by Mindy Neff
His jaw ached where his back teeth were clenched. The nurses were all looking at him with a mix of apprehension and compassion.
“Linc?” Tracy Lynn said when he eased her onto the examining table.
He took her hand between his, kissed it. “I’m right here, babe.”
“You’re scaring the nurses.”
Her brave, trembling smile made him want to cry. He probably did look like a warrior daring anyone to cross him. Icy terror filled him, and he imagined his eyes alone would chill a side of beef.
“No, I’m not. They’re only pretending so I can save face. I think it’s some kind of law that nobody’s allowed to be scared alone in the hospital.”
Lily began to fire orders that sent the nurses scurrying, then looked at Linc, a question in her eyes. “You’ll need to let go of her hand,” she said gently.
She wasn’t asking him to leave. He wouldn’t have, anyway. Releasing Tracy Lynn’s hand was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. For some reason, he felt that if he let go, he’d lose her. His gut was tied in a knot that seemed to press against his throat.
He kissed her damp forehead, then moved behind the head of the bed, crossed the small space and leaned against the door that led to the back parking lot. He was out of Tracy Lynn’s line of vision. This was a delicate situation for a woman, and he didn’t want to distract her.
It tore him up to see her so vulnerable, and him being so helpless to do anything.
The nurses quickly removed her sweatpants and draped her legs for privacy. Linc felt dizzy when he saw the small towel—a towel that had come from his own bathroom. When he realized how it had ended up in the emergency room, he had to grab the wall for support.
She’d stuffed that towel in her underwear to stanch the blood.
Bright red.
Oh, God. That was too much blood for a woman her size to lose. His chest felt as though it was caving in, and right then, he began to pray.
Lily glanced at him, and he knew even before she gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head that something was very wrong.
That it was too late.
TRACY LYNN STARED at the water-stained ceiling, dry-eyed and alone. Dr. O’Rourke had tried to give her a sedative, but she’d refused. Why did she need drugs to calm her when she couldn’t feel anything, anyway? Her hands were rock steady, her insides utterly empty.
She was numb. Devastated…and angry. She wondered how it was even possible to be angry and numb at the same time. She felt the tension as if it were a separate thing, a part of her, yet not a part of her, a tight ball that coiled inside her, so huge she feared she would scream if she had the strength to care.
A remnant of a cobweb hung from the ceiling, swaying as the air circulated in the private examining room. Her mind skimmed over her life, the philanthropic causes that filled her days, the time and energy she spent catering to others…to her father.
She gave until she hardly had a spare moment, never turned her back on anyone else’s need.
Yet the one time she’d taken a small detour, tried to grab something just for herself, it had thrown everyone into a tizzy.
Well, now Daddy wouldn’t have cause to be embarrassed, would he?
He wouldn’t have to pretend his first grandchild was a preemie for the benefit of all the ugly-minded people who might be counting on their fingers the number of months from her wedding day to the birth of her child. The same people who accepted her offers to chauffeur them to appointments, donate to their causes, grieve with them at the funerals of their family members, lend her time and energy to resolve their problems or spearhead their projects.
What irony that her due date wouldn’t have been an issue, after all.
If her baby had lived.
She twisted the band of diamonds on her finger. An unbroken circle of love. Typical of her eternal optimism, she’d allowed herself to get sucked into the dream.
A dream that was, in reality, nothing more than a sham. A nice gesture on the part of a man who couldn’t accept emotional ties, but felt honor-bound to rescue. An expedient way to keep the peace, to calm the ruffled atmosphere so her father wouldn’t have a stroke on top of his heart attack.
Now it was no longer necessary to pretend. She didn’t need a white knight dashing in to rescue her.
She closed her eyes. All she’d ever wanted was to be loved without expectations—unconditionally.
And the one person who would have done just that, her child, was gone.
