For one precious minute, Natalie believed the worst was over.
Her son was breathing.
That should have been enough to make the entire world feel safe again.
Instead, another contraction seized her before Ryan could place the first baby in her arms.
Natalie arched against the bunk.
“No.”
The word came out as a broken whisper.
“No, no, I can’t.”
Ryan laid the newborn beside her, wrapped tightly in the cleanest blanket he could find.
The boy’s cry was thin but steady.
“You can.”
Natalie shook her head.
“I’m too tired.”
“I know.”
“My body won’t.”
“It already is.”
Ryan kept his voice low.
Not commanding.
Not falsely cheerful.
Steady.
Natalie had learned during James’s death that people often became cruelest when trying to sound hopeful.
They said things like everything happens for a reason.
They said James was in a better place.
They said God needed him.
Natalie had wanted to scream at every one of them.
Ryan offered none of that.
He only said what was true.
“You’re tired.”
Another contraction rose.
“But the second baby is coming anyway.”
Natalie gripped the blanket.
The infant beside her stirred.
That small movement changed something inside her.
Her son had fought to breathe.
She could fight too.
“All right.”
Ryan nodded.
“That’s it.”
The second birth was harder.
Natalie would remember little of it afterward.
Only pieces.
Lightning through the window.
Ryan’s hands.
Her own voice turning raw.
The smell of wet earth.
The baby beside her crying.
Then Ryan saying, “Again.”
And Natalie shouting, “I am!”
Then sudden quiet.
Ryan stared downward.
Natalie saw something unfamiliar cross his face.
Fear.
Not concern.
Fear.
“What?”
He did not answer immediately.
“What is it?”
“The baby’s turned.”
Natalie’s blood went cold.
“What does that mean?”
Ryan swallowed.
“I think a foot’s coming first.”
She knew enough to understand that was bad.
“How bad?”
Ryan hesitated.
“Tell me.”
“Bad.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Natalie looked toward the ceiling.
The logs blurred.
James.
For one moment, she could see him exactly as he had been the morning he left for the mine.
Boots unlaced.
Hair still damp.
Kissing her forehead while trying not to wake her.
“I’ll be home before supper.”
He never came home.
Natalie closed her eyes.
“Ryan.”
“Yes?”
“If something happens—”
“No.”
“My sister’s name is Margaret Foster.”
“No.”
“She lives in Kelton.”
“Natalie.”
“You need to know.”
His jaw tightened.
“My trunk is in the wagon. There’s a letter inside. If I die—”
“You’re not going to.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
His eyes met hers.
“I don’t.”
The honesty struck harder than false comfort would have.
Ryan continued.
“But I know this. Your first son is alive. Your second child is trying to be born. And you’re still fighting.”
Natalie began crying.
Quietly at first.
Then uncontrollably.
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to leave them.”
“You won’t.”
“I don’t want them growing up without me.”
Ryan looked at the tiny crying boy.
Then back at Natalie.
“Then stay.”
Something in the simplicity of it steadied her.
Stay.
Not survive forever.
Not solve tomorrow.
Stay.
One more breath.
One more pain.
One more push.
Ryan repositioned her as carefully as he could.
He remembered something an old ranch wife had once done when a foal presented wrong.
He hated himself for even comparing the two situations.
But he had nothing else.
“Can you turn?”
Natalie almost cursed him.
“Onto your side.”
She moved.
Pain exploded.
Ryan worked with terrified concentration.
For the first time since entering the shack, his hands trembled.
Natalie saw it.
“You’re afraid.”
“Very.”
That almost made her laugh.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“At least one of us is sensible.”
Ryan gave a breath that might have been a laugh.
The contraction struck.
Natalie screamed.
Then Ryan shouted.
“I can see the baby.”
Natalie pushed.
The world became white.
Then—
release.
For one second, there was no sound.
Natalie’s heart broke before she even asked.
Then Ryan lifted a tiny infant.
“A girl.”
The baby cried immediately.
Loud.
Angry.
Alive.
Natalie collapsed against the bunk.
Ryan laughed.
Not a small laugh this time.
A full, stunned, exhausted laugh.
“She’s furious.”
Natalie cried.
“Give her to me.”
Ryan wrapped the girl and placed both babies against Natalie’s chest.
She stared down at them.
Her son.
Her daughter.
Two impossibly small faces.
Red.
Wrinkled.
