Excerpt from The Frozen River by Ariel Lawhon, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

John Cowan—the young blacksmith apprenticed to Betsy's husband—came to fetch me and I'd told him there was no time to dally. Betsy's children come roaring into the world at uncommon speed, with volume to match. Shrieking banshees, all slippery and red-faced. But so small that—even full term—their entire buttocks can fit in the palm of my hand. Wee little things. John took my instructions to heart, setting a pace so fast that my body still aches from our frantic ride through Hallowell.

But now, having barely arrived and situated myself, I find that Betsy is already crowning. Her contractions are thirty seconds apart. This child—like her other two—in a hurry to greet its mother. Thankfully, she is built well for birthing.

"It's time," I tell her, setting a warm hand on each of her knees. I gently press them apart and help the young woman shimmy her nightgown higher over her bare belly. It is hard, clenched at the peak of a contraction, and Betsy grinds her teeth together, trying not to sob.

Labor renders every woman a novice. Every time is the first time, and the only expertise comes from those assembled to help. And so, Betsy has gathered her women: mother, sisters, cousin, aunt. Birth is a communal act, and all of them spring into action as her resolve slips and she cries out in pain. They know what the sound means. Even those with no specific job find something to do. Boiling water. Building the fire. Folding cloths. This is women's work at its most elemental. Men have no place in this room, no right, and Betsy's husband has retreated to his forge, impotent, to pour out his fear and frustration upon the anvil, to beat a piece of molten metal into submission.

Betsy's women work in tandem, watching me, responding to every cue. I extend a hand, and a warm, wet cloth is set upon it. No sooner have I wiped the newest surge of blood and water away, than it is plucked from my grip and replaced by one that is dry and fresh. The youngest of Betsy's kin—a cousin, no more than twelve—is charged with cleaning the soiled rags, keeping the kettle at a boil, and replenishing the wash bucket. She applies herself to the task without a flinch or complaint.

"There's your baby," I say, my hand upon the slick, warm head. "Bald as an egg. Just like the others."

Betsy lifts her chin and speaks with a grimace as the contraction loosens its grip. "Does that mean it's another girl?"

Excerpted from The Frozen River by Ariel Lawhon. Copyright © 2023 by Ariel Lawhon. Excerpted by permission of Doubleday. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.