Call me Kavania :))))

Ellis might not know much about dropping babies, but he’s helped enough cows deliver their calves to realize that riding into town right now probably isn’t one of his better ideas. He should be back at the house, preparing to start his troubles. It’s not like he’s been able to do much else over the past few weeks, as big as his middle’s gotten. 

He’s been alone for so long, now, without a single word from Silas.  It’s not that surprising, being that Silas is a trapper, and his regular circuit takes him several months of hard travel to complete. But Silas had promised to check the wire office at Sheridan when he passed through, so he should have gotten Ellis’ ambiguous—but insistent—message.

NEED YOU HOME AT ONCE STOP CANNOT MANAGE ALONE STOP RED

If he’d followed his usual route, Silas should have seen the expensive telegram weeks ago. He should have replied.  But Ellis has been hiding out in his lover’s clay-chinked log cabin for ages now, ever since his growing belly started earning him strange looks; going into town isn’t a task he takes on lightly.

It’s just… Ellis needs to read those words right now more than anything, a promise of hope, even if they’re short and vague.

The contraction crests, a wave of such intense pressure that he sees spots dancing at the edges of his vision. Sawbones, ever attuned to the subtle shifts in his rider’s mood, flicks an ear back but maintains his pace. The rhythm of the horse’s steps is merciless now, each hoofbeat a hammer blow that seems to drive the baby’s head further into Ellis’ pelvis. The tension between his legs is building to an unbearable ache, a fierce, demanding presence that vies for space with the unyielding saddle.

Easy now, sweetheart. Please—you can’t come yet.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d been living as a man for over half his life now, and men don’t end up in the family way. He’d worked so hard to keep the world at arm’s length, giving up dreams of love and family to prevent anyone from knowing his deepest, most vulnerable secret, but then he had to go and meet him. Had to find out what it meant to be loved, to be touched, to really matter to somebody for the first time in his adult life.

By the time Ellis realized that the scruffy, handsome trapper had left him with more than just a few months’ worth of fond memories, spring had come and Silas had already set out to run his trapline. “If all goes right, Little Red, I’ll have you back in my arms ‘fore the first hard snow,” Silas had told Ellis just before he'd left, with a spark in his dark eyes. “And once I get home and you finish up at Chimney Butte, we’ll light out together, just the two o’ us.”

Too bad winter is still over a month away, and Ellis is on the verge of dropping a child that neither expected him to carry. He'd had to quit his job once the pregnancy made it too dangerous to keep punching cattle, moving his meager belongings up to Silas’ cabin and settling in to wait. 

And, apparently, to give birth to this blasted child all by himself.  He’s not exactly sure when the babe took, but it feels like it’s been taking up space in his belly for far too long already. 

“You’d best turn yourself ’round an’ get back here, Silas Becker,” Ellis grinds out once his body gives him a chance to breathe again. “I ain't about to raise this young’un of yours all on my lonesome.”

Ellis wants to slow the horse, to rise up in the stirrups for a moment’s relief from the pressure in his pelvis, but a deeper, more insistent voice urges him to keep going. He could be running out of time, if the trickling dampness between his thighs means what he thinks it might. He's got to make it to the wire office and home again before this baby comes; otherwise, he'll be in a heap of trouble. 

Another contraction begins its slow ascent a few minutes later. This one is sharper, more focused, a vise grip that centers deep in his core and radiates outwards until his entire world has narrowed to the crushing, rhythmic pain. Ellis moans into the open air, the sound swallowed by the vast, empty prairie. His knuckles are white where he grips the saddle horn and reins, his body bowing under the force. He can feel it, a distinct, sliding sensation low in his birth canal, a round, heavy pressure descending with terrifying inevitability. 

Oh god. Little one… dammit, hold on.

The town has to be getting close. Ellis squints through pain-watering eyes, searching the shimmering horizon for any sign of civilization. But there's nothing out here but grassland, sky, and eventually, the Little Missouri River. 

“Whoa, ‘Bones,” he grunts once they finally reach the riverbank, his voice as ragged as a stranger’s. “Easy now.” The grulla gelding slows with impatience when Ellis hauls back on the reins, then stops, snorting and tossing his dark mane with displeasure. 

Dismounting is a clumsy, humiliating ordeal, but Ellis is not about to risk injuring his horse riding over the slippery rocks—not even in this state. He swings his leg over the horse’s back, his stomach a monstrous obstacle, and slides down, his boots hitting the hard-packed earth with a jarring thud that reverberates through his swollen body.

