by Rebecca York
And Dr. Goodman was striding toward her, his white coat billowing out
behind him.
'Dr. "Everything's going to be fine."
The nurse rushed her into one of the rooms off the corridor.
Someone else helped her out of her clothes into a hospital gown, and
onto a rolling cart.
Quick, urgent conversations swirled around her.
"Precipitous labor."
"Fetal monitor."
"Thirty-two weeks."
"Get Wilmer here, stat."
"Willman?"
"Wilmer. The neonatologists" Abby's hands clenched the sides of the
cart.
Please, she prayed silently, please let my baby be all right.
She felt tears stinging the backs of her eyes.
"It'll stop hurting soon. You're almost ready to deliver."
The tears weren't for the pain.
They were for her daughter.
But she could barely talk-and why waste energy trying to explain?
The doors of the delivery room whooshed open, bathing her in antiseptic
smell and bright lights.
Someone adjusted the table.
Another person draped her legs and then moved equipment into
position.
"I ... have ... to... push," Abby gasped.
"Not yet. Pant," Abby did her best to fight the urge.
Dr. Goodman came in, his face covered by a green mask.
Quickly he bent to examine her.
The need to push seized her again.
"I-" "Go for it! " Firm hands propped up her shoulders.
With a satisfied grunt, Abby bore down.
"That's good."
When the contraction was over, she flopped back, exhausted with the
effort.
The pattern was repeated three or four times.
Abby felt exhilarated.
Moments ago she'd been helpless to control her body.
Now she was working to birth the baby.
"Here comes another one. Take a deep breath."
Abby gave it her all, feeling a tingling, stretching sensation as she
pushed.
In the mirror above the delivery table, she saw the top of the baby's
head.
"You're doing great," Dr. Goodman encouraged.
With the next contraction, she saw her baby's head emerge.
The next push delivered her shoulders.
Then Dr. Goodman was holding a red, wrinkled little body.
Abby held her breath.
Why didn't the baby cry?
A weak, barely audible sound made her try to reach forward.
The same hands that had helped her up pressed down on her shoulders.
"Please ... I... is she all right?"
No one in the room responded to her frantic plea.
Instead the medical team was focused on Shannon.
One of the nurses rushed the baby to the side of the room.
Then a green-clad figure was bending over the baby, doing things that
brought a wave of terror crashing against Abby's chest.
Chapter Two
What's wrong?
What is he doing to her?
" Abby choked out.
"It's all right. It's perfectly normal," the nurse soothed.
Abby paid no heed to the automatic, reassuring words.
An eternity passed as she waited tensely for the real verdict.
Then the man who.
had been working over Shannon was standing beside the delivery,
table.
"Dr. Franklin, I'm Dr. Wilmer.
"Please. What about my daughter?"
"Naturally, her'birth weight's low-not quite three and a half
pounds-which means she's going to have to stay in the hospital for a
few weeks."
Abby watched his eyes.
The eyes told you when a person was lying-or trying to soften a
shocking verdict.
"But her APGAR score is good, and she's breathing normally, which is
always our biggest worry with preemies. As of now, I don't see any
other major problems."
The terrible tight feeling in Abby's soul eased up as tears of relief
began to stream down her cheeks.
"Can I hold her?"
"She's going directly to the neonatal unit. But as soon as you're up
to moving about, you can go down there and visit."
Abby turned her head and stared at the tiny new life in the little
cart.
Her daughter and Steve's.
She wanted so badly to cradle her infant in her arms.
But a moment later, a nurse wheeled the incubator cart away and Dr.
Goodman was speaking to Abby, telling her he was going to stitch her
up.
He worked quickly, and soon she was moved from the table back onto a
cart of her own.
Abby's eyelids fluttered as she gave in to exhaustion.
Then a loud scuffle on the other side of the double doors brought her
back to alertness.
"I want to see my wife. Now.
"You can't go in there," a woman protested.
"The bell I can't."
"Call security."
"Steve."
Abby's voice was weak, but it got the nurse's attention.
"That's my husband. Let him in, please."
A minute later, a frantic-looking Steve, his clothes more or less
covered by a hastily donned surgical gown, exploded through the door.
Under his tan, his skin was gray.
And his blue eyes had the bright, menacing look of an animal defending
its mate.
His gaze zeroed in on Abby.
For a moment suspended in time, he didn't move.
She watched his whole expression change from stark fear to apology.
"I'm sorry."
The words were barely above a whisper, but she heard.
She stretched her arm toward him.
In two quick steps, he was beside her.
"I'm sorry," he repeated.
"I should have been here."
"You didn't know this was going to happen."
He nodded tightly.
"Abby, sweetheart, are you okay?"
4 ' Yes.
"Thank the Lord."
He seized her hand, but his gaze swung frantically around the delivery
room and then back to her.
"The baby. Where's the baby?"
Abby's gaze was riveted to his face.
All at once she knew what her panic a few minutes ago must have looked
like to the hospital staff.
"They've taken her to the neonatal nursery. The doctor said she's
breathing okay, and there aren't any major problems, just her low birth
weight."
"Thank God," he repeated, the words sighing out from the depths of his
soul.
She threaded her fingers through his, clinging with all the energy she
still possessed to the warmth and reassurance of his flesh.
FINGERS WOVEN TIGHTLY with Abby's, Steve stayed at his wife's side as
two nurses.
- moved her to a private room.
Impatiently, he paced back and forth while they made sure she was doing
all right.
Finally, the two of them were alone and he could lean over her, touch
her face, smooth back a lock of damp hair from her forehead.
He wished he could say everything that was bottled up inside him, but
words had never come easily to him.
Especially not now.
