Chapter 17 - Labor in the Eye of the Storm
A crash of thunder shook the cottage, rattling the copper pots hanging above the island.
Clara didn't scream. She didn't plead.
With all the strength left in her nine-month-pregnant body, she grabbed the heavy cast-iron skillet from the counter and swung it with both hands.
The iron slammed into Julian’s wrist with a sickening crunch.
The teacup shattered on the hardwood floor, dark brown liquid and shattered porcelain splashing across his tailored pants. Julian roared in pain, dropping to one knee as he cradled his fractured wrist.
"You bitch!" he hissed, his face contorting into an expression of pure, demonic fury.
Clara didn't wait. She bolted for the front door.
A blinding spasm of pain ripped through her abdomen—not a Braxton-Hicks contraction, but a tearing, violent wave that forced her to double over. Warm liquid rushed down her inner thighs, soaking her linen pants and pooling onto the floor.
Her water had broken.
"Morrison!" Julian shouted from the kitchen, stumbling to his feet. "She’s at the front door! Block the driveway!"
Clara lunged through the front door into the howling tempest. Rain hit her face like needles. The wind was so ferocious it nearly knocked her off the porch steps.
Through the sheets of rain, she saw Dr. Morrison emerging from his sedan, holding a black medical bag and a heavy flashlight.
"Get inside, Mrs. Vance!" Morrison yelled over the wind, lunging forward to grab her arm. "You’re in active labor! You’ll die out here!"
Clara twisted out of his grip, bringing the brass safety-deposit key in her hand and raking it across his face.
The jagged brass point tore through Morrison’s cheek. He screamed, dropping the flashlight into the mud, his hands flying to his bleeding face.
Clara ran.
Every step sent shockwaves of agony through her pelvis. Her baby was descending, the crushing pressure bearing down on her cervix with unrelenting biological force. She couldn't make it to the road; the road was flooded under two feet of black seawall surge.
The only structure standing above the tide line was the old stone lighthouse keeper’s shack at the tip of the rocky bluff.
Clara stumbled through the soaked marsh grass, her breath tearing from her throat in ragged sobs. Behind her, through the roar of the ocean, she could hear Julian’s screams:
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*"Clara! You can't run from me! That baby belongs to the Vance estate!"*
***