The relief from the saddle’s intrusion is immediate and profound, but ultimately short-lived. The moment he’s upright, the full, unsupported weight of his pregnant belly drags him down, a visceral, pulling heaviness that makes his knees buckle. Ellis stumbles, barely managing to catch himself on the saddle skirt, his breath coming in ragged pants.

God, he’s never felt so heavy. 

The child inside him surges downward with the shift in position, a palpable, alarming drop that makes Ellis cry out in alarm. He locks his legs together, a futile attempt at dignity and control, but the bulk between his thighs demands space that he can't afford to give it.

He's practically a prisoner to the motion, to the pain, to the sheer, overwhelming mass of the unexpected child he carries, isn’t he?

Neither he nor Sawbones is a stranger to a simple crossing like this one, but Ellis hasn't forded anything deeper than a shallow creek in ages. “Easy now, boy,” Ellis mutters, waddling gingerly over the slick, mossy stones that lie just beneath the water’s surface as he guides the horse forward. The cold current rises to slap at his knees, sending an uncomfortable shiver up Ellis’ spine, and Sawbones manages to catch a loose rock with his back hoof and stumble, but otherwise the pair makes it to the other side without incident. 

By the time they reach the far bank, Ellis is soaked and shivering, but he can see the distant spire of St. Mary’s poking up over the horizon. He lets out a deep sigh of relief at the sight.

Eager to move forward, he grabs the saddle’s pommel and cantle, anxious to haul himself back up. Unfortunately, there’s no fence here to help him mount. His arms are little more than trembling noodles, his center of gravity a treacherous joke, and his middle a distended, unwieldy mass. 

The horse sidesteps, uneasy. 

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, and tries again with the same result.

He’s no fool; there’s no way in hell he’s going to make it back up on his horse like this. Unwanted tears well up in Ellis’ grey-green eyes before he angrily dashes them away. 

Looks like he’s got no choice but to walk, now.

Clinging desperately to Sawbones’ reins, Ellis resumes his awkward waddle, adopting a wide, humiliating gait that sends fresh jolts of pain through him with every step. He can’t be more than a mile or so out of town now. He’ll make it, one way or another.

The town of Medora gradually materializes like a smudge on the horizon, a distant promise of salvation that seems to mock Ellis’ agonizingly slow progress. Every step forward is a chore, and each contraction now brings with it a new, even more terrifying urge. 

His body, instinctively following a primal script he never wanted to learn, has begun demanding that Ellis bear down. 

He fights the instinct every time it hits, halting in his tracks to clench every muscle he can still command, tears of frustration and fear mixing with the sweat on his tanned, freckled cheeks. 

Don’t push. Don’t you dare push.

Ellis staggers forward, one arm cradling the massive belly he's been trying to hide under the voluminous bulk of a trail-worn poncho, and prays that the child in his womb will remain where it is for a few more hours. If he can just make it to the wire office and then head right home, that’ll be enough. It has to be. He’s not fond of the idea of popping out a babe on the range, but there’s no way in hell he’ll do it in town.

The dusty main street is a gauntlet filled with half-remembered faces and curious glances. Ellis keeps his head down, the wide brim of his hat shielding his flushed face, every fiber of his being focusing on putting one boot shakily in front of the other. This isn't a place where he's spent a lot of time, outside of a handful of supply runs back when his belly wasn't so confoundedly large. He's got no family here, no friends, no one he trusts enough to share his secrets. To them, he probably looks like just another wounded cowpoke coming in off the trail, or a drunkard dragging his ass back to the nearest saloon. 

The post office with its telegraph station is at the end of the street, tucked beside the general store. He’s almost there.

Then a contraction seizes Ellis mid-step, freezing him in place. His body ignores his commands, the muscles pushing with a powerful, involuntary flex that makes him groan and crush his thighs together. The rough fabric of his trousers strains against the incredible pressure, like a dam trying to hold back a massive flood. He can practically feel the distinct shape of the head, right there, held captive by denim and his own terror. As the pain ebbs, the tension recedes slightly, the moment of crisis passing and leaving him shaking and breathless.

“You alright there, son?” a voice calls from a nearby porch. Ellis doesn’t look up or even speak, just gives a curt, jerky wave of dismissal and forces his legs to ferry him forward again. He’s too winded to speak, and he doesn’t want anyone to realize just how defenseless he is right now.

