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Chapter 18

Sam helped Preacher serve lunch, then he went to the river to fish for a couple of hours. He had a lot on his mind. It hadn't escaped him that Merce had been moody lately. He'd seen suspicious evidence of tears. And she wasn't drinking that end-of-the-day drink—she played with it for a little while before pushing it aside and asking for ice water.

At about three in the afternoon, while Preacher worked on preparing the evening meal, he went out to the cabin. He took off his boots on the front porch and tiptoed into the house. He stripped down to his boxers and slipped into the bed beside her, gently kissing her neck. She stirred slightly, turned her head and smiled at him.

"Now this is a good way to wake up," she murmured, closing her eyes again and snuggling closer to him.

He held her for a long while, then his hands began to move. Softly and sweetly. Before even seconds passed, her hands began to move, as well, and she pressed herself against him. When she began to strain against him, he got rid of the T-shirt she slept in and the boxers he still wore. He made gentle love to her, careful to keep her comfortable and safe, even as she picked up that eager pace, that frenetic yearning that drove him wild. He knew her body as well as she did herself by now, and he knew exactly what gave her the most pleasure.

She settled back to earth slowly. "I thought you were going to call," she said.

"Isn't this better?"

"You always know what to do," she said.

"Not always," he said, holding her close. "Right now, for example. I'm not sure what to do."

"Why?" she asked, her eyes still closed, her face buried in his chest.

"When are you going to tell me?"

She lifted her head. "Tell you?"

"About the baby."

"But Sam, you know the baby and Sugar are—"

"The baby inside of you," he said, placing a large hand over her belly.

A startled look crossed her features. She pushed him away a little bit. "Did someone say something to you?" she asked.

"No one had to say anything. Please tell me I'm not the last to know."

"I just saw Jeff yesterday—and how in the world would you know?"

"Merce," he said, running the back of one knuckle along her cheek. "Your body's changing. You haven't had a period. For a while, I thought maybe you'd had a hysterectomy or something because I haven't noticed a period since the first time we made love, but there's a blue box under the bathroom sink. You don't drink any alcohol, and you get nauseous from time to time. Not to mention you being more tired than usual."

"Lord," she said. "You never think a man will notice. Not things like that."

"Well?"

She sighed. "I went to see Jeff yesterday to confirm what I already suspected. I'm pregnant. Three months."

"You're a midwife. How could you not know at six weeks?"

"Because I assumed I was sterile. Infertile. Matt and I did everything to try to get a baby—even in vitro fertilization. To no avail. This was the last thing I ever expected."

"Ah," he said, finally clear on why she might keep it from him. "So, here we are," he said.

"I'm sorry, Sam. You must think I'm an idiot."

He kissed her. "Of course not. Merce, I'm in love with you."

She was frozen for a second. "Oh, God," she finally said, plummeting into tears. "Oh, God, Sam!" She buried her face in his chest and wept.

"Hey, no reason to cry, baby. Are you a little surprised? No more than me," he laughed. "I never thought this could happen to me. It hit me so hard, I damn near fell down. But I love you." She continued to softly cry. "It's okay, honey. It'll be okay." He stroked her hair. "You want to have a baby, obviously."

She lifted her head. "I wanted a baby so badly, I ached. But do you?" she asked. "I mean, you're forty."

"I want everything with you. Everything. Besides, I like babies. And I'm wild about pregnant women."

"When did you decide you knew for sure?" she asked him.

"At least a month ago." He put a hand over her breast. "Sore? Haven't you noticed the changes? Your nipples have darkened to Hershey kisses no longer just plain brown."

"I was in denial," she said, wiping at her tears. "I was so desperate for a baby—but I had accepted that it could never happen. I wouldn't have done it this way."

"And how would you have done it, exactly?"

"If I thought it even remotely possible I could get pregnant, I would have at least been sure you wanted a family, so that we could make a decision like this together. Fully informed. So if it happened, it would be okay. I hate that you've had this thrust on you. With no warning."

