A light tapping tugged Mollie into wakefulness. Frowning into the darkness, she tilted her head. The tapping came again, a little louder this time. The back door?
She pushed the covers aside and hurriedly donned her wrapper. Only bad news came calling in the dark of night. Lighting a candle, she left the tiny room that served as her chamber and wove her way through the kitchen, past the stove and cabinets, to the back door. She unlatched it and opened it a crack, just enough to peer out.
“Mrs. Horeb? What are you doing here?”
The older woman’s haggard features sent a pang through Mollie’s chest. “Doc Sadler needs you at the Walters place. He sent me to fetch you.”
“The babe?”
Mrs. Horeb nodded. “It don’t look good for neither of ’em. I didn’t want to bother you with this, told the doc it weren’t fitting for an unmarried woman to attend a birthin’. But he insisted he needed you for the surgery.” Her head wagged slowly as her shoulders drooped. “Amy and that babe of hers are as good as dead. It’s cruel for the doc to offer false hope, if you ask me.”
Mollie curled her arms around her middle. “I’ve seen Doc Sadler accomplish the impossible before,” she said, thinking of Adam’s leg and the lack of infection. “Perhaps the hope is not as false as you fear.” She swung the door wide and gestured for Mrs. Horeb to enter the kitchen. “Come in and sit. I’ll just need a minute to change.”
After rushing back to her room, Mollie grabbed the first dress she laid hands on. Not bothering to take the time with undergarments, she pulled it on over her nightdress and fastened the buttons. She left her hair in the long braid that hung down past her waist and slipped her feet into her shoes. At the last minute, she remembered Mrs. Peabody and scribbled her landlady a quick note explaining where she’d gone and why. Then she dashed back out to the kitchen, collected Mrs. Horeb, and left the note on the table.
As she climbed into the midwife’s small cart, prayers for Amy Walters and her babe spun through her mind along with one other significant thought—Jacob needed her.
Chapter Eight
Mrs. Horeb pointed Mollie toward the front of a small farmhouse. “Go on in. He’s waitin’ on ya.”
Mollie climbed down then glanced back at the midwife. “Aren’t you coming?”
“No. Doc Sadler’s in charge now. He don’t need me gettin’ in the way.” She tightened her grip on the reins and glanced up at the nearly full moon that offered just enough light to make slow travel safe. “Amy’s young’uns are over at her sister’s place,” she said, still not looking at Mollie. “Think I’ll go offer to tend them so Alice can come back here in case Amy don’t make it through. Poor gal has no idea how serious it is.”
When the older woman finally turned toward Mollie, moonlight glistened on the wetness that had gathered in her eyes. She gave a little sniff, then jerked her chin a final time toward the house. “Quit dallyin’, missy. Whichever way things go, they’re gonna need your help.”
Galvanized, Mollie spun around and hurried to the house as the cart behind her pulled away. A lamp glowing in the parlor window guided her to the door. She raised her hand to knock but then realized how foolish that would be and simply let herself in. A trail of quiet moans led her to a bedroom at the back of the house.
Amy Walters lay on the bed, her blond hair matted to her head with sweat. Skin pale. Eyes closed. Little lines scrunched her forehead each time she moaned, but even they looked dangerously lifeless. Trent sat in a chair by her side, holding her hand, smoothing her hair from her brow, whispering words of love that sounded suspiciously like good-byes. Tears rose to Mollie’s eyes, but she ruthlessly blinked them back. Tears wouldn’t help Amy and her babe. This room had enough sorrow already. What it needed was someone who knew how to fight the odds and survive.
Lifting her chin, Mollie marched over to where Jacob stood with his back to her, his head bent over the instruments he’d arranged on the dresser top. She recognized the scalpel as well as the atomizer filled with carbolic acid solution. A little shiver traveled through her at the thought of him cutting Amy open, but she trusted his judgment.
“I’m here, Doc,” she whispered, laying a hand on his shoulder as she approached from behind.
His head jerked up, his eyes flying open. Had he been praying?
