The Marriage Maker

by Christie Ridgway

  Well over 98.6.

  Clamping down on a strange nervousness—at Bean sprouts they handled kids with temperatures weekly!—Cleo reached for the infant pain-reliever drops. Squinting at the dosage while she tried to soothe the baby, Cleo considered calling Ethan in to help.

  But he’d hired—no, married—her for her experience. She could do this, even though she suddenly realized that she was not quite as calm and cool as when a Beansprouts’s kid was sick or injured. “Oh, Jonah,” she whispered, putting down the drops to run her hand over his wispy hair. “You’re mine now, and I want to make you feel better so badly.”

  With new resolve, Cleo unwrapped the tamper-proof bottle of medication and filled the dropper with the proper dosage.

  Jonah batted her hand away, though, and the dropper fell into the sink. “Okay, okay,” she whispered, shifting the baby to her other shoulder. She fished the dropper out, cleaned it, then sucked medicine inside it again, all the while trying not to worry over Jonah’s unhappy snuffling.

  This time she was ready for his hands. She avoided their reach, and quickly squeezed the medication into his mouth. He blinked, hiccuped, and then some of the sticky red stuff dribbled out of his mouth and onto her sleeve.

  Cleo stared down in dismay at the stain on her sleeve, trying to judge how much he’d actually swallowed. But then Jonah started crying again, harder now, and Cleo gave up. Her hair was damp, her hands sticky, and her uneasiness was back, big-time.

  She gently cradled Jonah against her, as much for his comfort as for her own. “It’s okay, baby,” she whispered over and over. She paced the room, patting his back and crooning.

  “Okay, okay, okay.” That’s what she’d promised Ethan. She would be okay. Jonah would be okay. Please.

  Whether it was thanks to the medicine or thanks to her pacing, in a few minutes Jonah dropped off again. Cleo carefully put him back in his crib, but she stood over it, watching him sleep.

  “Is everything all right?” a low voice suddenly asked in her ear.

  Cleo jumped and goose bumps trickled down her back. “You scared me,” she whispered accusingly.

  Ethan was watching Jonah. “He’s quiet now. I came to see if you needed help earlier, but you were walking back and forth and he looked ready to sleep. I didn’t want to disturb him.”

  “He’s a little warm,” she said, continuing to watch Ethan watch Jonah. There was something on his face, a yearning, maybe, that she’d never detected before.

  His hand reached out, but stopped short of touching the baby’s blond hair. He minutely adjusted the light blanket covering the baby. “Is it something to be concerned about?”

  Cleo didn’t want it to be. “No. I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said, keeping her voice very low. “He could be teething. I gave him some medicine, though.”

  “Good.” His gaze stayed fixed on the baby.

  “He looks like you,” Cleo found herself saying. She’d noticed it before, but had never expressed it to Ethan. “Not just the coloring, but the shape of his eyes and his mouth.”

  “You think so?” Ethan’s lips quirked in an almost smile. “Della and I looked quite a bit alike, so maybe it’s not so surprising.”

  He hadn’t mentioned his sister in a long time. But Della had been on Cleo’s mind a lot, especially since Mrs. Coving ton had talked about her. “Is that who Jonah gets his sunny disposition from, Della?”

  Ethan shot her a glance. “Well, I don’t think you could claim that about me, could you?”

  Cleo shifted her gaze to the baby again. “Oh, I don’t know. You can be very charming. But you know that.”

  “Charming.” Ethan’s voice held humor as he ran a slow finger down Cleo’s cheek. “I like that.”

  Her face heated. “It’s the deal-maker in you, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe.” The amusement left his voice. “Though that makes me sound shallow.”

  Cleo shook her head. “You’re not shallow, Ethan. Never that. But…contained, I guess is the word.” He had walls around him that she wasn’t sure could ever be breached. Or that she could breach, anyway. Maybe some other woman.

  Ethan cleared his throat. “Della used to tell me I was a cold fish.”

  Cleo couldn’t help herself. “Well, that I know is not true.”

  His gaze jumped to hers. She raised her eyebrows, meeting the in credible blue without flinching.

