The Pride Of Jared Mackade tmb-2
Page 13
And yet.
He had never known the joy, or the problems, of having uncles, aunts, grandparents. Siblings. Those were things she couldn't give him. She hoped it was only she who had suddenly come to sense the lack.
"Are you feeling all right, Regan?" Cassie's voice was quiet amid the chaos of male-dominated conversation.
"Wonderful. I don't think I've ever felt better. No queasiness, no fatigue, not any of the things the books warn us about."
"I had them all." Running an absent hand over Emma's curls, Cassie smiled. "Not too bad, really, just enough so that when it came around the second time I knew what to expect. How about you, Savannah?"
"Sick as a dog for three months." Before Bryan could reach over her plate, she passed him the bowl of roast potatoes he'd aimed for. "It was almost worth it, though." She winked at Bryan.
"Three months?" Regan gave a heartfelt shudder. "Every day?"
"Rain or shine," Savannah said cheerfully. "Bry, if you opened your mouth just a little wider, you could probably fit three potatoes in at once."
He managed a sloppy grin with a full mouth. "It's good."
"Just like Mom used to make," Devin put in, and heaped another helping of potatoes on Bryan's plate. "We used to have contests to see who could eat more of them. Jared usually won—right, Jare?"
"Yeah." But he'd stopped eating, and he was looking at Savannah oddly.
"The kid's going to break your record." Shane tossed a biscuit that Jared was just quick enough to catch.
Intrigued with the maneuver, Bryan snatched one and aimed it at Connor, who nabbed it before it hit the floor.
"Good save," Rafe commented. "Sign him up. You gonna play ball next year, Con?"
"I don't know." Connor broke off an end of the biscuit and shot a look at his mother under his lashes.
"Con's a better pitcher than any of our starters." Bryan cheerfully helped himself to another biscuit and buttered it lavishly. "He can drill it right in the pocket."
"Connor, you never said you wanted to play ball." The moment the words were out of Cassie's mouth, she regretted them. Of course he'd said nothing. There had never been anyone to play ball with him. And his academic achievements had equaled failure as a man, in his father's opinion.
"I can't hit hardly anything," Connor mumbled, reddening. "I can just throw a little since Bryan's been showing me how."
"We'll have to work on your batting." Devin spoke casually. "After dinner, we could start on your stance."
Connor's lips fluttered into a smile, and that was answer enough.
A short time later, the sounds of shouts and arguments rolled in from the barnyard and into the kitchen window. With her hands filled with dishes, Cassie looked out. Devin was crouched behind Connor, and their hands were meshed on a wooden bat as Jared threw underhand pitches.
"It's awfully nice of them to play with the kids like this."
"And leave us stuck with the dishes," Savannah pointed out.
"He who cooks doesn't clean." Regan filled the sink with hot water. "MacKade rules."
"It's fair enough," Savannah allowed. But as she glanced around the cluttered, disordered kitchen, with its piles of pots and mountains of dishes, she wasn't sure who'd come out on top of the deal.
"Do you mind if I ask..." Regan caught herself, laughed nervously. "It's stupid."
Savannah grabbed a dishcloth and prepared to dig in. "What?"
"Well." Brows knit, Regan attacked the first plates. "I was just wondering, since you've both been through it, what it's like. The big guns, I mean."
Savannah glanced at Cassie and grinned wickedly. "Labor and delivery, or a march through the Valley of Death."
"Oh, it's not that bad. Don't scare her." Immediately solicitous, Cassie set down stacked plates to rub Regan's shoulder. "Really it's not."
"You want to tell her it's a walk on the beach?" Savannah asked. "Then she can curse you and Rafe during transition."
"It's a natural part of life," Cassie insisted, then struggled with a chuckle. "That hurts like hell."
"Sorry I asked." But Regan blew out a breath when she realized she couldn't let it go. "So, how long did it take?"
"For Connor, just over twelve hours, for Emma less than ten."