"That wasn't going to happen, not under the circumstances. It never would have occurred to you to try for a baby—convinced it was impossible. So—maybe it's a good thing it just happened like this."

"And what if it had gone the other way? What if I told you the thing I wanted most in the world was a baby, asked you to try for one with me?"

He pulled her a little closer. "I'd have been happy to help out in fact I would have dedicated myself to the task as much as you could handle." Then he smiled into her eyes.

"I don't know what to say. You just accept everything. You're amazing. I thought you might be very upset."

"Nah. The only thing that disappoints me is that it took me this long to find you and open up to you and truly communicate so that you know how much I love you."

"Even with all my baggage?" she asked.

"I don't consider this baggage." He leaned over and kissed her belly. "I consider all of you the grand prize."

"You want it all?" she asked.

"I told you," he said. "I want it all with you. You and the baby make me happy."

"Lord," she said in a breath. "I was so afraid."

"Of?"

"Of you saying, 'Oh hell no—I'm forty! What do I want with a baby? How do I feel about having children that the world will see as black?'"

He laughed at her. "More like hell yeah because I'm ready. I don't care if our children are purple, but I know how culturally sensitive it is. Thank God Preacher is my best friend and will help me when it comes time to have the talk if you are carrying a little boy. With my family and with it just being you and Janey, I would think we are having a girl though who looks just like you, and I will research and learn what I need to learn to be able to help her grow up in the world that unfortunately still judges people based on skin color."

"Sam," she said. "I'm still afraid."

"Of?"

"Of believing in us. My last stab at something like this ended so, so badly. I thought I'd never get over it. I'm not sure I am yet."

"Well, you're just going to have to take a leap of faith," he said.

"I think I can do that," she said. "If you're there to catch me."

"I'm here," he said. "I haven't let you down yet, have I?"

She put her hand against his face. "No, Sam. You sure haven't."

Sam had seen his brothers-in-law, all puffed up with testosterone pride when they'd gotten their wives pregnant, when the babies came. He never pretended to really understand it. He was too busy with his career, with his troops, when it seemed to him a woman getting pregnant was probably the worst career suicide a man could suffer. He didn't get their male egos; he thought his sisters were just getting fat and mean.

He got it now. He felt as though his chest might explode. There was a fire in his belly and it was all he could do to keep from running up a flag. He couldn't wait until he and Merce could make some plans, get married, tell the world they were lifetime partners and bringing a baby on board.

She shooed him out of the cabin, told him to go take care of the dinner crowd while she showered off that long night with a patient. She promised to drive into town to have a ginger ale at the bar and tell those present that Sugar and Rory and their baby boy were doing fine. Then later, they'd go back home together and talk some more.

He was almost to town when he turned around to go back. Preacher might get testy, being stuck with the bar and cooking, too, but he just had to hold her for a minute more. He tiptoed up the porch steps, took off his boots, and silently opened the door. He expected to hear the shower running, but instead he heard her weeping.

"I'm sorry," she was saying through her tears. "I'm so, so sorry." Then she sobbed briefly. "I never planned this. Oh, Matt, please understand…"

He stole a peek into the bedroom and saw Merce sitting on the edge of her bed, talking to the picture of her dead husband. It cut through him like a knife; damn near ripped his heart out.

"Please understand—this was the last thing I expected," she cried. "It's just the way it happened, and it took me by surprise. Total surprise. I promise I'll never forget you!"

He cleared his throat and she jumped. She looked at him, tears running down her cheeks. "Sam!" she gasped.

He held up a hand. "I'll go," he said. "You can work this out with Matt. I'll see you later."

He turned to leave and she ran after him, tugging on his shirt. "Sam, please…"

"It's okay, Merce," he said, profound sadness showing in his eyes. He forced a smile. "It's not as if I didn't know what I was up against."

