For the Love of Justice (The Bluegrass Country Series, Book 3)

For the Love of Justice

The Bluegrass Country Series

Book Three

by

Leta Gail Doerr

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ISBN: 978-1-61417-739-5

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Acknowledgements

Marta Griffin, RN

Chapter 1

That's life. You'll have that. Or, where I come from: Shit Happens.

To say most people have a better way of dealing with life's challenges than I do is a gross understatement. I mean, I know bad things happen to good people—that's the way the world works. But why do they have to happen to people in my frickin' bubble?

The world is filled with folks who deal with the shit that gets shoveled their way by believing in positive affirmations like things happen for a reason or it's just the way it was meant to be. And if you have a strong faith in higher power, you may even believe in that higher power's will.

Let me clue you in on a little something here, kids. I learned a long time ago that when it gets down to it, the only person you can ever really depend on is you. At least, that's what I used to believe.

* * *

Seated in Judge's favorite rocker on the front porch of the ranch, I creak forward and back at a steady pace as my mind swirls with anxiety over how Lacie Joe and her baby are going to survive the pregnancy. She tells me on a consistent basis that I must be a distant relative to Chicken Little and I need to learn to relax. Hell, I'll take it. My sole living relative I know of is my brother, Ty.

The doctors say the only cure for Lacie Joe's condition—preeclampsia, begins with delivery of the baby. She's partway through her second trimester, week twenty-four, so we count each passing day when the baby doesn't arrive prematurely as a gift. According to the pregnancy books, the baby's lungs are formed, but they don't work. And, he's likely a mere one and a half pounds. If born too early, his chances of survival are just as tiny as he is.

I installed an app on my smartphone that provides a week-by-week accounting of the growing fetus's development. At first the baby looked like a bean sprout—that, I could handle. When the pictures on the screen started looking alien-like, I had to change a setting to text only. Lacie Joe has no clue that I'm keeping tabs on the little one's development like this. She'd get all gushy and teary-eyed. I don't need that kind of attention.

I quick-glance at my watch and realize I've been stalling for nearly twenty minutes—sitting out here in this rocker listening to the birds tweet in the trees, avoiding entering the house. I'm still a wimp when it comes to seeing Lacie Joe on bed rest. It's early morning and I like to see Lacie Joe first thing before the flurry of activity begins at FiddleStix.

Summoning courage from deep within, I pull up my proverbial bootstraps and creak open the screen door.

Judge, I'm here! I say as I tiptoe into the living room. Maybe I'll get lucky and Lacie Joe will be sleeping. Hanging my cowboy hat and winter jacket on the wooden pitchfork—which doubles as a hat rack—I stop at the landing at the base of the steps leading to the second floor.

Freckles, I'm in the kitchen. Judge's fragile voice carries from the back of the house, along with the pungent aroma of fresh coffee. Go on up. You're late. The tinny sound of a silver spoon swirling cream inside his ceramic coffee mug follows—echoing his disapproval for my tardiness.

I bend at my waist and take more time than necessary to remove my cowboy boots. Straightening them so they both sit upright, I line them up perfectly in the shoe tray near the door. Judge's slippers—all bent down and folded over at the heels because he uses them more like clogs than true slippers—are lopsided, so I straighten them.

Emma. Go on now, Judge grumbles from the kitchen and I know I'm in trouble.

Letting out an audible groan I climb the steps that lead to Lacie's bedroom—cursing at myself beneath my breath for acting like such a child.

Lacie Joe and Jay moved back in with Judge when she started having difficulty with her pregnancy. Neither of them seem to mind, and Judge is sure pleased as punch to have them both home again. He's been after me to move back as well. He claims there's plenty of room and wants the family all together when the baby arrives.

For as much as they've been accommodating to me, I still feel like a stranger at times. Lacie Joe and Jay practically grew up together, and she's lived with Judge since she was a teen. I still consider myself an outsider even though I know better.

Lacie Joe and Judge gave me a chance when the rest of the world orphaned me. Try as they might, I still feel like there's something missing for me. I adore them all immensely, but now that I've found my brother, he's a huge part of how I define home. I wish home wasn't a full day's car ride away.

As wrong as I know it is, I still wish we were never removed from our childhood home in the first place. Sure, I was a ten-year-old caring for a toddler. And our mother would leave us alone for days on end—but we were together. We spent sixteen years apart and were finally reunited after an exhaustive search—only to be separated again by life's circumstances. Shit happens, right?

Before the diagnosis, Lacie Joe kept a steady routine of hustling and bustling 24/7. She thrived on four hours of sleep a night. Now she's laid up in a dark room, connected to a heart monitor, and I've inherited her rampant lifestyle. It tears me up to see her this way. I want the old Lacie Joe back.

Lacie Joe? I whisper from outside the doorway to her bedroom.

What are you creepin' around for? This isn't a hospital. Come on in here and have a seat.

Looks like one to me, I say, my voice sullen.