The door clicked open, then shut softly. Tracy Lynn didn’t open her eyes right away. She recognized the sound of Linc’s boots striking the tile floor. He’d called her father and Sunny. He might as well have shouted down Main Street with a megawatt bullhorn, because the clinic was now filled with well-meaning friends and family she didn’t have the desire or energy to see. She just wanted to be alone.
Finally, she turned her head, opened her eyes. Linc’s expression was grave.
“I feel so helpless,” he said, lifting her hand and holding it in his. “I don’t know what to say. Can I do anything for you? Get you anything?”
You can get my baby back, she wanted to say as she stared right through him. You could say that you love me.
“I’d give everything I own to make this better, babe.”
At last, she focused on his eyes, feeling raw inside because she didn’t have the strength to tell him the baby she’d lost was his. Once again, she realized, she was worrying about someone else’s emotions.
For an instant, her numbness lifted and she wanted to lash out, hurt as she was hurting. But the urge couldn’t overpower her love for him, the need to spare him pain. There was no sense in both of them being tormented.
“Money can’t buy dreams, Linc.” She hardly recognized her own voice, it was so hopelessly devoid of emotion. “God knows I tried to, with the two unsuccessful inseminations.”
He started to reach for her, but she shook her head.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just need to be alone for a while.”
“Do you want me to send in Becca or Donetta or—“
“Not now. Tell them I’ll call later.”
He bent down and kissed her forehead. When he left the room, shutting the door behind him, Tracy Lynn got up. Her clothes were folded on a chair in the corner. The towel she’d stuffed in her underwear had kept the blood off her sweatpants, but her panties were history.
She dressed, then straightened the blankets on the bed. Removing her wedding band, she placed it on the mattress, then walked out the back door of the medical clinic.
She had no idea where she was going. She only knew that her body felt empty. She felt like a failure. And she couldn’t even cry. The pain simply went too deep for tears. She couldn’t make small talk with her closest friends, couldn’t listen to another apology from her father, or another well-meaning suggestion that it was okay to let go of her emotions.
It wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay.
The late-afternoon air carried the scent of pine from the Christmas trees crowded beneath an open tent across the street. She looked around the back parking lot, which was mostly dirt and practically deserted. Millicent Lloyd, her hair a slightly lighter shade of blue than usual, was just getting out of her 1965 Bonneville.
Several years ago, her father had approved funds to increase the main parking in front of the clinic, which was where most people parked nowadays. But Millicent babied her Bonneville, afraid the paint job would get a scratch.
Their eyes met across the expanse of broken asphalt, weeds and packed dirt. Without a word, Millicent walked around the car and opened the passenger door. In that instant, Tracy Lynn felt her nose sting, her throat ache. Millicent Lloyd was a shrewd, intuitive woman. It was as though she’d gauged the situation and simply known that Tracy Lynn was looking for an emotional escape but didn’t have a clue how to find the right door.
They didn’t know each other well, but right then Tracy Lynn realized that Mil
licent was the one person out of all the well-meaning friends and family who would understand at least part of the emotions she was feeling—or not feeling. Because not long ago, in one of those female bonding rituals that often took place at Donetta’s Secret, Millicent had brought everyone in the salon to tears when she’d spoken so poignantly of the child she’d lost.
Tracy Lynn moved forward and got in the car. Millicent closed the door, then went around and slid into the driver’s seat. The huge car engulfed the tiny woman, her head barely visible over the steering wheel. She didn’t speak, just reached over and squeezed Tracy Lynn’s arm, started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.
Tracy Lynn didn’t pay any attention to where they were going. She didn’t care. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the headrest.
When she felt the car come to a stop, she opened her eyes and looked out the window.
They were in the cemetery. Parked at the curb a short distance from a familiar marble headstone.
Her mother’s grave.
“Sometimes,” Millicent said quietly, “a girl just needs to talk to her mama. You go on, now. Take your time.”
And that was when the numbness lifted and the tears flooded. The ache burst into a tormented sob. “Oh, God. I miss her so much, Miz Lloyd. I want her back. And I want my baby back. Why did I have to lose them?”