"No! You don't understand!"

"Sure I do," he said, tenderly touching her cheek. "Take your time. I'm not going anywhere. Except back to the bar. I think I need a drink."

Sam walked out of the cabin, collected his boots on her porch and got back into his truck. So, he thought. Probably the best day of my life, turned to total shit. She's still back there, with him. She can love you like she's yours, but she's not. Not yet.

Hadn't he always known this was the risk he was taking, as long as he loved her? That she might not be able to let go of him? Ever?

What the hell, he told himself. She might never really belong to me; good thing he can't come back from the grave and snatch her away. But that baby is mine. And I want it. I want her. Whatever she has to spare.

Merce showered, put on clean clothes and prepared to go to the bar to take her medicine. She felt terrible; her heart ached when she thought of the look in Sam's eyes. He never should have witnessed that performance. It must have shattered him. She could only Sue he would forgive her.

She brought a change of clothes and her makeup for work the next day. If Sam didn't want to come back to her cabin with her, she would force her company on him. They had to get beyond this. This was her fault. It wasn't just the two of them anymore. He wanted this baby. He wanted her and the baby. She was going to find a way to make this right.

There were only about a dozen customers in the bar when she got there—the Hudsons and Goolsburys sitting at a table for four, Sue and Doc at the bar, a couple of men playing cribbage with a pitcher of beer, and a young family. Sam stood behind the bar and lifted his chin slightly in greeting as she entered. It was a very subdued gesture; there was going to be penance to pay.

She stopped and chatted briefly with the couples, filling them in on the Flanagan baby, before going to the bar. She got onto the stool next to Doc. "Did you get any rest today?" she asked him.

"I don't sleep in daylight," he grumbled. He popped an antacid and Sam put a whiskey in front of him.

"Long night?" Sue asked her.

"Long night for the Flanagans," she said. "But they're going to be fine."

"Good work, Merce," she said. "I knew I was smart to get you up here." She finished the dredges of her drink her and left, chatting her way out the door.

Without being asked, Sam put a ginger ale in front of her. She mouthed the words, I'm sorry. His lips curved just slightly, hurt in his eyes, but he leaned toward her and placed a gentle kiss on her brow. Ow, she thought. This is bad.

And it just got worse. They had only the most superficial conversation while Merce picked at her dinner, but determined, she waited out the emptying of the bar. It was eight o'clock by the time Preacher was sweeping the floor and Sam was putting up clean glasses. "Are we going to talk about it?" she quietly asked Sam.

"How about we let it go and move forward," he said. Realizing that their lack of communication was his fault as much as hers. Something about experiencing trauma changed a person made them more guarded. He was being a jealous fool.

"Sam," she whispered so that Preacher wouldn't hear. "I love you."

"You don't have to say that."

"But it's true. Please believe me."

He lifted her chin and put a light kiss on her lips. "Okay," he said. "I believe you."

"Oh, God," she said, tears gathering in her eyes.

"Don't, Merce," he said. "Don't start crying again. I'm afraid I won't understand why—and it'll make things worse."

She sucked it back, forced herself to still the nerves that were tightening inside her. Her fleeting thought was, God, what will I do if he's through with me on account of that? "I'm going to your room," she told him. "I'm going to stay there until you come to me and I'm going to convince you, somehow, that we belong to each other. Especially now."

He gave a nod that was so slight, it was almost imperceptible, so she got off her stool and walked through the back of the bar to his quarters. Once alone, she couldn't suppress the tears. They flowed freely down her cheeks. He thinks I'm going to spend the rest of my life explaining myself to my dead husband, apologizing for how I feel about Sam. Well, that's what I was doing—what's he to think? He won't believe me if I tell him that's not true, not how it's going to be. It was just a one-time thing—the shock, the exhaustion, the high emotional state I'm in.

