“Don’t.”
March softened the land.
Snow retreated.
Mud arrived.
Adeline’s pregnancy became physically harder.
At her size, moving was already exhausting.
Now breathing became difficult.
Her ankles swelled.
Her back ached.
She hated needing help.
Nathaniel learned to offer without making her feel helpless.
Not always successfully.
One morning he tried to carry laundry.
She took it back.
“I can do this.”
“I know.”
“Then let me.”
“You’re breathing like you climbed a mountain.”
“I walked across the kitchen.”
“My point.”
Adeline glared.
Nathaniel released the basket.
Ten minutes later she called from the porch:
“Nathaniel?”
“Yes?”
“You can carry it now.”
He did not smile.
Until he turned away.
Adeline threw a clothespin at him.
It hit his shoulder.
April brought spring storms.
The cattle calved.
Nathaniel worked fourteen-hour days.
Adeline managed books from the kitchen.
She transformed the ranch finances.
Found waste.
Renegotiated feed deliveries.
Started selling butter and preserves through the general store.
Nathaniel came home one night.
She handed him a ledger.
“We made two hundred forty dollars more this month.”
He stared.
“How?”
“You’re bad at money.”
“I own nine hundred acres.”
“You own nine hundred acres because you’re good with cattle.”
“Not money.”
He kissed her forehead.
“What would I do without you?”
Adeline looked at him.
“Eat beans.”
“True.”
Then May came.
The baby was due near the end.
Nathaniel became unbearable.
Every sound woke him.
Every sigh.
Every time Adeline shifted in bed, he sat upright.
She finally threw a pillow.
“If you ask whether I’m in labor one more time, I will make you sleep in the barn.”
“You’ll regret that when labor starts.”
“I’ll send Ben.”
Nathaniel looked horrified.
“You’ll send Ben?”
“To fetch you.”
“Oh.”
Adeline laughed.
The labor began May twenty-third.
At dawn.
Her water broke while she was stirring oatmeal.
Adeline looked down.
Nathaniel looked down.
Neither spoke.
Then Nathaniel said:
“Is that…”
“Yes.”
He dropped the coffee mug.
It shattered.
Adeline stared.
“Nathaniel.”
“What?”
“You have delivered hundreds of calves.”
“That is completely different.”
“How?”
“They are cows.”
“Excellent observation.”
Nathaniel ran outside.
Ben found him halfway to the barn yelling for the wagon.
“You’re not taking her anywhere.”
Nathaniel stopped.
“What?”
“Road washed out at Miller Creek last night.”
Nathaniel’s face emptied.
“What?”
“Bridge is gone.”
The nearest midwife lived twelve miles east.
No bridge.
Alternate route nearly thirty miles.