“Sure.” She couldn’t find the energy to remove her smile.
Still at the door, her father studied her. “Hey, bud, chin up. Give him time.”
She lifted her brows. He hadn’t called her bud for years.
He didn’t understand her, not completely. He thought that she was mooning over Jon. She wasn’t. She couldn’t afford the time. No, Jon had left. She’d given him what he wanted, the truth about Rick’s death. Too bad it wouldn’t help him find closure. It hadn’t helped her find any.
One thing did puzzle her. She’d been waiting for the ax to fall from the military, but it hadn’t. Jon must not have taken his accusations back to Major Tirouski.
She thrust aside the pain that ached in her belly and concentrated on her father. “It’s been over four months. He’s gone, Dad. He wasn’t the kind to stick around.”
“Maybe so, but listen, bud. You did what you thought was right. It wasn’t your fault that that young fellow died. And there isn’t anything you can do about it now.” Allister’s mouth thinned as he paused. “If Andrea calls, tell her I’ll call her when I get to the hotel.” He winked at her, but his face stayed grim. “I’ll see you in a couple of days, okay, bud?”
“Sure.”
Then she was alone again.
In the living room, she put on a brave face for the wave goodbye. After they disappeared down the drive, she glanced around.
Suddenly the day stretched ahead like a colossal set of steep stairs. She still had over a month to carry her baby, and climbing even the few steps into the house felt like a chore some days. Today was going to be one of those days.
Sylvie made a token effort to straighten the magazines on the coffee table, but ended up dropping them. No nesting instinct today.
Leaving the housework, she grabbed the pickup’s keys and her jacket and headed outside. Crisp air greeted her, and she inhaled deeply. The day smelled of snow. Already the sun had relinquished its strength to the line of gray clouds sliding over the mountains.
She’d go to the line shack, find the hook and return it. A trip into town would do her good. The last time she’d bothered to go in was to mail Jon’s paycheck, in care of the Toronto Police Services. The following month’s bank statement confirmed that he’d cashed it.
In the privacy of her office, she’d run her finger over the canceled check, over his strong, scrawling signature, finding a hollow comfort in knowing he’d touched it, until the embarrassment of the act forced her to tuck the check into the bank file.
Pulling up on her jacket’s collar, she shook off the ridiculous, depressing thoughts. Only positive thoughts, she reminded herself. The counselor from Veterans Affairs had experience with PTSD. She’d given Sylvie sound advice, exercises, even a shoulder to cry on. And time. Lots of time to accept her mistakes and the fear she’d faced and learn to wait until the baby was born before she could take medication. The counselor had told Sylvie to live for the future.
Without Jon?
Sylvie hauled herself heavily into the pickup. One day at a time, and today’s duty was to find that hook.
An hour later she spotted the line shack. Her idea of straightening the wall had worked beautifully. That day Lawrence had nodded with satisfaction, and for the first time since Jon’s departure, she’d smiled with genuine pleasure.
Pulling up in front, Sylvie grimaced suddenly. The baby had decided to stretch. Again. Twinges and that constant tight heaviness had made the bouncing trip out here even more uncomfortable. Oh, but she would be glad to get this pregnancy over and done with. She was big, even the doctor had said so at her last checkup.
With a groan, she heaved herself out of the truck. The line shack stood straight and tall. Purley had even given it a fresh coat of light-blue paint.
Several bold flakes of snow pranced down in front of her. Beyond, a line of white dusted the rising hills. She’d been right about the smell of snow.
She hurried into the shack.
Inside she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. A simple bench lined the left side and an old woodstove jutted out on the other, beside a small cupboard. Some scraps of wood discarded after they’d repaired the hut were stacked neatly on the other side of the stove, waiting to be burned.
Years ago Lawrence had brought out the beaten-up cupboard and in it, he’d shoved a pot, a bottle of water—now frozen—and some candles and matches.
And there, in the corner, lay the hook.
She walked over and bent down.
A pain ripped through her, buckling her knees and scraping the breath from her lungs.
Gasping for breath, she splayed out her mittened hands and dropped to the floor. Oh, damn, another pulled muscle? She really didn’t need this. Waiting a moment, on all fours, she practiced her breathing. In and count, two…three…four…five and out two…three…four…five.
The pain subsided. Grabbing the cold stove, she strained to pull herself to standing. Well, no trip to town today. She needed a little rest—
The spasm hit again with equal vigor. She swore and bit her lip.
Another followed, stretching itself mercilessly around her wide belly to her back.
She had to get home. And lie down. A cold pack on her belly. Yes. Something soothing.
Clutching the hook, she staggered to the door. She gripped the old-fashioned handle as yet another spasm struck, this one twisting her muscles until she grimaced and groaned.
Don’t be such a wimp, she ordered herself. If you can’t handle a pulled muscle, you’ll never handle labor.
She threw open the door.
Snow whipped in around her in a single, frenzied swirl. Snow so heavy she could barely make out the dark form of the truck. Already a thick layer of white buried the dry, crusty ground.
She wanted to curse, but another contraction wrenched through her, stretching out in a nauseating wave until it cruised over her hips and clawed into her lower back.
