The Midwife And The Lawman. Marisa Carroll
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to do my job for me. Give the station a call. I’ll get someone out here, pronto.”
Daniel lifted a hand in acknowledgment—or dismissal, more likely. Sixty years ago he’d island-hopped his way across the Pacific, one of the famous Marine Navajo Code Talkers. Before that he’d grown up on the Navajo reservation when living off the land was the only option for most Native Americans. Even crippled by arthritis and nearing eighty, he was fearless and a crack shot. He wouldn’t stay locked inside his trailer waiting for his grandson to come to his rescue. He’d confront the person stealing the eggs from his chicken coop and carting off things from the pile of darn-near junk behind his barn.
Miguel made up his mind to increase the patrols in this part of the township, and the old ghost town of Silverton, a mile farther into the hills. It would mean overtime for his small force, and more than likely another go-around with the town council over the cost. He must have been crazy to take over the job when Chief Hadley up and retired after his wife hit a million-dollar jackpot on an anniversary trip to Reno.
He checked the dashboard clock as he headed back out the dusty track that connected his granddad’s place with the main road. It would take him fifteen minutes to reach the rendezvous, but once he crossed the creek he’d have a good overview of Desert Valley Road—the route Devon would have to take to bring Lacy Belton off the mountain.
By the time he got there, he wouldn’t have to worry about air-conditioning. He had no doubt Devon’s frosty welcome would cool him off just fine.
DEVON SCOWLED IN ANNOYANCE. Even with half of Arroyo County to patrol, it would have to be Miguel who showed up to accompany her back into town. Not that she needed an escort. Lacy was doing just fine in the back of her Blazer, and her husband, Tom, was right behind them in his pickup with their two kids, Luke and Angie. But once she’d radioed that she was bringing her patient into the birthing center to deliver, the outcome had been inevitable.
Devon eased over to the side of the road. Miguel was standing, arms folded, beside the big brown Durango emblazoned with the Enchantment Police Department logo. His gray Stetson shading his face, he straightened as she rolled to a halt and lowered her window.
“Everything okay, Devon? Where’s your backup?” Miguel knew The Birth Place midwives usually worked in pairs for a home birth.
“No one was available.” Lacy was one of Lydia’s most loyal patients, and she’d insisted her baby be born at home. So Devon had agreed to attend the delivery alone. Reluctantly. She was a registered nurse and a certified nurse-midwife. She couldn’t quite meet Miguel’s gaze. She’d choked again and he knew it. “Lacy’s running a fever. I felt it would be better if she delivered at The Birthing Place.” She was taking the safest course for her patient. She didn’t need to feel defensive, but she did.
“I picked up a bug from the kids, that’s all,” Lacy said from the back seat. She was a little thing, but she’d already had two successful pregnancies. She began to pant, making puffing sounds through pursed lips. Devon glanced at her watch, timing the contraction. “Wow. That was a doozy.” Lacy leaned back against the seat as the contraction eased.
“We need to be on our way.” Lacy was only about five centimeters dilated, but as this was her third child, her labor would probably progress quickly. The sun had already wheeled far over into the western sky. Once it dropped behind the peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, darkness would fall like a blanket.
Miguel studied Devon from behind the concealing sunglasses for a few more unnerving moments before nodding his agreement. His khaki shirt and pants were as crisp and wrinkle-free as if he’d just put them on. He looked as if the heat didn’t bother him a bit. When she was sixteen and hopelessly romantic, she’d thought his apparent disregard of physical discomfort must be the result of his Navajo and Spanish-conquistador heritage. Now she’d realized it was just as much a function of his stubborn Scot/Irish/German genes. “I’ll lead you in.” He turned away, gave Tom Belton a thumbs-up and folded his length into the seat of the SUV.
The rest of the trip was uneventful. Lacy’s contractions were a steady four minutes apart. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright with fever, but she wasn’t unduly stressed. Miguel pulled into the small parking lot at the back of the adobe-style clinic. Devon parked in the space beside him and climbed out of her truck to help Lacy from the back seat. The graveled path into the clinic was screened from the view of the parking lot and windows so that a woman in labor could walk directly into the birthing rooms unseen, even if she was wearing only a bathrobe.
It was one of the many thoughtful details that stamped the clinic with Devon’s grandmother Lydia’s unique touch.
“Do you need any help?” Miguel asked, coming to stand beside her. Devon had to tilt her head a little to meet his gaze. He’d taken off the sunglasses and she got the full dose of his deep-brown eyes. His straight dark hair held unexpected hints of copper and gold. At least it had in that long-ago summer when she’d given him her heart—and her virginity. These days he wore it military short, a reminder that he was a Marine reservist, as well as a policeman.
Lacy waved Miguel off. “I’m okay.” But she accepted Devon’s arm around her swollen waist.
Tom Belton wheeled into the last parking space in the small lot. He’d gotten held up at one of Enchantment’s few stoplights. The children came tumbling out of the truck and ran to her.
“Are you okay, Mom?” Lacy’s son asked.
“I’m fine. I just need Daddy to put his arm around me and help me inside.”
Devon stepped aside to let Tom support his wife. She looked up and saw her grandmother standing, tall and straight, just inside the open door that led to the birthing rooms. Lydia’s hair was pulled back into her usual bun. She wore khaki slacks and a rough-weave cotton shirt with an open neck and sleeves rolled up to her elbows. On the days she was seeing patients, she often wore long, flowing skirts and rings and bracelets of silver and turquoise. But not when she was attending a laboring mother.
A stethoscope hung around her neck, and under it Devon could see the rare, rose-onyx pendant Lydia was never without. If you looked at it closely, you could just make out the design of a Madonna and child, in the pink and rose swirls at its heart. Except for a few new lines around her mouth and a shadow of fatigue in her blue eyes, Lydia showed no visible signs of the heart attack she’d suffered six weeks earlier.
Behind her grandmother Devon noticed the clinic’s accountant, Kim Sherman. Devon still found it hard to believe that the somewhat abrasive and aloof young woman was really her cousin, the daughter of the baby girl Lydia had been forced to give up at birth years before Devon’s own mother was born. The discovery had been a shock, but learning Lydia had kept her daughter’s birth a secret all those years didn’t surprise Devon as much as the others. Lydia was good at keeping secrets.
And because Lydia kept secrets, Devon had secrets, too.
“Lydia, I’m glad you’re here,” Lacy said, and the relief in her voice was so evident Devon felt color rise in her throat and cheeks.
“Let’s take your vital signs and check you out, then we’ll decide whether to call Dr. Ochoa and head over to Arroyo,” Lydia said in her bracing, no-nonsense voice.
Hope Tanner Reynolds, Lydia’s assistant, joined them. “Hope, will you help Lacy get settled? Tom, you and the children are welcome in the birthing room, as well. I need to speak to my granddaughter and then I’ll be right with you.” The door closed behind them. “Do you have reason to believe Lacy’s fever is caused by something more serious than a cold?” Lydia asked without preamble.
Devon took a moment to compose her answer. She always felt as if she was back in college taking an oral exam when her grandmother queried her about a birth.
“Miguel, would you like something cold to drink? Or a cup of coffee?” Kim asked, covering the small, telling silence that followed Lydia’s question.
“I could use a glass of ice water,” he responded, taking his cue.
“That’s