by Linda Ladd
"Tyler, sweetheart, please let me hold the baby for a while. You need to rest now. You're very sick." Gray's voice sounded flat and dead; his face was haggard and drawn, with several days' growth of black beard.
Chase felt the most terrible knot of sorrow tighten inside his chest. It could easily have been Carlisle, lying there holding her dead child, he thought, and he knew the pain that Gray was experiencing. Beside him, Carlisle wept, and he held her gently against him as the doctor tiptoed to them, his face grave.
“I'm Carly's husband," Chase told him in a hushed tone.
"Then you're Tyler's cousin? Good, I'm glad you're here. She'll need all of us, poor lamb. Gray finally persuaded her to take the laudanum, so she'll sleep soon. Then we should be able to remove the child from her." The doctor's lined face suddenly fell and he took off his wire-rimmed glasses and wiped his eyes.
Deep inside, Chase's own cry of grief fought to be heard as Tyler began to mumble to Gray again, her voice slurred by the sleeping drug.
"He has such pretty black hair, just like yours, Gray," she said. "I told Carly he'd look like you. Didn't I, Carly?" She frowned, turning her head groggily. "Carly? Are you here?"
Carlisle moved quickly to the bedside and picked up Tyler's hand.
"Yes, darling, I'm right here. He's beautiful, just like you said he'd be."
Tyler smiled a little, her eyes burning with fever. "Yes, he's the most beautiful little boy in the world," she said proudly. Then her eyes closed, and her breathing became less labored.
Carlisle bent over Tyler's hand, sobbing quietly. Harriet wept behind her, consoled by her husband. Chase watched Gray, who sat like a man of stone, staring down at his wife and son. After some time had passed, Dr. Bond moved behind Gray and laid a hand on his back.
"She's asleep now, Gray." He paused. "We're going to have to take the baby now. I'm sorry."
Gray didn't answer, didn't move. Carlisle raised her face, but no one else stirred. A moment later, Gray reached forward and put his hands on the baby. Tyler's arms tightened instinctively, and a deep, tortured sound was torn from Gray's throat.
"I don't think I can do it," he said, his voice so hoarse that it was nearly inaudible.
"Here, Gray, let me help you," Chase said quietly, but Gray didn't seem to hear. Again he attempted to take the baby, and this time Tyler's arms fell away. Very gently, Gray lifted the child into the crook of his right arm. He held it there for a long moment, gazing down upon its face, then turned quickly and handed the swaddled bundle to Dr. Bond. Without another word, he left the room with long, hurried strides.
As Harriet retucked the covers around Tyler, Carlisle cried against Chase's chest, and he was suddenly very concerned about her own condition.
"You need to rest, Carly. How long have you been up?"
"I don't know. Ever since the baby began to fail."
"She's exhausted. Put her to bed. I'll stay here with Tyler," Harriet Bond told him.
At the door, Dr. Bond handed him a dark green bottle containing laudanum. "Let your husband give you a dose of this, Carly, you hear me? We don't want you getting sick, too. Get some sleep and let Harriet and me worry about Gray and Tyler. God knows, you've done your part."
Carlisle walked obediently at Chase's side, her tears finally spent. She made no complaint as he helped her out of her gown and into bed.
"Take this. It'll help you sleep," he told her, measuring out a spoonful of the medicine. "You must think of our baby, too."
She accepted the laudanum, then reclined wearily against the pillows.
"Lie down beside me, Chase. I need you to be close."
Chase was more than ready to oblige, and he joined her in the bed, drawing her up against him. He kissed the top of her head. "I'm here now, querida, and I'll take care of you. Just relax and try to sleep."
"I'm afraid to close my eyes," she murmured. "I'm afraid you're a dream and you'll be gone when I wake up."
“I'm no dream," he whispered. "I'll be here, I promise you."
She slept almost at once, her body pressed against his side, and after a while, he felt his child move inside her. His grip on her tightened, and he knew he'd never leave her again, not as long as he breathed.
A soft tap on the door awakened Chase, and he sat up, groggy with drowsiness. The rapping sounded insistently, and as Chase stood up, Carlisle struggled into a sitting position.
