Quiet Walks the Tiger

by Heather Graham

  Then she was in his arms again, laughing as he stuffed the cold bottle and two crystal glasses into her hands so that he could carry her.

  “What about your work?” she demanded as he booted open the door to their bedroom.

  “It won’t go anywhere,” he promised gravely. And then the door was being slammed behind them, and she was laughing while he undressed her. She still attempted to hold the champagne and glasses and feel the inevitable warmth and sensual stimulation steal over her with his commanding touch...

  Things were going to be all right.

  And they were all right. Wes started coming into the studio with her, telling her he was looking at books, but she was sure he was watching over her.

  She didn’t mind the feeling.

  In fact, the only spur in her existence was an uneasy feeling in the back of her mind which she usually managed to ignore. Wes had been back in Gettysburg for two full weeks, and he hadn’t mentioned a thing about Kentucky. She knew he hadn’t decided to remain in the north indefinitely—his business holdings outside of Louisville were too vast for him to suddenly forget them. She also knew that he loved his home, his work, and the prestigious empire he and his brother had created together. She was aware that he would have to be going back—but he made no reference to her going with him. She should bring it up, she told herself, but she was loath to do so. She didn’t dare do a thing to mar the happiness the announcement of the child had brought them both. As long as things were moving along so very comfortably, she couldn’t dare make a change that might be disastrous. She was also still afraid of answers she might receive if she questioned too closely. She didn’t want to take a chance on hearing that their marriage was still on a trial basis—not complete until she had actually delivered the child Wes craved.

  In that respect, she wasn’t frightened. She had three beautiful children—even Terry, born early in the midst of grief and shock, had clung tenaciously to life and health.

  They were becoming a rounded family, and Sloan loved becoming that family in all the simple ways. Sharing dinners, watching television, planning their time. The money that Sloan had once longed for now meant so little. Her pleasure was in the man—watching him help Jamie with projects, chastising Laura while still treating her like a little princess, taking Terry with his toddling precociousness beneath his own wing. As it had always been with him, what was hers was his. No blood brother could have been better to Cassie, more companionable to George.

  If only she didn’t carry that edge of nervousness over his refusal to bring up his own life, and the home far away...

  It was two and half weeks after his return that the bomb dropped. It was late, near midnight, and she was comfortably curled to Wes’s side as they both read paperbacks, when the phone rang. Their mutually curious expressions as Wes picked up the phone signified a loss at who could be calling so late.

  Curious, Sloan’s raised brows knit into a frown. After Wes’s initial “Hello,” he went silent, listening, as seemingly countless seconds ticked by. Then his reply was a brief “Hold on a minute.” Handing the receiver to Sloan, he slipped from the bed and into his robe. “Hang that up for me, will you please? I’m going to take it in the den.”

  Not waiting for her acknowledgment, he exited the room. Sloan was glad he didn’t turn around—he would have seen her jaw drop and her eyes widen with startled pain. He had just dismissed her as nothing more than a personal secretary—not trusting her, and not caring that she was worried...

  But then Wes had the sure capability of turning from ardent lover to cold stranger—hard stranger—in a matter of seconds.

  Staring bleakly after him, Sloan eyed the receiver she held. Temptation was overwhelming, because her pride had been wounded. She had a right to know what was going on in her home at midnight. She was, after all, Wesley’s wife...

  Sloan brought the receiver to her ear just in time to hear Wes pick up downstairs. She intended to announce herself, but he began to speak immediately. “Okay, Dave, I’m here. I can get there immediately; I picked up a little jet the other day. In the meantime, call Doc Jennings—I don’t care what you have to do to find him or what you have to take him away from. If our entire stock is down—” Wes’s voice didn’t fade away; it stopped abruptly. She was startled by his tone becoming as curt and precise as an icicle, although, because of his brother’s hearing of his words miles away, he did couch his request politely. “Sloan—I have it down here, thank you. You may hang up now.”