"In other words," Savanna put in helpfully, "the rest of your life."
"I'd tell you to shut up, but I want to know how long it took you." Regan wrinkled her nose. "Ten minutes, right?"
Savannah picked up a dish. "Thirty-two fun-filled hours."
"Thirty-two?" Stunned, Regan nearly bobbled a wet plate. "That's inhuman."
"The luck of the draw," Savannah said lightly. "And the maternity ward I was in wasn't exactly first-class. Wouldn't have mattered." She shrugged it off. "Babies come when they come. You'll get through it fine, Regan. Rafe'll be right there. And unless your doctor has a line of pro-football blockers holding them off, the rest of the MacKades will be there, too."
"You were alone," Regan murmured.
"That's the way it shook down." She glanced over when she spotted Jared at the screen door. "Game over?"
"No." His eyes stayed on hers, unreadable and deep. "I lost the draw to fetch beer."
"I'll get it." Cassie was already hurrying to the fridge. "Do the kids want anything?"
"Whatever they can get." He took the six-pack and boxes of juice Cassie handed him, then left without another word.
"No quicker way to get rid of a man than for women to talk about childbirth." Savannah's voice was light, but there was a knot of worry at the back of her neck. Something had been in those eyes, she thought, that he hadn't wanted her to see.
"I mentioned Lamaze classes to Rafe, and he went dead white." Amused, Regan slipped another dish in the drainer. "But then he gritted his teeth."
"He'll do fine." With a last glance at the screen door, Savannah picked up another plate. "He loves you. That's the big one, isn't it?"
"Yeah." With a dreamy little sigh, Regan plunged into the dishwater again. "That's the big one."
On the walk home, Savannah spied her first firefly glinting in the woods. Summer was coming, she thought, watching Bryan dart ahead, charging invisible foes. She wanted it to come. She wanted the heat, the long, hazy days, the close, airless nights.
What she wanted, Savannah realized, was the passing of time. A full year, four full seasons, in this place. In this home. With this man.
"Something's on your mind?" she said quietly.
"I've got a lot on my mind." Jared wished they could stay in the woods for a time. Stay where they could both feel the sorrows and needs of people who had died before either of them were born. "Couple of cases driving me crazy. Painters cluttering up the office. Finalizing Cassie's divorce. Contemplating becoming an uncle."
"You're being a lawyer, MacKade, using words to cloud the basics."
"I am a lawyer."
"Okay, let's start there. Hold on a minute. Bry, hit the tub," she called out.
"Aw, Mom..."
"And hit it hard, Ace. I'm right behind you."
He raced ahead, and from the edge of the woods Savannah watched the lights switch on one by one as Bryan streaked through the house. Through the open window, she could hear him singing, miserably off-key, and was satisfied that he was in his bathtime mode.
"Why are you a lawyer?"
The question stumped him, mainly because his mind was so far removed from it. "Why am I a lawyer?"
"And try to answer in twenty thousand words or less."
"Because I like it." The first answer was the simplest. "I like figuring out the best arguments, wading through and studying both sides until I find the right arguments. I like winning." He moved his shoulders. "And because justice is important. The system of justice, however flawed, is vital. We're nothing without it."
"So, you believe in justice, and you like to argue and win." She tilted her head at him. "Which puts all of that into one sentence. See how easy it is?"
"What's your point?"
"Nothing." Because he needed to, he took her wrist and pressed his lips into her palm. "I'm not complicating a thing. I liked having you at the farm, you and Bryan. Crowded around the kitchen table, with too many people talking at once."
"And throwing biscuits."
"And throwing biscuits. I liked hearing you and Regan and Cassie clattering around the kitchen while we were playing ball outside."
"Typical." She smiled a little. "You'd say traditional male-female placement."
"Sue me." He gathered her close. And there, in the quiet, he thought he could hear the struggle. Stranger against stranger, hand to hand, eternally. Right, perhaps, against right. "Feel it?" he murmured.
