A few yards on the gate’s other side, he parked the truck, hopped out, then dummy-locked the gate to throw off casual onlookers.
Back behind the wheel, with Maisey huffing and panting beside him, Nash drove a sandy, then muddy five miles until stumbling across an abandoned-looking ranger’s cabin that he parked behind.
“Give me a sec, and with luck I might have found you a bed.”
Her only answer was a moan.
He picked the back door lock, and stepped into a world time had forgotten.
For once, he was happy about federal budget cuts. It looked like they had this place to themselves—aside from the odd rodent or two.
Sure enough, there was a lone bed, so he brushed it off as best he could, then layered it in the towels he’d snatched from Mildred. Next, he carried in Maisey, resting her near the end of the sagging mattress.
Trying to remain clinical, he slipped more towels beneath her, then mounded the comforter behind her for a pillow.
After a quick trip to the truck for bottled water, he pulled over a small bench, parking it at the foot of the bed in case he needed it when the baby came.
For now, Nash rinsed his hands, then dampened a washcloth he’d found mixed with the towels. When he rested it on Maisey’s forehead, she gifted him with a faint smile.
“Give me a sec,” he said, beyond flustered when she bore down, “to research emergency childbirth.”
“No—just hold me. Please.” Her pained and pleading expression gutted him. In that moment, Nash had never felt more helpless, yet more determined to see her baby’s delivery safely through.
He wrapped his arm around her slight shoulders and held one of her hands. She squeezed tight enough to cut off his circulation, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered but bringing her whatever comfort he could.
“Remember back in the swamp?” he asked, “When you said you loved me, but I was a dick and said I didn’t love you?”
“K-kinda hard to forget.” She shook from the force of her latest push.
“Yeah . . . Well, I lied. I’ve always loved you, but since Hope died, everything’s screwed up in my head.” Tears stung his eyes, and he found himself hating Vicente more than ever—not merely for being certifiable, but for landing her in this situation. She deserved better than giving birth in a musty-smelling old shack. A long time ago, she’d been his world. He’d have done anything for her, and he still would. He’d harbored such resentment toward her for turning down his proposal that he’d been open to a new relationship with Hope, whom he’d met a couple years after BUD/S training.
“I could have told you that.” She managed a teary laugh. “T-tell me about her.”
“No way. We should focus on you.”
“I’m sick of—arrrgggghh.” She squeezed his hand still tighter. “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts!”
“Sorry. Lean into me.” Nash tossed aside the comforter, repositioning himself to sit behind her like he’d seen guys do in Lamaze pamphlets. With her back against his chest, he felt her every shuddering effort. “Better?”
She nodded. “T-Tell me about her. I need a distraction.”
“Okay . . .” Where did he begin? “She was different from you. Tall, corporate-career-focused, with freckles and red hair and the temper to go along with it. She was always yelling at me for leaving a trail of dirty clothes and dishes.”
Maisey managed a laugh. “I like her.”
“She wanted kids. Bad. She came from a big family—was the youngest of eight brothers and sisters, and all of them already had big families. Over holidays, they’d razz us about being slow in the baby-making department, so when she found out she was pregnant, I’d never seen her happier.”
“Arrrggghhh!” She fought extra hard through her latest push. “H-How did you tell her family? Were they excited?”
“Over the moon.” For a moment, Nash squeezed his eyes shut, recalling how Hope had wrapped her positive pregnancy test in a gift box for him. “For her parents, she’d had me help her fill a big box with pink and blue helium-filled balloons. It was close to their anniversary, and we wrapped it in silver-foil paper. When those balloons rose from the box, her mother shrieked, then burst into tears. It was a seriously great moment.”
“I’ll bet. Did—” She stopped talking to make a terrifying cry. “S-Something’s happening!”
Nash shot into action, standing, then repositioning her, pushing the comforter back in place, then checking out the epicenter of action. “Holy crap, Mais. Your baby’s crowning. Push, sweetie. He’s almost here.”
