The Endless Sky (Cheyenne Series) (59 page)

      
But what if this isn't going right?
her mind screamed at her. She was three weeks early.
Please, God, spare Chase's baby. He's suffered so many losses—Anthea, Vanishing Grass, Red Bead...

      
Suddenly Stephanie became aware of a presence other than the two nervous women who fussed with the bed covers and urged her to lie still and wait for the doctor. She struggled up on her elbows, blinking her eyes as she stared at the foot of her bed.

      
“Lie back down, my dear,” Mrs. Keenan said, pressing on Stephanie's shoulders.

      
Stephanie ignored her. The presence seemed to float, suspended in midair like bay fog, growing stronger now, materializing into sharper focus. Then another contraction seized her and she fell back with a gasp, arching helplessly as the crippling pain seared her.

      
Do not fight the pain, move with it. Let your body work for you. You must arise and walk until the little one drops. He will be a fine, strong boy just as his father was.

      
“Red Bead?” Stephanie croaked through cracked lips bitten bloody. She could make out the old crone's toothless smile wavering in front of her and recognized her raspy voice.

      
I assisted at the birth of Chase the Wind. How could I desert his son?

      
“You must save your strength, my dear,” Mrs. Keenan said.

      
“Sure now 'n' don't be gettin' yerself all worked up,” Bridget added.

      
They are blind, Red Bead said. You must show these foolish ones what to do. They know nothing of birthing.

      
When the contraction was at its lowest ebb, Stephanie took a deep breath and said, “I am not worked up, Bridget. I need to walk. It will help speed the birth.” Without waiting for a reply, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. “Now, help me move,” she commanded, feeling the pain begin to deepen once more.

      
“Ma'am, I really don't think—”

      
Stephanie ignored the older woman and seized hold of Bridget's hand saying, “Dr. Jamison told me this was what I should do.” A prevarication but it stopped their protests.

      
Have them hold your arms so you can move with the pains
.

      
Miraculously the contraction seemed to ease once she was in an upright position. A sense of acceptance and peace pervaded her body and soul. Red Bead was with her. All would be well. The Everywhere Spirit had heard her prayers. She ordered the servants to do as Red Bead had instructed her. They walked across the room, then into the long hallway where they encountered Jeremiah on his way back to sit with Stephanie.

      
He looked aghast. “What in heaven's name are you doing? Mrs. Keenan—”

      
“I told them I needed to walk, Jeremiah. It will help speed the birth,” she assured him, taking his arm. “Come, help me. I think I feel another contraction starting up.”

      
He blanched but did as she asked. “I sent Hiram to the hospital for Jamison. If he can't find the man, he's instructed to bring another physician.”

      
Stephanie smiled through the pain, no longer stiffening rigidly, letting her body work with it. “Don't worry, Jeremiah. I'm going to be just fine and so is your great-grandson.”

      
He looked at her oddly. “So now you think it's a boy, eh?”

      
“Now I know it is,” she replied.

      
They walked the halls for several more hours. Jeremiah expressed amazement that she could withstand the pain and keep on moving. She assured him all was going according to plan. Twice he left her with the women and went downstairs to check on the doctor's arrival. The storm had made conditions virtually impassable on the streets of the city. No one was venturing out into the thigh-high snow and blinding winds. When the second stable boy failed to return, the old man was ready to ride out himself. Stephanie convinced him that she needed him to stay with her.

      
“After all, Dr. Jamison explained to me precisely what I was to do,” she lied.

      
“I've never heard of such a way to give birth. What sort of newfangled ideas do those Boston General doctors have anyway?” he groused.

      
Stephanie had to smile, thinking of the age-old ways of Cheyenne women, but she said nothing.

      
When the contractions began to merge into one solid wall of pain, Red Bead told her what to do next.
It is time for the birth soon. You must send Grandfather away. His task is complete. Yours has only begun.

      
Stephanie grimaced, thinking of all the hours she had already invested. “Jeremiah, I think it's time for you to leave us now,” she said at the door to her room.

      
“I can't leave you alone,” he protested. “Where is that damned doctor!”

      
“Mrs. Keenan and Bridget will help me. Everything will be all right. Trust me.”

      
“I shall pray for you—and that great-grandson of mine,” he said, squeezing her hand before he released it.

      
Stephanie went into her room with the women and closed the door, waiting for Red Bead's instructions.
You must squat down on the floor and push.

      
It made sense, in an unorthodox way, to let gravity work for her. Stephanie knew the women would be horrified. Just think, giving birth on the floor like a savage red Indian, especially considering who the baby's father was! But she convinced Mrs. Keenan by sheer force of will to spread a clean sheet on the rug while Bridget was sent downstairs for warm water, towels, a sharp knife, and a ball of string.

      
Your task has only begun
. Supported by Mrs. Keenan, Stephanie braced herself and pushed as sweat began to pour down her body, soaking her hair and the night rail. Again. And again. “I...can...feel...him,” she panted out shallowly between pushes.

* * * *

      
A thousand miles away in the darkness and chill of a rainy Florida night Chase awakened to the sound of a woman's piercing scream. “Stevie!” He bolted upright in the dank little cell and rolled from his cot onto his feet. Slimy sand seeped between his toes but he was used to the persistent misery inside the ancient stone fortress. He paced over to the cell's one tiny window and looked out at the night sky.

      
“Stevie,” he repeated, knowing he had not dreamed the cry. It was wrenching, primal. She was in terrible pain and he was a continent away, unable to help her. He clutched the bars and squeezed until his hands ached as the frustration of helplessness washed over him. This was the worst part of the rotting death of prison, not knowing the fate of the woman he loved. Her time was near now. What if...

      
He closed his eyes and fought the welling despair. She could not die before he held her in his arms once more. He prayed to the Everywhere Spirit, he even prayed to Jeremiah's God.