"What's wrong? Is it Tyler?" she cried urgently, and Chase's hand found her in the darkness while he fumbled for the lamp. It flared, illuminating Carlisle's frightened face.
"No, querida, but someone's at the door."
"Carlisle? Mr. Lancaster? Please, you must wake up!" called a voice from outside.
"That's Harriet," Carlisle said, hugging her shoulders in the chill air as Chase quickly crossed the room and admitted the older woman.
Harriet carried an oil lamp, and the light cast flickering shadows on her tired, worried face. She was dressed in a long white flannel nightgown.
"Please forgive me for intruding, Mr. Lancaster, but I didn't know what else to do. Charles must stay with Tyler."
"Tyler's not worse, is she?" Carlisle cried from the bed.
Harriet shook her head. "No, Carly, dear, she's still sound asleep, the poor child. But Charles says she's much better. It's Gray I'm worried about. Hildie woke me a moment
ago, scared to death. She says he's been drinking all night in his office, and now he's locked himself in the nursery. He won't let me in, and I don't know what to do."
"Stay here, Carly," Chase told her. "I'll see about Gray."
"But I should go! He needs me!" Carlisle protested.
"Not if he's been drinking too much. Please, Carly, I can handle this better than you can."
Leaning over her, he kissed her lips, then covered her again before hurrying outside to where Harriet waited by the banister. Several of the gas jets were burning, and faraway, muffled crashes and the breaking of glass could be heard at the rear of the house.
Harriet led Chase toward the nursery, and he tried the brass doorknob. As Harriet had said, it was locked.
"Gray?" he called, banging on the door. "It's Chase. Let me in!"
There was no answer, and Chase turned to Harriet. "There should be a skeleton key for this door. Do you know where it's kept?"
"No, but Hildie does." She turned to the young, freckle-faced maid huddled on a nearby chair. "Run and fetch it, Hildie. Hurry!"
The sounds of destruction coming from inside the nursery continued until the maid ran up the steps again a few minutes later, the key in her hand.
"Go on now, both of you. I'll try to get him undressed and into bed."
Chase waited for them to move off down the hall. Then he turned the key and pushed open the door.
One gas jet glowed in its wall sconce near the window, though most of the large room was cloaked in deep shadows. Gray was staggering around, very drunk, clutching the neck of a whiskey bottle in one hand. He nearly tripped on the small crib lying on its side in the middle of the floor. Then as Chase watched, he flung out one arm, clearing the top of the dresser with one hard sweep, sending the neatly stacked blankets, baby cups, and toys flying in every direction. Gray cursed, lunging for the lightweight changing table, raising it over his head and sending it splintering against the wall.
Chase stood very still while Gray continued his grief-stricken rage. He knew how it felt, the hopelessness, frustration, and pain. He'd felt that way when Esteban had died saving his life, and he'd felt it when Carlisle had walked out on him.
There was nothing he could do to stop his friend's suffering, and no words would comfort him—not now, just hours after he had lost his firstborn son. Chase shut the door behind him and leaned against it, watching Gray until the distraught man stopped to catch his breath and tip the whiskey bottle to his mouth.
"Gray, you've got to stop this," he said calmly. "You're going to wake up Tyler. You don't want to do that, do you?"
His v
oice seemed to permeate Gray's stupor, and he lost his balance when he tried to take a step toward Chase, staggering to one side and peering blearily toward the door.
"Get the hell out of here, damn you!" he roared hoarsely. "Just leave me alone!"
He took a deep draught, and Chase moved closer. Gray was a big man, well over six feet. Ordinarily, Chase could hold his own against him, but at the moment, Gray was drunk and violent. Warily, Chase stopped a few feet away from him.
"I know this is hard, Gray, but you've got to get hold of yourself. Tyler needs you to be strong for her."
All the anger and animosity drained from Gray's face, replaced by raw, biting anguish.
"Tyler. Oh, God, Tyler wanted this baby so badly! I shouldn't have let her go out in the sleigh, but she begged me! Goddamn it, why did I have to let her go? She'll never get over this, never!"