Lacie Joe is sitting bolt upright in her bed, a dozen stuffed pillows perched behind her back. A soft bedspread lies perfectly pressed against the growing mound of her belly. Not even a wrinkle.

Letting out a nervous laugh I join her by the side of the cast iron bed and lean in to give her a hug. You look like royalty, sitting atop the mattress like that.

Her silky black hair appears freshly brushed and her face is smooth and glossy.

Dern it! Lacie Joe, did you just take a shower? I loosen my arms from around her shoulders, standing upright so I can look her in the eyes.

Don't make such a fuss about it. Lacie Joe's lips curve in a wicked smile. I wasn't up for very long.

You know how this works, Lacie Joe. I came to help you. I'm on strict orders from Officer Jay Hayworth. You know, your husband—I exaggerate his name in jest—to get you showered and back in bed in twenty minutes.

That's exactly how late you are—twenty minutes. I heard Big Orange pull up outside. I'd have thought you'd know better than to think I can't hear my own truck from a mile away.

I guess I forgot how well you know your beloved Big Orange. I give her arm a playful squeeze, realizing how once again I let fear conquer my common sense. I appreciate you loaning me the wheels.

Lacie Joe grabs my hand and pulls me onto the bed beside her. You're welcome. But don't get too attached. She's mine once I get off house arrest. She snickers, making light of the present situation.

I sit gently, as though the mattress is made of glass. How are you feeling? I ask.

Good, she answers. Although the glint of moisture in her smoky eyes indicates otherwise. Rubbing her belly in a circular motion, she adds, My little work-in-progress has been busy.

I wrinkle my nose in response. I know nothing about children. Or being pregnant. I can't even imagine myself with a baby right now. My hands are full tending to myself, and keeping the livestock and other critters alive out at the ranch. Eek! Busy how?

On the ultrasound we could see the baby sucking his thumb.

She's always so careful not to say his name. Burns me to no end. I wanna know!

Awww, that's adorable. I wrinkle my nose and knit my brows together, pointing my index finger at the ceiling. I ask, semi-genuinely interested, Did they use that wand thingy?

Lacie Joe lets out a full-bellied laugh. The bed sheets ripple with her movements. You mean, did they perform a vaginal ultrasound? She giggles through her words. No. I'm too far along now. You really don't have a clue, do you?

My ignorance is my bliss. I shrug. Thankfully, I've never had any kind of sonogram. Don't plan to, neither. I don't want any doctors touching me with medical equipment.

Lacie Joe studies me for a moment. You've had a gynecological exam, haven't you?

Hell no, I ain't had one of those. I ain't been to a doctor since I was in the group home. I exercised my right to refuse. And since I wasn't sexually active they didn't make me see the gynecologist.

What the hell, Emma? You have to see a doctor at some point. As a woman, you have to take care of yourself and have routine screenings. You can't go the rest of your life without stepping foot inside a medical exam room. Lacie Joe narrows her bright eyes at me and accuses, I know you were sleeping with Joey. What if he gave you some disease?

Ew. A gross sound gurgles in back of my throat. Please don't mention his name in my presence ever again. And, if you must know, he used a condom.

At least you had sense enough to do that. What's going to happen when you want to have a baby someday?

My hands instinctively fly to my own stomach. Don't even think about it. I'm a hot mess sometimes. I damn sure don't need you wishing some kid on me. Now, back to Baby... what's his name again?

Very funny. I'm not telling you until he's born. Lacie Joe's eyes begin to sparkle with her secret. A motherly glow brightens her cheeks as she shares. With today's medical advances, premature babies have a greater chance of survival. She casts her eyes downward.

We all know the risks of her condition. We live in fear of something horrible happening every day. Let's keep Baby Hayworth in there as long as possible, okay? I lean and speak softly next to her stomach. Hey little one, how about you learn a lesson from Auntie Emma and arrive late. Take your time to fully develop. No one here is going to get mad at you about that.

A fleeting thought races through my mind that I should press my hand against her stomach—maybe the little guy will kick back at me or something. I lean back and reconsider, deciding to move toward the end of her bed to stand at a safer distance. I don't know why people think that it's okay to touch a pregnant woman's stomach without permission. It happens to Lacie Joe all the time. I think I'd slap somebody. But she simply smiles and allows it when strangers approach her.

And what did the doctor say about you? I ask, hoping the diagnosis is different than every other time I've asked.

Pretty much the same. There's a gentle softness in her voice. I'll keep doing what I have to do to keep him healthy. My blood pressure is consistently above 140/90. Not great. But it's not going higher either. The doctor believes the bed rest is helping, so, that's at least positive.

The hum of the blood pressure monitor mounted on a rolling stand begins its routine. Raising her upper arm slightly, Lacie Joe allows the cuff to administer the reading—the cuff slowly inflates as the monitor beeps and displays the results from the sensors: 142/92. All this medical equipment stuff makes me queasy. I stand and move around the room to shift my focus.

Lacie Joe