The baby protested the cramp and kicked hard.
And water gushed down her inner thighs.
Oh, God, was her water supposed to fill her boots? She stood, shocked into stillness, feeling the warmth stream down her legs. Another spasm tore at her and she had to hold tight to the door handle to keep herself upright.
Oh no. Oh please, no, not now!
Please, let me please just be peeing myself.
The water poured on, until she slammed shut the door and somehow made it to the bench.
She collapsed onto her side on the hard wood and shut her eyes to the tears that threatened.
Water seeped out, through her pants. A steady drip-drip cut through the sounds of the rising wind outside.
She couldn’t deny what was happening.
She was in labor. Nearly six weeks too soon.
Lord, please keep my baby safe. Please.
The pain eased and she took advantage of the relative comfort to relax. Deep breaths. In and out. Easy. Like they’d taught her. Exhalations as long as the inhalations. Easy does it.
She lingered a few quiet minutes until she felt she could sit up. Gingerly, she pushed herself from the rough, cold pine, up to the sitting position. She had to get home. She could get home. It would be a bumpy, wet, sloshy ride, and she’d have to empty her boots first, but she could do it. She had enough time. The nurse at the prenatal classes said most first-time mothers had tons of time. Babies weren’t born instantly, certainly not according to the stories she’d heard from the other mothers at the classes.
Gripping the edge of the seat, she pushed herself to standing. There, she could do it. Now to make it to the truck.
She threw open the door again, wincing at the glare of total white. A snow squall. Another Alberta clipper.
Oh, Lord, please stop it. Make it go away.
Icy snow sprayed her face as another contraction grew deep in her, frighteningly different in feeling.
With slow, deliberate tightening, the new contraction hardened in her below her navel and swept its painful
way around to settle like a hot lava rock in her back. The same way the other contractions felt, but this one was very, very different.
Strengthening, hardening, focused in power and purpose, the pain peaked, stretched out again around her and held her for torturing ransom. Labor was supposed to be hard, painful, but this hard? This painful?
As she clung to the door to wait it out, she knew the horrible truth.
She’d never make it across the rolling pastureland to the house in a snow squall, with hard labor starting six weeks early and coming with an intensity that had forced her to her wet and watery knees, blurred her vision and left her gasping for a pain-free breath.
Oh no. She was going to have her baby.
Here, now, in this line shack.
As alone as she’d always been, as she’d always hated to be. Alone and as scared as she’d been months ago, shivering with fear in that supply truck, beside Rick who’d fallen unconscious and would never wake up.
Tears streamed down her face, freezing as a blast of the uncaring wind hit her square on.
God would take her little baby’s life. And maybe hers, too.
Poetic justice for killing the father.
Chapter 18
Where the heck was she?
Jon pivoted around the wide kitchen and back into the hall. He headed straight for Sylvie’s bedroom. Touching the slightly ajar door, he called out, “Sylvie?”
On silent hinges the door swung open, revealing rumpled bedclothes, a laundry basket of neatly folded baby clothes, a book, opened and upside down on the bedside table, Dealing with Life’s Major Changes.
He returned to the kitchen, noting that only half of the dishes were dried, the tea towel spread across those that remained in the rack. He pushed through to the back door. Someone had to be around. In the bunkhouse, maybe? The barn, feeding that demanding pig?
The truck was gone. Sylvie’s little car still remained, but the long cattle trailer was also gone. Lawrence had told him they owned the trailer, but every fall, rented a larger truck to pull it.
Damn. Had she decided to go with them when they took the steers to market?
Someone should know.
The bunkhouse was empty, as was the campground office. Bruce greeted him at the barn, snorting and snuffling around his feet. Suspicious geese peered at him from behind their pen, telling him nothing.
The whole damn place was deserted.
She couldn’t have gone with the whole crew to Calgary for the cattle auction. They’d need a bus to carry everyone. If she’d gone to town, he’d have seen her. He’d driven past the feed store, the grocery store and the doctor’s office. He’d have seen the pickup.
Where the hell was she?
Returning to the kitchen, the only place that had shown any life at all today, Jon tapped impatient fingers on the counter.
The ranch owned a cell phone. Someone would have it on. He’d caught the unpleasant forecast. Light snow, colder temps and squalls coming down from in the mountains. If they’d taken the steers to Calgary, they’d have their cell phone on, especially on a day like today. The snow had already started here, the mountains beyond the ranch now obscured by one mother of a squall.
The number? What the hell was the number? Remembering where Sylvie had scrawled it for him, he strode to the calendar and ripped it off the wall. There, on June’s page, he found it.
Abruptly the memory of when Sylvie had scrawled out the number returned, sharp and pungent. She’d written it there for his benefit.
Thank you, Sylvie.
He quickly dialed the number, tapping his foot as he urged someone to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Lawrence, is that you?”
“Yep.” A pause. “Jon?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“The number on the phone here says you’re at the house. What the heck are you doing there?”
Jon drew in a breath. “Never mind that, look is—”
Lawrence’s voice still held surprise as he interrupted him. “We didn’t think we’d ever see you again. What’s brought you back, son?”
