Pregnancy did not turn Evelyn into the glowing, peaceful creature described in sentimental novels.
She was sick for months.
Her ankles swelled.
Her back hurt.
Sleep became increasingly difficult.
The baby developed a habit of kicking precisely when Evelyn wanted to rest.
Takoda found this endlessly fascinating.
Evelyn did not.
One night she sat upright after a particularly sharp movement.
“Your child is trying to escape through my ribs.”
Takoda opened one eye.
“Our child.”
“At this moment, yours.”
The baby kicked again.
Takoda placed a hand over Evelyn’s stomach.
“Do not trouble your mother.”
Another kick.
Takoda smiled.
“It listens well.”
Evelyn stared at him.
“I dislike you.”
“No.”
“Very much.”
Takoda closed his eyes.
“No.”
She lay beside him, muttering threats.
She was smiling.
Yet beneath the humor remained fear.
Every stage introduced a new possibility of loss.
Nayeli taught Evelyn what to expect.
Evelyn had helped women give birth.
That knowledge was not always comforting.
She knew what could go wrong.
Especially far from a physician.
Takoda knew enough to be afraid but not enough to understand every danger.
Sometimes that made things worse.
He became overprotective.
At first it was touching.
Then irritating.
By the seventh month, Evelyn finally snapped.
She was carrying a bucket when Takoda took it from her.
“I can carry water.”
“It is heavy.”
“I have carried it every morning for a year.”
“You were not carrying a baby then.”
Evelyn stared.
“I am pregnant, not made of glass.”
Takoda continued walking.
She followed.
“Give it back.”
“No.”
“Takoda.”
“No.”
“Give me the bucket.”
He stopped.
“No.”
Evelyn grabbed it.
Takoda held on.
They stood in the middle of camp engaged in an absurd tug-of-war.
Nayeli watched from a distance.
Her expression suggested great entertainment.
“You promised my voice would matter,” Evelyn said.
“It does.”
“Then listen to it.”
“I am listening.”
“I said give me the bucket.”
“I heard you.”
“That is not the same thing!”
Takoda stared.
Evelyn released the handle.
“Keep your stupid bucket.”
She stormed away.
That evening, Takoda found her beside the creek.
He sat.
Evelyn ignored him.
After several minutes he said, “I am afraid.”
She looked at him.
Takoda rarely admitted fear.
“Of what?”
“You dying.”
Anger disappeared.
He stared at the water.
“I nearly lost you when Sihu was sick because you did not sleep.”
“You did not nearly lose me.”
“I imagined it.”
He swallowed.
“Now every time you climb a horse or carry something heavy or become tired, I imagine losing both of you.”
Evelyn’s chest tightened.
Takoda looked at her.
“I know I am making the fear into rules.”
She understood that.
Too well.
“I did that with hope.”
“Yes.”
She took his hand.
“You cannot protect me from everything.”
“I know.”
“You cannot protect the baby from everything.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“And if you try, you’ll make both of us miserable.”
He gave her an offended look.
“Perhaps only you.”
She elbowed him.
Takoda smiled.
“All right.”
“All right what?”
“You carry water.”
“Thank you.”
“But only one bucket.”
She opened her mouth.
Takoda raised a hand.
“I am learning slowly.”
Evelyn laughed.
Their child became the center of increasing attention.
Sihu spoke to Evelyn’s stomach daily.
Children proposed names.
Most were terrible.
One boy suggested naming the baby after his horse.
Another offered the word for frog because frogs were “strong and good at jumping.”
Evelyn declined both.
Takoda suggested waiting until they met the child.
“For once, something we agree on.”
“We agree often.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“We agree when you realize I was correct.”
Takoda considered.
“That happens rarely.”
Evelyn threw a cloth at him.
Their happiness felt dangerously complete.
Then a rider arrived from Dunmore’s Post carrying mail.
Among the letters was one addressed to Evelyn.
Ohio.
Different handwriting.
She opened it.
The letter came from Margaret Bell, a neighbor from Millbrook.
Mrs. Harper was ill.
Seriously.
Margaret believed Evelyn should know.
There was more.
Thomas’s mother regretted the final letter she had sent.
Evelyn read that sentence repeatedly.
Takoda watched her.
“Will you go?”
She looked at him.
“I don’t know.”
“You want to.”
“I don’t know.”
“That means yes.”
Evelyn stood.
“I am eight months pregnant.”
“I know.”
“It is hundreds of miles.”
“I know.”
“She made my life miserable.”
“I know.”
Evelyn’s eyes filled.
“So why do I care?”
Takoda answered softly.
“Because being free from someone does not require becoming cruel to them.”
