Page 243 of Wild Then Wed
“Double loop,” he says under his breath, more to himself than to me. “It’s a tight one.”
He doesn’t hesitate. His gloved fingers work gently but precisely, reaching behind the baby’s head to try and slip the first loop over. It’s snug. Too snug to pull without risk.
He leans back slightly, keeps one hand supporting the baby’s head while the other reaches into his bag for a clamp.
“It’s got a nuchal cord,” he says up to Anna. His voice is steady. Even. “That just means the cord’s around the baby’s neck, but I’m going to take care of it, alright Anna?”
Anna doesn’t answer. She’s panting, moaning, almost too far gone to register.
Sawyer gets the clamp in place, tight and clean, then snips the cord with one smooth motion—quick and efficient. His hands don’t even shake.
“Anna,” he calls gently, but firmly. “On this next contraction, Ineedyou to give me everything you’ve got. One big, big push. We have to get this baby out right now. Can you do that?”
She whimpers something that sounds like a yes.
“You’re doing so good,” he says. “This baby is ready. We just need one more.”
And I kneel there beside him, heart in my throat, watching the baby’s tiny head cradled in his hands, and praying—please let this next push be it.
I scurry back up to Anna, grab her hand again, and squeeze it hard. “You can do this,” I say, breathless. “You’re strong enough to do this, Anna. Just one more. Deep breath, okay? And push with everything.”
Estelle is still beside her, calm and steady, gently blotting her face with the cool cloth. “You’re almost there, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “You’re doing so good.”
Anna nods weakly, then inhales—deep, ragged, desperate—and pushes like her life depends on it.
She screams, loud and primal, her whole body curling around the pain. It’s not even a sound, not really—it’s somethingdeeper. Animal. Ancient. A sob and a scream wrapped in exhaustion. Her face flushes dark, the color of a plum, and her chest heaves, soaked with sweat.
I can’t see anything from up here but Sawyer’s hands moving, fast and focused. My own heart is a wreck, my stomach twisted so tight it hurts. I just keep thinking—Please be okay. Please let Anna be okay. Let the baby be okay.
Then I hear Sawyer’s voice from below, soft but sure: “That’s it…that’s it.”
And then: “It’s a girl!”
Anna’s head rolls to the side. “A girl?” she whispers, smiling through her tears, her lips trembling. “I have a girl?”
I kiss her damp forehead once, gently, then move back down to where Sawyer is kneeling.
And there she is.
Tiny. Purple. Curled in on herself like she’s still trying to stay inside. Her arms are tucked in close to her chest, her little legs pulled up. A faint layer of white vernix still clings to her skin. She’s slick with birth and blood and fluid. Her dark hair is matted to her head, and her eyes are shut tight.
She’s beautiful.
But she’s not crying.
Sawyer’s jaw is tight, but he doesn’t hesitate. He clears the cord remnants from around her, double-checks her nose and mouth, and then gently cups her face and back with both hands, rubbing in quick, circular motions.
Nothing.
“Why isn’t she crying?” I whisper, my voice tight.
Sawyer doesn’t answer. His focus is surgical.
He leans in, clears her mouth again with his finger, then tilts her slightly, rubbing harder this time, brisk and controlled. One hand cups her back. The other taps her feet gently.
Still nothing.
My chest is caving in. The barn is too quiet.