But he doesn’t get far. The next contraction hits only moments later, dropping Ellis to his knees in the dust (too close, Jesus Christ, they’re too close together now) while a low, guttural sound tears from his throat. The reins drop from his spasming fingers. God, he doesn’t know if he can even get back off the ground. How the hell is he supposed to hide that he’s in labor?

A shadow falls over him, and Ellis shrinks back from it in dread. “Mercy sakes. You ain’t drunk, you’re… well, never mind, let’s get you inside ‘fore you bring half the street runnin’ to gawk.”

“No,” Ellis grits out, too mortified to even look up at the speaker.  “Gotta—gotta get to the wire office. I’m fine.”

There’s a snort and the sound of spittle hitting the sun-baked road. “No, you ain’t. C’mon.”

An iron grip closes around his upper arm, hauling him up with surprising strength. An older man, his face a roadmap of wrinkles and his waist wrapped in a mostly-clean apron, guides Ellis and his horse firmly around the side of a nearby building—the boarding house. Ellis is too far gone to resist, his world a haze of pain and the terrifying, rhythmic need to push.

The man half-drags him down the alleyway and through a doorway at the rear of the building, into what looks like a small storage room. The air smells of stale beer and dried herbs, and there’s a narrow bed tucked at the back of the room, where he none-too-gently deposits Ellis. “I’ll fetch the doc,” his rescuer says, his eyes lingering for a fraction too long on the impossible curve of Ellis’ stomach and the way the cowboy’s hand instinctively cradles it beneath his poncho. There’s a dawning, uneasy sort of understanding in that look, and it fills Ellis’ insides with dread.

“No,” Ellis gasps, the word a desperate plea as he clutches at the coarse wool blanket that covers the straw mattress. “No doc. Just… leave me be for a spell. That’s all I need, I swear.  Then I’ll git.”

He knows now that he’s not going to make it to the wire office. He’s not even going to make it back out of town before his body forces him to give in to its insistent demands. He’s stuck here, at the mercy of whatever kindness and confidence he can muster from this stranger. Both he and his little one.

The man studies him for a moment, his gaze tracing the line of Ellis’ jaw, the tousled hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, the raw fear in his grey-green eyes. His jaw works for a moment like he’s chewing on his words, then he slowly nods, a complex blend of understanding and pity in his expression. “Alright, son. I’ll hitch yer horse right outside and give you yer privacy. You… you just holler if you change yer mind.” 

He backs out of the room, pausing at the doorframe to fix Ellis with one last look. “You was makin’ for the post office, wasn’t ya? What’s yer name, boy?”

“Yeah… I… I was,” Ellis whispers, not seeing much of a point in lying. The man already knows too much about him. “Name’s Ellis.  Ellis Calder.”

The man nods again before closing the door behind himself with a soft, final click.

Finally alone, Ellis slumps back against the tick mattress, the old wooden frame creaking beneath his weight as he stares at his huge, heaving stomach. For a single, blessed moment, all he focuses on is his own ragged breathing and the frantic hammering of his heart.

But the baby’s not about to give him peace for long. Another contraction rises from the depths, a tidal wave of pure force that obliterates Ellis’ thoughts.

Ellis doubles over on the narrow bed, a hoarse groan ripping from his beleaguered throat. His body arches, bowing backward as the muscles seize and crush his swollen middle into a rock-hard dome. He can feel the baby’s head grinding downward, a relentless, bony pressure that demands space he doesn’t have to give. The rough denim of his trousers has become a prison, Silas’ pricey gift now stretched taut and wet against his skin, holding everything in.

He has to get them off.

Peeling the damp, oversized poncho over his head, Ellis tosses it aside. Then he’s shoving his braces over his shoulders, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, and each one he frees feels like a tiny victory. 

His hands drop to the buttons of his denim trousers next. The button fly is strained taut, the fabric digging a deep, angry line into the swollen flesh of his lower belly. It’s like his stomach has become a creature in its own right, colossal and overbearing, rising and falling in his lap, doggedly taking up every inch of space it possibly can. Each metal button is a battle fought with trembling, sweat-slicked fingers. He works blindly, his gaze fixed on the far wall as he plucks at them, trying not to think about what will come next. 

Finally, the last button gives way. He shoves at the rough material, but the wet fabric sticks to his skin like it’s been glued there.  “C’mon,” he whimpers, tugging and twisting like he can peel it away through sheer force of will.  

