Having the Soldier's Baby

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  She’d made him a boatload of money.

  And Winston hadn’t said a word, which put her on the defensive.

  “You said you wanted to be kept apprised of every detail.”

  “I do.”

  “I’m going to call the clinic on Monday. I’ll let you know when I get the results.”

  “Thank you.”

  Thank you? Seriously? Emily turned. Winston was up on a ladder, brush-painting the strip of wall where it met the ceiling, slowly, meticulously, perfectly.

  God how she loved him.

  And please, God, let it be that he still loved her, too.

  * * *

  Ocean. Air. Sand. Winston didn’t know about a God, but he sucked in his surroundings with every breath as he ran on the beach on Coronado Island the following Thursday afternoon. Another week gone. Once time was up he was going to have to push things with Emily. He needed time to get a place to live and settle in before his six months were up.

  The thought of being back to work, of strapping on a gun every single day, revved him up enough to add speed to the last of his ten-mile stint. There’d be training first, of course. A nine-week stretch in San Antonio.

  Bring it on.

  Passing a woman with a little kid, maybe two or three years old, digging in the sand, he thought of Emily. And refused to dwell. They’d remain friends. She’d already agreed to keep him apprised of every aspect of the child’s life. Beyond that, any focus on her would be misplaced.

  A quarter of a mile later, he was a full scenario deep in imagining her with her baby in the sand. Teaching it to be brave—and safe, at the same time. Encouraging it to explore, to try. And be aware of the sand crabs.

  His wrist vibrated, startling him for the second it took him to remember the smartwatch he’d purchased earlier in the week, allowing him to get information even when he was without his phone.

  When you were responsible for a woman who was having a child, you had to be ready at any moment for any eventuality. That was the conclusion he’d finally drawn when faced with all of the various things that could happen to a woman, or the child, during gestation.

  Glancing at the dial, he saw the call was from her and skidded to an immediate stop. Maybe that nine weeks in San Antonio should wait until after the child was born.

  “Hello?” Feeling like an idiot, standing there at the ocean, waves rolling in, talking to his wrist like some damned James Bond wannabe.

  “I just wanted to let you know that I got the test results.”

  “Negative for Down syndrome?” he asked. And then repeated the question for each of the other chromosomal abnormalities for which the NIPT tested, confirming that all were negative.

  “We’re having a boy, Winston!”

  The news slammed him down to his butt in the sand.

  * * *

  She was having a son. Giving Winston a son. A daughter would have been spectacular, too, in an entirely different way. But now, right when Winston needed something to which he could bond, they’d been blessed with a brand-new baby boy. She was back to really believing that the universe was helping them.

  He knew what it felt like to be a boy. She didn’t. He’d have definite input she wouldn’t have. They could talk about Winston taking their son fishing—something Winston and his dad had done together, and something Emily hated. And ball games. He liked them. She, not so much.

  Maybe their little guy wouldn’t like any of that, either. But Winston could take him. And see.

  Little guy.

  She was home before he was, had homemade stroganoff ready to serve by the time he walked in the door.

  In gym shorts and a sweatshirt. Sweaty. A mess.

  And such a hot hunk she got all warm and mushy down below.

  “I need to shower,” he said, barely looking at her as he walked through the kitchen.

  She didn’t care. Was grinning so big her face muscles cramped. He’d come home in personal clothes. Not his uniform.

  The change came about the day he’d found out he was having a son. It could be a coincidence. She didn’t think so. The universe was looking out for them. She only had to trust.

  * * *

  Still jittery with excitement, Emily set the table, filled plates and sat down across from Winston.

  “Have you thought of any names?” she asked as she took her first bite of noodles, starving more than usual that night.

  She’d already put on a couple of pounds. If she wasn’t careful she was going to become an elephant. A happy one, but still...she had to be healthy if she hoped to keep up with the two guys in her family in years to come.

  “Names?” He glanced at her, frowning.

  She chose to focus on the jeans and T-shirt he’d donned. A shirt from a vacation they’d taken in Italy several years before. They’d had sex in the Jacuzzi in their suite—the first time they’d done it in the water.

  “For the baby,” she told him. She’d been playing with ideas all afternoon. Was eager to discuss them with him.

  “No.” He was tending to his dinner like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  The stroganoff was extra good that night. She’d outdone herself. “I was thinking about Winston James, for you and my dad,” she told him. “But if you’d rather have Winston Dane the Second, I’m great with that, too.”

  He continued to eat.

  “What do you think?” she pushed him. Remembering their dinner out on what would always be the night of the heartbeat to her. The night she’d finally understood more of what Winston needed from her. The night she’d been so close to giving up hope and had gained it afresh instead.

  “I don’t have any thoughts on the matter. Except...”

  Getting a little more used to his acerbic ways of dropping his desires into their conversations, she grabbed that “except” like a lifeline. “What?”

  “I don’t think he should bear my name.”

