Page from a Tennessee Journal (AmazonEncore Edition)

’bout babies tonight. No talk ’bout babies, ever.” His voice sounded gruff as he pushed his manhood inside her.
     
     
    Eula lay in what felt like a field of magnolia blossoms that tingled shivers up and down her body when Alex exploded inside her. He grunted out a sound, and her mind drifted to her eighth grade schoolteacher who taught her about the emperors of Rome back in the old days. They crowned their heroes with the leaves of a victory tree. The ancient Romans plucked the fragrant leaves right off the branches of the laurel and wove them into a thornless crown that they set on top of the head of their most glorious heroes. Had Alex just crowned her his empress? She nuzzled his cheek when he didn’t roll off her and turn his back like he always did. She let out a satisfied breath, and Belle Thornton disappeared into the daisy-printed wallpaper.
    Though her husband hadn’t quite finished the sixth grade, he must have heard parts of that lesson on the laurel wreath because the slightly garbled word bursting from his mouth was loud, drawn out, and laid sweet upon Eula’s ears.
    “L-a-u-r-a.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
     
    Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Annalaura had long since let go of the idea that the pains twisting her body came from the blow John had struck at her belly. Though none of her other four children had given her this much trouble getting born—nor had they come early—they had all belonged to John Welles. How could the father of a baby make that much difference? The latest big cramp eased up, and she let herself take a breath. She grabbed at one of the three cotton blankets Aunt Becky kept tucked across the bed, summer and winter. All three were drenched in her sweat, her broken bag of waters, and the plug of blood from her womb. This baby was definitely on its way, and Aunt Becky hadn’t come back to the cabin.
    Hours had passed since Rebecca took the three youngest over to Hettie’s. The ever-closer pains faded most of Annalaura’s sense of time, but the low-burning embers in the fireplace told her daybreak couldn’t be more than four hours away. Even the kerosene in the lamp burned low.
    Right after Becky had gone with the children, her water broke and it was all she could manage to struggle out of her shirtwaist and skirt. Annalaura had tried to raise herself to refill the lamp and stoke the fire only to be wracked by a pain so strong that even setting one foot on the floor caused her more misery. Was she suffering God’s punishment for her sin against her husband?
    Another cramp wrapped her in its grip. Where was Becky, or even Cleveland? She had stationed her boy at the gate to warn Alex away. After that, Cleveland had probably gone back to the loft to await her return, not knowing how much his mother needed him. She prayed that her boy would worry over her and come to Becky’s cabin. As she held her breath against what felt like a thousand tobacco spearing sticks jabbing at her insides all at once, she remembered that her twelve-year-old would never venture out after dark. John had trained him too well. Colored weren’t safe wandering the lanes after nightfall.
    The spearing sticks did their worst and started to ease up. If she had a timepiece, she would know for sure that the pains knotting her insides into a hot ball of fire were coming every five minutes and holding tight for well over a minute. She frowned, drew in a long breath, and knew her body was tiring much too soon.
    It wasn’t that dying would be so bad. Being dead had to be better than the double portion of misery dragging her with it right now. But who would see after her children? John would take Cleveland and Doug—they were of some size to be of help. But Lottie was a girl, and Henry, little more than a baby.
    Before she could worry after her two youngest, a poker, hot from a roaring fire with butchering knives stuck all around it, let itself loose in her belly. Annalaura rocked on the bed in time to her own yells in a fight with the red-hot poker. In what felt like an hour, she sensed the poker start its cooldown. Her forehead beaded in sweat, her breath came in short bursts. She lay gasping on her aunt’s bed, the covers tumbled tight around her. A hard tap at the door brought the first burst of hope.
    “Push it open, Cleveland. Hurry.” She fell back against the flat feather pillow. “Yo’ momma needs you bad.”
    The door slammed against the cabin wall, but her head felt too heavy