Free Morgan's Child by Pamela Browning

slowly and carefully settled herself on the seat and began to row. After the city, the island seemed so quiet and so peaceful. The air here was more humid and bore the scents of both marsh and sea.
    Kate let the johnboat glide to a stop near the mud flats. She removed a glass vial from a basket, dipped it into the water, then recorded the time, location and water temperature.
    When she had stashed the sample on ice, she turned the boat around, bracing herself against the bottom so that she could get a better hold on the oars. If she hurried, she could send the samples to the lab on the next ferry.
    She ran the boat into the reeds near the path and stood up, concentrating on keeping her balance. She was so engrossed in maneuvering around the basket in the bottom of the boat that she didn't even notice the blue heron stalking nearby until, with a whir of its wide wings, it took flight in a rush of air.
    The sturdy little boat barely rocked. But Kate was so startled that she slipped sideways over the gunwale and fell slowly, almost comically, into the creek. She cried out when her shoulder sent a spray of water into the air, and she got a mouthful of muddy creek water. Her hands instinctively wrapped around her abdomen to cushion the baby, and all she could think was, I'm glad Morgan isn't around to see this.
    Kate sputtered and kicked until her feet sank into the pluff mud on the bottom of the creek, and before she knew it she was taking stock. Her head was okay, and her arms still worked, and she was standing up. Her old straw hat hadn't fared as well—it bobbed merrily toward the sea—and the baby inside her was protesting such undignified treatment.
    She had barely finished her self-inventory when she heard the shout from the path.
    "Kate! Kate! Are you all right?"
    Morgan charged down the path, looking for all the world like a crazed bull. A sunburned crazed bull. She couldn't help it, she started to giggle. And then she laughed, stood there in the muddy water and laughed until her sides ached, unable to move toward shore because she was laughing so hard at the sight of the staid and sophisticated Morgan Rhett with a red face, a sprig of juniper caught in his hair and one shoe flying into the shrubbery as he ran.
    "Kate?" he said, stopping at the edge of the water.
    "I—I can't help it," she wheezed, tears running out of the corners of her eyes. "You look so funny."
    "I saw you fall. Are you hurt?"
    "No, I'm not. I just—oh." And she stopped laughing.
    He was looking at her, dead serious. She could tell that he didn't think this was humorous at all. He looked frantic with worry, and he was kicking off his remaining shoe.
    "If you think I look funny now, just wait," he said grimly. He started to roll up his pant legs before apparently thinking better of it. And then, to her utter amazement, he waded toward her fully clothed, the water swirling around his ankles, his knees. And then she began to laugh again, only this time it wasn't amused laughter, it was hysterical, a product of her roller-coaster emotions, and she couldn't stop.
    She pressed her hands into her face, suddenly quiet. All she could hear was the swish of water as Morgan approached, and as she lowered her hands, he grasped her firmly by the shoulders.
    "You scared me," he said, and the way he said it made it seem like a capital offense.
    "I'm fine, " she protested, brushing his hands away. She lifted one foot experimentally out of the mud on the bottom of the creek; the other one followed. A wide wake billowed behind her as she headed toward shore.
    Her T-shirt clung to her body, and she pinched at it, trying to make it less revealing. When she looked down, she could see through the thin cotton and even through her bra; she could see the large dark circles of her areolas, and below her breasts, the indentation of her navel. It embarrassed her to have Morgan see her this way, the details of her swollen body so explicitly revealed.
    "You have no business going