“He . . . waited,” I panted, speaking in little gasps, “until the star sisters . . . . . . descended from the sky again. He knew . . . they wouldn't . . . . . . be afraid of a small mouse.”

“Of course not. Women love mice,” Wilson amended agreeably, and I laughed and moaned and tried to continue. Wilson smoothed my hair back from my face, following it down my back in steady strokes as I pressed my face into him, trying to escape the pain that was only mine to bear. But he didn't interrupt again as I told the story in fits and gasps.

“When the sisters climbed from the basket and began dancing . . . . . . White Hawk . . . crept closer and closer . . . . . . to the youngest, until he was right . . . next to her. Then he transformed . . . back into a man and swept her up in his arms.” The pain began to ease in increments, and I took several long breaths, unclenching my hands from around Wilson's arms. The man was going to have some serious bruises when all this was over.

“The other sisters screamed and jumped into the basket, which ascended into the sky, leaving the youngest behind. The star maiden cried, but White Hawk wiped her tears away and told her he would love her and take care of her. He told her life on earth was wonderful, and she would be happy with him.”

I stopped talking as a nurse hustled into the room, pushing the curtain aside with a swoop of her hand.

“Okay, sweetie. Let's see where you're at.” I looked up at Wilson as I was eased down onto the bed. He sat down on the stool by the bed and leaned into me, ignoring the nurse and the discomfort of the intimacy I had forced upon him. His face was only inches from mine as he again took my hand and met my gaze.

“You're moving along. You're at a loose seven. Let's see if we can't get that anesthesiologist up here to get you some relief –”

The lights flickered, and suddenly there was a cessation of sound and the darkness was complete. The nurse swore under her breath.

The lights came back on with a whir, and the three of us breathed out in unison.

“The hospital has generators. Don't you worry.” The nurse tried for lightness, but her eyes shifted to the door, and I could tell she was wondering what else the night would bring. “That must be some storm.” She swished back out the door with promises to be right back.

I thought of Tiffa at an airport in Reno and immediately pushed the thought away. She would come, she would make it. There would be someone to hold my baby. Someone had to hold her. I wouldn't be able to. The thought brought ice to my veins and dread pooling in my chest. Tiffa and Jack needed to be there, ready with open arms to swoop up my child and take her immediately away.

Pain drove the thought from my head, the more immediate misery taking my attention from thoughts of Tiffa and my child. Twenty minutes passed, then twenty more. The nurse did not return nor did the anesthesiologist. Then the pain reached a crescendo. Giant cascading waves threatened to tear me in half. I writhed in agony and clutched at Wilson, desperate for reprieve.

“Tell me what I can do, Blue. Tell me what to do,” Wilson insisted quietly. I had settled into silence, my energy and focus drawn into the narrowest pin-prick of light, caught in the seemingly never-ending cycle of pain and pardon, unable to find words. I just shook my head and clung to his hand. He swore violently and rose from my bedside with a jerk, his stool clattering across the floor. He eased my fingers from his hand, and I whimpered my dismay as he turned toward the door. He crossed the room in long strides, and yanked the door open. Then I heard him, his voice raised, demanding assistance in very, very impolite terms. I was so proud and ridiculously touched that I almost laughed, but the laugh caught in my throat, and I screamed instead. My body shook and the pressure in my legs was overpowering. The need to push was so intense that I acted without thought. I screamed again, and my door slammed open and Wilson, his hair a wild, curling mess, along with a horrified nurse came flying into the room.

“Doctor's on his way! Doctor's on his way!” the nurse babbled, her eyes growing wide as she positioned herself between my drawn up legs. “Don't push!”

Wilson was instantly at my side, and I turned my face to him once more, unable to stop the ripples of pressure that sought to expel my child. The door slammed again as the nurse left the room and bellowed down the hallway for reinforcements. All at once I was surrounded – another nurse, a doctor, someone else was hovering by the incubator on wheels.

“Blue?” The doctor's voice seemed far away, and I struggled to focus on his face. Brown eyes met mine as I bore down helplessly. “It's time to push, Blue. It won't be long 'til your baby is here.”

My baby? Tiffa's baby. I shook my head. Tiffa wasn't here yet. I bore down once more, pushing through the pain. Then again. And again. And again. I don't know how long I pushed and pleaded with God for it to be over. I lost count in the haze of pain and exhaustion.

“Just a little more, Blue,” the doctor urged. But I was too tired. I didn't think I could do it. It hurt too much. I wanted to float away.

“I can't,” I croaked. I couldn't. I wouldn't.

“You're the bravest person I know, Blue,” Wilson whispered into my hair. His hands cradling my face. “Did I ever tell you how beautiful I think you are? You're almost there. I will help you. Hold on to me. It's going to be all right.”

“Wilson?”

“Yes?”

“If I see her . . . I don't know if I will be able to let her go. I'm afraid if I hold my baby, I won't be able to let her go.” The tears ran down my cheeks, and I didn't have to strength to hold them back.

Wilson wrapped his arms around me as the agony inside me rose up and howled.

“Come on, Blue!” The doctor was insistent. “Here we go! One more.”

And somehow I did. Somehow I did. A last desperate effort, the final thrust, and a moment of relief as the baby was pulled free. Wilson's arms fell away, and he rose to his feet as the room erupted in excited exclamation. A girl. She was here, arms flailing, black hair wet and slicked to her tiny head, eyes wide. She howled in outrage, a war cry worthy of the battle that had been waged and won. And I reached for her.

In that moment she was mine. The nurse laid her on my chest, and my hands were there to hold her. The world around me fell away. Time ceased, and I drank her in. I felt simultaneously dizzy with power and impossibly weak as I stared at my tiny daughter. She blinked up at me, her eyes blurry and swollen, her mouth moving, making mournful sounds that ripped at my heart. Terror rose inside of me, blinding me, and for a heartbeat I considered fleeing the room, running wildly down long corridors and out into the storm with my child in my arms to escape the promise I had made. I loved her. Insanely and completely. I loved her. I swung my head around, wild with turmoil, sick with dread, searching for Wilson. He stood only a few feet away, his hands shoved into his pockets, his face haggard, and his hair falling across his forehead. His eyes met mine, and I saw that he was crying. And then the nurse whisked her away – just like that – and the moment was gone. Time resumed its normal speed, competently unhindered by my devastation. I fell back against the pillows, stunned, and let the world rush on without me.

It was mere minutes before the room emptied and I lay alone, the refuse of childbirth efficiently bundled and trundled away. Wilson had stepped out into the hall to call Tiffa, the nurses had taken the baby to places unknown for measuring and bathing, the doctor had neatly finished his work, removed his gloves, and congratulated me on a job well done. And now I lay, spent and rejected, like yesterday's news. And it was done.