Too bad he hadn’t been around when Sally met Randy. Ancient regrets played on a spool that should have been long since worn-out. What if he’d moved to rural Arkansas from St. Louis ten years ago, when his mother and sister came here to live with Aunt Pearl, instead of waiting until a year and a half ago when Mom was already dying of cancer? If Alec had been around from the beginning, would Sally have made better decisions? Would Mom still be alive?
Great timing to ask himself unanswerable questions.
Unsettled, he realized if Wren was really listening, he’d given away too much. He grunted. If? He knew damn well she’d heard everything he said, and everything he didn’t. Just as he’d heard her.
Contractions were four and a half minutes apart, then four. She walked some more, grumbled, “Cupcake isn’t in any hurry, is she?” and groaned through yet more pain.
“I hope you weren’t looking forward to that epidural too much,” Alec commented.
She rolled her eyes and sang, off-key, from the Rolling Stones’ song “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.”
As expected, he laughed. It occurred to him, as morning became afternoon, that he’d laughed more today than he had in a couple of years.
She did finally confess that she needed the canning jar, and he turned his back when she used it. He pretended he couldn’t hear the tinkling sound that ensued. Finally, a small voice said, “Do I dump it out the window?”
He turned around. “I can do it.”
Expression defiant, she held the jar behind her. “Not a chance.”
Alec grinned. “We’re going to get to know each other even better, you know.”
Wren scrunched up her face. “I don’t want to think about that. And I don’t want you carrying a jar of my pee around, either.”
“All right. I’ll open the window for you.”
He muscled it up, then, smiling, looked away while she did the deed. Only when she gave her permission did he turn back and tug the window down again. Cheeks flushed, she set the wet jar—which he guessed she’d rinsed out with rain—some distance away and then retired to her pallet.
Three and a half minutes.
Three.
The contractions were growing in intensity, seizing her and shaking her in great, vicious jaws. Alec would have given one hell of a lot to be able to do something, anything, besides hold her hand, count for her and smooth hair from her damp forehead.
She kept shifting on the pallet as if she was increasingly uncomfortable.
“Shall I find something to make that softer?”
“I don’t know if it would make much difference. My back hurts.”
“Ah.” She’d said that earlier, hadn’t she? He wished he’d remembered sooner. “Roll over,” he said, disengaging his hand from hers and helping her heave onto her side to face away from him.
Grateful for something useful to do, he gently worked the flannel shirt up, careful to keep the blanket covering her hips—although her body would hold no secrets from him by the time they were done. Then, starting tentatively, he spread his hands over her back and began to knead taut muscles.
Wren moaned, and he stopped. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. Oh, no! It felt so good.”
He relaxed. “Okay.”
It was the first time he’d touched her much, beyond holding her hand. She was a dainty woman, her vertebrae delicate, her shoulder blades sharp-edged, her neck so small his hand would engulf it. In fact, he could splay the fingers of one hand and cover her entire lower back. That’s where the pain seemed to be centered, although she sighed with pleasure no matter where he squeezed. He dug his thumbs in at the small of her back, and she arched as if in ecstasy. When he gentled his touch, she made a funny little noise in her throat that sounded for all the world like a purr.
Alec was dismayed to realize he was getting aroused. Crap. He couldn’t let her roll toward him and notice.
Think about something else, he ordered himself. Anything but fragile bones and taut muscles and throaty sounds of feminine pleasure. Think about… Yes, there it came, another contraction rolling over her body, changing the sounds that emerged from her.
He counted as he smoothed the flannel shirt down, his hands more reluctant than he wanted to admit.
“I’ll give you another massage in a bit,” he said, as he helped her turn over again.
Hair clung in sweaty clumps to her forehead and cheeks. “How far apart are they now?”
“Two and a half minutes.” Without even thinking about it, he stroked the hair from her face, trying not to react to the unconscious way she nuzzled his hand when he was done. Hoarsely, he said, “We’re getting there.”
