“Well,” Mel said, looking over her shoulder. “That should speed things up. Just stay put until the bed’s ready and I can help you change.”

A half hour later Polly sat up in the hospital bed, not terribly comfortable on a couple of towels, her green hospital gown stretched over her belly. Mel had changed into a pair of scrubs and Nikes she’d packed for just such an event. If this were L.A., the anesthesiologist would be on his way to check her and discuss the epidural, but this was the country, no anesthesia here. Doc came around right after Mel had given Polly a pelvic to see how far she had dilated, and then upon noting Darryl’s pallor, he said,

“Young man—let’s you and me wander across the street and have a drop of courage.”

“Darryl, don’t leave me!” Polly begged.

“He’ll be right back, and I won’t leave you,” Mel promised. “But sweetheart, you’re only at four centimeters—it’s going to be a while.”

Good to her word, Mel stayed at her side. She wasn’t sure what she had expected the situation to be like, but was admittedly surprised by a few things. One—Doc Mullins stayed out of her way and let her have the case even though Polly had been his patient. Two, he took on the job of watching Darryl in case it became necessary to take the lad out of the room. Doc was staying up long after his usual bedtime. And, the few times Mel wandered out of the patient’s room through the night to fetch supplies or a fresh cup of coffee, she looked across the street to see the lights were on and the Open sign lit at Jack’s. He kept the bar open all night.

Polly’s labor intensified slowly as the hours ticked by, but she remained stable and progressed normally. Mel had her up walking, squatting, getting gravity on their side. She had Darryl hold her forward while she rocked her hips side to side and at threethirty in the morning, Polly began to push. The girl was most comfortable on her side, so Darryl and Mel joined forces to help her deliver in that position. Mel had Polly lie on her side in the fetal position, the leg beneath her tucked up and under while Polly and Darryl together lifted the upper leg to clear the field of birth. It was a big first baby and Polly couldn’t have managed that position, pushing for so long, without a good assistant. It was important that the mother have whatever control she could, trusting her body; it made the whole experience so much more beautiful. Darryl held up pretty well despite the fact that it was difficult to watch his young wife in pain, and the sight of blood, even though he’d slaughtered his share of pigs, was clearly tough on him.

At four-thirty Polly’s baby emerged after an hour of pushing. Mel cut the cord, wrapped the baby and passed him to his father. “Mr. Fishburn,” she said to Darryl,

“there is another Mr. Fishburn in the family. Please help Polly get your son situated on her breast—it’ll help her deliver the placenta and slow the bleeding.”

This was so much more like a scene from Gone With The Wind than the type of midwifery Mel had known in a large, well-equipped city hospital. While Doc checked over the newborn, Mel cleaned up the mother with soap and water and changed her sheets and bedclothes.

By six-thirty in the morning, physically exhausted but wired on caffeine, Mel’s work was done. The baby would reside in the room with Polly, and Darryl could have the other bed if he wanted it. It took them both about sixty seconds to fall into a deep sleep. Mel washed her face, rinsed her mouth with a little mouthwash, let her hair out of the clip that had held it on top of her head and went looking for Doc.

“Go to bed, Doc,” she said. “It was a long night. I’ll keep the office open.”

“No, sir,” he said. “I don’t sleep in daylight, and you did all the work. I’ll keep an eye on the Fishburns. Go to your place.”

“I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll go take a nap and come back in early afternoon to spell you.”

“That’ll do,” he said. Then, peering over his glasses, added, “Not bad. For a city girl.”

The sun was just peeking over the mountains, bathing the little town in pinkish beige rays. The April air was cold. She pulled her wool jacket around herself and sat on Doc’s front porch, feeling exhilarated, and perhaps a little too wound up for sleep right away.

Polly had done well, for a mere girl. No Lamaze training for those two, and no drugs. There had been some powerful grunting, groaning and straining; Darryl had grunted along with his wife with such sincerity, it was lucky he didn’t mess his pants. Nice, big, eight-pound country baby. There was nothing in this world like pulling a squalling infant from its mother’s womb; no panacea for a breaking heart could do more. This didn’t throw Mel into a stupor of longing or depression because this was her life’s work—what she loved. And she loved it so much more when the couple was happy and excited, the baby robust and healthy. Holding the baby she had just delivered, handing it to its mother and watching it suckle hungrily—it was like seeing God before you.

She heard a loud thwack. And another. She had no idea what time Jack’s usually opened. It was only six-thirty. Another loud thwack, coming from his place. She went down the porch stairs and across the street. Behind the bar there was a big brick barbecue. Wearing boots, jeans and a flannel shirt, and hefting a heavy ax, Jack was splitting logs on a tree stump. She just stood there watching him for a moment. Thwack, thwack, thwack.

He looked up from his chore to see her leaning against the side of the building, pulling her jacket tight over turquoise scrubs. She had no idea that what made him grin at her was the huge toothy smile she wore. “Well?” he said, leaning the ax against the tree stump.

“Baby boy. Big baby boy.”

“Congratulations,” he said. “Everyone is okay?”