  Wow. That was a surprise. He’d always talked about having a little namesake. One for him and one for her. Their other two children would be named for their favorite constellations and mythical characters. Of course, they’d been fifteen when they’d made those decisions, too.

  And maybe he was right. Two men in the same home with the same name could become confusing. There’d be the issue of needing a nickname for the baby, something he’d have to be called to distinguish him from his father, meaning he’d never be able to go by his real name.

  “What would you like?” she asked.

  He shrugged, helped himself to another spoonful of stroganoff. “Anything but Winston,” he told her.

  Not much for her to go on. But she’d wanted his input. He’d told her what mattered to him.

  And what mattered to her was that he was there. And he cared.

  Chapter Seventeen

  He was going to miss living in the house. Having dinner with Emily. Sleeping with her close. And yet he couldn’t wait to be away from the confusing array of challenges that being with her presented.

  Mess after mess after mess. Winston did not like messes. Messiness. And found himself surrounded by situations that just were not straightforward.

  Names. Nurseries. Colors. Giraffes. Breasts. Bellies. Parents.

  Oh, the parents. It would have been much cleaner to tell his parents about the child after he was out of Emily’s house, when he was telling them about the divorce, so they’d better understand. Then they’d know that he wasn’t the happy expectant father they’d assume him to be. That he wasn’t a father at all.

  But Emily had had a good point. As soon as someone came to the house, the news would be out. And would spread. Her mom and his were still friends from when they all lived in the same town together. Not best friends. But they’d definitely connect over this one.

  So he’d called them. Making certain to do it by himself, ton
ing down the news as a fact, rather than a celebration. Trying to preempt more cacophony.

  He’d failed there, too.

  He might only be a biological component, as opposed to a real father, but his folks were definitely grandparents. The child was little more than a tiny pooch in Emily’s belly. Nothing anyone would notice if they didn’t know to look. But that heartbeat sound, in MMS, flew over cell towers from Emily’s phone to his parents, and plans had been piling up on his back ever since.

  They’d sent outfits. The moms wanted to plan a shower. They talked about Christmas—which was still three months away and long after his divorce would happen. And three months before the child would be born.

  Ramifications of that sperm he’d had stored all those years ago were spiraling out of control.

  Out of his control.

  When Emily suggested heading to bed early on Saturday night to watch some television, he followed right after. They’d made a vow, during those naive teenage years, to always go to bed together. While he was living in her home, he was respecting her rules. But as he climbed in beside her, catching a glimpse of her thigh as he lifted the covers, the mental and physical effort it cost to remain immune was a clear message to him. He couldn’t wait much longer to move on.

  * * *

  Winston’s hand was on her hip. Instantly alert, Emily lay still in the darkness, hardly daring to breathe, to move her body even that much. In all the weeks since his return he’d never even come close to instigating physical contact with her in bed. Or anyplace else when they were alone.

  The only times he reached out to her, made any physical connection at all, had been when their folks were around.

  On her side, her back to him, she could feel her nipples hardening.

  The hand just lay there, on top of her panties. Her gown had slid up to her waist and with the exception of the panties, the rest of her was bare. Desire flooded her so fiercely she was almost certain he’d know it. Thought about him knowing what that simple touch was doing to her.

  As badly as she wanted to roll to her back, to welcome him, to touch him, too, she didn’t. The last time she’d tried, the only time either one of them had ever rejected the other, had hurt too badly to risk a replay. It was taking every ounce of her strength, of her faith in him and in them, to keep her head above the particularly rough sea of her emotions these days. Pregnancy hormones were a bitch.

  But she was eager and ready for him if he wanted more.

  Listening, she couldn’t tell by his breathing if he was awake or asleep. He breathed heavier when he was turned on, too.

  After several minutes, she was still wide-awake. Even if Winston wasn’t aware of what he was doing, wasn’t coming on to her, she didn’t want to doze off and miss a second of his touch. She missed him so incredibly much. Just that hand...it shored up her strength. Reminding her how truly connected they were. Just his touch on her hip could make her world so excitingly right.

  She’d lie there until morning if he chose to...

  The hand moved. Steeling herself, she waited for his touch to be gone, leaving her alone in the dark. No...no, wait... It moved up a little, not away. And then...down a little past where it had started out. Three more times his hand moved across her hip, over the panties to the skin on either side, leaving tingles in its wake.

  On the next pass, his hand went farther down her leg, and then farther up her side, beneath her nightie. She worried about her elbow getting in the way, yet feared moving. If he thought she was asleep, if he was trying to wake her in the way he’d woken her so many times in the past, she didn’t want him to know he’d succeeded. Not yet.

  She had no way of knowing if he’d continue to love on her once she awoke. Or if her consciousness would send him back into the lonely world he inhabited these days.

  He was welcome to her comforts for as long as he wanted them. The rest of the night, if he needed it that way.

