Chapter 2 - The Child Who Wouldn't Turn
“Cora, listen to me.”
Silas's voice had changed.
That frightened her.
The mountain man who had walked through a blizzard as though winter were merely an inconvenience was gone. In his place sat a man confronting something he did not understand.
“What is wrong?”
“I think the baby's coming wrong.”
Cora went still.
She knew enough about childbirth to understand those words.
Her mother had lost a sister that way.
A neighbor in Virginia City had buried both wife and infant after a difficult delivery.
“No.”
“Cora—”
“No.”
Panic stole what little strength remained.
“I can't do this.”
Silas caught her shoulders.
“Look at me.”
“I can't.”
“Look at me.”
She did.
His fear was still there, but something stronger had settled over it.
Determination.
“I told you what I know,” he said. “I've turned a foal.”
“This isn't a horse.”
“I noticed.”
She almost struck him.
Instead, a terrified laugh escaped.
Silas continued.
“I don't know everything. But I know panic kills faster than ignorance. So you breathe, and I think.”
“What if you think wrong?”
“Then I'll think again.”
Another contraction interrupted them.
The next hour became the longest of Silas Hayes's life.
He worked slowly, carefully, guided partly by frontier experience and partly by instinct. Nothing about it was graceful. Nothing resembled the calm confidence he had shown earlier.
Cora screamed at him.
Cursed him.
Begged him to stop.
Then begged him not to stop.
Silas accepted every word without complaint.
Eventually, something changed.
He saw it.
“Cora.”
She barely responded.
“Cora, I need you awake.”
“I am awake.”
“No, you're quitting.”
“I can't feel my hands.”
“Then use your arms.”
She gave him a furious look.
“Push.”
“I hate you.”
“Good. Hate me tomorrow.”
Cora screamed.
Silas encouraged her again.
Another terrible minute passed.
Then another.
Suddenly his expression changed.
Not fear this time.
Hope.
“That's it.”
“What?”
“Again.”
“I can't.”
“Yes.”
“Silas—”
“Again!”
She pushed.
A tiny cry pierced the cabin.
Everything stopped.
Even the storm seemed suddenly distant.
Cora stared at Silas.
He stared downward.
Then came another cry.
Stronger.
Silas released a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.
“Cora.”
She began crying before he even finished.
“Is my baby alive?”
Silas wrapped the child carefully.
“Yes.”
“Let me see.”
He brought the infant to her.
“A girl.”
Cora reached out with trembling hands.
Her daughter was tiny, red-faced, furious at the world, and absolutely alive.
“Oh.”
That single sound carried every prayer Cora had whispered for nine months.
She pressed her lips against the baby's forehead.
“My girl.”
Silas turned away.
He busied himself with the stove.
Cora saw him wipe his eyes.
“You're crying.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“Smoke.”
“The chimney is drawing perfectly.”
“Go to sleep, Cora.”
She smiled weakly.
“What should I call her?”
“She's yours.”
“I know.”
“Then why ask me?”
“Because you saved her.”
Silas looked uncomfortable.
“No. You did.”
Cora studied her daughter.
“Hope.”
Silas looked back.
“What?”
“Her name. Hope.”
The baby settled against Cora's chest.
For the first time in days, peace entered the shack.
It lasted less than twenty minutes.
Silas noticed the blood first.
Too much.
His stomach dropped.
Cora's eyelids fluttered.
“Silas?”
He came to her side.
“You stay awake.”
“I'm tired.”
“I know.”
“So tired.”
“Cora.”
She smiled faintly.
“Be tired tomorrow.”
His own words.
He hated hearing them returned to him.
“Exactly.”
He moved faster.
He did what little he understood, kept her warm, gave her water, spoke constantly.
But Cora became paler.
Hope began crying.
Silas lifted the infant and placed her against her mother.
“Listen to her.”
Cora's eyes opened.
“She needs you.”
“I can't.”
“That's not the woman I met.”
“You met me six hours ago.”
“Long enough.”
A faint smile.
Then her eyes closed again.
“Cora!”
Silas's voice echoed through the shack.
Her eyes opened.
“Don't yell.”
“Then stay awake.”
“I'd rather sleep.”
“You can sleep when the sun comes up.”
“You're very bossy.”
“I've been told.”
“By who?”
Silas hesitated.
“My wife.”
Cora opened her eyes fully.
“You're married?”
“Was.”
Something in his expression stopped her from asking more.
Minutes passed.
Eventually the bleeding slowed.
Silas remained beside her.
Sometime after midnight, Cora finally slept safely.
Hope slept beside her.
Silas sat against the wall.
He should have felt relief.
Instead, something troubled him.
Thomas Whitfield.
Three days missing.
Silas knew the mountains.
A man caught outside in this storm could die within hours.
But Thomas had supposedly left before the storm became severe.
Why hadn't he reached help?
And why had he left his heavily pregnant wife in an abandoned trapper's shack instead of taking her to the settlement before winter closed the pass?
Silas looked toward Cora.
There were questions he hadn't asked.
Questions she probably couldn't answer.
Near dawn, the wind weakened.
Silas stepped outside.
The world had become white and silent.
Nearly two feet of new snow covered the ground.
He walked around the cabin.
Something near the woodpile caught his attention.
Tracks were impossible after the storm.
But the object sticking from beneath fresh snow had been protected by the overhanging roof.
Silas crouched.
Leather.
He pulled it free.
A man's glove.
He examined it.
Dark stain across the palm.
Blood.
Silas looked toward the forest.
Then he noticed something else.
Carved into the wooden wall behind the woodpile were four fresh marks.
Not random scratches.
Numbers.
4 — 7 — 12.
Silas stared at them.
He heard the cabin door open behind him.
Cora stood there wrapped in a blanket, one hand against the frame.
She saw the glove.
Her face went white.
“Where did you get that?”
Silas turned.
“You recognize it?”
Cora's eyes filled with terror.
“That belongs to Thomas.”
Silas looked toward the trees again.
May you like
For the first time, he began to wonder whether Thomas Whitfield had ever intended to return.
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