to the side, remembering the pain of her own babies‟ births, the pain and the joy.
Margred groaned, deep and guttural. Her war-hardened husband turned pale.
Stroking her hair from her sweaty face, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You‟re doing great.”
But she wasn‟t.
Tension seized Liz. The head was free, but the baby‟s shoulders hadn‟t cleared the birth canal. Margred‟s face was ashen,
her lips cracked. Her blood pressure could be dropping. She needed fluids. She needed . . .
“Can you push?” Liz asked, keeping her voice steady. “Margred, you have to push now.”
A great cry burst from her.
Liz winced. “Easy,” she soothed.
God damn it, she wanted her equipment. Monitors, fluids, an operating room . . .
Caleb held his wife. “ Maggie. ”
She writhed. A long shadow fell across her swollen belly. Morgan, striding from the sea, water dripping from his cupped
hands.
“Get out of my light,” Liz snapped.
He ignored her, kneeling by Margred as she labored. Her dark eyes were wide, her mouth open in distress. He dipped into
his palm, laid his finger on her tongue, murmuring as he did so.
She gasped. Her bowed body suddenly sagged as she gripped her husband‟s hand. Her face flushed. And her child was
delivered into Liz‟s hands, perfect, slippery. Beautiful.
Wonder shuddered through her. But her reaction was unimportant. Nothing mattered but the infant in her care. She
concentrated on her job, support, wipe, suction.
Caleb met Morgan‟s eyes. “What did you say?”
Morgan shrugged. “Nothing. A blessing.”
“ „Born of water, for the water,‟ ” Dylan translated. “ „Drink deep and live.‟ ”
“Congratulations, you have a son,” Liz announced. Blinking tears from her eyes, she leaned forward to lay the wet, dusky
infant, still attached to his cord, on Margred‟s tummy, skin to skin.
Holding her own breath, Liz listened for his first cry.
Waited, her heart racing. Her jaw tensed. Firmly, she stroked the infant‟s back.
Margred struggled to sit up. “What is it? What‟s wrong?”
Liz stroked again, harder, willing him to breathe. “Come on, little guy.”
Caleb‟s big hand cupped the small, damp skull. “Born of water . . .” His voice cracked.
Liz reached for the baby to straighten his airway, to force air into his tiny lungs.
Margred‟s hand covered her husband‟s. She touched the baby‟s dark, pursed lips. “For the water,” she whispered. “Drink
deep and live.”
Their son‟s wavering cry rose to the stars and the sea.
Morgan‟s arms flexed as he carried the washtub over his head from the beach to the catering van. Elizabeth was in the
parking lot, leaning in the window of Caleb‟s Jeep, speaking to Margred in the back seat.
Elizabeth. Admiration for her moved him, for her calm in a crisis, her steady hands, her clear head, her warm heart. She
was a remarkable woman.
His woman.
He slammed the van‟s doors.
“Nancy‟s getting your exam room all ready.” Her voice carried across the gravel and under the trees. “I‟ll meet you there.”
A murmur from Margred.
“As soon as we get you both checked out, you can go home,” Elizabeth said, brisk and reassuring. “You drive carefully.”
“I didn‟t think we‟d be using the infant seat this soon,” Caleb said. “Thanks, Liz.”
“My pleasure. What are you going to name him?”
“Calder.” Margred‟s voice came clearly from the backseat.
From the wild water, Morgan translated silently.
“Nice,” Elizabeth said. She stepped back with a wave as they drove away. Turning toward her own car, she saw Morgan.