  He shook his head, then chuckled. “You surprise me some times.”

  Cleo let it go at that. But maybe that was what she needed to do more often. Surprise him.

  After a few more moments Ethan wandered away to complete his packing and make a few phone calls. Without acknowledging how worried she was, Cleo remained by the baby’s bedside. When he woke up thirty minutes later, Cleo instantly put down her book and rose from the rocking chair.

  He was hardly fretting at all; as a matter of fact he appeared more listless than she’d ever seen him. Cleo took the baby in her arms, and knew instantly that his temperature had risen.

  She swallowed a bubble of panic. She forced down the instant urge to call out for Ethan.

  He would be leaving for the long drive to the airport shortly. She would just call the pediatrician, make an appointment and get her fears calmed by a professional.

  Keeping her arms protectively around Jonah, she headed for the kitchen and her address book.

  But her fears were escalated instead of soothed when the nurse who answered the phone insisted Cleo come in immediately. High temperatures for infants under a year old could be particularly dangerous, the woman explained.

  Cleo felt strangled. She could hardly get out enough breath to finish the phone call. “Ethan!” she called.

  His brow furrowed, he appeared in the kitchen. “What’s the matter?”

  Cleo opened her mouth, then closed it. He was wearing one of his deal-maker suits and, as usual, it added another layer to that protective wall of his. Mentally forcing down her panic, she spoke again, more quietly. “I just wanted you to know I’m taking Jonah to the doctor. His fever seems to be getting worse.”

  Ethan frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  Cleo wanted to scream that she didn’t, either, but there wasn’t any reason to worry Ethan. That was her job, to calmly, practically, capably, handle these kinds of minor crises. That’s why he’d married her. “It’ll be okay,” she said firmly.

  His gaze raked her face, and she struggled to keep it composed. “You’re sure?”

  Cleo’s stomach was flip-flopping with nervousness, but she refused to let him see it. “I’m sure,” she said. “I’ll just put a few things in the diaper bag and be on my way.”

  In Jonah’s room, she had to put the baby in the crib to restock the bag with diapers and an extra outfit. She breathed deeply of the baby-powder scent of the room, trying to calm herself, but when she couldn’t seem to unzip the bag, Cleo realized her hands were shaking. Shaking hard.

  She bit down on her lower lip, scolding herself. She was good in emergencies, darn it. Everybody said so. It had always been so.

  At the sound of Jonah’s little whimper, she rushed over and picked him up again. But she’d never had her own child. His over heated skin and listless gaze scared the heck out of her.

  She’d never had her own sick child.

  Only by admonishing herself to focus, could Cleo get herself and the baby ready. With Jonah in her arms and the diaper bag slung over her shoulder, she hurried down the hall to the kitchen. “Keys,” she said softly to the baby. “We just have to find my keys and then we can get you some help, sweetheart. Mommy’s going to take very good care of you.”

  Cleo’s keys were missing from their convenient little hook. Her stomach roiled as she tried to think of where they could be. In another panic, she whirled.

  To face Ethan. There was a tight expression on his face. “I’ll drive you,” he said.

  Drive her! She almost sank to the floor with gratefulness. But no. A capable,
practical woman wouldn’t need to be driven to a doctor’s appointment. “I’ll be fine,” she said. Of course she would be.

  His mouth tightened. “For God’s sake, for once—” He stopped, his voice quieting. “Cleo, you’re shaking all over. I’m not letting you drive…our son.”

  Our son. Cleo wanted to think about those words, but her worry was taking over again. Ethan steered her toward the door and she realized he was right. Her whole body was trembling, and continued to tremble for the entire drive to the doctor’s office.

  In the back of Ethan’s Range Rover, Cleo sat next to Jonah’s car seat, so that she could stroke the baby’s arm, his hand, his hair. “I love you,” she whispered.

  She prayed, too.

  Ethan hated hospitals. He hated the smells and the lights and the quiet soles on the nurses’ shoes. The last time he’d been in one was to say goodbye to his sister.

  And now his sister’s son was in another anti septic, bright and too quiet hospital room.