Perfect.
Her son’s hair was dark.
Her daughter’s was almost invisible, a pale softness across her head.
Natalie touched them with trembling fingers.
“They’re so small.”
Ryan’s expression changed.
The joy in it dimmed.
“Yes.”
Natalie understood immediately.
Too small.
Too early.
She looked toward him.
“Will they live?”
Ryan opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
He would not lie.
Natalie appreciated him for that even while it terrified her.
“We keep them warm.”
He added wood to the stove.
“We keep them close to you. We get you all to Kelton as soon as the weather breaks.”
Natalie nodded.
Then she felt dizzy.
The room tilted.
Her daughter’s cry faded.
Ryan’s voice sounded distant.
“Natalie?”
She blinked.
The blanket beneath her felt too warm.
Ryan looked down.
His face changed.
Blood.
Too much.
“Natalie.”
She tried to focus.
“I’m tired.”
“No.”
His voice sharpened.
“Stay awake.”
She almost smiled.
“You keep saying that.”
“I mean it.”
Ryan moved fast.
He had seen a ranch wife bleed badly after childbirth once when he was seventeen. He remembered the older women pressing cloth against her, massaging her belly, keeping her awake.
He had never asked why.
Now he wished he had asked everything.
Natalie’s face went pale.
“Ryan?”
“Yes.”
“Are they warm?”
“Yes.”
“The babies.”
“They’re warm.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Her eyes closed.
“Natalie.”
He touched her shoulder.
“Open your eyes.”
She did.
“You said stay.”
“I’m staying.”
“Good.”
He pressed clean cloth beneath her and did what little he understood.
The bleeding slowed.
Not enough.
But some.
Ryan looked at the storm.
Rain still hammered the roof.
He could not move them.
Not now.
He looked at the three fragile lives on the bunk.
A widow who had lost too much.
Two children who had arrived too soon.
And suddenly Ryan understood something with complete certainty.
He would not let them die.
He did not know how.
He did not know if sheer determination mattered to God, weather, blood loss, or premature infants.
But the decision settled inside him anyway.
For the next several hours, he fed the fire relentlessly.
He boiled water.
He changed blankets.
He held one infant while Natalie held the other.
When the babies grew too quiet, he rubbed their tiny backs.
When Natalie drifted toward sleep, he woke her.
“Mean man.”
Her voice was weak.
“You can hate me tomorrow.”
“I already do.”
“Good. Hatred keeps a person lively.”
The corner of her mouth moved.
The storm continued.
Night arrived completely.
Ryan had not eaten since morning.
Neither had Natalie.
He warmed broth from a tin cup and helped her drink.
She managed only a few swallows.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked eventually.
Ryan sat on the floor beside the bunk.
“Riding fence.”
“In this?”
“Storm came faster than expected.”
“You live nearby?”
“Six miles east.”
“You have a ranch?”
“A small one.”
“Family?”
Ryan looked into the fire.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Natalie noticed.
“You married?”
He shook his head.
“Were you?”
Ryan remained silent long enough that she regretted asking.
Then he said, “Almost.”
Natalie waited.
He did not explain.
She understood that silence too.
People carried graves differently.
Natalie looked at her babies.
“We need names.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow.
“Already?”
“If they’re going to fight this hard, they deserve names.”
She touched her son’s cheek.
“James.”
Ryan looked at her.
“After their father?”
She nodded.
“James Daniel Foster.”
“And her?”
Natalie studied the little girl.
The baby opened her mouth in a silent yawn.
“Grace.”
“Grace.”
Ryan repeated it quietly.
“Grace Margaret Foster.”
“Your sister?”
“Yes.”
The babies slept.
For a few minutes, the shack felt almost peaceful.
Then James stopped breathing.
Natalie noticed first.
Her whole body stiffened.
“Ryan.”
He turned.
“Ryan.”
She lifted the baby.
The boy’s face looked wrong.
Too still.
Ryan crossed the room instantly.
He took James.
“Come on.”
Natalie began sobbing.
“No.”
Ryan rubbed the baby’s back.
Nothing.
“Come on.”
He cleared the tiny mouth.
Still nothing.
“Ryan, please.”
“I know.”
His voice shook now.
“Come on, James.”
He placed a finger against the child’s chest.
So small.
So fragile.
“Come on.”
Natalie prayed aloud.
She had not prayed aloud since James died.