AMONG A CHORUS OF PROTESTS, Linc managed to send everyone home. Trying to respect Tracy Lynn’s wishes, he sat in the waiting room for half an hour, which was twenty-nine minutes more than he’d wanted to.
“The hell with it,” he muttered, and strode back to her room. He pushed open the door and felt a moment of confusion. The blankets were spread neatly over the thin mattress, and for one hideous moment, he felt as though someone had died.
Someone had. A little life that had come to mean so much to him in so short a time. He walked up to the bed, his heart thudding, his palms sweating. When he saw Tracy Lynn’s wedding band resting on the empty hospital bed, his eyes snapped to the chair in the corner. Her clothes were gone.
He felt a surreal sort of panic, his thoughts jumbling together, the terrible loss riding him like a dark specter.
He rushed over to the door leading to the back parking lot and checked outside, but the lot was empty. Next, he located the bathrooms, knocking, then poking his head inside.
“Linc? Can I help you with something?”
He whirled at the sound of Dr. O’Rourke’s voice. “Did you release Tracy Lynn?”
“No. Why? Isn’t she still in the examining room?”
“No.” His hand tightened around the wedding band still fisted in his palm.
Lily’s expression softened in compassion. “Women react differently to the loss of a baby, Linc. Sometimes they blame themselves, or feel ashamed that they can’t cry, or think they need to go off somewhere and cry alone. It’s not deliberate, or meant to diminish the father’s emotional needs, but in the early hours or days after a miscarriage, a woman doesn’t consider that her husband could possibly feel some of the emptiness she’s experiencing.” Lily put her hand on his arm. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Linc.”
Everything within him stilled. You can’t buy dreams. God knows, I tried to, with the two unsuccessful inseminations.
Two unsuccessful?
Realization hit him. “She was carrying my baby, wasn’t she.”
Lily looked stricken. “Oh, Linc. I thought you knew. Last week—she said she wanted to tell you herself.”
But she wouldn’t have. She had too much love and compassion, knew the battle he fought with his own demons. Didn’t want him to feel forced to stay in Hope Valley as her husband.
Her strength humbled him. Tracy Lynn faced her fears, offered love without strings. She went after her dream, did whatever it took to hold on to that dream, yet tried not to sacrifice anyone else. She’d married so her longing for a child wouldn’t harm her father’s reputation.
Receiving the news that the baby hadn’t been conceived at a doctor’s office must have been a shock, yet she’d kept the news to herself. Not out of meanness. But out of love.
He turned back to Lily. “How soon can Tracy Lynn safely try for another baby?”
“Three or four months would be my professional recommendation.”
Linc ground his back teeth.
“A couple of weeks would be okay with me, though,” Lily continued with a sigh. “I’ll settle for whenever Tracy Lynn feels ready.”
He nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
A riot of emotions boiling in his chest, he strode out of the hospital, climbed into his Suburban and came close to dropping the transmission right there in the parking lot when he slammed it from reverse to drive before the tires came to a complete stop. He stomped the accelerator to the floor and never let up, not even when the speedometer needle pegged and he passed Storm Carmichael in his county sheriff’s cruiser just outside the town limits.
Smart man, Storm went on about his law business and left him be.
Tires squealed on asphalt as the oversize vehicle leaned into the turnoff to the Forked S. No longer on the blacktop, the backend whipped like a sidewinder, spitting gravel in every direction. He cranked the wheel, bumped across the rutted grass and skidded to a stop in front of the shed-row stable. He was out of the SUV before it stopped rocking, an angry cloud of dust and pebbles blowing right past him.
“Come out of there, you bastard!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, striding forward. “You’re nothing but a filthy rotten coward, and by God, I won’t let you turn me into one, too!”
He ripped a board from the weathered fence, swung it at the post his old man had tied him to when he was nine. The support splintered and split in half. The roof extension shading the cracked concrete walkway gave an ominous creak, then sagged.
