Project Hannibal Kathryn Hoff (best free e book reader TXT) 📖

ceiling rested on the broken floor—but from the rubble stuck out a bit of pajama cuff and a naked foot.

The foot was calloused, gnarled, and cold. No pulse. No response to touch. She worked a scalpel out of her bag and cut into the sole. No blood flow. Her flashlight picked out splinters of the wooden bedframe—the fact that the foot was whole was a minor miracle. The body attached to it was under tons of ceiling, roof, dirt, and rock.

She backed out of the passage. “I’m sorry. He’s no longer alive. Please don’t put anyone else at risk by trying to dig the body out.”

“No, ma’am,” a villager said. “We’ll come at it from the top, once the rain stops.” Behind him, one woman sobbed while another comforted her.

“I’m sorry,” Estelle repeated. Like a parrot. A useless damn word that didn’t begin to ease the pain of loss. Just something to say when there was no real help to offer.

But she had living patients to attend to.

One of the ubiquitous ATVs gave her a lift to the clinic, where the waiting room was crowded with anxious, muddy relatives. Estelle conscripted several to wash the three living victims.

Sera appeared at her side with a steaming cup of coffee. “I figured you’d need this.”

“Oh, bless your heart.” Estelle took a long, much-needed sip. “That’s good.” Keep the coffee coming, and she could work for days. “Everybody that isn’t Joan or Lonnie, out.”

During her exam, Joan was alert and responsive, and utterly terrified.

“You’re going to be fine,” Estelle told her, with a reassuring smile for Lonnie. “Minor concussion and a broken collarbone. You’ll have a headache for a day or two and a stunning black eye, and you’ll have to keep that arm in a sling.”

The fetal heartbeat was quick and strong. A two-finger check showed Joan was seven centimeters dilated. Merde. The baby was on its way. Three weeks early—he would be small. If she were in Fairbanks, she’d order an incubator to be on standby, but here she’d have to make do with what she had.

“The baby?” Joan gasped. “What about the baby?”

Estelle forced herself to smile. “The baby’s doing fine. I can hear his heart. But it looks like he doesn’t want to wait. Just relax now, and when the contractions come, breathe through them like I showed you.” In the midst of life, we are in death, was the saying. The reverse was true, too.

Between contractions, Estelle checked on her other patients. Two-year-old Hannah, now bathed and wrapped in a blanket, was bruised but showed no sign of worse damage. Her mother’s broken collarbone was testimony to the maternal protective instinct. Estelle sent the child home with the cousin-or-aunt to get some sleep.

Lonnie clutched his wife’s good hand. “Do that breathing, Joanie, like Doc Dupris showed us.” He puckered up and panted.

Estelle nodded approval. “That’s right, breathe through it.”

Once the next contraction passed, Estelle taped Joan’s arm to her side to prevent the strain of labor from further displacing the bone. The contractions were running five minutes apart. After another had waned, Estelle put two tiny stitches into Joan’s forehead to reduce scarring.

Another check under Joan’s blanket: nine centimeters dilated. The baby would come soon.

Sera showed up again, now clean and in fresh clothes, with a change of clothing for Estelle.

“That could have waited until tomorrow, chérie,” Estelle said.

“It is tomorrow. And you never got any supper, either.” Sera pushed forward a plate of salmon-on-sourdough. “Annie says if you don’t eat that, she’s going to come down here and stand over you until you do.”

Estelle laughed. “Well, we can’t have that.” She ducked into the lavatory for a quick wash and change. Jesus, a good thing, too—she looked a fright. Don’t want to scare the baby when he opens his eyes.

Another couple of villagers came in: lacerations and a sprained wrist. “Sorry to bother you so late, Dr. Dupris, but since the lights were on . . .”

A cry from Lonnie sent Estelle scurrying back to the treatment room. Oh, yes—the baby was crowning. “Sera, hand me one of those exam sheets from the cupboard. Now, Joan—big push.”

Joan’s whimper changed to a cry. Lonnie crooned, “Hang on, Joanie. Just a little more.”

“Almost there,” Estelle said. “Wait for the contraction, then another big push. Sera, the sheet. Here we go . . .”

The baby slipped out, wet and bloody. Airways clear. That first infinitely reassuring cry burst out. “Good, good. He’s here. A beautiful baby boy.”

Estelle wrapped the infant like a burrito. “Here you are, Joan. Don’t move that arm. Here, lay him on a pillow in your lap—that’s the way. You’ll have to let Lonnie do the lifting until that arm heals.”

Lonnie was there beside her, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Rufus,” he said softly. “We’ll name him Rufus.”

Grinning, Estelle took a grateful breath—and saw Sera standing in the corner, eyes wide, pale as death.

“Oops, this way, chérie.” Estelle steered her to a chair in the waiting room and forced her head down to keep her from passing out on the floor. “Sorry—I should have told you to wait out here.”

Poor Sera. A close-up view of the nitty-gritty of childbirth was not the way to introduce a young woman to the joys of motherhood.

“I’ve never seen . . . I didn’t think . . .” Sera gabbled. “Is it always like that? Having a baby, I mean?”

“Usually there’s less mud.”

Sera shook her head. “No offense, Aunt Estelle, but I don’t think I want to be a doctor.”

CHAPTER 15

Storm damage

Pearl didn’t run far—maybe she wasn’t as shy of Diamond as she pretended. As soon as she slowed to a walk, Luis slipped off her back and took up a position nearby to watch.

Pearl waited, head up, sides heaving.

Diamond approached, tenderly