"Yes." Fear, she thought, closing her eyes. Desperation. And constant bleeding hope. Perhaps she could feel the echoes of it in the woods because she'd known all those emotions so well. "Have you ever asked yourself why they're still here? What they might have left to say or do?"
"The fight's not over. It never is."
She shook her head. "The need's not over. The need to find home. To find peace, I suppose. It never is. But I'm finding it here."
When she started to draw back, he tightened his grip. "I listened outside the door to the three of you talking in the kitchen. It bothered me, Savannah, hearing about you being alone when you had Bryan. It bothered me imagining that, the way it bothered me when you said you'd been sick all that time."
"Morning sickness is pretty common among pregnant women."
"Being sixteen, alone, sick and pregnant isn't common. It sure as hell shouldn't be."
"Feeling sorry for me is a waste of time. It was a long time ago." Now she did draw back, and she saw his face. "But that's not exactly what you're feeling."
"I don't know what I'm feeling." Nothing frustrated him more than not being able to see inside himself for the answers. "I've got questions I haven't figured out yet how to ask. You make me ask, because you don't tell. And yes, I do feel sorry for you, for the kid who was left to fend for herself, and make choices for herself that no child should have to make."
"I wasn't a child." Her voice was measured, her shoulders were suddenly stiff. "I was old enough to get pregnant, so I was old enough to face the consequences. And the choice I made was mine alone. No one else could have made it for me. Having Bryan was one of the few right decisions I made."
"I didn't mean that. I didn't mean Bryan." Seeing the heat in her eyes, he gave her a quick shake. "I meant where to go, what to do, how to live. God, how to eat. And, damn it, Savannah, you were a child. You deserved better than what you got."
"I got Bryan," she said simply. "I got better than I deserved."
He couldn't make her see what he wanted her to see. For once, he simply didn't have the words. Perhaps they were too simple. "I wonder what it would be like to create something like that boy, and to love without restriction. Without ego."
She could smile now. "Wonderful. Just wonderful. Are you coming home with me?"
"Yeah." He took her hand. "I'm coming home with you."
He thought about that kind of love, and her kind of life, as she slept beside him. He would never have gone out and searched for a woman like her. It bothered him a great deal to admit it, even to himself.
She wasn't polished, or cultured, had no sheen of the sophistication he usually looked for in a woman.
That he had looked for, Jared reminded himself, once. And that had certainly been a pathetic mistake. And yet didn't a man need a woman he understood, a woman he knew? There were huge pockets in Savannah's life he neither understood nor knew. Large pieces of her that were separate from him, tucked away in her memories.
A young girl, pregnant and alone, deserted by everyone she should have been able to count on. He felt pity for that girl, as well as—and it scalded him to realize it—a vague distrust.
Where had she gone, what had she done, who had she been? As much as he wanted to get beyond that, his pride held him fast. She'd borne another man's child, been other men's fantasies.
That thought stuck in the pride, in the ego, and refused to be shaken free.
His problem. He knew it, rationalized it, debated it. As she shifted beside him, turning away rather than towards him, he worried over it.
How many other men had she loved? How many had lain beside her, each wishing he was the only one?
Yet, even as he thought it, he reached out to hold, to possess her. Her body curled warm against his, and he could smell her skin, that earthy, sensual fragrance she carried without the aid of perfumes.
He knew her routine now. In the morning she would wake early, but slowly, as if sleep were something to eased out of, like a warm bath. She would touch him, long strokes over the shoulders, the back, the arms. And just when he began to tingle and heat, she would rise out of bed. She would arch her back with a lazy, feline movement. Lift that long, thick black hair up, let it fall.
Then, as if there were no difference between a sleepy siren and a sleepy mother, she would slip into a faded blue cotton robe and go out to wake Bryan for school.
And often, very often, Jared would lie in bed for long, long moments after she padded across the hall. Aching.