He’d become—almost—accustomed to the intense way she fastened those big brown eyes on him.
“It doesn’t feel like it,” she whispered. “It’s…surreal. Like it’s been going on forever, and will keep going.”
“I know,” he said. “I know.” The strange part was his contentment. He tended to be restless. He’d always gotten bored easily. Law enforcement, with physical and mental challenges intertwined, had kept him engaged. He’d known he couldn’t bear straight office work. Carlene hadn’t understood that. Or maybe she had, and didn’t care. Marriage to a cop wasn’t easy.
“I didn’t know what I was signing on for,” she’d kept saying.
Alec still didn’t know if he’d let her down, or she’d let him down. In the end, it didn’t much matter.
Except…it did, because she’d taken his two little girls with her when she left. In the end, she’d taken them so far away, he had lost them.
Not a good time to think about his daughters.
He didn’t really even want to think about Cupcake. Wren, yes. He liked thinking about Wren. With her, everything felt good. Better than it should, considering they were strangers.
“Ohhh.” She grabbed for his hand.
“That was quick,” he murmured. “Breathe. That’s it, honey. One, two, three, four…”
Alec had the odd thought that he knew her face better than he’d known Carlene’s. He’d counted the scattering of freckles across Wren’s small nose. Studied the whorls of her ears and the minute flecks of gold and green in her eyes.
The contraction past, he found himself reassuring her with a gentle massage of her shoulders and neck that worked its way up to her sweaty head. He pressed circular patterns into her temples, used his fingertips to smooth her forehead. It was all he could do not to run his thumb over her chapped lips.
Not a stranger. Not anymore.
Jarred, he had the thought that, eventually, she’d get taken to the hospital, and he’d go to work. If they kept her long, he might stop by to visit once.
Her eyes were closed. She was breathing softly, for this moment utterly relaxed. She wouldn’t see the way he was frowning, or the inner quake that probably showed on his face as he imagined a future when he’d never know what had happened to Wren.
CHAPTER THREE
WREN KNEW SHE OUGHT TO BE really, really scared. She had never in a million years imagined having her baby on the floor of an old attic in a house being swallowed by a flood. She hadn’t even wanted to go the at-home-with-a-midwife route. She’d planned on a hospital, a fetal monitor strapped across her belly, a surgical suite down the hall if necessary. She’d had every intention of being surrounded by all the technology possible—not to mention obstetricians and nurses.
Yet here she was, and although fear did tiptoe through her consciousness now and again, mostly she was okay. The surprising sense of security was entirely thanks to Alec, who had, without hesitation and with considerable risk to himself, climbed into the attic and stranded himself along with her. All because she needed him.
She remembered that terrifying moment when his hands had slipped and she’d been sure he was going to fall. All in a flash, she’d seen it in Technicolor—the splash, then the sight of his head bobbing as he was swept away until he disappeared in the eternal rain, leaving her utte
rly alone again. More alone, because he’d briefly given her hope that she wouldn’t be.
Somehow, with superhuman strength, he’d hauled himself upward and made it through the window. If she could have chosen anyone in the world—well, except for an obstetrician, maybe—it would have been him. He’d had enough training to give her confidence, and he’d actually delivered a baby before. He was calm, and so kind. After hours and hours of either kneeling or sitting on the floor beside her, his back probably ached as much as hers did, and the way she’d been squeezing his hand, it had probably gone numb. She hoped it had gone numb so it didn’t hurt.
He encouraged her to talk, and he listened. Really listened, she could tell, unlike James, who had only pretended. Alec had talked to her, too, as if they were best friends. There were parts of himself he didn’t offer, of course. Flashing yellow caution lights clearly marked those areas, but that was okay. There were things she didn’t talk about, too. People.
She was glad he didn’t ask any more about James. She didn’t want him here even in spirit when her baby was born. He hadn’t wanted Cupcake, and now she was glad. Glad!
