All That Remains. Janice Johnson Kay
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then retired to her pallet.
Three and a half minutes.
Three.
The contractions were growing in intensity, seizing her and shaking her in great, vicious jaws. Alec would have given one hell of a lot to be able to do something, anything, besides hold her hand, count for her and smooth hair from her damp forehead.
She kept shifting on the pallet as if she was increasingly uncomfortable.
“Shall I find something to make that softer?”
“I don’t know if it would make much difference. My back hurts.”
“Ah.” She’d said that earlier, hadn’t she? He wished he’d remembered sooner. “Roll over,” he said, disengaging his hand from hers and helping her heave onto her side to face away from him.
Grateful for something useful to do, he gently worked the flannel shirt up, careful to keep the blanket covering her hips—although her body would hold no secrets from him by the time they were done. Then, starting tentatively, he spread his hands over her back and began to knead taut muscles.
Wren moaned, and he stopped. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. Oh, no! It felt so good.”
He relaxed. “Okay.”
It was the first time he’d touched her much, beyond holding her hand. She was a dainty woman, her vertebrae delicate, her shoulder blades sharp-edged, her neck so small his hand would engulf it. In fact, he could splay the fingers of one hand and cover her entire lower back. That’s where the pain seemed to be centered, although she sighed with pleasure no matter where he squeezed. He dug his thumbs in at the small of her back, and she arched as if in ecstasy. When he gentled his touch, she made a funny little noise in her throat that sounded for all the world like a purr.
Alec was dismayed to realize he was getting aroused. Crap. He couldn’t let her roll toward him and notice.
Think about something else, he ordered himself. Anything but fragile bones and taut muscles and throaty sounds of feminine pleasure. Think about… Yes, there it came, another contraction rolling over her body, changing the sounds that emerged from her.
He counted as he smoothed the flannel shirt down, his hands more reluctant than he wanted to admit.
“I’ll give you another massage in a bit,” he said, as he helped her turn over again.
Hair clung in sweaty clumps to her forehead and cheeks. “How far apart are they now?”
“Two and a half minutes.” Without even thinking about it, he stroked the hair from her face, trying not to react to the unconscious way she nuzzled his hand when he was done. Hoarsely, he said, “We’re getting there.”
He’d become—almost—accustomed to the intense way she fastened those big brown eyes on him.
“It doesn’t feel like it,” she whispered. “It’s…surreal. Like it’s been going on forever, and will keep going.”
“I know,” he said. “I know.” The strange part was his contentment. He tended to be restless. He’d always gotten bored easily. Law enforcement, with physical and mental challenges intertwined, had kept him engaged. He’d known he couldn’t bear straight office work. Carlene hadn’t understood that. Or maybe she had, and didn’t care. Marriage to a cop wasn’t easy.
“I didn’t know what I was signing on for,” she’d kept saying.
Alec still didn’t know if he’d let her down, or she’d let him down. In the end, it didn’t much matter.
Except…it did, because she’d taken his two little girls with her when she left. In the end, she’d taken them so far away, he had lost them.
Not a good time to think about his daughters.
He didn’t really even want to think about Cupcake. Wren, yes. He liked thinking about Wren. With her, everything felt good. Better than it should, considering they were strangers.
“Ohhh.” She grabbed for his hand.
“That was quick,” he murmured. “Breathe. That’s it, honey. One, two, three, four…”
Alec had the odd thought that he knew her face better than he’d known Carlene’s. He’d counted the scattering of freckles across Wren’s small nose. Studied the whorls of her ears and the minute flecks of gold and green in her eyes.
The contraction past, he found himself reassuring her with a gentle massage of her shoulders and neck that worked its way up to her sweaty head. He pressed circular patterns into her temples, used his fingertips to smooth her forehead. It was all he could do not to run his thumb over her chapped lips.
Not a stranger. Not anymore.
Jarred, he had the thought that, eventually, she’d get taken to the hospital, and he’d go to work. If they kept her long, he might stop by to visit once.
Her eyes were closed. She was breathing softly, for this moment utterly relaxed. She wouldn’t see the way he was frowning, or the inner quake that probably showed on his face as he imagined a future when he’d never know what had happened to Wren.
CHAPTER THREE
WREN KNEW SHE OUGHT TO BE really, really scared. She had never in a million years imagined having her baby on the floor of an old attic in a house being swallowed by a flood. She hadn’t even wanted to go the at-home-with-a-midwife route. She’d planned on a hospital, a fetal monitor strapped across her belly, a surgical suite down the hall if necessary. She’d had every intention of being surrounded by all the technology possible—not to mention obstetricians and nurses.
Yet here she was, and although fear did tiptoe through her consciousness now and again, mostly she was okay. The surprising sense of security was entirely thanks to Alec, who had, without hesitation and with considerable risk to himself, climbed into the attic and stranded himself along with her. All because she needed him.
She remembered that terrifying moment when his hands had slipped and she’d been sure he was going to fall. All in a flash, she’d seen it in Technicolor—the splash, then the sight of his head bobbing as he was swept away until he disappeared in the eternal rain, leaving her utterly alone again. More alone, because he’d briefly given her hope that she wouldn’t be.
Somehow, with superhuman strength, he’d hauled himself upward and made it through the window. If she could have chosen anyone in the world—well, except for an obstetrician, maybe—it would have been him. He’d had enough training to give her confidence, and he’d actually delivered a baby before. He was calm, and so kind. After hours and hours of either kneeling or sitting on the floor beside her, his back probably ached as much as hers did, and the way she’d been squeezing his hand, it had probably gone numb. She hoped it had gone numb so it didn’t hurt.
He encouraged her to talk, and he listened. Really listened, she could tell, unlike James, who had only pretended. Alec had talked to her, too, as if they were best friends. There were parts of himself he didn’t offer, of course. Flashing yellow caution lights clearly marked those areas, but that was okay. There were things she didn’t talk about, too. People.
She was glad he didn’t ask any more about James. She didn’t want him here even in spirit when her baby was born. He hadn’t wanted Cupcake, and now she was glad. Glad!
Wren couldn’t help having the sneaking wish that Detective Alec Harper was Cupcake’s biological father instead. It was wrong of her to even think that, sort of like having a sudden and inappropriate crush on your obstetrician. Women probably fell for their doctors often; after all, they projected a calm air of confidence and knowledge that no rattled husband could possibly match. But Wren bet Alec would project it, even if it was his baby being born. And he’d never know she was wishing, would he? So what did it hurt to dream a little?
Deciding she’d squelch all these surprising emotions later, she