  “Hey, Sloan,” Dave cut in cheerfully. “Didn’t know you were there. How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks, Dave,” Sloan murmured quickly, feeling as if her face had gone afire. She mumbled a good-bye and set the receiver hastily into its cradle, wondering with bleak but increasing anger how Wes could have managed to be so curt, so icy cold, to her. And then she realized that he had left the room purposely so that she would not hear his plans—his full intention had been to shut her out...

  Alternating between the despairing realization that nothing had really changed—Wes trusted her less than one of his well-nurtured horses and had no intention of sharing his life with her, even if he did humor her and join into hers—and the infuriating proof that he would continue to do what he pleased with no regard to her feelings, Sloan sank into the bed, her limbs also torn between racing heat and numbness.

  He was leaving; he was going to Kentucky. And he was leaving in a plane he had purchased—and neglected to mention to her.

  And on top of all that, he would shortly come stalking back up to the room to coldly denounce her as an eavesdropper, condemning her with that oceanic stare that was like a razor’s edge...

  The hell he will, she decided grimly, slipping from the bed in his wake. For a moment her body protested her movement; her stomach, always a little queasy in her first months of pregnancy, wavered out a warning signal. Sloan ignored it; she was never truly nauseated, and her decision was taking precedence. She was going to challenge Wes with all the wrath she could muster before he hit her with his icy disdain.

  Donning her robe and sliding into her slippers, she followed his trail to the den with equal determination. When she entered, he was just hanging up the phone, appearing ridiculously dignified and coolly authoritative for a man with tousled black hair clad in a velour robe. His eyes, in fact, chilled her; they brought her back in time to a cool morning in Belgium when she learned she had indeed pulled upon a tiger’s tail...

  “Ahhh, my wife,” he murmured, “the eavesdropper.”

  Sloan flushed but refused to be intimidated. “Sometimes eavesdroppers hear what they should have been told in the first place.”

  His shrug seemed to be another dismissal. “Obviously, you would have been told. I’m leaving tonight. I did assume that you would notice when I packed.” Why was he snapping at her? Wes wondered. He knew the answer; he didn’t like to admit it to himself. He was afraid that she wouldn’t notice, not really notice. She responded to him, she professed to love him, she was charming, she was his—everything he had loved all those years—everything he had planned on having—prayed to have—since that day he had watched her. He didn’t covet her as another man’s wife; he had only come to that when he knew she was alone and yearned to alleviate her pain.

  And now he wondered if he had ever come to do so. She wanted the baby—badly—he believed. But Sloan loved children. And the baby had been conceived long ago...

  He wasn’t prone to insecurity, but he was uncontrollably insecure now. He didn’t believe that she intended to leave him, but he still wondered if she didn’t close her eyes at night and envision him as another man...

  Wes watched now as stunned hurt filled her eyes before she could shade them, and he was ready to kick himself. “I’m sorry,” he apologized gruffly. “But I don’t appreciate your listening in on a private conversation. I wanted the facts first so that I could tell you how long I would be gone.”

  “How long will you be gone?” she asked hollowly. Di
d she care, Wes asked himself desperately. As long as she was left with provisions and memories, did she really care. He heard hauntings of her soft voice telling him she loved him, but he had heard it before when it had been false.

  “About two weeks,” he replied curtly.

  “You’re flying yourself out?” Again, her voice had that hollowed sound, curiously strained.

  “Yes,” he replied impatiently. “If I were to keep driving all the time, I’d spend half the time on the road.”

  “Wes”—was there a note of anguish in her voice?—“you didn’t tell me you had purchased a plane. You never even told me that you were a pilot.”

  “I’m not a pilot. I have my pilot’s license.”

  “Wes”—her voice was definitely rising shrilly—“don’t you think we should have discussed it?”

  Stupidly, he didn’t realize what she was getting at. “I can afford the plane, I assure you. I don’t remember you discussing the setup of an entire business with me.”

  He heard the sharp intake of her breath; something sizzled into her sapphire eyes. “Wes, you seem to have forgotten I’ve lost one husband in those little planes.” She turned away from him suddenly. “But suit yourself.”

