Her Best Christmas Ever. Judy DuarteЧитать онлайн книгу.
Chapter Two
Connie stared down at the floor, as though she could blink her eyes and find that she’d only imagined that her water had broken.
But it had; her legs and slacks were wet with the warm fluid.
Of all days and nights for this to happen. She slid a glance at Greg, saw the shock plastered on his face, matching her own.
Fear gripped her throat. This couldn’t be happening. The backache that had been plaguing her all afternoon sharpened to the point of taking her breath way. Then it spread around her waist, slicing deep into her womb.
Greg was at her side in an instant, his arm slipping around her. “Are you okay?”
“I…I don’t know.” She leaned into him, needing his support until the pain subsided.
Was she experiencing her first contraction?
She must be.
Focus, she told herself, as she quickly tried to sort through the instructions her doctor had given her, as well as the information she’d gleaned from the book she’d read on what to expect during pregnancy and childbirth.
Finally, the pain eased completely, and she slowly straightened. “I’ve got to call Dr. Bramblett. She’ll know what to do.”
“Good idea.” Greg handed her his cell phone.
“And I guess I’d better clean up this mess,” she said.
“I’ll take care of that. You just call the doctor and sit down. If that happens again, you might collapse and hurt something.”
“I…” She nodded at the amniotic fluid on the floor. “Maybe you’d better get me something to sit on. I don’t want to ruin any of your mother’s chairs.”
She could have sworn she heard him swear under his breath as he dashed off to get what she’d requested.
When he left the room, she dialed the doctor’s number from memory. But instead of one of the familiar, friendly voices she expected to hear, a woman who worked for the answering service took the call.
“Dr. Bramblett is out of town,” the woman reported. “But Doc Graham is covering for her.”
That meant the older man would deliver her baby, and in a sense she was almost relieved. Doc Graham might be past retirement age, but he’d gained a tremendous amount of experience during his fifty-year practice.
When Doc’s voice finally sounded over the line, she said, “This is Connie Montoya, and my water just broke.”
“Where are you?” he asked. “Are you at the Rocking C?”
“Yes, I am.” Doc was in Brighton Valley, which was about ten minutes away. And the hospital in Wexler was about thirty miles beyond that. He’d probably tell her to grab her bag and come right away.
Instead, he said, “I’m afraid there’s no way you or anyone else can get in or out of there right now because of the flooding.”
Had she imagined a raw edge to his grandfatherly voice? A tinge of fear?
Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach, and her voice took on high-pitched tone. “What am I going to do?”
“Don’t worry. Usually, once the rain stops for a while, the county road opens up again.”
She wanted to believe him, but it was a real struggle. She placed a hand on her womb as though she could convince the baby to stay inside and wait for a more convenient time to arrive.
“The weather report says that the rains are supposed to start easing by midnight,” Doc added, “and it won’t take long for the road to open up after that. So you should be okay until then.”
Should be? But what if she wasn’t? What if the baby needed medical intervention? Or what if she did?
“Can an ambulance get through?” Connie asked. “Or maybe you can send a helicopter.” Somehow, she had to get to a hospital.
“I’m afraid not. The ambulance can’t make it any sooner than I can. And the chopper can’t take off right now. But in a couple of hours…”
“Hours?” Connie asked.
“Edna’s an old hand at this,” Doc said. “She’s helped me deliver a few babies over the years. So if worse comes to worst, you’ll be in good hands.”
“But Granny isn’t here.” Connie’s voice had risen a couple of decibels and was bordering on sheer panic.
“Who’s with you?” Doc asked. “You’re not alone, are you?”
Connie slid a glance at Greg, watching as he came into the family room and dropped a towel onto the floor to dry up the fluid.
“No,” she told the doctor. “I’m not alone. Greg’s with me.”
“Good. He’s been raised around cattle and horses. He’ll know what to do if it comes to that.”
What did he mean by “if it comes to that”?
Was he suggesting that a country singer be her midwife? And not just any singer, but the one and only Greg Clayton?
She blew out a sigh. Greg had been raised around cattle and horses, Doc had said. Was that supposed to make Connie feel better?
She didn’t care if the guy had a degree in veterinary medicine. She wanted a doctor—her doctor. And she wanted to have her baby in a hospital.
After giving her a few do’s and don’ts, Doc added, “As soon as the rainfall stops and the water recedes, I’ll drive out to the ranch. If the weatherman was right and this storm strikes hard and quick, I should be able to get through that road before dawn.”
Connie glanced out the window, where the rain continued to pound as though it would never end.
“For what it’s worth,” Doc added, “first babies usually take their time being born. You have hours to go. In fact, you probably won’t even deliver until tomorrow night.”
She hoped he was right. If anyone had a handle on this sort of thing it was Doc.
But that didn’t make Connie feel any better about being stuck out on the ranch without a physician—or even a veterinarian.
What was Greg going to do—sing the baby a lullaby?
Greg had never been so scared in his entire life. And that was saying a lot.
Before he’d moved in with Granny, he’d had plenty of reasons to be afraid. Like being left at a Mexican orphanage when he was six years old. And going mano a mano with a furious, unbalanced, thirty-something migrant worker when Greg had been only thirteen.
Now, as he sat in Connie’s bedroom with every candle and flashlight he could find glowing, it seemed as though he was even more out of his element than he’d ever been before.
It was just after midnight, and he’d been planted in a chair beside her bed for three hours, afraid to leave her alone—even to take a bathroom break.
Her pain had grown progressively worse. But at least she hadn’t cried out, which would have really wrung the ice-cold sweat out of him.
After another brutal contraction eased, she seemed to regroup. So he took the wet cloth he’d been using to wipe her brow, dipped it into a bowl of cool water, then dabbed it across her forehead.
He didn’t knowif thatwas helping or not, but he’d seen someone do that in a movie once. And he wanted to do something, even if he felt about as useful as a sow bug on the underside of a rock.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“Not bad when I’m between