Merce sat in the big chair in his room, revisiting in her mind that night she sat in this spot, drenched from the rain, and he gently undressed her, gently cleaned her face, dried her and put her to bed. That was when she knew, without a doubt, that he was a partner here for her, even if she couldn't admit it to herself for quite a while. Since the ultrasound, she was pretty convinced she had conceived that night. Sam opened her up, showed her passion she didn't know existed, and put his baby in her. It was nothing short of a miracle—the love, the passion, the baby. She just didn't know how difficult it would be to make that transition into a new life. A second life. A completely different life.

She sat in that chair for an hour. Waiting.

Sam put up all his clean glasses and dishes, wiped down the bar and poured himself a drink. There was a particular, old single malt, an aged Glenlivet, that he saved for special occasions. Or emergencies.

Preacher put away his broom and went to the bar. "Everything okay, man?" he asked.

Sam pulled down a glass and poured a shot for his friend. He lifted his toward Preacher in something of a toast and said, solemnly, "Merce's pregnant." Then Sam took the shot in one swallow.

"Aw, man," Preacher said. "What are you gonna do?"

"I'm going to be a father," he said. "I'm going to marry her."

Preacher picked up his glass and lifted it tentatively, taking a drink. "You sure about that?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"That's what you want, man?"

"Absolutely."

Preacher grinned. "Sarge. A family man. Who'd think it was a sister who was the key to your guarded heart?"

Sam tipped the bottle once more, over both glasses. "Yeah," Sam said.

"Seems like, maybe, things aren't so hot right now," Preacher said.

"Nah," he lied. "Just found out," he further lied. "It's gonna work out great. It's gonna be perfect." Then he smiled. "You know I never do anything I don't want to do. Uncle Preacher." He threw back the second shot and put his glass on the bar. "Good night."

Sam felt bad about leaving Merce in his room for so long, but they both needed some time to compose themselves. If there were going to be more tears, this one time he wanted her to get that out of the way on her own. There's only so much one man could do, so he didn't rush to her. She was going to be feeling a little desperate—pregnant, just caught apologizing for it to the picture of Matt, afraid Sam wouldn't be able to deal with that. There was nothing either of them could do about it—Sam had known from the beginning that Matt was still there, in her life, in her heart. He would never have all of her. Well, then, he'd make the most of what he did have. He wasn't going to make her grovel; he was just going to love the heck out of her. He could manage this, even if it wasn't the most ideal situation. In time, maybe she'd come around. Matt's memory could fade enough so that even if Sam wasn't the only man in her life, he would come to feel like the most important one. Maybe when she held their child, she would realize life was for the living.

He walked in, looked across the room at her, and leaned down to pull off his boots. He yanked his shirt out of his pants and took it off, hanging it on the peg in his closet. He removed his belt and tossed it aside. Then he approached her and put out a hand to her.

She put her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet. She leaned her head against his chest and said again, "I'm so sorry. I do honestly love you. I want to be with you forever."

His arms went around her and he answered. "That's good enough for me."

Sam kissed her tenderly.

"You've had a couple of drinks," she said. "Scotch."

"It seemed like the thing to do," he said. He slowly began to undress her, leaving her clothes in a pile on the floor, because when words failed him he had never failed to be able to speak to her body. There was no confusion about this—when he touched her, she was all his. When she responded to him, she held nothing back. There might be a glitch in her heart, some of it stuck in the past. But her body came alive under his lips, his hands.

He carried her to his bed, lay her sweetly on the sheets and went to work on her. He touched her, kissed and caressed her in the ways he knew filled her up, pleased her, gave her joy, released her. She rose to him, hot and ready, wrapping herself around him, giving. Taking. Crying out.

God, he didn't know he could want this much. Love this much.

Okay, he thought—here's the reality. He would always have this. He would make her body sing just as she sent him reeling into the most incredible madness a man can feel. He would hold her every night and wake up with her every morning and there would be many times, like this, when they would come together in this incomparable passion and no matter what else was going on, this mutual joy belonged only to them. When he felt the old wedding vows of two becoming one. There was a oneness and no room for Matt's ghost.