  His hand veered off course when it reached her elbow. But the barricade didn’t stop him as she’d feared. His hand continued upward, on the inner side of her arm, reaching her breast easily, so...confidently...she sucked in a breath. Feared he’d stop at any second.

  He didn’t stop. His hand covered her breast, nipple in the center of his palm, as though he’d been there the night before, not more than two years ago. Teasing her nipple with his palm as he gently held the rest of her breast, he proceeded to get her good and wet. Just as he’d been doing since they’d been way too young. He knew her body and played it as she’d taught him. Just with that one hand on her breast.

  His body was against her back, spooning her, without her being aware of either of them moving. He continued to tantalize her breast...and to push his very hard, very generous sexual part between her thighs. That’s when she realized he was still wearing the boxers he put on for bed these days. Part of him had found its way out and nudged her thighs, and she waited to see what he’d do next.

  Take off the boxers, or just take her with them? Either way, she planned to get them off him sooner or later. She needed to touch, to see, to taste every part of this man she’d been loving in some fashion since before she was born.

  Moaning, she lifted her top thigh, giving him access, and...

  A rush of cold air hit her right between the legs. Her breast ached, not in a good way, from the force with which Winston’s hand had moved away.

  Away?

  Thinking that he was taking off his boxers, she rolled over, eager to see whatever the night’s shadowy darkness would show her.

  She saw the wall. Bringing her gaze in closer...an empty bed.

  “Winston?”

  He was in the rocker, half bent over, his arms resting across his knees.

  “Winston!” she cried, instantly out of bed and on the floor at his feet. She reached for him and when he didn’t move, she settled for a hand on his arm.

  “What is it, Win? Are you hurt? What’s wrong? Should I call 911?”

  Flashes of thought sped back and forth across her mind. Heart attack? Something internal down below? Prostate trouble? Had he come too soon? Had a flashback to his time in captivity?

  When he didn’t move, didn’t speak, fear flared so starkly within her, she yelled at him.

  “Winston, answer me, dammit.” Getting up as she finished, she added, a bit less fiercely, “I’m going to call an ambulance.”

  “No.”

  Unlike her, he didn’t raise his voice at all. He raised his head, though, looking her directly in the eye. Glint to glint in the near darkness.

  Falling back down in front of him, she put her hands on his knees. “What’s going on?”

  He just stared at her, his nostrils moving with the force of his breathing. Or emotion. No other tells at all. Nothing.

  “Please talk to me, Win. Let me help.”

  “You want to know how you can help?” He sat there in his T-shirt, still hiding his midsection, holding her captive with a look.

  “Of course. Anything. I love you so much, Win. I’ll do whatever it takes. Anything.” She just couldn’t stress it enough.

  “Let me out of here,” he said.

  Of all the things she’d been preparing to hear, that hadn’t even been a blip on a radar. “What?” Then her brain caught up. “You need to go for a walk?” she asked. “Or a drive?”

  She scooted back, sitting on the floor, her arms on her own raised knees now. “Of course,” she said. “I didn’t mean to pin you to the chair. I just... Go ahead.” With an arm, she motioned to the door.

  At some point he was going to have to tell her what was going on. But this moment didn’t have to be it—right now wasn’t about her.

  “No, Emily.” He finally sat up, forearms on his knees now, hands clasped. “I need you to let me get the divorce. We’re going nowhere.”

  They’d been about to go somewhere p
retty damned spectacular.

  Frowning, she replayed his words, trying to understand from a perspective outside the panicked one suddenly invading her entire system.

  The intensity of their lovemaking had scared him. That had to be it. And just like when he’d first come home...he’d jumped immediately to divorce. Because he felt threatened.

  It was all residual from having been held captive in an enemy camp for two years, not knowing, every single day, if he would make it to nightfall. Not knowing if he’d ever get out.

  She couldn’t even imagine the horror—and he’d lived it. Every single second of every day. While she’d been right there in their home in Marie Cove. Going to work every day. And safely to bed on their mattress in their room.

  “We’ve made a lot of progress, Win,” she said softly, hating that she’d yelled at him. And scared to death that she didn’t have the right words for him then. It was four in the morning. It wasn’t like she could call someone. “You chose the nursery design,” she reminded him, trying desperately to think back over all of the things that had happened to give her hope. “You came to the ultrasound,” she said. “You’re joining in on every aspect of our lives. It has to be because they mean something to you.” She told him what she’d been telling herself. “You’re here, you care. That’s all that matters. The rest will come. You just need to give it more ti—”

  “No.” He stood, but it wasn’t the force of the movement that had her eyeing him in shock. It was the tone of voice. Loud. Stern. So completely lacking in any tenderness at all that she didn’t even recognize it as Winston.

  “No more time, Em,” he said softly.

  Her entire being recognized that tone. And the way he said her name. She hadn’t heard it since the morning he left for ground training. Tears in her eyes, she turned, still on the floor, to face him where he’d dropped to sit on the edge of his side of the bed.