Not Quite Married Read online

  He was back at her side wearing jeans and a T-shirt just as the pain eased again. He dropped down to the floor with her and put his wonderful, warm hand on her back. “You sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?”

  “No. No, I think I’m doing fine.” Fine being a relative term when you’re pushing a baby out. “But maybe we ought to time a few contractions and call Dr. Kapur to make sure I’m far enough along that I need to go the hospital.”

  “Clara. You’re on your hands and knees and your water’s broken. We’re going to the hospital. You can call the doctor on the way.”

  With a groan, she eased back and sat on the floor. Her nightshirt, which had Not Everything Stays in Vegas printed down the front, was gooey-wet around the hem. “I need to get my clothes on.”

  “How about a pair of flip-flops and a robe?”

  “And a clean shirt and panties—and a pad for all this dripping. Please?”

  He wrapped his big hand around her neck and pulled her close enough to press a kiss to her forehead. His lips felt warm and soft and so reassuring against her skin. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

  “Not a problem,” she groaned.

  And then he was up and heading for her bedroom closet.

  He got her the dry clothing, which she changed into between contractions. He grabbed her purse for her, dug out her suitcase from under the stairs and herded her toward the back door. “Car keys?” he asked as they went out.

  “I have them in my purse.”

  He helped her climb into the passenger seat and hooked the seat belt loosely, by holding it extra-extended as she worked the clasp. Then he took her purse from her, dug out the keys and went around to get behind the wheel.

  Another contraction hit as he backed down the driveway. She groaned and panted as they sped off down the dark street. As soon as that one faded, she autodialed Dr. Kapur’s office and got the night answering service. They promised to have her doctor call her back “very soon.”

  It was a short ride to the hospital complex, which stood in a wide curve of Arrowhead Drive southeast of town. Dalton pulled up under the porte cochere at Emergency and helped her inside. She leaned on the admission desk, groaning through another contraction and he went back out to park the car.

  When he returned, she was sagging against a wall. She’d preregistered a month before, so all she’d had to do was sign in.

  Things were pretty quiet tonight, so she didn’t have to wait long to be loaded into a wheelchair and rolled down a series of hallways to Labor and Delivery. There, they put her in a suite.

  A nurse came. There were questions. And an exam.

  It all got a little hazy after that. The pains came and went, growing longer and closer together. There were ice chips on her tongue and people speaking gently, encouragingly to her.

  Dr. Kapur appeared and told her she was doing fine, spoke of dilation and effacement and all those words Clara had learned in order to try to understand what would happen when the baby came, all those words that seemed like nonsense syllables to her now that it was really happening. Now that her baby was actually being born.

  And there was Dalton. Right with her through it all, letting her take his hand and bear down hard on his poor fingers every time the pain struck.

  In the end, with her sleep shirt up to here and her knees spread wide and her hair dripping sweat into her eyes, they told her it was time to push and she pushed and pushed and screamed. And screamed some more.

  Once, right after Dr. Kapur said the head was crowning, she turned to Dalton, who was still there beside her. She yelled at him that it was all his damn fault and she couldn’t do this.

  And he said, “You can, sweetheart. You know you can.”

  She blinked the sweat out of her eyes and wondered if he’d really called her sweetheart—or if she’d only imagined it in the endless, unreal agony of the moment.

  It didn’t seem the kind of thing that Dalton might say. Not the rich banker Dalton, the Dalton of the Denver Ameses.

  But maybe the island Dalton. Yes. The island Dalton had called her sweetheart. More than once, now that she thought about it.

  “Did you just call me sweetheart?”

  Before he could answer, Dr. Kapur said, “Push, Clara. Push.”

  And after that the pain was worse than ever as she bore down, moaning and crying, mangling Dalton’s hand in her clutching, clawing grip.

  “Here she is,” said the doctor. “Just a little more...”

  And Clara gave one more mighty, never-ending push—and her daughter slid out of her and into the world.

