Abbie's Child. Linda Castle

       Prologue

       San Juan Mountains, Colorado

       1882

      Abigail clung to the sheer side of the mountain trail while another pain knifed through her taut belly. Carl was not even cold in his grave before the first agonizing contraction had gripped her. She sucked in gulps of pine-scented cold air and squeezed her eyes shut against the biting pain. When it began to ebb and flow away as the last half dozen before it, she pulled the threadbare plaid woolen shawl snug around her rounded belly and pushed forward. She rubbed her palms over her chilled arms, but felt no warmth from the action.

      Night would begin to descend from the pristine snow-covered peaks to settle around her soon. She glanced at her narrow, stone-littered back trail and wondered if she had made a fatal mistake in trying to reach the closest mining camp of Guston. Carl’s and her claim had been more isolated than most—better he had said, in case they had a big strike. Now she bit her lip and wondered if she would reach the boomtown before their child was born. If the baby came on the mountain trail at night she knew full well how slim their chances of survival were. She had begged him to take her into Silverton before her pregnancy came to term, but he had laughed and assured her he was capable of birthing their child. So she was now alone, at the end of her pregnancy, and Carl would never see his baby born.

      Fear spurred her forward. She doggedly placed one foot in front of the other and tried to ignore the growing terror in the mauve shadows darkening the treacherous path. She was determined that she and her baby would survive.

      Abigail found herself thinking of her mother. Long-buried fears and old memories of loss returned to haunt her. She found herself suddenly terrified of dying in childbirth and leaving her child an orphan—as she and her siblings had been.

      “Please don’t let me die like Ma,” she prayed softly. The image of her dying mother’s work-worn face, old too soon from bearing children only to see them die in infancy, swam before her eyes. Sweat beaded on her forehead in a clammy sheet as another contraction halted her progress. She sucked in air and placed both palms against the cool, jagged face of the mountain. Abigail leaned into the rock with the force of the pain. Sharp stones cut into her palms.

      “Lord, please not here,” she moaned as the last tight ache in her abdomen began to recede. “My baby will not live if it is born here.” She heard the ragged edge of fear and defeat in her own words. The sound made her jerk up her head in shock. “It will survive. We will survive.” Her throat was stiff and tight with determination.

      Abigail inhaled and forced herself forward along the precarious mountain trail toward the gold camp of Guston. She had made the trip with Carl before she got too large. She knew it was not too much farther away.

      The intensity of her contractions escalated when she topped a small aspen-covered hill where snow still clung in deep hollows and dark, shadowed crevices. The high-pitched roof of a newly built church steeple loomed ahead. She had heard a tale, many months ago upon her arrival, of the Reverend Mr. Davis. Fresh from England, he was determined to bring salvation to the mineral-rich Babylon of Colorado. The Englishman had refused to give up, even when he had been rejected by both the residents of Red Mountain and Ironton. She had dismissed the story as so much folderol, yet the newly constructed spire soared before her, a solid testimony to his perseverance. Abigail prayed the little church would be the salvation of her unborn child.

      She grated her teeth against a new onslaught of pain and waddled forward. Her eyes widened in astonishment when her water broke in a great warm gush between her legs. She hastened toward the narrow rough plank door. “I want to live and protect my baby. Please, God, don’t let my baby be an orphan.”

      Abigail braced herself in the unpainted doorway just before another contraction began. She slapped her palms flat against the doorjamb and gripped the newly milled wood so hard her knuckles turned white. Suddenly, thank God, the door opened. Abigail found herself looking into a pair of pale blue eyes hooded by heavy brows the color of hard winter frost. The old fellow’s ruddy complexion and leathery skin marked him as a man who spent most of his time outdoors. He didn’t look much like her idea of how an English minister would look.

      “Mr. Davis?” she questioned doubtfully between pains. Abigail had heard that the preacher was a much younger man. She doubted this was the Reverend Mr. Davis at all. Before she could form another question, though, she felt the muscles of her back pinch while the pain snaked around her abdomen.

      She watched the old face screw into crinkles of confusion, then the next contraction closed around her belly and removed all questions from her mind. When she gasped and clung ever tighter to the door, his eyes dropped to her belly and understanding appeared to blast across his bewildered face.

      Hands more rough and gnarled than mountain stone whisked her off her feet. A shabby booted foot deftly slammed the door behind them. One kerosene lamp drove back a little of the darkness inside the church. Abigail found herself laid on a church pew and her skirts being shoved up around her damp thighs. She cringed with embarrassment for half a heartbeat, but then another pain came and the urge to push wiped any such maidenly concerns from her mind.

      “Please help my baby.” She clamped her teeth together with a painful click.

      The old man looked at her with compassion and embarrassment flooding his face. Then he bowed his head. She felt her drenched pantalets being torn from her body. Another pain knifed through her lower back and down her groin. Then there was a warm bulk between her thighs. One last instinctual need to push surged through her, then she slumped back. By the time she raised up on her elbows, the old man was swathing something in his coat and bustling from beside the pew. He disappeared through a narrow door on the far side of the dimly lit room.

      Abigail sighed and fell back on the hard, splintery surface in total exhaustion. A wave of contentment folded over her.