Chapter Forty-Two

Even though exhaustion smothered me, I no sooner could have taken a nap than done a set of jumping jacks. Adrenaline laced my veins, and every swoosh and thud coming through the walls jerked my attention. So when the nurse propped the door open and laid Nathan in my arms, my muscles jittered as though I won first place in a long-distance race.

His face had pinkened as though she had scrubbed him until his circulation increased, and I felt the urge to unwrap the blanket and inspect him all over again. Instead, I pulled at the tiny pink-and-blue knit cap until his curls—now downy clean—were exposed and beckoning to be touched.

Like JohnScott’s.

A twinge of guilt brushed across my neck, and I forced my thoughts in a different direction. Nathan had my curls, not his.

I lifted my gaze to the nurse, standing silently at the foot of my bed, her head bowed over a clipboard.

“That husband of yours is a mess,” she said, “but to tell the truth, he’s not the only man who showed up looking like that today. Worst storm I’ve seen in years.”

“Oh …” My face warmed. “He’s not my husband.”

Her pencil momentarily stopped scurrying across the page, and then she shrugged. “That’s the way of it nowadays. Young people do things out of order, but it all comes out in the end.”

Shame compelled me to be honest even though I wanted to crawl under the bed and hide from the truth. “Actually, he’s not the father.”

Her eyes briefly cast judgment before she veiled them with indifference. “Well, he’s a keeper. Came down there asking questions. Was the baby healthy? How bad was the labor? Did you seem afraid? Yes, that one’s a keeper.” She jotted something on the clipboard and then hung it at the foot of the bed. “I gave him a set of scrubs and showed him where to find a shower. My name’s Georgia. Push the call button if you need anything.”

Her description nudged my heart as I imagined JohnScott’s slow drawl, and I whispered to Nathan who slept soundly. “I bet he drove her crazy.”

I swept Nathan’s soft hair to one side in a swirl, then fluffed it into a mini-Mohawk. I pulled him close to my face and rubbed my nose on his head, smelling his heavenly baby scent as though it were my new life’s breath.

Excited voices in the hallway signaled guests, and Velma, Ruthie, and Lynda breezed through the doorway, descending on our quiet intimacy.

“We’ve been stuck at Raising Cane’s Chicken,” Velma said. “Went there for lunch and thought we’d never get to leave.”

“Let me hold him,” Ruthie said, wiggling her fingers.

“Oh … of course.”

Velma snickered. “You don’t want to give him up yet, do ya? Can’t say as I blame you.” She peered at the baby through her bifocals. “He’s a pretty little fella. But how could he not be, considering his momma and daddy.” Her gaze swept from the baby to me. “How’re you doing?”

“No worries.”

“And how about the feeding? Is he taking to it all right?”

“I think so, but I’ve only fed him once.”

Ruthie reluctantly passed the baby to Velma. “Was delivery as bad as they say?”

Already it seemed months ago, but the echo of fear still pressed sharply against my memories. “Absolutely.”

Lynda peered over Ruthie’s shoulder, inspecting Nathan. “At least you had a short go of it. Ruthie took twelve hours to get here.”

Ruthie picked up Nathan’s cap, stretching it between her fingers. “That might have been a blessing in this case, considering the dust. They’re calling it a haboob because it’s the worst storm Lubbock’s had in years.” She inspected the few items in Nathan’s crib—a pacifier, a suction bulb, a package of alcohol swabs. “And I can’t believe JohnScott. He looks like he’s been sprinkled with cocoa powder.”

“Doesn’t smell like it, though,” Lynda said.

Velma shook her head and returned Nathan to my arms. “That boy.”

I heard boots scuffing the tile hallway, and I looked up, anticipating a clean and scrubbed JohnScott. Instead, it was Tyler, leaning against the doorframe, holding a bouquet of flowers upside down at his side. Disappointment shadowed my happy glow but immediately changed to embarrassment when I realized I hadn’t even thought to call him.

“Hey there, babe. I hear we’ve got us a little boy.” He sauntered to the side of the bed.

“He’s healthy,” I said quickly, “and I’m calling him Nathan.”

“No …” Tyler said under his breath, “you’re not.”

Velma waved Ruthie toward the door. “We’ve got a few errands to run, but we’ll drop back by before we leave town.”

“Don’t go yet.” I sat up so quickly, my stomach muscles protested, but Ruthie gave me a meaningful frown behind Tyler’s back.

“We’ll be back later,” she said.

“Thirty minutes at the most,” called Velma.

Then we were alone. The three of us.

I hadn’t told them about Tyler’s visit to the house, and they didn’t know the uneasy feeling gnawing in the depth of my stomach. I told myself not to worry, because the concerns weighing me down were probably only my imagination.

The baby stirred, and I focused my attention on him, wondering if I should nurse him again and wishing Velma was there to tell me. I patted his bottom like she had done, and he settled back into deeper sleep.

Tyler’s gaze traveled around the room, inspecting the television bolted to the wall, the plastic pitcher of water next to the bed, the window overlooking an adjacent roof.

“You can hold him,” I said.

His gaze returned to the bundle in my arms, but his eyes seemed empty, detached. “Of course.”

After I fumbled the baby from my arms to his, he held our son awkwardly against his chest with his elbows pointed out.

“Try it like this.” I pressed my hand against his arm, but when he shifted, the tight sleeve of his T-shirt rolled, exposing a cut. I gasped. “Tyler, what have you done?”

Pulling at the sleeve, I suddenly felt as though I were falling from the rim of the Caprock with nothing beneath me to cushion my fall. My name was carved in his skin. The F and A had healed into transparent scars, but blackened scabs formed the W, and the N appeared to be a fairly fresh wound.

A corner of his mouth pulled away from his teeth. “It’s my way of showing how much I care.”

“But—” My breathing became shallow, and I couldn’t fill my lungs with enough air to satisfy. It would be odd enough for him to get a regular tattoo, considering we weren’t really together, but for him to carve my name in blood? I snapped my mouth shut and swallowed. “Those scars will be on your arm forever.”

“That’s the idea.” He rested one hip on the edge of the bed and smiled down at the baby, who had opened his eyes. “Ty Cruz? Everyone in Trapp’s going to know I’m obsessed with your mommy.”

I gently drew the baby from his grip, and my gaze shifted to the nurse’s call button on the side of the bed. “You needn’t have done that.”

“Oh, I think I did.” His faced turned to stone. “I couldn’t seem to get your attention.”

“But, Tyler—”

“This is my son, Fawn, and I’m going to have him. Just like I have you.”

His words, his mannerisms, his instability suffocated me, and I fought the urge to shove him away and call for the nurse—or to scream for JohnScott.

“Tyler, I told you I can’t marry you.”

He laid his fist on the top of the bed so his mutilated arm rested directly in my line of sight. Slowly he leaned toward me, squeezing the baby between us. He ran the backs of his fingers along my cheek, then pressed his mouth forcefully against mine. When I tried to turn my head, he gripped my chin tightly, keeping my lips shoved against his teeth until I thought I would smother.

The baby squirmed in discomfort, and Tyler pulled away, but his face hovered inches from mine. “Yes, Fawn, you can marry me.” A muscle bulged in his temple as he clenched his teeth. “You can and you will.”