  At first, there was no sound. The baby was quiet.

  Clara clutched Dalton’s hand even tighter than before. “Is she okay, is she—?”

  “She’s fine, fine,” promised Dr. Kapur, clearing the airways with two swipes of her fingers, then lifting the gooey, white-streaked little body, still attached to the cord, and setting her on Clara’s belly.

  Clara touched the small head covered with slimy dark hair. “Are you...all right?” she asked the baby in a broken whisper.

  And then the tiny mouth opened to let out a whine, followed by a squeal and then a full-out lusty cry.

  Clara held the little body to her and turned her streaming eyes to Dalton. “Oh, Dalton. Look. I did it. It’s okay. She’s here.”

  And he bent close and kissed her sweat-slick forehead and whispered, “Great job, sweetheart,” breathing the sweet words onto her clammy skin.

  And she cried a little harder. Because their baby was with them, and safe. And he was right there beside her, calling her sweetheart, being absolutely wonderful when for months she’d been telling herself she had to learn to accept that she was doing this alone.

  He straightened beside her. And she stared up at him. He was looking at the baby, a slight smile curving his beautiful black-and-blue mouth, his eyes alight from within—even the swollen one had a gleam in it. The swelling had gone down just enough that she could see a sliver of the eye beneath.

  Oh, dear God, she thought. I love him...

  And then, as though he’d heard her say those words aloud, he turned his eyes to her. He frowned. “Clara? What is it?”

  She swallowed, forced a wobbly smile and lied, “Nothing. I’m just...happy, that’s all.”

  “Are you sure? You seem—”

  “I’m positive.” She cut him off before he could get specific about exactly how she “seemed,” while at the same time, her heart was chanting, Dalton, I love you. I love you so much...

  Outside, dawn was breaking. Clara cried some more and watched the rim of light growing brighter above the mountains. She held her newborn baby and promised herself that she wouldn’t think anymore about loving Dalton.

  Not for a while yet.

  Chapter Ten

  Two hours later, after Clara and Dalton had eaten breakfast and Clara had nursed her newborn for the first time, it was just the three of them in the room.

  Dalton sat in the comfortable chair by the bed with the baby cradled in his arms. He looked up from her tiny red face and caught Clara’s eye.

  She smiled at him and started to think how she loved him—but cut that thought off right in the middle. It was I lo—and nothing more. She pushed her love deep down inside her and asked, “What is it?”

  He touched the tip of the baby’s nose, brushed at the wisps of dark hair at her forehead. A tiny sigh escaped her little mouth. To Clara, it seemed a trusting sort of sound.

  And he said, “I was thinking we need to decide on a name.”

  “I hadn’t really thought about names,” she confessed. “Is that odd?”

  “Not particularly.” His voice was low, a little bit rough, wonderfully tender. “You’ve had a lot to deal with in the past several months.”

  She teased, “I’ll bet you want to name her after some stalwart banker ancestor. Or maybe your mother.”

  “Not a chance. I would like it better if she wasn’t named ‘after’ anyone. I want her
to have her own name—I mean, if that’s okay with you?”

  “Yeah. That’s kind of nice, actually.” And surprising. She would have thought he’d insist on some staid-sounding name suitable for an Ames.

  The baby yawned hugely. He fiddled with the blanket, readjusting it around her scrunched-up face. “I was thinking maybe you could choose the first name. I’ll take the middle one.”

  “All right.” And just like that, the name came to her, as though it had been waiting inside her all along for her to simply let it out. “Kiera. I want to call her Kiera.”

  He tipped his head to the side, considering. And then, “I like it.” He touched the baby’s red cheek. “Kiera,” he whispered. The baby made a cooing sound. “She likes it, too.”

  “Good, then. And her middle name?”

  “Anne,” he said, with certainty. And then he shot Clara a look both hopeful and hesitant, a look that did something lovely to her heart. “Is that too old-fashioned, do you think?”