Chase winced, aching for the bereaved man. "Yes, she will. You both will. It'll just take time—"
Gray's head jerked up, and Chase ducked as Gray suddenly hurled the bottle at him. It hit the door with a crash, spattering whiskey and shards of glass everywhere.
"What the hell do you know? You didn't lose your son, damn you to hell!"
He kicked out furiously at a small blue rocking horse, sending it skidding across the carpet to smash against the wall, then lost his balance and nearly went down. Chase grabbed his arm, and Gray let out a bellow of rage and swung a fist blindly at Chase's head.
Adroitly, Chase ducked the blow and managed to get behind Gray. He slid his arms under Gray's armpits and locked his fingers across Gray's chest. Gray heaved and bucked against Chase's grip, but his drunkenness hampered his movements, and Chase was strong enough to immobilize him. Gray cursed harshly, then collapsed to his knees in front of the window. Chase went down with him, still holding him from behind.
"Calm down, Gray, and I'll let you go. Dammit, listen to me! Tyler needs you! It's almost dawn! The sedative's going to wear off, and you've got to be there for her!"
Gray's muscles went slack, and he laid his face down on the window seat. "Oh, God, Chase, what if she dies, too? What will I do without her?"
A tortured, drunken half sob, half groan, followed, and Chase let go of Gray and put a hand on his arm.
"Tyler's not going to die, Gray. Harriet says she's better," Chase told him gently, looking around until he saw the nanny's bed against the opposite wall.
"Come on, Gray, you're exhausted. Get a few hours' sleep before Tyler wakes up."
Gray seemed to come to himself then. He sat up, but was too drunk to stand. Chase got a grip on him and heaved him to his feet. Somehow he maneuvered him to the bed, and Gray collapsed on it.
"God, Chase, we wanted him so much. Why did this have to happen?" were the last words Gray muttered before he was granted the peace of unconsciousness.
Chase stood up, looking down at his grief-ravaged brother-in-law, knowing that what the exhausted man needed most was sleep. He'd gotten rid of his rage; he'd be calm in the morning.
Now Chase was the one who felt sick—an awful, lonely diminishment of spirit that threatened to shrivel his soul. He hurried back to Carlisle, and when he entered the bedchamber, she immediately sat up on the edge of the bed, looking worried.
Chase walked straight to her and dropped to his knees before her, clasping his arms around her waist and laying his cheek on her extended belly.
"Oh, God, Carly, I'm so sorry about all I put you through. I love you. I don't want anything ever to happen to you or the baby. I don't ever want to be without you again."
Her arms came around his head, and he closed his eyes as she threaded her fingers through his hair.
"I'm sorry, too, for so many things," she whispered, her lips against the top of his head.
Chase felt a desperate need to talk to her and make her understand. "When Esteban was killed, I blamed you, because if I didn't, I would have to admit it was my own fault that he was dead. I took him there. I asked him to help me get you out. He'd still be alive
if I hadn't taken him to San Miguel."
"Javier and the guerrilleros killed him, not you, and not me. They did it, and now they've been punished."
"I know, but I almost lost you. You don't know how I felt when Mother told me you were gone. I was angry and hurt, and afraid you wouldn't come home again. Will you, Carly? Will you come back to Mexico with me?"
"Yes, of course I will. I love you. All I want is to be with you."
Under Chase's ear, the baby kicked, a hard, hollow thump, as, if he concurred with all they'd said. Chase smiled, again thanking God his child was healthy and strong, then climbed into bed and gratefully pulled his wife into his arms.
One week after he had died in his mother's arms, Gray and Tyler Kincaid's firstborn son was buried. The day was windy and cold with low, heavy snow clouds seeming to press down on the rooftops and the hearts of the mourners. Carlisle stood between Chase and Harriet Bond at the gravesite, her black mourning cape flapping while the priest presided solemnly over the tiny, foot-long casket.
Dry-eyed—for she had no more tears—she watched her brother scoop up a handful of dirt, his handsome face as bleak as the sky above them. He squeezed the half-frozen soil tightly in his fist for a moment, then dropped it into the small, oblong grave.
"Dust to dust, ashes to ashes," he repeated quietly. Then he turned and walked back to the waiting funeral coach.
