The frontier woman woke because pain wrapped around her abdomen and did not feel like anything before.
She waited.
Another came.
The cowboy slept beside her.
She considered letting him remain asleep.
Then remembered the promise.
Come when I call.
She touched his shoulder.
Once.
His eyes opened immediately.
“What?”
“I think it's time.”
The cowboy got out of bed so quickly he collided with a chair.
She laughed in the middle of another contraction.
He stared.
“You're laughing?”
“You hit the chair.”
“This is serious.”
“Apparently not serious enough to improve your balance.”
He shouted for the midwife.
The boarding-house widow appeared before anyone called her.
Old women who had housed travelers for forty years apparently developed supernatural hearing.
Within half an hour the room changed.
Water.
Cloths.
Doctor.
Midwife.
Instructions.
The cowboy was repeatedly moved out of the way.
He became increasingly frustrated.
Finally the midwife pointed toward a chair.
“Sit there.”
He obeyed.
His wife looked toward him between contractions.
She laughed.
“You're useless.”
“Yes.”
Another contraction took the humor.
Hours passed.
Then more.
Her size complicated examination.
The child's position raised concern.
The doctor remained calm until he did not.
That was when the frontier woman became afraid.
Not from pain.
From the doctor's eyes.
“What?”
He did not answer quickly enough.
“What?”
“The child is having difficulty.”
The cowboy stood.
The doctor continued:
“I may need to intervene.”
“How?”
He explained.
The frontier woman listened.
The cowboy asked too many questions.
She grabbed his wrist.
“Enough.”
He stopped.
She looked toward the doctor.
“Tell me what gives the child the best chance.”
He answered.
She nodded.
“Do it.”
The cowboy whispered:
“What about you?”
The doctor looked at him.
“That is also part of the decision.”
The frontier woman squeezed her husband's hand.
Fear ran through both.
The cowboy started:
“If—”
She shook her head.
“No final speeches.”
“But—”
“No.”
Her eyes were fierce.
“You don't turn me into a memory while I'm still talking.”
His face broke.
He nodded.
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“Bossy woman.”
“Terrible husband.”
The doctor almost smiled.
Then work resumed.
Another hour.
Then another.
The frontier woman thought she would split apart.
At one point she screamed that she could not continue.
The cowboy made the mistake of saying:
“You can.”
She turned on him.
“You do it.”
The midwife laughed.
The cowboy wisely said nothing else.
Then, suddenly, everything moved faster.
Instructions.
Pressure.
Pain.
Voices.
The cowboy's hand crushed beneath hers.
Then a sound.
Small.
Sharp.
A cry.
The entire room changed.