  “Uh-uh. I love it.”

  “Kiera Anne, then,” he said softly.

  And she agreed. “Kiera Anne it is.”

  * * *

  They stayed the day and that night in the hospital.

  Family and friends came and went. Each of Clara’s brothers and sisters put in an appearance. And Rory and her fiancé, Walker. And of course, Great-Aunt Agnes.

  Ryan came, too, sporting a shiner of his own and a very swollen purple nose. He brought a big basket full of baby gear, including a large pink stuffed rabbit. He and Dalton chatted easily, like a couple of old pals—old pals who’d just happened to beat each other bloody a few days before. When Ryan bent to kiss Clara on the cheek as he was leaving, Dalton didn’t seem to mind at all.

  Later, Earl came. He brought Dalton’s assistant, Myra, down from Denver, along with a couple of colleagues from the bank.

  Myra was a handsome middle-aged woman, tall and thin in a high-quality lightweight jacket and pencil skirt. She took one look at Dalton and demanded, “What in the world happened to you?”

  “I fell down the stairs.”

  “And into someone’s fist,” muttered Earl on a low chuckle.

  Myra wisely refrained from asking any more questions. She and Earl and the others stayed for half an hour and then headed back to Denver.

  After they left, it was just the three of them—Clara, Dalton and Kiera Anne. It had been a long day and they went to sleep early. But of course, now there was Kiera, so they didn’t sleep for long.

  The baby woke up three times during the night. Clara practiced nursing her. Kiera latched right on and sucked like a champion. Clara glanced up and, through the shadows of the darkened room, Dalton’s eyes were waiting.

  They shared a smile that was intimate and companionable. She thought about how far they’d come since that day in the park in Denver.

  And now she’d finally admitted to herself that she loved him.

  She had no doubt that he still wanted to marry her. For Kiera’s sake, if nothing else.

  But were they ready for marriage yet? She just wasn’t sure.

  How could she be sure? She was thirty-one years old and in love for the first time in her life, with no real experience of what made a happy marriage work. All she knew was, if she ever did get married, she wanted to be absolutely sure it was the right choice. She wanted love and passion and honesty and a true, lasting commitment.

  She whispered, “That day in Denver, when we met in the park and I told you about the baby...?” He made a questioning sound. And she said, “I never would have guessed that you would be here with me now.”

  He got up from the cot they’d brought him to sleep on and tiptoed to her side, dropping to a crouch so his face and Kiera’s were on the same level. “You need to have more faith in me.”

  She almost came back with a snarky remark. After all, the way he’d treated her on the island hadn’t exactly been faith-inspiring. But then, well, no. She was kind of getting past what had happened on the island. She drank in his beautiful, bruised, upturned face.

  And she whispered, “You’re right. Maybe I do need to have more faith in you.”

  He looked at the baby then, lifting his hand to touch her, running a finger across Kiera’s cheek—a finger that kept going, until it brushed Clara’s breast.

  She caught her breath as his finger took a lazy, meandering journey over the pale, blue-veined slope of her breast and upward, leaving a sweet trail of sparks in its wake.

  Kiera just kept nursing.

  And Dalton’s finger kept moving, across the top of Clara’s chest, over the twin points of her collarbone and then, in a smooth, knowing caress, up the side of her throat to the tip of her chin.

  She asked, breathless, “Dalton?” And she lifted her head to track his movement as he straightened and rose to stand above her.

  His mouth kicked up on one side. And then he bent down, bent close...

  She sighed as his lips touched hers. “Dalton...” He kissed his name right off her lips.

  Too soon, he was lifting away again. She grabbed his shoulder before he could escape and tugged him back down to her. “Again,” she commanded.

  He chuckled low.

  And he gave her what she wanted, slow and light and very sweet.

  * * *

  Dalton drove them home the next day.