Mollie retracted her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“I’m glad you did.” Jacob’s voice was quiet, his face grim. “Mrs. Walters doesn’t have much time.” He grabbed a cloth and a small bottle. “Come.” He signaled her to follow with a flick of his chin as he strode to the bedside.
Trent Walters’s gaze lifted to follow his approach. “Is it time, then?”
“Yes.” Jacob gave a single, curt nod.
“And you swear she won’t feel anything?”
Jacob met the man’s eyes without wavering. “She’ll be unconscious. She won’t feel a thing.”
Trent nodded and lifted his wife’s hand to his lips. “I love you, Amy. I always will.”
Amy struggled to open her eyes and look at her husband. “Love . . . you. Take care of . . . our babies.”
He squeezed her hand tightly against his face and nodded as tears ran down his cheeks. “I will. But I want you to come back, Amy. Come back to me.”
Her eyes slid closed as she rolled her head toward Jacob. “I’m ready, Doc.” Her voice was barely audible, yet it carried a thread of steely determination that gave Mollie a surge of hope. Amy was fighting for her child.
Jacob dosed the cloth with chloroform and held it gently to Amy’s face, encouraging her to inhale the thick, sweet vapors until she lost consciousness.
“Wash at the basin,” Jacob instructed Mollie in low tones. “Then hold the tray of instruments where I can reach them. When I get the babe out, you’ll have to clean the mucus from its nose and mouth and get it to cry while I tend to the mother. I want to have her sutures done before the chloroform wears off.”
Mollie immediately rolled up her sleeves and scrubbed her arms and hands, doing her best to mask the panic swelling inside her. God help her, she’d never even held a newborn before, and now she was expected to save one’s life? She prayed that every maternal instinct bred into her gender would somehow manifest itself when the time came.
“Trent.” Jacob waited for the man to look up at him before continuing. “I know you don’t want to leave her, but I can’t afford to have you in the room during the surgery. Miss Tate or I will come get you the moment we’re finished.”
The anguish on Mr. Walters’s face cut through Mollie’s heart as sharply as any scalpel. She crossed the room to him and took his arm. “She’s in good hands, Mr. Walters. I’ve seen the new doc in action, and he knows what he’s about.” She steered the reluctant husband toward the door. “Why don’t you make a fresh pot of coffee? Mrs. Horeb mentioned spelling your sister-in-law so she could come join you. Alice will probably be chilled by the time she arrives. She’d appreciate a hot drink, I’m sure.”
Mollie saw the man to the kitchen, then bustled back to the bedroom. Jacob had already prepared Amy for the procedure. Her nightgown had been folded high upon her chest and her legs lay covered by the sheet, leaving only her middle exposed. He was spraying the carbolic acid solution over her belly when Mollie returned to his side.
She took up the tray of instruments and held it at the ready. “Have you ever done this before?”
He lifted the scalpel from the tray, his face set in hard lines. “No, but Caesarian sections have been performed since ancient times. And I have read papers by Dr. James Sims, a well-known physician specializing in female disorders, who claims that when silver wire is used for internal sutures, the wounds heal properly, without putrefaction. It is the best chance we have to save both the mother and the babe.”
His voice carried authority and confidence, yet Mollie sensed the touch of uncertainty that lingered beneath it all.
“I believe in you, Jacob,” she said softly. “And
I will pray for God to guide your hands.”
His blue eyes met hers. “Thank you.” All hint of doubt vanished as he held the scalpel over Mrs. Walters’s abdomen. His hand completely steady, he made the incision.
After that, everything moved so fast, Mollie could barely wrap her mind around what was happening. The blood made her uneasy at first, and she turned her head, but then Jacob dropped his scalpel onto the tray with a clank and dug both hands into the opening he’d made.
“There you are, little one,” he murmured, and Mollie couldn’t help but watch as he pulled the tiny being out from the depths of his mother’s womb. “Put the tray on the bed and grab a towel,” Jacob ordered.
Mollie obeyed. She opened the towel over her hands, knowing she’d be taking the babe from him. Jacob placed the newest Walters child in her hands, blood and fluid coating the boy’s skin. She wrapped the towel about his tiny body, snuggling him close to her breast. Her heart softened in an instant, then raced in fear as she realized that he wasn’t moving.