Wren couldn’t help having the sneaking wish that Detective Alec Harper was Cupcake’s biological father instead. It was wrong of her to even think that, sort of like having a sudden and inappropriate crush on your obstetrician. Women probably fell for their doctors often; after all, they projected a calm air of confidence and knowledge that no rattled husband could possibly match. But Wren bet Alec would project it, even if it was his baby being born. And he’d never know she was wishing, would he? So what did it hurt to dream a little?
Deciding she’d squelch all these surprising emotions later, she let herself enjoy his care, and even feel entitled to it. Except when he rolled her over so that he could give her the best back rub she’d ever had, Wren hardly looked away from him. She probably wouldn’t have anyway, because he’d become her lodestar. And the truth was she liked looking at him.
She often felt dwarfed by men, but Alec’s size along with everything else about him made her feel safe instead of small and insignificant. Probably a woman in labor shouldn’t notice things such as the way his jeans pulled taut over the hard muscles in his thighs. Or the thickness of his wrists, and the dusting of hair on powerful forearms, but she did. Usually she didn’t like the unshaved look on men, but dark stubble emphasized the hollows beneath his cheekbones and enhanced the air he had of being pure male.
He had a habit of shoving a hand through dark, unruly hair. And his wonderful mouth seemed to be made for smiling, even though he’d looked surprised the first few times he did smile and laugh. Maybe that was just because of everything he’d seen these past two days. He’d told her about some of it: the dead animals floating past, the scared children, the despairing adults sitting in emergency shelters knowing everything they owned was gone. People had died, too. He was one of the rescue workers who had pulled two people out of a submerged car, and known even as they worked that they were too late. Wren had seen the dark flash of emotion on Alec’s face.
She had a feeling, though, that he didn’t do much smiling these days. At least, not heartfelt smiles or real belly laughs. He was so very guarded, she knew there had to be a reason.
Once she asked if he was married, and his response was a terse, “No. Divorced.” She hadn’t dared ask more.
As appealing and sexy as he was, his eyes were what drew her most. As dark as his hair was, his eyes should have been brown like hers, but they weren’t. They were a pure, rich blue, much deeper than the summer-sky blue that blonds often had. The color alone made his eyes riveting, but beyond that they expressed an intensity that she guessed was just him. And even when his face stayed impassive, his eyes betrayed emotions Wren wished she could better read. His clear irises were often darkened by shadows. But his eyes smiled, too, sometimes even when his mouth didn’t. She loved the glints of humor and, yes, the kindness.
The contractions were closer together now, barely giving her any rest between. They came like ocean waves, rolling over her, ebbing slowly even as the next built. The whole “pant, pant, blow” thing had helped, but it wasn’t so much anymore. She kept losing track, crying out, her entire body arching in agony. She quit noticing how sexy Alec was, and cared only that he was here.
Finally, one of those waves was stronger than the others, and she crushed his big hand. “I need to push.”
“Not yet.” He bent close over her, compelling her by sheer force of personality. “Breathe.”
She groaned as the wave receded. “Why can’t I?”
He pried his hand from hers. “I think it’s time I take a look, Wren. I want to make sure you’re completely dilated.”
She didn’t ask how he’d know, because she preferred to believe completely in his ability to deliver her baby.
An hour ago she would have been self-conscious when he lifted the blankets, pushed up the flannel shirt and gently spread her knees. Now, with another wave lifting her, cresting, she couldn’t afford any emotion so petty.
“Breathe.”
She tried. Oh, God, she tried, but she’d never felt anything like this, a compulsion so powerful it gripped every cell of her body. Strange, guttural sounds came from her and her hips rose.
The contraction eased and she sagged back down, although already she felt the next gathering force. “Please,” she whispered.
Alec’s hands squeezed her thighs and he said, “Okay. I think we’re ready.”