  It had all happened so damn quickly. He and Cleo had taken Jonah into the pediatrician’s examining room. The nurse had taken his temperature. Then the doctor had hurried in and quite calmly, matter-of-factly, told them to drive to the hospital. He would call ahead so they would be ready for Jonah.

  When babies had temperatures as high as Jonah’s, the pediatrician had explained it could be a sign of a bacterial infection that could lead to…Ethan couldn’t even wrap his mind around what could happen.

  Once at the hospital, some of Jonah’s spinal fluid had been immediately drawn. Now they would have to wait for the results. The cultures that would specify the seriousness of the illness would take three days to develop. In the meantime, Jonah would remain in the hospital and be treated with antibiotics in case it was bacterial. The only comforting thing to remember was that this practice was standard.

  The walls of the hospital room were painted cream and green. The linoleum floor was a darker green. Jonah appeared small and fragile lying in a stainless-steel crib.

  “It looks like a cage,” Ethan muttered. When Cleo didn’t respond, he turned his head toward her. A green rocking chair sat to one side of the crib. She had slid into it earlier, but she wasn’t rocking. Perched on the edge of the seat, she stared in front of her, unseeing.

  Something cold and sharp pierced Ethan’s chest. “Cleo?”

  Her eyes flickered, and then she focused on him. “What?”

  Her eyes were like amethyst crystals. For a moment he imagined he could look clear through them, straight into her soul, straight into—

  He shook himself. “Do you want me to call someone? Your mother or your sister?”

  Her eyes were unfocused again, but she managed to shake her head. “Not now. Not yet.”

  “God,” he muttered, looking away from her face. “It’s cold in here.” But even colder was the chill in his blood. Cleo was still shaking, finely trembling all over, and watching her was almost worse than watching Jonah.

  With a smothered oath, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and strode over to drop it around Cleo’s fragile shoulders. When she didn’t move, he tugged up the collar and brought the edges close together. “There,” he said firmly.

  There. He’d done what he could for her now. Provided for her.

  With two strides he crossed the small room and stood beside the narrow window, staring out over the parking lot and into a small slice of the Montana sky. He tried to focus on his current project. He tried to dredge up the list of calls he knew he needed to make.

  He tried damn hard to detach himself from the scene behind him. The child in the hospital crib. The woman in the rocking chair.

  Instead, he turned around. Instead, he watched them for hours, as day darkened into night. Nurses and doctors bustled in and out. Jonah woke up, Cleo fed him a bottle, Jonah went back to sleep, Cleo went back to staring in front of her. And trembling. Always trembling.

  He didn’t know exactly what time it was, but it was fully dark when Cleo finally looked at him. “It’s late,” she said, and there was surprise in her voice.

  Ethan left his place by the window and approached her. “Do you need something? We haven’t eaten.” He hadn’t even thought about it. “Can I—”

  Cleo shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

  “What about coffee?” Hell, he wanted to do something.

  Jonah whimpered. Cleo’s head whipped around and they both rushed to the crib. When the baby saw them bending over him, his mouth moved into a little smile.

  Another cold and sharp pain stabbed Ethan’s chest.

  Cleo took him up in her arms. “What a good boy,” she said. She put her cheek against his hair. “Mommy’s good boy.”

  Ethan looked away. He didn’t know why. As Cleo murmured to the baby, he retreated to his spot by the window. More time passed and Jonah must have fallen asleep again because Cleo put him down in the crib.

  A nurse came in on her quiet shoes and checked on the baby, then someone else brought in a narrow cot. “For the mama,” the man said with a quick smile. On its middle were stacked a thin pillow and a mint-green blanket.

  Cleo looked over at Ethan, then slipped his jacket off her shoulders. At some point she’d put her arms through the sleeves and rolled them up. Now she unfolded them, sending him a small, apologetic smile. “Here,” she said, holding it out to him. “Thank you.”

  It wasn’t any warmer in the hospital room. At least it wasn’t to him. “Keep it,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I’m going to use the blanket.” She pointed at the cot. “Why don’t you go on home?”

  Go on home. That was a good idea. He could go into his office. Fire up the laptop. Do some work. Send some faxes. Check his e-mail.