      
Suddenly he heard a baby's thin shrill wail and felt Stevie's peace. Then the hollowness of fear left him, replaced by a deep sense of joy.

* * * *

      
“He's a fine strapping lad, Mrs. Remington,” Dr. Jamison said, shaking his head at the highly irregular way the baby had been born only moments before he arrived. He addressed her as the Reverend Remington's granddaughter-in-law, believing, as did everyone else, that she and Chase had been married before his imprisonment. As he washed the infant in warm water, while Bridget assisted and Mrs. Keenan fussed getting Stephanie into a clean nightgown, the doctor asked, ‘‘What will you name him?”

      
Stephanie's smile was radiant as she accepted her newborn son and pressed him to her breast. “Jeremiah Chase Remington. I shall call him Jeremy.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

      
Stephanie looked at the huge pile of moldering stones with foreboding. Fort Marion .was every bit as inhospitable and ominous as she had feared. The day was stifling with a hot salt-laden wind gusting erratically from the ocean. Billowy gray clouds promised a spring rainstorm within the hour. Casting an uncertain glance at the sky, she climbed out of the hackney she'd hired for the day and told the driver to wait. Her yellow lawn dress was wrinkled and she felt wilted in the humidity as she made her way up the crumbling steps toward the prison. Stephanie could feel a thin trickle of perspiration between her breasts.

      
She had left Jeremy at the hotel in St. Augustine with Bridget. There were things she and Chase must discuss before she would allow him to see his son. If she could keep her resolve. Over the years she'd shown amazingly little willpower where Chase Remington was concerned. Nervously she smoothed her skirts and stopped near the front gates of the fort. Heavy iron bars were set across its opening like ugly rusted teeth.
How lightless and foul smelling the interior of the hellish place must be
.

      
She had been instructed to wait here. Chase was to be released at noon. She had checked her watch before alighting from the hackney—eleven-thirty. But if there was any chance they'd let him out early she wanted to be here. After nearly a year of separation she was desperate to assure herself that he was all right. That he still loved her. The sun came out from behind the clouds, intensifying the cloying heat and she cursed herself for not bringing a parasol. Spying a cluster of cabbage palms she walked a few dozen feet and took what shelter they offered. Her eyes remained glued to the arched entrance of the fortress.

      
Time crawled by as slowly as the mosquito circling her wrist. She swatted it before it drew blood. Her watch read twelve noon. What was delaying them? What if Chase had been taken ill in the pestilent place since their last contact with the commandant? Foolishly she had insisted on leaving Jeremiah's attorney in town, wanting her reunion with Chase to be private. Now she was beginning to regret the decision as all sorts of awful possibilities flitted through her mind.

      
Then the whining screech of rusty metal grating against rusty metal filled the hushed stillness. She squinted against the merciless glare of the sun and saw a lone figure walk through the big arched entrance and pause as if momentarily stunned by the bright light after a long time without it. The gate clanged shut again and he stood staring directly at her, but he did not move.

      
“Chase!” Stephanie picked up her skirts and dashed toward him. Still he did not take a step, just continued staring at her with burning black eyes. He was thin to the point of emaciation with a gray pallor beneath his coppery skin, what was visible over the shaggy black beard that covered his lower face. His eyes were old. He wore a pair of light tan trousers, a white shirt and brown shoes, all cheap and ill-fitting. What had she expected—that he would still be dressed in breechclout and moccasins?

      
Stephanie slowed her headlong rush when he did not open his arms to her but remained motionless except for those restless eyes. The clothes hung on his big frame. She extended one hand, unable to stop herself from touching him. Her fingers dug into the coarse scratchy cotton of his shirt front, feeling the heat and muscle beneath. She was rewarded by the slam of his heartbeat against her palm. Her eyes studied him questioningly as she reached up and touched his hair, which was cut shorter to shoulder length.

      
Chase did not dare embrace her. She was a vision of paradise, smelling of apple blossoms, robed like sunshine, sweet and pure and beautiful. He would not sully her with his touch. “I should have known you were the one responsible for getting me free,” he said at length.

      
“I didn't do it. Jeremiah did. He's moved heaven and earth for you, Chase.”

      
He digested that, wondering if Jeremiah knew that he had killed Burke. Chase was not surprised that the old man would still try to claim him, but was grateful that he had taken in Stephanie and provided for her and the baby. The scent of her filled his nostrils, robbing him of coherent thought. His eyes strayed down the slender curves of her body, pausing at her breasts, now fuller. “The baby?”

      
“Your son is waiting for us back at the hotel. His name is Jeremy.”

      
He released a pent-up breath he had been unaware he was holding as he watched her lips curve into a heart-stopping smile that lit up her eyes.
Eyes Like Sun
. “I was afraid…”

      
One day she would tell him about the birth and Red Bead, but not now. “They didn't give you my letters. I feared that had happened. No one was allowed in to see you. Oh, Chase,” she said softly, pressing both hands against his chest, moving closer.

      
He held her at arm's length. “Please don't.” She reacted as if he'd struck her, the light dying in her eyes. “Lice,” he explained. “They don't allow much bathing. We're all dirty Indians anyway. I'm the only prisoner who required shaving. They had no provisions for it and weren't about to make accommodations for me. I don't want you to be contaminated by the filth of that place.”

      
The grimness of his expression was softened by the hunger in his eyes and in his voice. With a sob she broke loose from his restraining grip and threw her arms around his neck. “I don't care! It'll hardly be the first time we've bathed together.”

      
He could no more stop himself from holding her than he could block out the Florida sun with its glorious golden warmth beating cleanly on his skin. She was his sun, his light, his life. Her fingers dug into his filthy cropped hair, pulling his face to hers for a kiss that devoured them both.