  God, she could sound cold. He wanted to tell her that he was sorry, but he felt the terrible chill of her demeanor. “Cheer up,” he heard himself saying. “Since you’re planning my demise, I’ll remind you that you’ll be a very rich widow this time.” He saw the heave of her shoulders and suddenly hated himself with a black passion. Belatedly, words of apology came to his lips, and his strides were eating the distance between them. “Sloan,” she tried to shake off the restraining hands on her shoulders and look away, but he wouldn’t allow her. Fighting back tears, she met his eyes rebelliously. “Sloan,” he persisted softly, “I’m sorry. Yes, Terry died in a plane crash. But millions have died on the highways. I’m a very good pilot. I’ll be safer in the sky than I would be in a car.”

  He could feel her shaking; she knew it. It would be impossible for him not to feel her trembling as he held her. But somehow, she couldn’t reply to him. “Sloan,” he insisted tensely, “answer me.”

  Bleak, liquid eyes lifted to his; the indifferent tone was back in her voice. “What do I say?” she asked. “You’re flying out tonight; you’ll be gone two weeks. It’s settled.”

  Yes, it was settled. Her opinion didn’t matter. He had apologized, but he hadn’t changed a thing. Even his apology, she was sure, had been issued because he had seen her wince with the sudden tension in her lower back. It was frightfully apparent that he didn’t want her upset. But then that, of course, was because of the baby. And it didn’t seem to occur to him that she could tolerate the plane—even happily board it—if only he wanted her with him...

  He exhaled a long sigh. “Go on back to bed, Sloan; you’re shivering, and you need to get to sleep. I have a few things to get together down here, and I won’t need to pack much, so I shouldn’t disturb you.”

  That was it—a dismissal. He was leaving. Sloan nodded dispiritedly and turned away as he released her. “Sloan.” She heard a slight catch in his voice and turned back. “It might be nice if you kissed me good-bye.”

  He took her in his arms before she could have a chance to refuse him, and his mouth claimed hers with a bittersweet combination of persuasiveness and demand. Unable to resist him, Sloan felt herself melt to his touch, knowing it would be denied her for what would seem an eternity. She arched herself against the warm strength of his frame, hungrily met his thrusting tongue with her own. And then she felt the salt of tears on her cheek and disentangled herself, turning away before he could see them. Saying nothing else, she quit the room.

  The encounter had left her absurdly weak. Returning to the bedroom with her thoughts in a turmoil, she at first ignored-the pain in her back that was proving to be persistent. Wesley didn’t want her in his home. He was leaving for two weeks, but she had no guarantee that he meant to return at that time. He could leave, and find himself busy, and not care if he hurried back to a wife he didn’t trust.

  Of course, he would be back eventually. He wanted to see his child...

  The next stab of pain she felt was so shocking that it ripped her cruelly from her mental dilemma and sent her staggering to the bedpost for support. Stunned, she held on as the pain continued to rack through her. In disbelief she thought she had felt nothing so horrendously unbearable since Terry’s birth.

  It was then that she started to scream Wesley’s name in a long low wail of agony and terror.

  Her cry jolted him with panic as nothing ever had before in his life. Wes bolted from the den and made it to the bedroom as if jet-propelled. At first he couldn’t ferret out what had happened. Sloan was doubled over on the floor, her slender hands losing their grip on the bedpost. He took a step nearer, and it felt as if his heart sank cleanly from him; he held his breath. She was saturated in blood. So much blood. How could it possibly have come from such a wraithlike figure? How could she possibly have any left to pulse through her veins, to keep her heart beating...?

  He was galvanized into desperate action, knowing even as he shook as if palsied that he had to move quickly. He was shouting as he scooped her into his arms, loud enough to raise even Florence, and then he was issuing curt commands to the frightened but alert housekeeper. She was dialing the hospital even as he was slipping Sloan into the car, loath to take a chance on wasting the precious minutes to wait for the ambulance. She opened her eyes once; a weak, pained smile touched just the corners of her lips. “Wesley,” she whispered, and then her sapphire eyes closed once again, and all color was gone from her ashen face.

