Her Best Christmas Ever. Judy Duarte
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But he had to give her credit for not screaming. He’d really be in a fix then. His nerves, which he’d once thought were like cords of steel, reminded him of cooked spaghetti noodles now.
“According to Doc Graham,” she said, “first babies take hours to be born. And he should be here by the time we need him.”
“That’s good to know.” Greg wondered who she was trying to make feel better—him or her. It didn’t matter, he supposed. Either way, they were in this mess together.
And what a mess it was. Talk about being at a loss and completely out of his comfort zone.
Greg had watched his share of births on the ranch, but they’d all been animals. He glanced down at Connie, at the grimace on her face, and his fear deepened.
What if something went wrong? What if he didn’t know what to do or how to help her?
He did his best to tamp down the concern and worry, as they continued to ride out the storm—the one raging outside, as well as the one going on in her body.
Finally, just after one o’clock, she turned her head toward him. Pain clouded her eyes.
As she wrapped her gaze around his, threatening to pull him under as he dog-paddled around in a sea of his own anxiety, she reached for him and locked her fingers around his forearm. “Will the road be closed much longer?”
“The rain has really let up, so the water should start receding as soon as the downpour stops completely.”
“This is getting to be unbearable,” she said. “So I hope you’re right.”
Greg hoped so, too.
What if something went wrong—like it had the night he was born?
His biological mother, Maria Vasquez, had been nearly nine months pregnant and living inMexico when she’d decided to return to the United States to have her baby. She’d been born in Houston, but after the death of her parents, she’d moved back to Mexico to live with an older sister.And since Greg’s father had been a drifter who hadn’t been willing to marry her or accept responsibility for the child he’d helped create, she knew she was on her own.
Maria had been a dreamer, while her sister Guadalupe had never been one to take risks. But Maria knew having U.S. citizenship, like she had,would provide her child advantages hewouldn’t have in Mexico. So she managed to finally talk Guadalupe into leaving the small village where they lived and going to Texas with her.
Unfortunately, they’d no more than crossed the border when Maria’s water broke, and she went into labor.
They’d tried to reach Houston, but her labor progressed too quickly. So they’d decided to stop at the very next town they came to. But by that time, it was late at night, and there was nothing open—no gas station, no motel, no diner…
When they spotted a small church, Guadalupe stopped the car and banged on the door until a priest answered. He’d called an ambulance and done his best to make Maria comfortable, but medical help didn’t arrive in time. Maria died from complications of childbirth and was later buried in the church cemetery.
The thought of history repeating itself scared the crap out of Greg. Focusing on the past, on the stories that Tia Guadalupe had told him, only served to increase his anxiety now.
He’d never considered himself a religious person, even if he’d been named Gregorio, after the kindly priest. But he prayed anyway, asking that the rain would let up soon and that the doctor would be able to get to the Rocking C in time.
Doc might have said that first babies took hours to be born, but Greg feared that Connie’s baby might not be aware of that rule.
“Oh, my God.” As the overwhelming urge to push overtook her, Connie looked at Greg, the only person in the world who could help her now.
But as their eyes met, she couldn’t utter another word, couldn’t tell him what was going on. All she could do was instinctively tighten her stomach and curl up, as a half groan/half growl erupted from her lips.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, no longer even trying to mask the concern in his voice.
Poor Greg. He was as frightened as Connie was—maybe more so.
And she was scared to death.
But there wasn’t anything she could do right now, other than obey the primal urging of her body to push the baby out into the world.
Finally, between grunts and groans and other horrid noises that would have been mortifying if she’d made them at any other time, Connie managed to squeak out, “The…baby’s…coming.”
“No!” Greg leaned forward, his eyes growing wide enough to allow the panic inside of him to peer out. “Don’t push yet, Connie. Can’t you try to wait just a little—”
“Are you crazy?” she shrieked. “Get out of here and leave me alone!”
When he stood, she yelled, “Please don’t go!”
“God, Connie, I won’t. I just thought I should boil water or something. Or at least wash my hands.” Greg raked his fingers through his hair as though forgetting that the strands were being held taut by a leather queue.
The poor guy. She almost felt sorry for him, for the distress her labor was putting him through. But only almost. He was all she had right now, and she needed him to step up to the plate.
Of course, this was all her fault. She should have gone home while she’d had the chance. She should have crawled on her hands and knees and begged her mother to forgive her.
But it was too late now.
“Ready or not,” she said, “I’m having this baby. And I’m having it now.”
“Oh, damn,” he uttered.
Thank goodness he made no effort to leave, even though she could see the anxiety brewing in his eyes.
They were stuck—just the three of them, one man, one woman and one baby. Strangers thrown together by Fate on a lonely, stormy night.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Don’t let my baby die.”
Greg paled at her words, and his eyes watered. Then he blinked several times and seemed to rally. “Ah, Connie. Don’t worry. I can do this. Hell, so can you. Women have been having babies since the dawn of time. This is no big deal. We’ll handle it together. And we’ll probably laugh about it later.”
No way would she find anything funny about this later. But she appreciated his attempts to calm her, to provide some peace of mind in order to face the challenge ahead. But before she could thank him, her body again took charge, and she heeded another order to push—harder still.
After the urge finally passed, Greg removed the sheet that was covering her legs.
“Take off your panties,” Greg said.
“What?” Her expression, she suspected, had morphed into something sort of stupefied. But his comment had struck her as…odd. Under the circumstances, it just…sounded funny, that’s all.
“I can’t very well deliver the baby if you keep them on,” he said patiently.
As Connie worked to remove her underwear—as luck would have it, an extra-large matronly styled pair that Granny had purchased for her—she began to smile. Then a chuckle erupted. One of those nervous, stress-relieving giggles Connie sometimes made at the most unsuitable times and in the most inappropriate places.
“Lucky me,” she said. “I wonder how many women can say that Greg Clayton asked her to remove her panties.”
“Very funny.”
She suspected there had been quite a few—a legion of them, no doubt. She knew how many groupies had flocked around Ross and the other guys who played in the South Forty Band, and they weren’t anywhere near as