Perched on the edge of the bench he’d earlier placed at the foot of the bed, he cupped his hands over her knees, hoping his touch conveyed at least a small part of his affection. Their lackluster surroundings faded until all that remained was the two of them in this most sacred of moments.
“Push, sweetie. You can do this. You’re almost done, and then you get to hold your little guy in your arms.”
She nodded and cried and wrenched her face into a mask of concentration.
With each push, the baby’s head escaped a fraction of an inch, and then with one last screaming, crying effort, the tiny precious infant practically tumbled into Nash’s outstretched arms.
Nash was crying and Maisey was crying and he felt he should say something profound, but had no words.
And then he froze in terror. The baby wasn’t breathing.
18
“MAIS, HE’S NOT breathing. What should I do?”
Adrenaline cleared Maisey’s exhaustion long enough to recall a passage she’d read in one of her baby books. “He probably needs suction, but cradle his chest against the palm of your hand and give his back a light thump with the heel of your hand.”
Nash did exactly as she’d advised and a second later, they were rewarded with her son’s first cry.
She exhaled the terror trapped in her lungs and smiled. I did it.
Her son was officially, safely in her world.
Nash gently nestled her baby boy against her chest, then covered him with a clean towel. “You did good, momma.”
“Thanks.” Whereas moments earlier she’d been in agonized tears, now, she couldn’t stop smiling. “That was intense.”
“No kidding. What do you want to do about cutting his cord? I snatched Santa’s phone. If I have a signal, want me to look it up online?”
She nodded. “Please.”
“Will do.” He rinsed his hands, then refreshed the washcloth with clean water. “Would you like to bathe him, or do you want me to?”
“I’m exhausted. Would it make me a horrible mom if I let you?”
“Not at all.” His sad, sweet smile flip-flopped her stomach. “Plus, I’d be honored. Let me get a fire going, and I’ll heat some water. Don’t want him catching a chill.”
“Sounds good.” She closed her eyes, hugging her son. “Nash?”
“Yeah?”
Maisey opened her eyes in time to see him pause by the door. Maybe it was her relieved, happy glow making her view the world in rose-colored glasses, but even covered in swamp muck, bug bites and bruises, the man was beyond gorgeous. He used to be hers, but she’d given him away. She’d been a fool. “You didn’t have to say you love me. I understand Hope was—still is—special to you.”
“Let’s get one thing straight.” He left the door to approach her, and then pressed a kiss to her forehead. Her chest squeezed with raw emotion. Why hadn’t he kissed her lips? “I didn’t tell you out of a sense of obligation, but because I do—love you. It’s complicated. What I feel for Hope is . . .”
“Unresolved?” she found the courage to ask. Obviously, understandably, he still loved his deceased wife. But would he always? Maisey couldn’t help but wonder if she was setting herself up for yet another romance fail by falling for him all over again.
He winced. “Guess that’s one way of looking at it.”
Maisey’s son stirred against her. My son. The phrase would never get old.
What
was old? Being alone. Even when things had been good with Vicente, looking back on it, he’d never been one hundred percent focused on her—not like Nash once had been. Not like he currently was. But his presence was temporary.
As soon as they returned to town, she’d report Vicente to police, and hopefully settle into a satisfying routine in Jacksonville. Maybe she’d one day meet a man who attracted her and challenged her half as much as Nash. Maybe she wouldn’t. Regardless, she had to make peace with that, because she no longer had the luxury of caring about only herself.
With Vicente, she’d made horrendous judgment calls, and that had to stop.
Nash was back. “Fire’s made. I found an old rain-filled cistern so we have plenty of water. Harvey was even kind enough to leave a nice, big crab-boil pot in the back of his truck.”
“That was thoughtful,” she said with a winced smile.
“I know, right?” He winked. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“Parched.”
