1

I squeezed the couch cushion with both hands as a Braxton Hicks contraction tightened in my lower back. Or was it a real one? Eight months in, so it could happen right now. I focused on ivy shadows dancing behind the lacy window curtains until it passed. Moving around in the mid-morning air would help.

My usual get-off-the-couch ritual proved more difficult every day. I spread my swollen feet, anchored one hand on the arm of the couch, pushed off with the other hand, and propelled the basketball stomach into the air. The few feet from the living room couch to the front porch of the inn stretched miles away, but I waddled there anyway.

I wiggled into a porch rocker and willed a cooler breeze to materialize. My perfect, snowy wedding nearly a year ago spoiled me for every December to come. The piney woods across the road shone green in the sunlight. Normally I’d seek refuge from the heat with a stroll on the fragrant, dead pine needles. My football-sized feet prevented any pleasure jaunts among the cool shadows.

Could I even find shoes that didn’t hurt for the Barkley House dedication this afternoon? Maybe I could get away with dressy flip-flops. That was standard East Texas footwear all year round anyway, except maybe three days in February. The snow last December surprised everyone.

I decided to just rest for five more minutes. My speech needed practicing. I also needed to pull our wedding cake topper from the freezer. Maybe there’d be time for a private first-anniversary celebration tonight. Two weeks early, but the actual date was too close to my due date.

My sweet, hard-working husband balked at leaving me alone. I’d shooed him on. I’d promised to keep my cell phone near me and Phoebe was just up the road at the diner. So much work to be done and I couldn’t help Scott with any of it.

“Welcome to the Grand Opening of the Helen Barkley Missionary Retreat,” I whispered. I planned to keep it short, given I couldn’t stand very long. “I may never be able to erase the picture of Pinewood Manor, my grandmother’s home, and one of Marshall’s finest antebellum mansions, smoldering in ashes in this spot just a little over a year ago. But the building of Barkley House has brought healing. Mother and I know that Gran would be pleased that we have a resting place for missionaries, because they were so close to her heart.”

There was that old, black vehicle again. I’d seen the classic car creeping around Exit 477 several times over the last couple of days. The canopied lane that banked the road to our home seemed to draw strays. I’d been one of them.

Now, how did the rest of it go? “On this special day...”

The car pulled into the driveway.

My tortoise speed preempted a stand-up greeting, but I leaned forward in the rocker.

The reflection of tall pines on the windshield hid the driver’s face from view.

My heartbeat sped up, and I placed a protective hand on my stomach. I reached for the phone in my maternity jeans pocket. I’d left it on the coffee table. So much for my promise.

The driver climbed out but stood by the door. He ran a hand through a head of hair more gray than brown. He hesitated as if he might slide his fiftyish, slight build back into the car. Instead, determination flashed in his dark eyes as he took a step away from his vehicle and slammed the door.

Probably just someone scouting out a weekend stay at the inn for Christmas. Couldn’t he see the CLOSED UNTIL SPRING sign?

I rubbed my damp palms on my jeans, and tried to swallow.

“Bailey!”

A shock raced up my spine, and my vision blurred. The pines, the black car, and the ivy covered porch rails melded into blackish, green waves. I was five years old again, crouching in the back of a Pinewood Manor hall closet. The musty coats making me cough. The fear he’d hear. He’d raged at Mom for a long time. I’d covered my ears. But as he’d stormed down the hall, I heard the words that became my prison.

“You baby her too much, she’s too fat, and she’ll never amount to anything!” Slam.

Beloved, you are free.

The heavenly whisper steadied me a bit. I remembered. Yes, Father. The present returned and my dad’s words that I’d worn like skin nearly all my life fell away. Move, Bailey. Get up and go in the house. What does one say to the father who abandoned my precious mother and me in a molten rage and never so much as called in over twenty years? ‘What do you want?’ formed in my brain, but never registered with my mouth.

He stepped onto the porch and lunged right into my space, both his fists tightly knotted by his side. His eyes narrowed into sinister slits. “You’re coming with me.”

“No, I’m not.” I managed to push out of the rocker and tried to turn toward the front door.

He grabbed my arm and pain shot to my fingers as he pulled me down the stairs.

I stumbled, but managed not to fall. I jerked my arm as hard as I could, but his grip only tightened. A sharp pain and a kind of pop ripped inside, below my babies. “Help!” A pain and incredible pressure gripped my lower back. “Please, I’m due any minute. Let me go!”

“I can see that. It does complicate things a bit, but it’s all up to you.” He jerked me toward the sedan. He opened the car door, pulled the driver’s seat forward, and shoved me in the back. “Lie down, and shut up!”

I screamed until he pulled a pistol from behind his back and pointed it at my stomach. His hand shook. “I said shut up. Lie down and don’t get up until I tell you.”

Tears slid down my face as I lay on the car seat. I rubbed the red stripes on my arm and watched the pines whiz by in a green haze. My son and daughter moved within me.