1870, Philadelphia, USA.
Martha Whitcomb, the wild child of Philadelphia society, is now a grown woman, independent in wealth and in personality. At twenty-three, still unmarried and childless, she is exposed to constant rumors and ridicule, crushed...
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Benjamin jumped from his horse and rushed into the Dragonfly, his heart pounding with such energy that he struggled to breathe, and his mouth tasted of metal. Even in his worked-up state and despite knowing what had occurred in this place that very morning, he was still taken aback at the sight of the nearly empty saloon at an hour during which it should have been bustling.
The bodies had been moved to some other place and there had been an attempt at cleaning, but it had been a futile effort. He imagined nothing less than tearing up the floorboards and replacing them would suffice and though he had less than zero desire to inspect further, it did not escape his notice that the bar itself was peppered with holes, enough so that a good amount of wood between these holes had splintered away. He swallowed hard, unable to stop himself from remembering that Martha had remained on the opposite side of that aerated bar as rounds flew.
A blood-curdling scream of a woman in the rawest of agony pierced through the air, and Benjamin ran. As he had ridden toward Paradise, he, of course, had had no knowledge of whether Martha had delivered their child or not. In the event that she remained in labor, however, he had intended to do the proper thing and remain downstairs, to leave those matters to the women and not interfere with their delicate work.
That single cry, however, cut Benjamin to the bone, squashing all logic, all rational thought. He had one instinct that seared into his soul with the intensity of a red-hot cattle brand: Martha was in pain, and he had to do something.
Nothing else mattered at that moment—he lost awareness of anything and everything in his surroundings other than that overpowering urge. If any of his traveling companions called out to him, he did not notice as he raced up the stairs and across the mezzanine, closer and closer to those horrific sounds.
He opened the door to find the room in what could only be described as organized chaos. Sarah, Sadie, Jo, Ruth, and a few other women whose faces he did not immediately recognize nor spare a moment to recall surrounded Martha, who was on the mattress. The material of her nightdress pooled at her hips, her legs bent up and spread wide, and, as these women murmured and called out their encouragement and commands, Martha pressed her chin to her chest, her face beet red and slick with dripping sweat and tears as she let out another fierce cry.
"I can't..." she whimpered, dropping her head back and panting hard, nearly sobbing.
"You must," Ruth, who stood between Martha's spread legs, said with a firm, calm insistence. "On the next contraction, you need to be pushin' again."
"You're near there," Sarah cooed from Martha's side, stroking her hair as Sadie, who stood at the other wiped her face with a rag.
"Slow your breathing," Sadie said, and Martha obediently stopped her wild panting, her chest rising and falling more steadily.
"One more push," Johanna said.
Martha shook her head. "You keep saying that!"
Benjamin closed the door behind him, and now that the room was not flooded with Martha's cries, the women became aware of his presence. Sarah frowned, but Martha looked as though she might faint from relief, stretching her hand in his direction with such raw desperation that it hurt his heart.