He delivered a bottled water, and helped her drink. “I did some quick studying up on our situation, and you should breastfeed as soon as you’re ready. Plus, you should have delivered your placenta. Since I figure we’re only an hour or two from a hospital, let’s get you and your masterpiece cleaned and ready for travel, then let a doctor cut the cord and figure out what else is going on. Sound like a plan?”
Maisey nodded. Exhaustion made her limbs heavy and sluggish. All she wanted to do was hold her baby and sleep.
While Nash tenderly washed her and the baby with warm water, Maisey drifted in and out of consciousness. The baby fed for the first time, and the sensation swelled a whole new range of emotions. She wasn’t sure whether she was happy or sad or somewhere in between. In a perfect world, her son’s birth should have been a time of elation. But with his father trying to kill her, and take him from her, she couldn’t help but feel all the more on edge.
Though the day was sunny and warm, she also couldn’t stop shivering.
With Maisey holding the baby, Nash carried her to the truck. He draped Mildred’s comforter over the pair, and then climbed behind the wheel.
Had he doused the fire? She lacked the strength to ask—or do much of anything. Her thoughts had turned disjointed and when Nash shut the passenger-side truck door, she rested her head against the cool glass.
Maisey? Mais? Was Nash shaking her? She thought so, but couldn’t be sure.
The baby was crying. Maisey needed to get to him, but her arms and legs refused to work.
Mais! Talk to me. What’s wrong?
Behind her closed eyes, the day’s sun morphed to a chaotic swirl of orange and yellow, and then black . . .
19
NASH DROVE LIKE the proverbial bat out of hell until thirty minutes later reaching a town. He followed blue hospital signs, and then careened the truck beneath the ER canopy.
A guy in scrubs said, “Sir, you can’t park there.”
“My wi—” It had been on the tip of Nash’s tongue to call Maisey his wife, but she wasn’t. To call her his girlfriend felt somehow trite, yet if he were honest with himself, she sure as hell meant more to him than a casual friend. “She had a baby and she’s lost a lot of blood.”
The baby had been fitfully crying, but was now silent. Nash was in terror that something was wrong with him, too.
The orderly had been on the wrong side of the truck to have seen Maisey, but he now surged into action. Seconds later, Maisey and her baby had been moved from the truck to a gurney, then whisked behind glass doors.
Nash parked, then hiked back to the bustling ER lobby, unsure what to do with his hands. Yet again, he found himself in the uncomfortable, untenable position of not being in control, and he hated it.
“Sir,” a woman asked from behind a reception desk. “Was that your wife you brought in?”
No. But his twisted heart said, “Yes.”
“I’ll need you to fill out insurance information, then I’ll have someone take you to obstetrics to see her.”
He nodded, though his brain couldn’t quite process what she was saying.
Insurance? He clamped his hand to his forehead. He hadn’t even thought about it.
“Sir? If you’ll give me your ID and insurance card, I’ll get your wife—”
“We don’t have insurance.”
She raised her eyebrows, looking at him as if sprouts grew from his ears. “You’re sure?”
He nodded, then handed her a credit card.
What minimal part of his brain still functioning told Nash that even if he had lots of tidy documentation for Maisey, the last place he could use any of it was here. If Vicente had gone to the trouble to solicit help from his neighbors in finding Maisey, it wasn’t a great stretch to assume he probably had a guy in every ER within a couple hundred miles.
After running Nash’s card, the clerk asked an ungodly amount of questions that he answered with lies. She next presented him with a stack of papers to sign, which he did. And then a perky volunteer teen dressed in pink scrubs and a bouncy ponytail jabbered a mile a minute about how excited he must be to have a baby while leading him through a maze of corridors.
Nash tried his damnedest to memorize turns, but after about ten, gave up.
All he could think about was how gutted he’d feel if Maisey didn’t make it.
He’d already lost one woman he’d loved, because he hadn’t been with her. To now lose another? It was unthinkable.
The teen led Nash to a crowded waiting room, handed him a beeper, and told him someone would contact him soon.
Nash stumbled into a dark corner’s chair.