Sufficient compensation. Sweet consolation.

"Sam," she said, snuggled up against him. "I hate that I hurt you."

He buried his face in her hair and inhaled the sweet scent. "Let's not talk about that anymore. It's behind us. We have a lot in front of us."

"Would it be a good idea for me to go to Janey for a little while? Give you some space? Try to get my head together?"

He rose over her and looked into her eyes. "Don't, Merce. Don't run just because we hit a rough patch. We'll work through this."

"You sure?"

"Merce," he said hoarsely, his voice a mere whisper, "you have my baby inside you. I have to be a part of that. Come on…"

She fought the tears that threatened. "I know it must be hard to deal with an emotional basket case like me."

He smiled at her and said, "I've heard that pregnant women get like that."

"I think I'm just like that, period."

"Marry me," he said.

She touched his beautiful face. "You don't have to."

"Mercedes, six months ago we were two people without attachments. Two people who had accepted we would never have any—and that we'd never have families. Now we have it all. We have each other and a baby. A baby we both want. Let's not screw this up."

"Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure about anything. I want this. If you can't stay here, I'll go anywhere you want to go."

"But Sam, you love it here!"

"Don't you realize I love you more? I need you in my life. You and our baby. God, Merce—I don't care where that happens. As long as it happens."

"Sam," she said in a whisper. "What if you change your mind? What if something happens? You have to remember, I never thought anything terrible would happen to—"

He put a finger on her lips, stopping her. He didn't want to hear his name. Not now. "Shhh," he said. "I want you to trust me. You know you're safe with me."

Merce awoke humming. The song this morning was "Love and Happiness" by Al Green, of all things. It made her smile. She got out of bed and showered. When she came out of the shower and put on one of Sam's shirts, she found a steaming cup of coffee on the bathroom counter. There was a note under it. Half-caf. Daddy. Sam was already up and in the bar, taking care of breakfast. Taking care of her. Robbing her of caffeine.

She dressed for the day; she had been so out of focus lately, she had no idea what kind of schedule lay ahead. She couldn't remember making any appointments for the morning. Still, she wasn't rushing to Doc's. It was early and she had a very important phone call to make.

"I wish I could see the look on your face when I tell you this, Janey," Merce said. "I hope you're sitting down. I'm pregnant."

There was a gasp, then silence.

"Pregnant," she said again. "Totally knocked up."

"Are you sure?"

"Three months," she said.

"Oh, my God! Merce!"

"I know. Kind of blew my mind, too."

"Three months? Let's see…"

"Don't bother trying to do the math. I haven't had a period since he touched me for the first time. I guess he's potent enough for both of us. At first, I thought it so impossible, an absurd fantasy. I figured I was late because of stress, change, how weird my life is. But it's real. I had an ultrasound."

"Merce! How is this possible?"

"Don't ask me—stranger things have happened. But not around here, apparently. I'm surrounded by women who were pretty sure they couldn't get pregnant and voila! There's a rumor about the water… I'm thinking of calling my L.A. infertility specialist to tell him about this place."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to marry Sam."

"Merce—do you love him?" Janey asked, her voice subdued. Cautious.

Merce drew in a breath, trying to calm her voice, which she knew would be tremulous and emotional. "I do," she said. "Janey, I love him so much, I almost ache with it. I never thought I could love this much. I was in denial about that for a while, too."

"Merce," Janey said, then began to cry. "Oh, my sweet baby girl."

"It made me feel guilty, like I was doing something wrong—I was so committed to the idea that I'd lost my one true love and would never feel anything even close to that again in my life. I never considered the possibility that I might find something even more powerful. It seemed, briefly, like a betrayal. Sam even caught me crying to Matt's picture saying that I was sorry, that I didn't expect it to happen, and promising never to forget him. God. It was an awful moment."

