Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 132834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
We didn’t have a choice. None of us were trained midwives, and Griffen had been adamant about Hope giving birth in the hospital. She hadn’t argued, more comfortable with a hospital birth herself. None of us had considered that getting to the hospital might be the most dangerous part of Hope having the baby.
I tried Harvey, hoping I’d have better luck. Voicemail. I left a short message and tried Griffen again, switching back and forth until Hope’s fingers closed around mine in a painfully tight grip.
“Another one?” I asked, switching to my clock app. Seven minutes. I tried to push down the nerves rising in my gut. Seven wasn’t terrifyingly close, but ten would have been better. At Hope’s nod, I restarted the stopwatch app.
We hit a bump as the drive met the county road into town. Hope gasped in pain. I was very glad for the Jeep’s tires, but the suspension left a lot to be desired when we had a laboring woman in the back seat. I gritted my teeth, rubbing my hands over Hope’s as I murmured nonsensical reassurances.
I tried Griffen again, almost dropping the phone in surprise when his voice hit my ear. “Griffen,” I said, “Griffen! We’re on the way to the hospital with Hope. She’s in labor. How far out are you? Griffen?”
I caught a crackly sound that might have been Griffen saying, “Hope.”
The call died. Hope let out a sound of misery that I thought was as much about wanting Griffen as it was about the pain of labor. “He heard me,” I consoled her. At a minimum, I was sure he’d been able to read my texts. In certain places in the mountains, texts were far more reliable than calls.
We inched down the road, drawing close to town so slowly that I thought I might scream. I rubbed Hope’s hands, trying not to wince when she squeezed. When I glanced at Finn, he was leaning forward, both hands on the wheel, his jaw tight, his eyes glued to the road, his arms bracing when the wind gusted, trying to shove us to the edge of the road.
I didn’t look at the drop-off to my right. The road was carved into the mountain, with no guard rails between us and the slope straight down. I resisted the urge to ask Finn to hurry and reminded myself that despite being away for years, he knew how to drive in this weather. Slow was the key. Slow was safe. Slow would keep us on the road, unlike the handful of drivers that skidded over the edge every winter in weather just like this.
Finn proved me right moments later as we approached the last big curve before town and a gust of wind grabbed at the Jeep, shoving us to the edge of the asphalt, the Jeep not responding to Finn’s gentle press of the brakes.
Hope gasped, bending over her belly, a tear streaking down her cheek. I imagined this was not what she’d had in mind for her labor, and it certainly wasn’t what I’d pictured for her. At least she hadn’t noticed our slide to the edge of the road. Trying to keep my cool, I reset my contraction timer, holding my breath as Finn calmly downshifted and nudged the steering wheel to the left. The tires caught, and I let out the breath I’d been holding.
“Nice job,” I murmured.
Without taking his eyes off the road, Finn said, “So far so good. How far apart are they?”
“Last one was six and a half minutes.” Not sure he’d know how to interpret that, I said, “We should be okay. First babies are usually slow.” Usually, but not always. Nicky hadn’t been slow. We stayed home, thinking it would be hours, and I almost had him in the ER lobby. I kept that info to myself.
The road opened up as we neared town. It was less steep, which was wonderful, but as the trees thinned, the wind kicked up. A gust hit, shoving us to the center of the road. Finn wrestled the Jeep back to our side of the road, only for it to happen again moments later.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this bad,” Hope said through a gasp. “It was only supposed to rain.”
“I know,” I assured her. Both of us had lived in the mountains of Western North Carolina all our lives. We knew what the weather station said rarely reflected reality. It could be pouring on one side of town and sunny on the other, snowing here and not there. The mountains made for weird and unpredictable weather patterns.
“Look, there’s the Inn,” Finn said, relief filling his falsely cheerful tone. I saw right through his smile. By now, I knew his face, knew his moods. Knew when he was lying.
I could see the stone and timber building through the sleet, its bulk a shadow against the gray skies. The Inn at Sawyers Bend was the first sign of town from this direction. I let out a breath of relief, then sucked it back in as Hope’s hands clamped down on mine. She let out a low moan that was more of a wail.