He moved away from her briefly, and she felt him lifting her, putting some of the clothes she’d dragged up under her hips. Because this would be messy, Wren realized, in a corner of her brain not quite overridden by pain.
Then he knelt again between her thighs. “This time push.”
She couldn’t have done anything but. Her mind blanked of everything but this huge, overwhelming need—and the sight of Alec’s face, his rumbles of encouragement.
“I see Cupcake’s head. That’s it. I know you’re tired, but…you’re amazing.” He flashed her a huge grin. “I’ve got her head, honey. A little more.”
There was a brief pause, just enough for Wren to gather strength, and then she heard herself screaming as she pushed with everything she had. She felt her baby slip from her. Satisfaction roared in her ears, but already she was levering herself to her elbows.
“Is she all right? Why isn’t she crying?”
He was utterly preoccupied, there between her knees. “Give her a second. I’m wiping her face.”
Then it came, a thin wail, and he laughed, exultation in those blue, blue eyes as they met hers.
“Let me wrap her up.” And finally he lifted a flannel bundle and laid it on Wren’s stomach. She could see his delight. “Meet Cupcake.”
Wren looked disbelievingly at the small, scrunched face of her daughter. She didn’t look anything like television-commercial babies. She was beet-red, and her eyes were squeezed shut as if she was absolutely refusing to see this cold, scary world. She was smeared with blood and slimy stuff, but all the same Wren had never seen anything so beautiful.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, and smoothed a hand over a head damply fuzzed with a shade of brown the same as her own hair. And she was filled with joy, because at first glance there was nothing whatsoever of James in her baby.
“I need to cut the cord,” Alec said.
Wren lifted her gaze from Cupcake. “I didn’t even think of that. What can you… Oh! I brought a knife up from the kitchen.”
He laughed. “I have scissors from the first-aid kit, thankfully sterile.” He brandished them as he ripped off the packaging. “And I found some twine I think will work.”
That hadn’t come from the first-aid kit, which made Wren realize it must have been one of the things he’d been looking for earlier, when he’d been opening boxes. She remembered once hearing a grunt of satisfaction.
She watched anxiously as he tied the still pulsing umbilical cord. Then the scissors flashed, and wit
hout hesitation he cut the cord.
“She’s her own person now,” he murmured, and Wren realized her face was wet with tears.
She looked and touched and marveled, hardly aware that she had more contractions and that Alec was still occupied. Eventually he said, “I’m going to clean you up as well as I can without water, and then we’d better figure out something for a pad.”
A pad? Oh.
“Um…” She turned her head. “There are some pajama bottoms here somewhere. I couldn’t have gotten them on before, but maybe now…”
“All right. Why don’t you try putting her to your breast? Even if you weren’t planning to breast-feed, you have to for now.”
“I was.” She undid a couple of buttons and lifted Cupcake—who needed a real name now. As she did, her daughter opened her eyes and, in the gray light through the window, Wren saw that they were a murky blue, which likely meant they were going to turn brown like hers. She felt another moment of fierce delight. Her own mother might have been disappointed when she’d first seen Wren, tiny and wizened and not very pretty at all as babies went, but Wren was glad Cupcake had gotten nothing from her father.
It took some doing to figure out what angle worked best, and to coax the baby to begin nuzzling for her breast. But finally she latched on and began to suckle as though she knew exactly what to do.
“Like a pro,” Alec murmured, and their eyes met over Wren’s knees.
“Isn’t she amazing?”
“So are you.” He was stuffing her into those pajamas as he spoke, although he laughed and paused to roll the hems up. And up. Then, sounding awkward for the first time, he said, “I’ve, er, folded a T-shirt in there to be a menstrual pad. It’s not ideal, but as long as you’re not moving around a lot, it ought to do.”
His momentary discomfiture made her feel embarrassed for the first time, too. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t given a second thought to letting a man who was a virtual stranger do such intimate things for her.
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