“Clean out his mouth with your finger and clear his nose as best you can. Then swat his backside. He needs to cry in order to breathe.” Jacob’s eyes met hers, challenge rife in his gaze. “Do whatever it takes, Mollie.”
Stiffening her spine, Mollie nodded and carried the babe over to the dresser. “Come on, sweetheart. You’re gonna have to help me.” Alarmed by the slight bluish tint to the boy’s skin, Mollie rubbed him vigorously with the towel, hoping to pinken him up. She tried to hold him with one arm so she could work her finger into his mouth, but he nearly slipped from her grasp. Needing more leverage, she laid him on a folded towel on the dresser top and pressed her stomach flush against the bureau to eliminate any chance of him falling.
“Let me help you, baby. Please.” Rolling him onto his side, she swiped out his mouth with her finger, then scraped the mucus off on the far edge of the towel. Using a fresh cloth, she rubbed at his nose, cleaning it as best she could. He still made no effort to draw breath. Mollie’s stomach lurched. She rubbed his skin again, desperate to gain a response.
Please, God. Please help him breathe.
Remembering Jacob’s instructions, she picked the boy up, draped his chest over her arm, and gave his bottom a quick swat. No cry. Her pulse throbbed, despair rising in her throat. She hit him again, harder. Nothing.
“Come on, baby. Your mama needs you. Just take a breath. Please?” She swatted again.
Nothing.
Tears blurred Mollie’s vision. She couldn’t let this babe die. Not after all Amy had gone through to bring him into the world. Whatever it takes. That’s what Jacob had said. But spanking the child hadn’t made him cry. She had to try something else. What?
An image of Adam sputtering and coughing after he fell in the pond one summer before Uncle Curtis had taught him to swim flashed through her mind. Uncle Curtis had slapped his back to clear out his lungs. Plopping the limp babe with his bottom on the towel, she leaned him against her arm and supported his chin with the curve of her fingers. She pounded against his back, three firm thumps, then reached into his mouth and cleared out another fingerful of mucus.
Why wouldn’t he breathe? Hands shaking, Mollie laid him down again. If only she could breathe for him. If only . . . Her gaze snapped to the babe’s mouth. What if she could? What if she could breathe for him? Bending over him, she pried his mouth open with her fingers and fit her lips around his. She blew a tiny puff of air into him. His chest lifted! She did it again and again. When she raised her head to take a new breath, she paused to give his face a quick examination. Had his eyes flickered?
Please, Lord. Please.
Lifting the boy back into her arms, Mollie turned him over and swatted his bottom with a sharp sting of her palm.
A small, mewling cry broke the silence. The sound was weak, but it was the most beautiful music Mollie had ever heard.
“Praise God,” she whispered as she wrapped the baby in a clean towel. “Praise God.” Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks, and suddenly, standing required too much effort. Cuddling the baby close to her chest, Mollie slid gently to the floor and leaned her shoulders against the dresser. Her head fell back against the wooden support as she listened to the evidence of life. The babe’s cry grew stronger. A tiny arm flailed beneath her chin, the little fist at the end bumping into her jaw. A knee poked her ribs. A foot pressed against her arm.
She reveled in each movement, her lips curling into a smile that stretched all the way into her soul.
“You did good, Mollie.”
She glanced over to the bed. Jacob stood bent over Amy Walters, a needle poised between his bloodied fingers. His nod of approval sent waves of pride rioting through her chest.
“Finish cleaning the boy off, and then take him out to his father. I imagine Trent is climbing the walls about now.” Jacob’s gaze locked with hers for a moment, and in that moment, Mollie swore she felt his emotions. Gratitude for the babe, concern for the mother, determination to save the life in his care, and just a touch of fear that he might fail. It was that last that gave Mollie the strength to rise from the floor.
“I’ll see to the babe and Mr. Walters. You tend Amy.” She smiled, full of faith in him and in the one who worked through his hands. “It will all come out right. You’ll see.”