She walked toward him. “They’re better than okay. Polly did great, the baby is strong, healthy, and Darryl is expected to recover.” And then she laughed, throwing her head back. Nothing, nothing was more satisfying than coming out of a delivery with onehundred-percent success. “My first country birth. Harder on Mom than on me. In the city, it’s always an option to just roll over, bare your spine, and labor in comfort from an epidural. Women out here are made of steel.”

“I’ve heard that,” he said with a laugh.

“Know what Doc said? ‘Not bad for a city girl.’” She reached for his hand. “Did you stay open all night?”

He shrugged. “I nodded off by the fire a couple of times. But you never know when someone might need something. Boiling water. Ice. A stiff drink. You want some coffee?”

“God, I think it would make me barf. I’ve had enough coffee to jangle even the nerves of a caffeine junkie.” Uncharacteristically, she wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him. This man had become her closest friend. “Jack, it was wonderful. I had forgotten how wonderful. I haven’t delivered a baby in, gee, almost a year, I think.”

She looked up into his eyes. “Damn, we did a good piece of work. Me, Mom and Dad. Damn.”

He smoothed a little hair off her forehead. “I’m proud of you.”

“It was so awesome.”

“See? I knew you’d find something here to sink your teeth into.” He reached down, crossed his arms under her bottom and lifted her straight up so that her face was even with his.

“Nowwww, what did we decide?” she asked, but her tone was teasing. Her smile was playful.

“We decided that I would not kiss you.”

“That’s right.”

“I haven’t,” he said.

“Maybe we should have talked about this,” she added, but she certainly didn’t struggle. In fact, this seemed oddly right. Celebratory. Like being picked up and swung around after the win of a big game. And that was how she felt—as though she’d just scored a touchdown. Arms resting on his shoulders, she clasped her hands behind his head.

“We further decided that if you kissed me, I would let you,” he said.

“You’re fishing.”

“Does this look like fishing to you?”

“Begging?”

“Doing exactly as I’ve been told. Waiting.”

What the hell, she thought. Absolutely nothing could feel better after the night she’d just spent than to plant a big wet one on this guy—a guy who’d keep his business open all night just in case they needed something. So she laid one on him. She slid her lips over his, opening them, moving over his with wicked and delicious intent, getting her tongue involved. And he did nothing but hold her there, allowing this.

“Did you not like that?” she asked.

“Oh,” he said. “Am I allowed to respond?”

She whacked him softly in the head, making him laugh. She tried it again, and this time it was much more interesting. It made her heart beat faster, made her breathe hard. Yes, she thought. It is okay to feel something that doesn’t hurt sometimes. This wasn’t because she was grief-stricken or needy, this was because she was victorious. And all she could think about at the moment was his delicious mouth. When their mouths came apart, she said, “I feel like a total champ.”

“You are,” he said, enjoying her mood more than she would ever guess. “God, you taste good.”

“You don’t taste that bad,” she said, laughing. “Put me down now,” she instructed.

“No. Do it again.”

“Okay, but only one more, then you have to behave.”

She planted another one on him, thoroughly enjoying his lips and tongue, the strength of the arms that held her. She refused to worry about whether this was a mistake. She was here, she was happy for once, and his mouth felt as natural to hers as if she’d been kissing him for years. She let the kiss be a little longer and deeper than she thought prudent, and even that made her smile.

When it was over, he put her on her feet. “Whew,” she said.

“We don’t have nearly enough births in this town.”

“We have another one in about six weeks. And if you’re very, very good…”

Ah, he thought. That gives me six weeks. He touched the end of her nose. “Nothing wrong with a little kissing, Mel.”

“And you won’t get ideas?”

He bellowed. “You can make me behave, it turns out. But you can’t keep me from getting ideas.”

April waned and May brought out the early spring flowers; foxgloves and Queen Anne’s lace grew wild along the roads. Australian Fern blanketed the earth beneath the big trees. Every week or ten days, Mel borrowed Doc’s truck, took a little lip from him, and delivered a box of food to the Paulis camp that would otherwise go to waste. Doc would have no part of it and scolded her. She ignored him indignantly and that alone made her feel good. It made her heart pound wildly as she went, and beat with satisfaction as she returned to Virgin River.

The cabin was turning out to be a haven for Mel. She purchased a small TV on which she got terrible reception. If she were staying, she’d get a satellite dish, but she was only committed to a few more weeks. And one day she came home from the clinic to find she had a telephone in her kitchen and bedroom. Jack spoke to Harv, telephone lineman for the county, and had stressed Mel’s occupation as midwife to get her phone installed ahead of schedule. He got another kiss for that—behind the bar where no one could see. Okay, two or three kisses. Deep and long. Strong and delicious. Living and sleeping in the cabin in the woods was as restful and peaceful as anything Mel had known in almost a year. She woke in the early mornings, in time to see the sun slowly creeping over the tall pines, to hear the birds singing. She liked to get a cup of coffee and go out on that new, strong porch and enjoy the clean morning air, still cold on early spring mornings.

It wasn’t yet 6:00 a.m. when she opened her front door and there, before her, were at least a dozen deer, grazing contentedly on the grass, bushes and ferns at the edges of her clearing. She took note of the freckled fawns—it was spring and time for birthing of all sorts.