“Please, God. Please don’t take him. You already took his father. Please.”
Ryan bent his head.
“Breathe.”
The baby gave a faint gasp.
Then stopped.
“Again.”
Ryan rubbed harder.
“Again.”
Another gasp.
Natalie covered her mouth.
Then a cry.
Weak.
Beautiful.
Alive.
Ryan closed his eyes.
For a second, he looked like a man near collapse.
Natalie reached toward him.
He handed James back.
Their fingers touched.
Neither moved away immediately.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Ryan sat back.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
Morning came gray and cold.
The storm had weakened to drizzle.
Ryan stepped outside.
The world smelled washed and new.
He studied the road.
Mud.
But passable soon.
When he returned, Natalie was awake.
“So?”
“We leave in an hour.”
She looked frightened.
“Will they survive the wagon?”
Ryan did not know.
He went to his saddlebags and removed his coat.
“We’ll build them a nest.”
“A nest?”
“You’ll see.”
Using blankets, saddle padding, and the driest hay from the wagon, Ryan created a protected bed in the wagon box. Then he wrapped Natalie in his coat and placed both babies inside her dress against her chest, skin-to-skin for warmth.
Natalie looked down.
“This feels indecent.”
Ryan kept his eyes on the horses.
“Then Kelton can arrest us.”
She laughed weakly.
Ryan helped her into the wagon.
She could barely stand.
He wanted to carry her again.
She insisted on walking two steps herself.
Pride survived childbirth, apparently.
They began toward Kelton.
The trail was slow.
Every hole frightened Ryan.
Every time a baby stopped making noise, Natalie checked them.
James breathed.
Grace breathed.
Ryan repeated the facts like a prayer.
Six miles.
Five.
Four.
Then they saw riders.
Three men.
Ryan immediately reached for his rifle.
Natalie stiffened.
The riders approached fast.
One shouted.
“Patterson!”
Ryan relaxed slightly.
The men were ranchers from the area.
“What happened?”
Ryan pointed toward Natalie.
“Premature twins.”
The men stared.
One crossed himself.
“We need a doctor.”
“There’s one in Kelton today,” another rider said. “Railroad worker broke his leg yesterday.”
Ryan almost laughed from relief.
“Ride ahead.”
The cowboy wheeled his horse.
“I’ll bring him.”
They reached Kelton near noon.
Margaret Foster ran from the boardinghouse before the wagon stopped.
She saw Natalie.
Then the babies.
Then Ryan.
For one second, Margaret stood frozen.
Then she climbed into the wagon and wrapped her sister in both arms.
“You stubborn fool.”
Natalie began crying.
“I tried.”
Margaret touched the babies.
“They’re alive.”
“Because of him.”
She looked at Ryan.
He removed his hat.
“Ma’am.”
The doctor arrived minutes later.
Dr. Samuel Briggs was in his fifties, gray-haired, tired, and sharp-eyed.
He examined Natalie first.
Then the babies.
His face remained unreadable.
Finally he looked at Ryan.
“You delivered both?”
Ryan nodded.
“Second was breech.”
Dr. Briggs stared.
“And you managed it?”
“I managed not to kill anyone.”
The doctor almost smiled.
Then he became serious.
“These babies are dangerously early.”
Natalie’s face went white.
“But they’re alive.”
“Yes.”
“Will they stay alive?”
Dr. Briggs looked at her.
“We do everything right for the next several days.”
Natalie tightened her hold.
“What does that mean?”
“Warmth. Feeding. Watching every breath.”
“And then?”
“Then we hope.”
Ryan looked toward the twins.
He thought his part was finished.
He had delivered Natalie safely.
He had brought them to Kelton.
He should saddle his horse.
Go back to his ranch.
Return to the ordinary loneliness he understood.
But as he stepped toward the door, Natalie called his name.
“Ryan.”
He turned.
James slept against her chest.
Grace rested beside him.
Natalie looked exhausted beyond words.
Yet her eyes held him.
“You’re coming back?”
The question surprised both of them.
Ryan glanced at Margaret.
At the doctor.
At the babies.
Then back at Natalie.
“Tomorrow.”
She relaxed.
“Good.”
Ryan placed his hat on his head.
He rode home through wet sagebrush.
But all six miles, he kept hearing a tiny voice.
Breathe.
And for the first time in years, Ryan Patterson found himself hurrying toward tomorrow.