Evelyn looked at the letter.
She could not travel that far safely.
Not now.
So she wrote.
It took hours.
She began the letter three times.
Finally she told the truth.
She told Mrs. Harper that the things she had said had wounded her deeply.
That Evelyn had spent years believing her worth rested on motherhood.
That she now understood no woman deserved to be reduced to what her body could or could not do.
She told her she had remarried.
She told her she was happy.
Then, after staring at the page for nearly ten minutes, she wrote:
I am expecting a child.
But please understand: this did not make me whole. I was already whole before this baby came. I simply did not know it yet.
She did not write the sentence to punish Mrs. Harper.
She wrote it because she needed it to exist somewhere outside her own mind.
At the end, she added:
I hope you find peace. I mean that.
She sent it.
The answer would take months.
Perhaps never come.
For once, Evelyn could live with that.
Two weeks later, labor began.
At first she denied it.
A tightening low in her abdomen.
Then another.
Nayeli watched her across breakfast.
“No.”
Evelyn pointed a finger.
Nayeli smiled.
“No.”
Another contraction tightened.
Evelyn inhaled.
Nayeli’s smile widened.
“Oh, be quiet.”
“I say nothing.”
“You are saying everything with your face.”
By afternoon, there was no denying it.
The child was coming.
Takoda became useless.
Absolutely useless.
The man who could track animals across stone, negotiate difficult trades, face armed riders without flinching, and carry an injured man for miles could not handle childbirth.
He entered.
Nayeli ordered him out.
He left.
Ten minutes later he returned.
Nayeli threw him out again.
Evelyn would have laughed if she had not been in pain.
Hours passed.
Night came.
Labor intensified.
Evelyn had attended births.
She had never understood the force of pain from the inside.
It consumed everything.
At some point she grabbed Nayeli’s arm.
“Something is wrong.”
“No.”
“It hurts.”
“Yes.”
“That is not helpful.”
Nayeli almost smiled.
Then another contraction took Evelyn’s voice.
Outside, Takoda paced until someone threatened to tie him to a tree.
Near midnight, progress slowed.
Concern entered Nayeli’s eyes.
Evelyn saw it.
“What?”
Nayeli checked again.
“Baby slow.”
Fear exploded.
“What does that mean?”
Nayeli called another woman.
They spoke quickly.
Evelyn understood fragments.
Position.
Time.
Strength.
She thought about every difficult birth she had witnessed.
Every mother who had bled.
Every baby who had not cried.
“No.”
Nayeli caught her face.
“Look.”
Evelyn forced herself to focus.
“Baby coming.”
“What if—”
“Coming.”
Evelyn nodded.
Takoda heard the change in voices and entered.
Nobody threw him out this time.
He knelt beside Evelyn.
She seized his hand.
“I’m afraid.”
“So am I.”
That surprised her enough to steady her.
Takoda pressed his forehead against hers.
“Remember?”
“What?”
“The right question.”
Evelyn cried out as another contraction began.
When it passed, she gasped, “This is not the time for one of your wise speeches.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“I choose you.”
Evelyn stared.
“Whatever happens, whatever comes next, I choose you.”
Nayeli gave instructions.
Evelyn bore down.
Pain.
Voices.
Sweat.
Takoda’s hand in hers.
Again.
Again.
Then suddenly everything changed.
A child slipped into waiting hands.
Silence.
One second.
Two.
Evelyn’s heart stopped.
Then—
A cry.
Strong.
Angry.
Beautiful.
The sound tore through Evelyn.
She began sobbing.
Nayeli laughed.
“A girl.”
Takoda made a sound Evelyn had never heard from him.
Half laugh.
Half sob.
The baby was placed against Evelyn’s chest.
Tiny.
Wet dark hair.
Furious little face.
Evelyn stared.
For four years she had imagined this moment as victory.
Proof.
Vindication.
She had imagined herself holding a child and finally feeling worthy.
But as she looked into her daughter’s face, that idea seemed terribly small.
This child existed for herself.
Not to defeat an old insult.
Not to prove a doctor wrong.
Not to restore Evelyn’s dignity.
Her daughter was not evidence.
She was a person.
Loved simply because she was here.
Takoda touched the baby’s tiny hand.
She grabbed one of his fingers.
The enormous warrior cried openly.
Evelyn smiled through tears.
“She has you already.”
Takoda bent over both of them.
“No.”
He kissed Evelyn’s forehead.
“She has us.”
Outside, dawn began turning the sky gold.
And the woman who had once run west because she believed there was no home left for her realized she had been wrong.
Home had simply been waiting farther away than she expected.