"Baby girl, you haven't done anything wrong. You've been through such a lot."

"Well, in my sane state, I know that. Sam knew about my problems, and he just hung in there, just kept loving me and loving me, putting all my needs ahead of his own, promising me I'd be safe with him, that I could trust him. Oh, God," she said, tears coming in spite of the fact that she was so, so happy. "God, he's wonderful. Janey," she said in a near whisper, "he wants the baby as much as I do."

"This is just unbelievable. When are you getting married? Because we're going to be there."

"We haven't had a chance to even talk about it—I just broke it to him yesterday and he asked me last night. I'll let you know when I know."

"But does this mean you're staying there?"

Merce laughed. "You were right, you know—coming here was completely crazy. It was irrational. To think I'd choose to go to a town where there's no mall, much less a day spa, and one restaurant that doesn't have a menu? Please. No medical technology, ambulance service or black hair care—how is it I thought that would be easier, less stressful? I almost slid off the mountain on my way into town!"

"Ah… Merce…"

"We don't even have cable, no cell phone signal most of the time. And there's not a single person here who can admire my Cole Haan boots which, by the way, are starting to look like crap from traipsing around forests and farms. Did you know that any critical illness or injury has to be airlifted out of here? A person would be crazy to find this relaxing. Renewing." She laughed. "The state I was in, when I was leaving L.A., I thought I absolutely had to escape all the challenges. It never occurred to me that challenge would be good for me. A completely new challenge."

"Merce…"

"When I told Sam I was pregnant, after promising him I had the birth control taken care of, he should have said, 'I'm outta here, babe.' But you know what he said? He said, 'I have to have you and the baby in my life, and if you can't stay here, I'll go anywhere.'" She sniffed a little and a tear rolled down her cheek. "When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I do is check to see if there are deer in the yard. Then I wonder what Preacher's in the mood to fix for dinner. Sam's usually already gone back to town—he likes splitting logs in the early morning—half the town wakes up to the sound of his axe striking wood. I see him five or ten times through the day and he always looks at me like we've been apart for a year. If I have a patient in labor, he stays up all night, just in case I need something. And when there are no patients at night, when he holds me before I fall asleep, bad TV reception is the last thing on my mind.

"Am I staying here? I came here because I believed I'd lost everything that mattered, and ended up finding everything I've ever wanted in the world. Yeah, Janey. I'm staying. Sam's here. Besides, I belong here now. I belong to them. They belong to me."

Right after a light breakfast, she headed for Doc's. She supposed it was in order to tell him right away, but when she walked into the house, she was greeted by quiet. Good, she thought. No patients yet. She went to Doc's office and tapped lightly on the door, then pushed it open. He was sitting in the chair at his desk, leaning back, his eyes closed. Hmm. Doesn't sleep in daylight, huh? She stood over him. It was good to see Doc docile for once.

Merce was about to leave and wait for a better time, but something made her take a closer look at Doc. His eyes were pinched closed, his face in a grimace and his coloring wasn't right. He was gray. She reached down and squeezed his wrist with the forefingers of one hand. His pulse was racing. Merce felt Doc's brow and found his skin clammy. His eyes opened into slits. "What is it?" she asked him.

"Nothing," he said. "Heartburn."

Heartburn does not make your pulse race and your skin clammy, she thought. She ran for the stethoscope and blood pressure cuff in the exam room, returning to him. "Are you going to tell me what it is—or make me guess?"

"I told you… Nothing. I'll be fine in a few minutes."

She took his blood pressure, though she had to struggle with him for cooperation. "Did you have breakfast?" she asked him.

"A while ago."

"What did you have? Bacon and eggs? Sausage?"

"It wasn't that great. Preacher's a little off on the cooking…"

His blood pressure was elevated. "Any chest pains?" she asked.

"No."

