Heart of a Hero. Anne Marie Winston
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“All right.” She swallowed. “Tomorrow after school—”
“Now.” The word was a whip and she jumped as it lashed her ears.
“She’s asleep,” she said protectively. But Wade’s face was stony and unmoved when she looked back at him. “All right.” She blew out a breath of nerves and exasperation, realizing she’d been stupid to imagine she could tell Wade about his child without letting him see her for himself immediately. “I’ll take you up to see her if you promise not to wake her.”
There was another tense silence. Finally, Wade said, “So let’s go.”
She turned on her heel and walked to the stairs on shaking legs, leaving him to follow.
She was extremely aware of his large presence at her back as she went up the steps and down the hall. At the door of her daughter’s room, she paused. Her chest felt as if someone were sitting on it and she couldn’t get enough air. She’d swear she could feel Wade’s breath on the back of her neck and she didn’t have the courage to turn around. Over her shoulder, she whispered, “Her name is Bridget. She’s six months old.”
The door was open just a shred, and she grasped the knob and carefully pulled it wide, then stepped aside and gestured. “Go ahead.”
Wade nodded once, a sharp jerk of his head, and she watched from the doorway as he took slow, almost hesitant steps toward the crib against the far wall.
He stood there for a long, long time, looking down at the sleeping baby in the low light she’d switched on. He didn’t move to touch her, didn’t glance around the room at the charming wallpaper border with the red-and-blue alphabet-blocks motif she’d found, the gingham curtains or the shelves filled with board books, stuffed animals and toys to stimulate a growing baby. He just…stood.
Finally, she entered the room and went to his side.
“Is she really mine?” His low voice was wondering and she understood he wasn’t trying to offend her.
“She’s really yours,” she assured him softly. “You can touch her.” His big hands were still, grasping the rail of the crib. He made no move but Phoebe could practically feel the longing radiating from him. Finally, she couldn’t stand it. She took his hand, and when he didn’t resist, she lifted it and tugged him forward so his palm rested flat against Bridget’s small back.
Phoebe found she had a lump in her throat. Her daughter’s body looked so tiny and fragile with Wade’s hand covering her whole back.
Her own hand tingled where she’d touched his skin. It wasn’t fair. Even an innocent touch like that set her pulse racing. In the years before and after Wade, she’d never met another man who could affect her so effortlessly. She doubted he even knew he’d done it.
But she knew. For the rest of her life, she’d always be comparing any man she met to Wade. She hoped to marry someday, but she was realistic enough to know that she wasn’t going to be able to offer a man the kind of all-consuming love she felt for Wade. She also knew she could never pretend to care for someone just to get a ring on her finger, and she feared that there might be many lonely years in her future, broken up by the joys of motherhood.
She was distracted from her morose thoughts by movement. Bridget had squirmed and twitched in her sleep, and Wade had automatically soothed her with gentle circles on her back. The baby gave a sigh and stopped moving, but he didn’t. He extended his index finger and very, very lightly brushed it over the smooth petal softness of his daughter’s cheek. He stroked it back and forth over the wild red curls that sprang from her tiny head. Then his hand moved to touch her much smaller one.
And Phoebe thought her heart might break when Bridget grasped one big finger and held on for dear life, still sound asleep. A lump rose in her throat and she fought not to sob aloud at the tenderness of the moment.
She swallowed hard several times until she felt she had enough control not to cry. Then she opened her mouth to whisper an apology, but when her gaze landed on his face, the words dried up in her throat.
Wade had tears on his cheeks. Silvery in the moonlight, they made gleaming trails where they fell from his eyes and rolled down his face. He didn’t even seem to notice them, not even when one fat tear dripped from his jaw onto the back of the hand that still clutched the side of the crib.
His sorrow hit her harder than anything in the world had since the news of his death. And guilt was right on its heels. She was the cause of this agony. She was the source of the sadness that gripped him. She hadn’t told him about her pregnancy when she’d had the chance, and then she’d lost the chance, she’d thought, forever.
Wade turned away from the crib and made his way from the room slowly. She followed him equally slowly, her own battle with tears completely lost. As they moved down the hallway, she swallowed the sob that wanted to surge up and said, “Wade, I—”
“Don’t.” He held up one large hand in a gesture of denial without even turning around. “I can’t talk to you right now,” he said as he started down the steps.
Shaken by both his tears and the controlled ferocity in the low tone, Phoebe stopped talking.
And watched, stunned, as Wade walked out the front door of her home without another word.
Wade knew she went to work the next day because he was sitting in his parked car down the street, waiting for her to come home. When she emerged from her little minivan, she walked around to the passenger-side sliding door and unloaded what looked like a fifty-pound satchel, presumably full of work to be graded.
The sight of Phoebe lugging that obviously heavy load up her front steps aroused two emotions in him. The first was an instinctive protective urge. She shouldn’t be lifting things like that. The second was another blast of the anger that had consumed him since last night, when it had fully begun to sink in that he had a child—and had missed more than half a year of her life because Phoebe had chosen to deny him the knowledge of his fatherhood. He didn’t even know his child’s birthday but he could guess approximately when she had been born.
God, if only Phoebe had told him when she’d learned she was pregnant…it might have made all the difference in the world.
He’d have married her. Hell, he’d known he wanted to marry her since they’d danced together at her class reunion and he’d realized what had been right under his nose for years. But then Mel was killed and things had gotten more and more out of control after that.
She’d been extremely drunk and upset that night and it had been his fault. The thought would haunt him forever, and he knew it had to have occurred to Phoebe. He could have stopped her from drinking so much. He could have gone after her faster. God, was it any wonder Phoebe hadn’t wanted to contact him when she’d found out she was pregnant? If she blamed him for Melanie’s death, how must she feel about having slept with him the very day of her twin’s funeral?
He took deep, calming breaths as he got out of his rental car and strode along the sidewalk to her house. A twinge in his hip reminded him that he wasn’t quite as healthy as he wanted to be just yet. He had to get a grip. Yes, she’d been wrong, but shouting at her wasn’t going to help the situation any.
Even if it would make him feel one hell of a lot better.
The door had barely closed behind her when he turned into her walk and bounded up the steps. He rapped briskly on the door.
Phoebe pulled it open a moment later. “Yes? Wade!” She clearly hadn’t expected it to be him. Maybe she’d thought he’d gone back to California. Think again.
He stepped across the threshold, forcing her to step back. Her babysitter was just getting ready to slip out the door but she paused, brown eyes alight with interest.
“Bye, Angie.” Phoebe held the door open and waved a hand, ushering the younger woman out. “See you Monday. Have a good weekend.” The nanny was barely through the door when Phoebe closed it behind her.