  Anything to forget about Jonah in his stainless-steel cage and Cleo, with her amethyst-crystal eyes and her shivering body. He opened his mouth. “No” came out.

  Her brows came together. “Why not? You could get some rest.”

  A very definite no. Hell. The last thing he’d be able to do was go to that bed they’d shared the past two nights and sleep.

  A feathery shiver tickled his spine as he remembered the sensation of Cleo’s skin against his palms, of sinking into her hot, still climaxing body. He wanted to touch her, taste her again.

  He wouldn’t go back to that bed until she was there beside him.

  “I’ll stay right here,” he said.

  “I can handle it,” she said defensively.

  Ethan frowned. What did she mean, she could handle it? Hell, he wanted her to handle it. He worked best when emotions were at a minimum and, take it from him, hospitals weren’t the kinds of places that minimized emotions. But maybe it was because he couldn’t get Della out of his mind, or maybe it was because he knew Cleo’s eyes would haunt him if he left her here. “I won’t be in your way.”

  She turned away from him wearily, and they retreated to their separate corners. He shifted against the ugly green vinyl chair beneath the window. Cleo curled up on the cot.

  Hours went by and neither of them spoke. Jonah slept, thank God. And then so did Cleo.

  It was well after midnight when, restless, Ethan found the controls to the television in the corner of the room. He turned it in his direction then thumbed it on—no volume. The flickering images offered him a flat, sterile kind of company.

  During the third-in-a-row rerun of episodes of the “I Love Lucy” show, Jonah whimpered. Ethan immediately looked toward Cleo. She didn’t move. The baby whimpered again, louder, and Ethan pushed to his feet.

  Cleo had looked exhausted before they arrived at the hospital. If he could quiet the baby, he guess he’d give it a try.

  Over the side of the crib, he peered at Jonah’s face. The baby was looking in the other direction, his eyes open. Then his face screwed up, readying itself for another wail. “Champ,” Ethan whispered softly. “Over here, champ.”

  Jonah’s head rolled on the mattress and his expression eased.

 
“That’s right,” Ethan whispered. “I’m here, champ.” Champ. Where the hell had that come from? He’d completely forgotten the pet name Della had called her son.

  Jonah whimpered again. Apparently a few words in the night wasn’t enough to comfort him. Casting a quick glance to make sure that Cleo was still undisturbed, Ethan scooped Jonah up into his arms. Jonah blinked. Ethan blinked back.

  “That’s right, champ. The guys are going to handle this one. We’re going to let Cleo sleep.”

  With quiet footsteps he retreated to the window. The two of them looked out on that slice of sky. Ethan counted the stars in their little rectangle of darkness. “Five,” he whispered to the baby. “There are five twinkling stars.” His gaze snagged on the baby’s face and his wide-eyed expression.

  He looks like Della. Cleo had said Jonah resembled him, but she hadn’t known his sister. Thinking of Della, he felt another stab of that cold pain pierce him, and Ethan sucked in a breath. But the pain didn’t subside and he couldn’t seem to sidestep it.

  He stared down into the baby’s face. “Your mama was special,” he whispered. “And I still can’t believe she’s gone. I always watched out for her, always.”

  Ethan glanced up at those five twinkling stars. Maybe it was Della’s turn now. He gathered the baby closer and squeezed shut his eyes. Watch over him, sis. Watch over Cleo, too.

  Watch over the three of us.

  Ethan breathed easier after that. Jonah fell asleep against his chest, and he reluctantly laid him back in his crib, thinking the baby might have a more comfort able rest. Soon after, Cleo stirred, and through slitted eyelids he watched her get up to check on the baby.

  She stood by the baby’s crib for almost an hour. Ethan thought about telling her to lie back down. He thought about joining her. But instead he watched her. Her hands gripped the top rail of the crib and she took in long breaths.

  His chest ached again, damn it. Ethan tried avoiding the hurt by avoiding the sight of Cleo. He closed his eyes.

  Watch over her, he told Della again.

  Suddenly it was morning.

  He blinked, stretched, his muscles as stiff as an over baked pretzel. Jonah slept.