  My wife, he thought desperately. No, my life, my existence...

  And then he was careening toward the hospital, her cheek resting against his knee...

  In actuality, he wasn’t shut out long. But every second was an eternity. He paced the empty, sterile halls, praying.

  And his mind would return to the nightmare. The grim look of her obstetrician—the man who had delivered not only her three children, but Sloan herself. A man who had made it to the hospital after Florence’s call almost as quickly as he.

  An older man, but obviously competent, obviously deeply caring for his pale, lifeless patient. A man who had assured Wes he wouldn’t let her die as he wheeled her away.

  But he had been worried. Wes had known he was worried. The sharp old eyes had taken in all the blood.

  And so Wes kept pacing, a caged tiger stalking the relentless prison of his heart, fighting fear, cruelly cutting into himself with blame. There was the possibility that he might lose her—and it would be his fault. No, he hadn’t been cruel to her, he hadn’t misused her. He had even been what some might term a good husband since his return. But he knew what she had known—he had held back. He had denied her the security and faith that she had needed from him...He had forced her to have the child...no, she had wanted the child...no, he derided himself fiercely, he had forced her; he could remember with stabbing clarity the way he had taken her in Belgium, the time the child very likely had been conceived...and even that had been all so unnecessary. He had known she didn’t love him, but he had also known that she intended to remain his wife, to offer what she could.

  But like a fool he had been insanely jealous of a ghost. If she made it, he swore, he wouldn’t care. He would simply cherish her, be there, take care of her as he had longed to do since he first set eyes upon her gamin face and sapphire eyes.

  No. He stopped his pacing and raised his eyes heavenward in a solemn vow, a strange figure, a virile giant in a bloodstained velour robe silently beseeching God.

  I’ll release her. I’ll see that she never has another worry, another care, but I’ll let her resume her life alone.

  That was the state Cassie and George found him in. Cassie, already worried by Florence’s call, saw the blood on Wesley’s clothing and burst into frantic tears as she raced toward him.

  Wes took one look at
the panic and anguish on his sister-in-law’s face and was suddenly sure that she knew something he didn’t. He felt his breath leave him, his heartbeat waver. His world became the swirling mist of miserable gray he knew it would be without Sloan.

  With an agonized cry that would rip apart the heart of anyone within hearing range, the virile giant crashed to the floor.

  Consciousness came back to him with sharp severity which he strove to fight off. He didn’t want to come back. But then he heard Cassie’s voice, felt her touch.

  “Wes, she’s okay, she wants to see you. Wes!”

  He opened his eyes. He hadn’t been out long—he was still on the floor, his head dragged onto his sister-in-law’s lap. Hovering above him were the faces of George and the doctor—both filled with relief, a relief that was slowly dawning to amusement.

  “Your wife is going to be fine, Mr. Adams,” the doctor was assuring him. His voice lowered. “You know, of course, that she has lost the baby, but she will be fine.”

  “Oh, God.” His hands were shaking convulsively as he buried his face into them, oblivious, uncaring that his tears of relief and joy were damp on his cheeks.

  “Wes,” Cassie reminded him softly, “she wants to see you.”

  He stood up, her empathetic eyes still on him, and he found his strength within them. Squeezing her arm, he turned to rush down the corridor.

  “Wait.” George caught his arm and stuffed a large paper bag into his arms, his head inclined toward Wes’s robe. “Florence told us you ran down here in your robe. I’m not so sure it would be good for her to see you looking like that.”

  Wes nodded his thanks with a brief, rueful smile, then directed his hasty steps for the bathroom to change. “We’ll be here,” Cassie called after him softly. “Tell her we’ll see her as soon as we can in the morning.”

  “Five minutes only, Mr. Adams,” the obstetrician called. “She needs rest now.”