She palpated his abdomen, although excess lipid tissue on his pot belly made it impossible to feel his internal organs while he was sitting upright. And he slapped at her hand, trying to push her away. But as she palpated, he grunted in pain. "How many of them have you had?" she asked him.

"How many what?"

"Attacks. Like this."

"One or two," he said.

"Don't lie to the nice little nurse," she chastised. "How long has this been going on?" She pulled the lids back on his eyes and they had begun to yellow. He was jaundicing. "Are you waiting for your liver to blow?"

"It'll pass."

He was having a major league gallbladder attack, and she wasn't sure that was all. She didn't even think about it—she picked up the phone and called the bar.

"Sam," she said, "come over, please. I have to get Doc to the hospital." And she hung up.

"No," Doc said.

"Yes," she said. "If you argue with me now, I'll get Sam and Preacher to put you in a fireman's lift and dump your old wrinkly ass in the Hummer. That should make your belly feel good." She looked at his face. "How's your back?"

"Terrible. This one is kind of bad."

"You're getting jaundiced, Doc," she said. "We can't wait. I suspect you're in a biliary crisis. I'm going to start an IV and I don't want any lip."

Before she could get the needle in, both Sam and Preacher arrived. "We'll get him in the car and I'll drive you," Sam said. "What's the matter with him?"

"I think it's a gallbladder attack, but he's not talking. It's serious. His blood pressure is up and he's in terrible pain."

"Waste of time," Doc said. "It'll pass."

"Please be still," she implored. "I don't want to have to ask these big boys to hold your insubordinate ass down."

Once the IV was in, she made a mad dash to the drug cabinet while Sam and Preacher each got on either side of him, walking him slowly out the door, Sam holding the Ringer's over his head. When they got to the Hummer she joined them. Doc said, "I'm not lying down."

"I think you should—"

"I can't," he said. "Bad enough sitting up."

"All right then, we'll take out the gurney and put up the backseat. I'll pull the IV bag hook forward and sit beside you. Have you taken anything for the pain yet?"

"I was just starting to have very kind thoughts toward morphine," he said. Sam adjusted the backseat, leaving the gurney on Doc's porch. Doc climbed clumsily into the backseat. "We just don't have good enough drugs," he muttered.

"Can you make it to the hospital without drugs? Give the doctor a clean slate?"

"Arrrggghhh," he grumbled.

"If you insist, I'll give you something—but it would be better to let the E.R. decide what's best." She took a breath. "I grabbed some morphine."

He peered at her through slits. "Hit me," he said. "It's just god-awful."

She sighed and drew up a syringe from the vial in her bag, putting it right into the IV. It took only moments for him to say, "Ahhh…"

"Have you seen anyone about this?" she asked him.

"I'm a doctor, young woman. I can take care of myself."

"Oh, brother," she said.

"There's a clinic in Garberville," Sam said as he started the car. "It's closer than Valley Hospital."

"We're going to need a surgeon," Merce informed him.

"I'm not going to need surgery," the old boy argued.

"You a betting man?" was all she said.

Doc Remington rested a bit easier with the narcotic in him, which was good since it was over an hour, even with Sam's fast and skillful driving. It wasn't the distance so much as the roads—just getting to the county road that connected with the highway twisted and turned and was slow going. Merce watched out the window, remembering that first night she came here, terrified of these sharp twists and turns, the sheer drops, steep climbs. Now, with Sam managing the Hummer, she was comfortable. Before long they were out of the hills and speeding through the valley. With her attention focused on Doc, she couldn't fully appreciate the landscape. It did occur to her, however, that every time she traveled anywhere around this county, she was amazed by the beauty as if seeing it for the first time.

She had a fleeting thought that if anything bad happened to Doc, it would be down to only her. How was she going to have a baby and take care of a town?

She thought about Janey's question—are you staying there? It made her smile. It would hardly seem a punishment to live out her life in this glorious place.