Chase took Carlisle's elbow. She leaned gratefully against his arm as they followed Gray. Chase had been very protective of her, and she welcomed his new solicitousness. She needed her husband's love and support, because she ached inside for Tyler and Gray's loss. She wanted Chase to take care of her for just a little while, until she felt strong again.
The ride home from the cemetery passed in silence. All the words had been said already. No more could be done. Only time would heal the pain in their hearts.
At the house, Carlisle was glad the driveway was empty. The friends and acquaintances who'd come all through the day to offer their condolences had dispersed after the funeral. Tyler was still too weak to be up, and Gray had received the mourners by himself, standing for hours beside his son's coffin. He was exhausted.
In the foyer, Gray excused himself to join Tyler, and Chase led Carlisle into the private parlor at the rear of the house. The maids had prepared a cold repast for the family, but Carlisle could not face the prospect of food. She sat down wearily on the sofa by the fireplace, feeling chilled, both in body and in spirit.
"Do you think Gray's going to be all right? He's hardly said a word to anyone since the baby died."
Chase nodded as he picked up her black shawl and draped it around her shoulders.
"This has to be the coldest damn place I've ever been in," he grumbled, leaning down to shovel coal onto the grate.
Carlisle smiled. The climate was a shock after the warm weather of his country, she thought. The rugged mountains, sunny patios, and balmy breezes of Mexico seemed very far away. At times she felt as if she lived in a dream. She'd longed for him, and now he was with her, gentle and attentive in a way he'd never been before. She watched him stoke the fire, his profile chiseled and beautiful, and beloved.
While she watched, he straightened and replaced the poker in its rack. He picked up a small, gold-framed photograph from those displayed on the mantel. He laughed and brought it with him when he sat down beside her. It was Gray and Tyler's wedding portrait, taken in New Orleans just after their marriage. Smiling, Carlisle looked down at her own likeness, thinking she looked absolutely livid. Tyler was dressed all in black, and Gray had an equally dark frown on his face.
"You're the only one grinning," she said to Chase.
"That's because I caught the bouquet."
"You mean you stole it from me. I was furious with you for snatching it out of my grasp the way you did."
"That's why I grabbed it—to see your green eyes snap. But as it turned out, it didn't matter which one of us caught it. Who
would have thought then that we'd end up marrying each other?"
Carlisle smiled sadly. "It's hard to believe I disliked you so much and accepted Javier's stories about you and the San Miguel massacre. I was so idealistic then and eager to help the peasants of Mexico that I didn't even consider asking you what happened at the mission."
Chase sighed. For a few moments he stared silently into the flames. "San Miguel was a tragedy, one I don't think I'll ever get over. I'll always blame myself. Dios, sometimes I can't believe my own men were capable of such carnage." His expression changed, pain appearing clearly as if he were seeing the atrocities again.
Carlisle put her hand over his, wanting to comfort him. "It really wasn't your fault. If you could, you would have prevented the massacre. Nothing like that happened the second time you captured San Miguel. And God knows you had good reason to take vengeance then."
"I had a cross erected at the mine entrance as a gravestone for Esteban, did I tell you that? I hate to think of him up there alone. He should be buried at the Hacienda de los Toros. He loved the ranch so much."
Carlisle nodded with sympathy, realizing how deeply her husband still mourned for his friend. But hadn't she felt the same awful fear and grief when she thought Tyler was going to die?
"Loving someone can be so painful sometimes," she murmured.
Chase put his arm around her. "I never knew how much I would miss him." He reached out and touched her cheek. "And it was even worse when you left me. I felt completely dead inside."
"I didn't think you'd come after me," she said softly. "I thought you'd be glad I was gone."
Chase smiled and kissed her temple.
"I was mad as hell at first, believe me—at you and Mother both. Then, after a couple of weeks of Mother and Tomas giving me disgusted looks, I realized how stupid I'd been. After that, nothing in the world could have kept me away from you."
He pulled her head against his shoulder. "Don't ever walk out on me like that again, Carly, even if I deserve it."
"I was afraid you'd send me away after the baby was born," she whispered.