Driven by a blind fury, Linc pounded furiously at the structure, ignored the disintegrating shingles falling on his shoulders, the sweat dripping in his eyes.
When the fence board snapped in half, he flung it aside and used his hands, stripping off rotten plywood, kicking in the stall doors.
He wasn’t sure when the rampage became therapy. With each decayed piece of material he pummeled, memories were purged, revelations uncovered, weights lifted, the ghost of his father driven out.
Breath heaving, he was brought up short by the sight of his brother leaning against the front of a crew cab truck.
“Need some help, little brother?” Holding a pickax and a claw-head hammer, Jack walked toward him. “You don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to turn this place into a pile of rubble using my bare hands.”
Linc wiped his face with his sleeve. “Thanks for letting me have first shot.”
“You deserved it. You always got the worst of Dad’s temper.”
“Why?”
“I think because he couldn’t break you. Other than at Mom’s funeral, you never cried.”
“Neither did you.”
“Hell, yes, I did.” Jack picked up a shingle and flung it into the field, giving them both a minute to pretend the admission hadn’t been spoken aloud.
But it was that confession that gave Linc the opening to speak his mind. “I realized something when I was wrecking this stable. It wasn’t so much the memories of Dad and the beatings that screwed with my mind over the years. I thought it was. But it was easier to hold on to the hate than to face that I was mostly just…embarrassed.”
“Man, that dog won’t hunt. I’m the one who picked shirt fibers out of your skin for three solid hours. I swear to God, I wanted to kill him that day.”
“That’s why I was embarrassed. You had the balls to stand up to him. No guy—man or boy—wants to admit he’s not tough enough to fight his own battles, that he has to be rescued by his big brother. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. If it weren’t for you, I’d probably be dead. Still, that doesn’t stop the stupid voice inside me that makes me feel like a wuss for letting the bastard beat me.”<
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“That’s crap, Linc. Mom taught us to show respect, and raising a fist to a parent is one of the worst acts of disrespect I can think of. Even when you were a little kid, you had more honor and integrity than ten people put together. Dad exploited that. He knew you wouldn’t hit him back, but just in case your integrity wore thin, he made damn sure you were too weak or injured to try.”
Jack swung the claw-head hammer he held, smashing a hole in the side of the stable. “By damn, the word wuss shouldn’t even be in your vocabulary.” He dealt the building another blow. “And don’t even ask me to prove that by arm wrestling or something.” Wham. He clobbered the window casing. “I imagine you could shut me down in about two seconds…” Wham. “…and I’m not putting my ego on the line like that—even for you.” Wham. Wham.
Linc decided against smiling, seeing as Jack had two weapons in his hands. “You want to give me one of those demolition tools, or do you plan to hog all the fun?”
Jack looked around, his expression clearing. “Claw or the pickax?”
“The ax, of course. If you won’t wrestle me, I can at least show you up by knocking down the biggest part of this eyesore.” He accepted the tool but didn’t use it right away.
The sky was a cloudless cerulean canopy that stretched over the abundance of their land. A good place to raise kids, Linc thought. A community that had heart and forgiveness. “Tracy Lynn lost the baby.”
“Sunny told me. I’m sorry, Linc.”
“It was my baby. The home-pregnancy test was wrong. She wasn’t pregnant when we got married.”
Jack swore.
“I think I might have lost her.” He pulled the ring out of his pocket. “I’ve never seen her eyes so empty. She said she wanted to be alone, so I went out to the waiting room. When I came back, she was gone and this was on the bed.” He opened his palm. “I’m not even sure where she went. Or what she used for transportation.”
“Do you want her back?”
“More than I want to breathe.”
“I know two people who can find her. My wife and my brother-in-law. It pays to have an in with the sheriff, you know.” Jack set down his hammer and plucked his cell phone from the clip on his belt. “I’ll call out the dogs, then let’s you and me knock this worthless piece of history to the ground and bury it once and for all.”