Another contraction hits, its deep, internal cinching freezing the air in his lungs and bending his spine. He feels something solid shift between his thighs, pushing against the soaked cotton of his drawers and the unyielding tension of his trousers. Ellis releases a sob, clutching at the oversized dome of his belly, and silently curses Silas for putting him in this situation.

It passes, and Ellis returns to scrabbling at his clothing. Finally, he manages to shove the fabric down his hips, over his thighs, despite the way the damp denim clings to his body. He kicks them off, along with his drawers, leaving them both in a tangled heap on the floorboards.

The moment the constricting denim is past his hips, the full, shocking weight of his belly drops. Ellis sprawls on the edge of the narrow bed, his legs splayed wide to accommodate the massive, quivering dome of his pregnant stomach. It dominates the space, a pale, taut mountain veined with blue and stretched so thin he can see the shape of a tiny foot pressing insistently against the skin just below his ribs. The sheer, obscene size of it steals his breath. He’d been lean before, all whipcord muscle and sharp angles. Now, he is nothing but this.

Ellis is certain, with a sudden clarity that borders on delirium, that the baby could simply fall out now that the constricting trousers are gone. The pressure is just that immense, that urgent.

His body bears down without his permission, a deep, involuntary heave that forces a choked cry from his lips. He feels the head, a solid, crowning mass, force him open further than he’s ever opened before. For a terrifying second, he’s certain the child is going to tear him in half. It’s like the pressure is a living thing, a second heart beating between his legs, demanding some sort of release. But as the contraction fades, the moment passes. The immense pressure recedes yet again, the head sliding back up inside just enough to leave him gasping, sore and desperate. 

“No, c’mon on, sweetheart… don’t be shy now,” Ellis whines, squirming restlessly over the blanket as a sense of helplessness rises. “Either in or out, you can’t just sit there.”

Another contraction. His body seizes, writhing off the thin mattress, while a rasping groan fills the air around him. Instinct takes over, and he bears down, his entire being focused on the overwhelming need to push.

The muscles of his abdomen tighten into a rigid board, crushing inward, forcing the child down. He can feel it, a distinct, terrifying slide deep inside, the heavy, round weight of the baby’s head descending again. He pushes until his vision tunnels, until the veins in his neck feel like they’re on the verge of bursting.

And then… nothing. The contraction ebbs, and with it, all its progress. 

Ellis feels the head slide back up into his birth canal, a retreat that is somehow more devastating than the pain itself. A mournful cry falls from his lips. “No, please.”

He tries again with the next wave, then again, and yet again, his teeth grinding, his hands gripping his own thighs hard enough to bruise. He pushes with everything he has, a raw, animalistic effort that leaves him panting and dizzy. Each time, there’s that agonizing slide forward, a stretching, burning pressure that promises an end to his agony, but his strength gives out before the baby slides free. He’s hit with fatigue, the push falters, and once more, the child retreats.

A howl of pure frustration wrenches itself free. He’s so damned tired. His arm muscles feel like water, his legs shaking uncontrollably. Ellis is trapped in a cycle of hope and defeat, each round leaving him weaker, more terrified. He needs leverage. He needs Silas.

“Damn you, Silas,” he snarls, heedless of the tears falling down his cheeks while he curls a calloused palm over the enormous bulge of his belly. “Damn you for leavin’ me in this mess, you lousy, mangy cur!”

The next contraction arrives, and Ellis rides it, pushing into the pain, into the burning stretch. Sliding a hand beneath the curve of his abdomen, he can feel where the head bulges from his opening, stretching the pliant lips of his sex wider than he thought possible, a ring of burning tissue encircling the crown. He’s so close. He can feel the baby’s hair, a surprising softness amidst the agonizing strain. But once again, as the contraction ebbs, the progress is stolen from him. The head slips back, and the fire cools to a throbbing, unbearable ache.

Despair washes over him. He’s failing. His body is drained, struggling to finish what it started. Ellis has seen heifers spend too long in labor, watched their vigor fade until they’ve got nothing left to give, and he knows how dangerous that is. He knows he can’t afford to stop now.

His thoughts whirling, Ellis doesn’t realize his touch is slipping until a finger accidentally grazes his clit, and he gasps.

He suddenly remembers the way Silas would touch him, the way those rough, clever fingers could unravel the tightest knot of tension in Ellis’ back, his neck… and lower. A wild, insane thought sparks in his exhaustion-fogged mind. It’s a memory of pleasure so intense it blurred the edges of pain, a release so complete it left him boneless and spent.