He almost wanted to believe she'd woven some sort of spell over him with her gypsy eyes and sultry smile and that go-to-hell-and-back-again attitude. She knew him better than he knew her. Knew his ghosts, recognized them, felt them. She was the first woman who had walked in what he considered his woods and heard the murmurs of the doomed.
It linked her with him in a way that went beyond the physical, even the emotional, attraction. It lifted it into the spiritual. It lifted it beyond what he could fight, even if he wanted to fight.
Whatever it was that bound him to her gave him no choice but to keep moving on the same path toward her.
So he fell asleep with his arm hooked around her waist, holding her close. And dropped weightlessly into dreams.
There was pain in his hip where a mortar blast had sent him flying into the air, and hurled him down again. His head was aching, his eyes were tearing. It was so hard to focus, hard to force himself to set one foot in front of the other.
He didn't remember entering the woods. Had he crawled to the trees or run into them? All he knew was that he was terribly lost, and terribly afraid. His lieutenant was dead. There were so many dead. The boy from Connecticut with whom he'd shared last night's dinner, with whom he'd whispered long after the fires burned out, was in pieces in a shallow ditch where the fighting had been so fierce that hell would have been a relief.
Now he was alone. He knew he had to find somewhere to rest, someplace safe. Just for a while. Just for a little while. His home wasn't so very far away. Just north into Pennsylvania. The Maryland woods weren't so very different from those near his farm.
Maybe he could be safe here until he could find his way home again. Until this war that was supposed to have been an adventure and had become a thousand nightmares was over.
He had turned seventeen the month before, and he had never tasted a woman's lips.
Unbearably weary, he stopped to lean against a tree, drew in ragged breath after ragged breath. How could the woods be so beautiful, so full of color and the smells of autumn? How could that horrible noise keep going? Why wouldn't the guns stop blasting, the men stop screaming?
When were they going to let him go home?
With a shuddering sigh, he pushed off the tree. He skirted a rock and, with a burst of relief, spotted a path. Just as he stepped toward it, he saw the Confederate gray.
He hesitated only a moment, but whole worlds revolved inside him. This was the enemy. This was death. This was the obstacle in the path leading to what he wanted most.
He shouldered his rifle even as the boy facing him mirrored the movement.
They shot poorly, both of them, but he heard the whine of the shell close
enough to his ear to stop his heart for a full beat. Then he was charging, even as his mirror image charged.
Their terrified war cries echoed each other. Bayonets clashed.
The enemy's eyes were blue, like the sky. That thought intruded as he felt the first agony of blade in flesh. The enemy's eyes were young and full of fear.
They fought each other like wild dogs. Even in the short time he had left, he would remember little of it. He remembered the smell of his own blood, the feel of it as it poured out of his wounds. He remembered waking alone, alone in those beautiful autumn woods.
And then stumbling down the path. Crawling, crying.
He would remember, for all of the hours he had left, he would remember the sight of the farmhouse just beyond the clearing. The color and glint of the stone, the slope of the roofline, the smell of animals and growing things.
And he wept again, for home.
Someone was with him. The face was older, weathered, set in a frown under a soft-brimmed hat. He thought of his father, tried to speak, but the pain as he was lifted was worse than death.
There were women around him, shouts, then whispers. Soft hands and firelight. Cool cloths, and the pain slipped into numbness.
Every word he spoke was a searing flame in his throat. But he had so much to say. And someone listened. Someone who smelled like lilacs and held his hand.
He needed to tell her he'd been proud to be a soldier, proud to serve and to fight. He was trying to be proud to die, even though the longing for home was fiercer than any of his wounds.
When he died, Jared woke, his heart stuttering. Savannah stirred beside him. And this time, this time, turned to him. In sleep, her arms came around him.
For tonight, it was enough.
Chapter Ten
With a stack of three paintings balanced in her arms, Savannah muscled open the door to Jared's offices. Rain dripped from the bill of one of Bryan's baseball caps, which she'd slapped on before making the drive to Hagerstown. Sissy glanced over, then hopped up from her keyboard.