  Clara half expected him to start pushing her to move to Denver. But he didn’t.

  And Clara didn’t bring it up, either. He took excellent care of her and the baby. She didn’t want him to go yet—and wait. Scratch that.

  She didn’t want him to go ever.

  But they would get to that—to what the future would look like, to how she hoped he might be willing to relocate permanently to Justice Creek. Later. She saw no reason for them to rush into any big decisions, no reason to start asking each other the scariest questions, the ones about love and the future.

  They had a newborn, which was more than enough to deal with right now. They were up half the night every night that first week. He took the baby monitor upstairs to bed with him and he came right down to help whenever she called him, no matter what time of night it was. Sometimes he came down when she didn’t call, because Kiera had cried and he wanted to make sure that they didn’t need him.

  Also, he’d become wonderfully affectionate. He kissed her often, soft, sweet kisses. And he touched her a lot. When they sat together in the evening, sharing the sofa, he would put his arm around her and draw her close to his side. He didn’t hesitate to brush a hand down her hair, to stroke her cheek or twine his fingers with hers.

  At the end of that first week, Dalton took her and the baby to see Dr. Kapur. It was a satisfying visit. Kiera nursed like a champion and had gained seven ounces. And Clara’s blood pressure now registered normal, her white blood cell count was back up and her iron levels were right where they should be.

  And those cankles? Gone.

  Dr. Kapur gave her permission to drive and return to her regular activities. “But take it easy,” the doctor ordered. “I understand that you’ll want to check in at that restaurant of yours. But only for a couple of hours a day at this point. If you push too hard and become exhausted, I’m ordering you back to bed again.”

  Clara promised she would take care of herself.

  Dalton muttered, “I’ll make sure she does.”

  Clara shot him a sharp glance for that—a glance he either didn’t see, or pretended he didn’t.

  That evening, when they sat down to another of Mrs. Scruggs’s excellent dinners, Clara tried to explain to him that she would really appreciate it if he didn’t treat her like a child in front of her gynecologist.

  And he growled, “Like a child? What the hell, Clara? When did I ever treat you like a child?”

  “Maybe that was a poor choice of words. How about this? I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t announce to my doctor that if I don’t take care of myself, you’ll do it for me.”

  “Why not? It’s th
e truth. If you don’t, I will.”

  She stared across the table at him and almost wished she hadn’t said anything—but then again, no. She schooled her voice to sweetness and asked teasingly, “Is this going to be our first argument since Kiera was born?”

  He refused to be teased. “Answer the question. When did I ever treat you like a child?”

  She set down her fork, though she knew it was a bad sign. When forks got set down at their table, arguments ensued. “All I’m trying to say is, when I promise my doctor I will take it easy, you don’t have to chime in with threats.”

  “Threats? What threats? There were no threats. I said what I said because I care about you, because I am going to make sure that you don’t overextend yourself.”

  “Sounds like a threat to me.”

  He set down his fork. “I don’t make threats. I state facts.”

  She glared at him, at his dear, handsome face and his granite jaw where the bruising from his fight with Rye was only a shadow now. She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to throw her plate of delicious stuffed pork chops at him—or march over there and kiss him until neither of them could see straight.

  In the end, she didn’t do either. She just started laughing.

  He looked slightly bewildered. “What now?”

  She laughed harder.

  He asked, “Is this some kind of minibreakdown you’re having?”

  And by then, she was sagging in her chair, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, waving her hand in front of her face. “I don’t... It’s just...”

  He shoved back his chair and came around the table to her. “Clara? Sweetheart...”

  She stared up at him. His dark eyebrows had scrunched together in worry and bafflement. Slowly the fit of laughter ended. She said, feeling suddenly shy, “You just called me sweetheart again.”

  He reached down, took her arm, pulled her up into his embrace.

  She swayed against him, resting her hands on his chest. She could feel his heart beating, right there, under her palm. Could you love me? Do you still want to marry me?