Maybe… Maybe if he just…

His hand seems to move on its own. His belly is so big that Ellis has to contort his arm to make the contact he wants, his shoulder hollering in protest. It’s a miracle he can even reach. His fingers fumble sightlessly through the coarse thatch of hair between his legs, finding the swollen, hypersensitive nub of his clit. 

He’s out of breath, his heart hammering against his ribs, but he doesn’t stop. Ellis rubs frantic, clumsy circles around his clit, chasing the ghost of a feeling, a memory of pleasure in a sea of pain. But it’s not working. He’s too tired, too scared, the sensations all wrong. Tears of frustration leak from the corners of his eyes. He presses harder, his touch almost punishing, willing his body to remember, to respond.

Ellis can feel the next contraction starting to build, a deep, rolling quake that springs from his womb. Something about this one feels different—like it’s somehow deeper, more final. It’s a big one. Panic seizes him. He grinds the heel of his hand against himself in a frantic, last-ditch effort, imagining that it’s Silas touching him so intimately, as he has so many times before. Please. Please.

The contraction peaks with a surge of pure, unadulterated force that demands he push. At the exact same moment, a spark ignites under Ellis’ frantic touch. A jolt of raw, shocking pleasure arcs through him, a brilliant counterpoint to the blinding pain. 

And it’s just enough. His body seizes, back bowing clear off the bed, a raw, unfiltered cry filling the room as his hips buck to meet his own hand.

The orgasm rips through Ellis, a convulsive wave of release that unlocks every anxiety-clenched muscle. It gives that last, brutal push exactly what it needs. The burning stretch becomes a scorching, yielding burn as the baby’s head finally, finally, slips past the taut lips that surround his opening and out into the world.

The relief is so immense it’s practically a pain in itself. Ellis collapses back onto the bed, gasping, blubbering, his chest heaving with every shuddering breath. He can feel the child’s head, wet and solid, resting heavily between his thighs. He did it. The head is out. 

The rest of Ellis’ labor goes by in a sticky, messy, aching blur, until something lurches within him and he yelps, barely managing to catch the baby as the rest of it finally, finally slithers free. 

For a long moment, Ellis doesn’t move, trembling from the remnants of exhaustion, pain, and adrenaline. He can’t see anything over his still-swollen belly, though it feels strangely hollow and sore, but he does hear something: a tiny, mewling wail, fragile yet strong. 

He’s hit with a flare of alarm followed by the soothing balm of relief, just before his heart clenches with a strange, overwhelming surge of something both fierce and tender all at once. Ellis curls carefully forward, hauling the small, wet body and its slippery cord from between his legs to rest against his chest.

“Gosh,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, almost inaudible, as he drinks in the extraordinary sight. “You… god, I ain’t seen too many young’uns this close, but you… you’re somethin’.”

Tears run freely now, streaking down through the dirt on his freckled cheeks. His arms ache, his muscles scream in protest, and every nerve in his body feels like it’s been scraped raw—but he did it. They’re both okay. A shaky, crooked grin creeps across his face as Ellis sniffs and strokes the drying wisps starting to curl atop the baby’s head. 

Her hair is black, just like Silas’.  

A soft knock breaks the hush some time later. Ellis startles, cradling the tiny, squirming child protectively against his chest, now wrapped in the worn fabric of his shirt. The door creaks open, and the man from before steps inside, his arms laden with fresh linen scraps, a bucket of water, and a small envelope.

“Thought you might need these,” he mutters, setting the bucket down with a gentle clunk and draping the cloths nearby. His eyes flick to the child, then back to Ellis, but he doesn’t say anything more, withdrawing to return Ellis to the privacy he’d requested.

Ellis takes an unsteady breath and cuddles the baby closer. With trembling hands, he unfolds the telegram. The words blur through his exhaustion, but the message dated from just a month prior is clear: 

GOT YOUR WIRE STOP   LEAVING IMMEDIATELY STOP   SILAS

Relief crashes over Ellis in a hot, shaky wave. Silas got his message. He’s on his way home.

He buries his face against the baby’s damp hair, laughing and crying all at once. Everything he’d endured today—the pain, the fear, the hours of labor—is still fresh in his memory, but now it’s tempered by hope. The man he adores is coming back for him, and soon, Silas will be able to see just how much their love has blossomed in his absence.

It won’t be just the two of them anymore, Ellis realizes with a touch of weary wonder. Silas had given Ellis more patience, understanding, and love than anyone ever had, and now… now he’d given him a family, too.

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