"Oh, Steve," Abby murmured, lifting her arms toward him.
Until that moment, he wasn't really sure how she felt.
Gratefully, he sank against her warmth, pulling her gently t
o him.
"Abby. Abby."
Then his lips were on hers in a deep kiss that shook him to his soul.
I love you.
I'm sorry.
I was so scared.
Forgive me.
He put the silent entreaty into the kiss-and felt her give him back the
same heartfelt emotions.
He closed his eyes and clung to her, wishing he could lie down beside
her on the bed and gather her close.
When he finally drew back, he wiped his hand across his eyes.
"Tell me what happened."
"It was all so fast."
She told him some of it, about getting to the hospital and being rushed
to the delivery room.
He suspected she was withholding the worst.
God, it must have been awful.
Frightening.
Painful.
He knew she hadn't had any anesthetic, and she'd barely practiced the
breathing techniques they'd started learning in class.
They probably hadn't helped her.
"I called your office, but Jan said you were out at some meeting."
"Yeah, some meeting," he muttered under his breath.
Immediately he wished he'd kept the observation to himself, because he
knew she'd caught the odd inflection in his voice.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he denied quickly.
"It's not important."
He smiled down at her reassuringly.
"Tell me about the baby. Who does she look like?"
"It's hard to say. She's so small, and I only got to see her for a
minute."
Her eyes grew misty as she tried to fill in the details he'd missed out
on.
"I guess if we're going to talk about her we ought to give her a
name.
We should have discussed some."
"I-I know. But I've been thinking about it," Abby told him
hesitantly.
"You don't want to name her after your Great-Aunt Hepsabah, do you?"
he teased.
She dredged up a little grin, but in the next moment her expression
became watchful.
"No. I was thinking about Shannon. For your sister, Sharon."
He went very still, conscious of Abby's anxious eyes on his face.
It had been more than three years since Sharon's murder; he still
mourned the loss.
Experimentally, he tried out the name.
"Shannon Claiborne."
"Would you ... mind? Would it make you feel sad?"
"No. Shannon Claiborne has a nice ring. And I know Sharon would have
liked it, too."
They were both quiet for a moment.
Then, without warning, he saw something on her face that made his heart
stop and start up again double-time.
"Sweetheart. What? What's wrong? Are you in pain? Should I get the
doctor?"
Strugglipg to a sitting position, she gripped his arm.
"I've got to see her! I've got.to make sure she's really all right."
"Abby, you've just given birth. You-" "You can Mike them let me go to
her," she interrupted.
"I saw how you battl4 your way into the delivery room. Not even that
Amazon nurse could stop you. They won't stop you from getting me a
wheelchair.."
He stared at her helplessly.
"You shouldn't be out of bed."
"Maybe. But I'm going to the neonatal nursery to see Shannon. You can
either find me a wheelchair, or I'm going to walk."
Determination had stiffened every muscle in her face.
She meant what she said.
"All right."
Steve turned toward the door so she couldn't read his expression.
He hadn't been there to drive her to the hospital.
He hadn't been with her when Shannon was born.
Now she was asking something from him-and he was going to make sure she
got what she wanted.
Unless the medical staff said she was taking too much of a risk getting
up so soon.
Then he'd help them tie her to the bed if that was the only way to make
her take care of herself.
He started down the hall, his hands clenched at his sides.
It was easier to focus on Abby's request than on the reason why he
hadn't been here an hour ago.
Yet he had to think about that, too.
He'd missed the birth of his daughter because he'd been in a motel room
lying his head off to two government agents.
If that's what they really were.
He shuddered.
Those two goons had threatened his wife and child.
And he was damn well going to make sure they were protected.
HE WAS GOING to get used to the tubes and the wires and the monitoring
machines, Steve thought as Abby palmed the latch on the neonatology
nursery door.
Which was why Abby had been down here ten times to his every one.
Shannon was two weeks old.
Neither of them had even picked her up.
Abby could hardly stand it.
She wanted to hold her daughter in her arms and nurse her, not just
bring bottles of her milk to the hospital.
He was secretly relieved by the restrictions.
If he lifted his daughter's tiny body in his clumsy hands, he'd
probably break her.
He'd tried to act as if he was taking Abby's pregnancy in stride, but
he knew he hadn't fooled her.
And his fear of failure as a parent had grown worse as her body had
filled out.
But until Shannon was born, the scenes he'd pictured between himself
and his offspring had been based on memories of himself as a
hard-as-nails seven-year-old.
A little boy trying to pretend it didn't matter that he could never do
anything right as far as his old man was concerned.
Or of a twelve-year-old getting his hide tanned for running away.
Or a fifteen-year-old who'd taken his father's Caddy and crashed it
into a stone wall along Green Spring Valley Road.
Mostly, he'd pictured a large, angry man standing over a defenseless
kid, demanding perfection.
He hadn't really thought about little babies.
Or the responsibility of caring for a tiny human life so fragile that
she needed to beprotected in a little plastic crib, walled off from
danger.
Walled off from him.
Abby leaned over the isolette where Shannon lay and reached through the
slot in the side, her hand cupping around the tiny head of hair.
Dark.
Like Abby's.
Would it stay that way?
Abby stroked her daughter's soft cheek and checked the diaper under
her.
They didn't try.
to pin them on to a kid that small.
"She doesn't need changing."
' 'Yeah.
Abby began to talk to Shannon in that soft, motherly way she had, and
Steve glanced at the monitor, watching in renewed wonder as the baby's
heart rate slowed.
Shannon liked the sound of her mother's voice.
Or at least that was what the nurse had said.
He came up behind Abby and awkwardly grasped her shoulder.
"She gained another ounce yesterday," she murmured.