A couple of kids stared. Their mom took one startled glance at him, then barked at her rugrats to stay close.
He caught his reflection in the glass of a framed print, and saw why the woman had been alarmed. He looked like a serial killer. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he was covered in blood, his clothes were muddy and torn. His face and bare forearms were scratched and bruised and covered in bites.
His chest tightened to think poor Maisey looked even worse.
Pocketing the beeper, he headed for the nearest restroom to at least wash his hands and face. Finished, he looked a little more presentable, but not by much.
What was taking so long? Why hadn’t someone let him know the status of Maisey and her baby?
He paced the hall for a good ten minutes, then couldn’t tolerate the inaction a moment longer.
A nurse passed with a meds cart.
“Excuse me, ma’am . . .” Nash forced a deep breath and wielded the smile Maisey used to tease would charm the scales off a snake. “My wife and son were taken back a while ago, and I haven’t heard any news. Could you please check for me?”
“What’s the patient’s name?”
“Maisey Adamson.” The lie of her being his wife rolled easier and easier off his tongue. She typed the information into a laptop mounted to her cart. “She’s in surgery. But your son—”
“Surgery?”
“She’ll be fine.” She pressed her hand to his upper arm. “In layman’s terms, looks like she had a procedure for an invasive placenta. As soon as she’s done, your wife’s surgeon will be out to tell you more. In the meantime,” she pointed toward the nursery. “Your son is doing great. Would you like to hold him?”
“Thanks.” Nash had a tough time forcing the lone word through his tight throat.
“Your wife’s been assigned to Room 302. Meet me there and I’ll bring your son to you.”
Tears welling, Nash nodded, then headed that way.
In the minutes before the nurse returned, he paced like a madman.
He needed to call Maisey’s mom. She had to be out of her mind with worry. But so was he. Not only was he freaked out about Maisey’s well-being, but the fact that at any moment, Vicente and his men could show. Save for a couple knives, Nash was unarmed. Sure, Vicente would have to be an idiot to launch a firefight in a hospital maternity ward, but then Nash had also never e
xpected him to enlist helpers like Harvey and Mildred. He wanted his son, and had already proven he’d go to any lengths to make that acquisition a reality.
Nash thought he could handle this mission solo, but he’d been wrong on that fact, too. Time to call in the cavalry. He’d get Harding and Jasper on the horn, and see which guys were available on short notice.
What they’d do then, he wasn’t sure, but preserving his pride was no longer an option. And if he were dead honest with himself, that’s what turned this whole thing bad. Having lost Hope while he’d been overseas, he’d told himself that if only he’d been there, maybe she and their baby might have been saved. But clearly he wasn’t a one-man solution to Maisey’s every problem.
He’d been a damned fool for initially believing he was.
The door opened, and the nurse who had earlier helped, wheeled in a cart that held a clear acrylic tub with Maisey’s son. “Here he is.” She held out a blue hospital gown. “If you don’t mind, since you’re a little . . .” She gestured to Nash’s muddy, bloody shirt. “Please put this on over your clothes, then wash your hands. Once you’re done, have a seat and I’ll hand him to you.”
“Sure.” He took the gown from her, then peered at the baby boy he’d helped bring into the world. “He’s so small.”
“Five pounds, twelve-ounces. I’ve seen bigger, but his lungs are strong, and he has a great appetite. As soon as Mommy’s feeling better, she can start breastfeeding.”
“Good.” After completing his assigned lists of prerequisites for holding the infant, he sat on the upholstered bench seat that ran the length of the room’s large picture window.
“One more thing.” She took a hospital name band from the pocket of her scrub top. “If you could please show me ID, you’ll need to wear this as long as your little one is admitted. It’s a safety precaution.” She smiled. “We haven’t switched a baby yet, but these days, you never can be too careful.”
“True.” He showed her his driver’s license, washed his hands again, settled back onto his former bench seat, then held out his arms to receive precious cargo.
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