ditch he hadn’t even known was there.

With a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, Ethan got
out to survey the situation.

The van was hopelessly stuck. The Stubbs’ place was at least
four miles back. He’d never be able to walk that far in this weather. But he
couldn’t stay here either. No one would be along this road for days, maybe
weeks.

He had little choice but to walk to Molly McCreight’s
farmhouse, even though he wasn’t sure how far that
was. With a heavy sigh
of dread, he bundled himself
as much as possible for the trek, took the
flashlight from beneath his seat and stepped out into the wretched storm. He
gasped as a sharp north wind slammed into him. Tears stung his eyes.

Less than ten minutes later ice encrusted his eyelashes and
obscured his vision. He scraped at them, but his gloves, too, were covered with
a fine layer of ice. Several times he slipped and nearly lost his footing, but
he trudged on, keeping his focus on getting back to the baby he loved more than
life itself. Thinking of Laney had given him the strength to do a lot of
difficult things in the past year, and he thanked God every day for the gift of
his daughter.

Molly McCreight’s pinched face came to mind. He’d liked her the
minute she’d pulled him into her house, welcoming him without even asking his
business. And he’d liked her house. The neat country hominess—if that was a
word—and the tantalizing fragrance of food cooking had reminded him of his
parents’ home.

He’d thought she was cute, too, with those brown-gold eyes and
a sprinkle of freckles across her small nose. But from her reaction to his
daughter, Molly was no different than Twila Thompson.

Still, there was something about her that appealed to him. And
thinking of Molly and Laney safe and warm in the old farmhouse helped him keep
moving.

Bending his neck against the north wind, Ethan shone the
flashlight around him. No lights. No houses. Nothing. The flashlight danced
wildly. For the first time, he noticed he was shivering and wondered when that
had begun. His feet moved more slowly now, too. Even filtered through a muffler,
the air hurt his lungs, burning so badly he could hardly stand to draw another
breath. The scar over his eye throbbed painfully.

He’d never been this cold before. With every step, sparks, like
frozen electricity, shot through his feet. Ethan considered this a good sign.
They weren’t frostbitten—yet.

He had no idea how far he’d walked, but he did know one thing
for certain. Hypothermia was setting in. If he didn’t find shelter soon, he’d
freeze to death.

The idea sent a surge of adrenaline into his bloodstream.
Nothing could happen to him. Baby Laney depended upon him. He was all the parent
she had.

“Just me and You, Lord,” he muttered through stiff, numb lips.

Snow and ice swirled around him, punishing him with every step,
but the warm presence of God strengthened him.

He’d gone less than fifty more feet when he spotted the feeble
glow of yellow against the raging white night. Had he not been so cold and
miserable, he’d have shouted for joy.

He turned toward the light, trudging, struggling against the
bitter wind and within minutes stumbled onto the now-familiar wooden porch.

Without bothering to knock, he shoved open the door. And fell
face first into Molly McCreight’s arms.

* * *

Molly wasn’t sure whether to scream in fright or praise
God that Ethan Hunter was still breathing. He weighed a ton compared to her, and
most of that weight was now shifted to her shoulders. She half dragged, half
walked him to a big blue easy chair. Shudders racked his body. His skin was red
and windburned. The ice frozen on his eyelashes tore at her heart.