Chapter Nine
Jacob turned his attention back to his sutures. “It will all come out right,” she’d said. He shook his head as he tied off another stitch. He’d seen firsthand how often things didn’t come out right. Yet her simple words buoyed him anyway. Perhaps because he’d seen in her eyes that she actually believed them. She wasn’t spouting platitudes or trying to make him feel better with false assurances. No, this woman had just experienced one of God’s greatest miracles—not only in the birth of a baby but in bringing him back from the brink of death. Relief and joy radiated from her until he swore he could taste them in the air.
Finished with the internal sutures, he traded the silver wire for the softer catgut that had recently come into favor among top physicians. He sprayed the sealed incision line with carbolic acid, then closed up the outer wound.
Jacob moved to the dresser to clean the blood from his hands. He stretched the crick from his neck, twisting it back and forth, up and down. The bed’s height had been too low for him to operate comfortably, but there had been no time to move Mrs. Walters.
He was a little surprised she was still breathing. He’d seen the dull look of death in her eyes—a look with which he was far too familiar. She’d spent every ounce of her energy during the hours of unproductive labor that had preceded the surgery. She’d torn some places inside from her efforts and hemorrhaged slightly. Thankfully, the blood loss had not been too severe. If it had, she would have been gone before he’d even arrived.
Jacob dried his hands then ran them through his hair as he exhaled a heavy breath. He’d done all he could. Sewn up her tears as well as his incisions. Now all he could do was wait on God to stave off infection and bring about the healing necessary for recovery. He prayed the Lord would prove merciful.
Amy began to stir, her hand instinctively reaching for the newly stitched wound. Jacob strode to her side and stopped her before she could touch it.
“Mollie,” he called, loud enough for the sound to carry through the door but not so loud as to cause undo alarm. He hoped.
In an instant, Mollie pushed open the door and stood in the opening.
“Help me apply a dressing. Then we’ll need to get her into a clean nightdress.”
A second woman came up behind Mollie in the doorway. “I can help with that.”
The sister.
Jacob shrugged and waved them both in. He didn’t know Alice well, but she seemed a sturdy sort, not the type to fall into a fit of hysterics at the first sign of adversity. He supposed he could allow her to assist.
“I told Trent to keep the babe close to the stove to ward off any chance of a chill and promised to fetch him when Amy began to wake.”
She shot him a meaningful look. “He won’t be interfering.”
Thank the Lord for sensible women. Jacob nodded his appreciation.
The three of them worked in tandem and had the incision dressed, nightclothes changed, and even bed linens switched out in short order. Mrs. Walters remained groggy and limp through the entire episode, though her awareness gradually improved. By the time they were done jostling her about, her eyelids were fluttering.
Alice took her sister’s hand and slapped the back of it softly. “Amy? Can you hear me?”
Mrs. Walters stirred, turning her head toward the sound of her sister’s voice. “Alice?” she croaked in a barely audible whisper.
The sensible Alice sniffed a bit, then patted her sister’s hand again. “Time to wake up, sister. You have a new babe to feed.”
“Babe?” The lines around Mrs. Walters’s mouth tightened as if she were physically battling her way out of the chloroform haze. Her eyes finally cracked open. Her gaze fixed on Alice, then scanned the room. “Where?”
“Your husband has him in the other room,” Mollie explained from her position at the end of the bed. “I’ll go fetch them for you.”
Jacob stood at her side, his hand wrapped around the bedpost. Mollie turned to him and smiled, the beauty of the expression stealing his breath. It wasn’t simply a smile of joy or relief but one that radiated pride—pride in him. A man could run for days, weeks even, with a smile like that fueling him. What he wouldn’t give to have such a blessing in his life permanently.
The thought so startled him, he jumped when she touched his arm. Her brows drew together, but when he nodded to her, they smoothed out again.
“A . . . a boy?” Mrs. Walters murmured, her gaze following Mollie out the bedroom door.
“Yep,” Alice answered. “Trent finally got his son. If he wasn’t so worried about you, he’d be burstin’ his buttons about now.”