He gritted his teeth. He’d acted like an ass this summer, walking out on all of them, without so much as a goodbye. Had Sylvie explained to the others why he’d left?
“Look, now isn’t the time to go into all that,” he answered. “Is Sylvie with you?”
“No! She’s not at home? Wonder where she is.”
A lump grew in his chest. “Where are you?”
“We’re halfway to Calgary. Sylvie can’t be far. Did you check the barn?”
“The whole place is deserted.”
Lawrence made thoughtful noise. “Well, hang tough, son. She’ll show up.”
Jon rang off. He didn’t have much of a choice but to wait, did he? Wherever Sylvie was, she’d have to come home sooner or later.
And he’d be there. He had a lot to say to her.
Trouble was, something—he wasn’t sure what—didn’t feel right.
The baby was coming. At least she’d meet the little guy before they both died.
At the sound of one wild gust as it rattled the shack, she twisted around to face the window. The squall had intensified, the accompanying drafts finding their way through small cracks missed when they’d installed a few bags of insulation and vapor barrier. One strong draft chilled her face.
She was truly alone. Suddenly the fear she’d felt in the truck in Bosnia, watching Rick die, paled. And it wasn’t a slight on Rick. God, his death had been so unfair. No, this concerned his baby, a child whose birth would be witnessed by the same specter of death.
Tears burned like acid in her eyes. She didn’t want this baby to end its life before it had even started. No.
No! Oh, God, she could hardly breathe!
And Jon would never meet his brother’s baby.
The thought of Jon losing another relative hurt the most, more than the next contraction that grew with barbaric strength inside her.
She breathed through the pain, in and counting, out and counting, tears of dread welling in her eyes. Jon didn’t deserve this lot in life. She might never see him again, but he deserved his little nephew or niece.
And he would see the poor little baby.
As the next contraction subsided, she struggled to her feet and stumbled over to the woodstove. Everything was there to make a fire. She’d get this line shack warm and bring Jon’s only living relative into the world and do her best to save its life. He deserved that much.
As the newspaper caught and licked comforting flames around the kindling, a clear understanding glowed through her. In the long stretch of time since Jon had left, she’d relived and what-if’d the night Rick died to the point of exasperation.
Yes, she’d been a coward. She’d made a mistake, but so had the military. But they’d corrected the fault and moved on.
And though Jon may always blame her, she had tried to keep his brother alive as well as she could have.
Now it was time to move on herself and do something good for a change.
Like save her baby’s life.
She found the frozen bottle of water and set it close to the fire. Once it thawed, she’d boil it and wash up as best she could. She wasn’t going to take the coward’s way out this time, even if it killed her.
The phone rang. Jon shoved aside the chair and leaped for the receiver. “Sylvie?”
“No. It’s me, Allister.”
Jon sagged.
“Look, Jon, Lawrence tells me Sylvie’s not there. She back yet?”
“No.”
“Is her car there?”
“Yes, but the truck is gone. And I didn’t see it in town, either.”
“How long have you been there?”
“Over an hour.”
Allister swore. “Look, I told her the rental place in town called to say we’d left a hook for the come-along out in the line shack. I told her to call them to say either Lawrence or I would get it when we returned.”
>
A short stream of words far worse than Allister’s curse spewed from his mouth. “She’s gone out there, damn it!” He glared out the window, his frown fading as he watched the weather worsen.
Something was wrong. Never had the intuitive warning hit him so hard, even counting the time Rick’s CO had hung up on him and left Jon with a knot of suspicion in his gut the size of a football.
He gripped the receiver, his whitened knuckles aching as he stared out the window. “I gotta get out to the line shack. I can see a squall coming down from the mountains. Look, Allister, call back here every five minutes. If Sylvie answers, tell her to stay put.” He slammed the phone down and raced outside.
The icy wind sucked his breath away, but he barreled into his rental car. He knew the chances of getting stuck were dangerously high with such a low-riding vehicle, but searching out the ATV would take too blasted long.
He gunned the engine and sailed through the open gates to the pasture. Not hard to remember the way to the line shack when every night you dream of the trip back on horseback, with Sylvie. With his arms around Sylvie and the rear edge of the saddle nearly slicing through his erection.
Come on. Come on! He spun out in one spot several kilometers from the house, but managed to straighten before he became disoriented. The tires bit into the snow and frozen scrubgrass, broadcasting icy dirt everywhere. He glanced at the speedometer. Sixty kilometers an hour. He’d been driving for ten minutes. Damn, he should be able to see the line shack by now.
Mother, if he’d been off even a degree or two back there when he’d entered the paddock, he’d be miles away from the shack by now. Squinting through the driving snow, he searched the horizon. At one short point in time, the sun broke through the squall. Mountains gleamed white blue behind the roll of foothills.
There it was! He swerved hard, dipping into a low stretch once used as a watering hole. The car protested, and for a heartbeat, Jon was sure he’d roll the vehicle like a toy.
Downshifting, he slammed hard on the accelerator, and the car spun its way up the other side, its front bumper cutting into the hard ground. The line shack loomed momentarily in another clear break.
Necessary Secrets Page 19