by Loree Lough
“I realize I’ve messed things up pretty well,” he said, “but I think we can work this out.” He took her hand in his. “Give me a chance to make all this up to you.” Mitch stroked her fingertips. “Please?”
Hang tough! she reminded herself. Be strong, or these seven months that are behind you now will be a road map of the rest of your life. “Maybe you’d rather do the packing yourself,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “Or, we could do it together, to make the job go easier and faster.”
“I don’t believe this!” he bellowed, dropping her hand. “I know we didn’t have much time together before—” He stopped. Took a deep breath. And, hands on her shoulders, he started again. “We had something special once. At least, I thought we did. I think it’s worth fighting for. Let me prove that to you.”
Ciara couldn’t believe how much intense physical pain a moment like this could cause. Though she’d rehearsed it and rehearsed it, she’d never imagined it would ache this much.
In response to her strained silence, he walked away from her, stood his empty glass in the sink. “All right. I’ll leave, if it’s what you want. But…”
She doubled over and gripped her stomach with both hands. “Mitch,” she groaned, slumping to the floor, “it hurts. Hurts bad.”
Ciara had always been the type who poked fun at people who whined and complained about everyday aches and pains. He knew she must be in considerable agony to have admitted it straight-out like that. Kneeling, he wrapped his arms around her. “It’s way too early for the baby, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “Call 911.”
“No time for that—could take the ambulance an hour to get here.” He spoke in a calm, reassuring voice that belied the terror he felt…raw, surging fear like he’d never experienced on the job.
Mitch grabbed the telephone, seeing that she’d jotted her obstetrician’s number on the tablet beside it. He dialed, explained that they were on their way to the hospital and hung up. “The nurse says Dr. Peterson will meet us there,” he said, gently helping her to her feet. And as if she weighed no more than a baby herself, lifted her in his powerful arms and carried her to the front door.
She melted against him like butter on a hot biscuit. Unconsciously he pressed a kiss to her temple. “Have you been taking childbirth classes?” he asked, kicking the door shut behind them. He wanted to kick himself, because he should have been beside her at those classes.
She burrowed her face into the crook of his neck. “Yes,” came her hoarse reply.
“Who’s your coach?”
“Mom.”
“What would she be doing,” he asked opening the car door, “if she were here right now?”
Ciara began to sob uncontrollably. “I don’t want to lose the baby, Mitch. I love it so,” she said, one arm hugging her tummy. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more afraid….”
He’d never seen her cry before. He wanted to hold her this way forever. Comfort her. Tell her whatever she needed to hear. But there wasn’t time for that now. Gently he put her into the car. “You’re not going to lose the baby, sweetie.” He ran a hand through her hair. “The best thing you can do is stay calm. Right?”
Nodding, she wiped her eyes as he pulled the seat belt around her. Ciara grabbed his hand as he clicked the buckle into place. “I don’t know how well I’d be handling this if I were alone.”
Without even thinking, he placed a quick kiss on her cheek. “You’re never gonna be alone again, sweetie, not if I have anything to say about it.”
As he ran around to his side of the car, she couldn’t help but admit how much she wanted to believe him. Oh, Mitch, please don’t give me false hope, especially not now….
It was as he shifted into Reverse that Ciara noticed her blood on his hands. He followed the direction of her gaze and gasped involuntarily.
“‘It’s nothing,’” she rasped, quoting word for word what he’d said when she’d first noticed his bullet wound, “‘a flesh wound. No big deal.’”
Mitch turned on the flashers and the headlights, and prayed for all he was worth: No traffic, no potholes, no red lights, he begged God as he pealed away from the curb. He glanced over at her, held his breath when he saw how much blood had already soaked the seat. Get us to the hospital, Lord, and us get there fast!
Chapter Four
“What do you mean, I can’t go with her?” Mitch demanded.
The nurse was nearly his height and likely outweighed him by fifty pounds. She tilted back her red-haired head and held up one hand like a traffic cop. “You’ll only be in the way. Now have a seat,” she ordered, pointing to the chairs against the wall.
Mitch didn’t want a confrontation with this woman. He just wanted to be with his wife. He’d promised never to leave her alone again. He couldn’t let her down. Not now.
Ciara had looked so frail and fragile when the orderlies put her on the gurney, so pale and drawn it was hard to tell where she ended and the starched white sheets began. She’d reached out her hand as they wheeled her past, but in the flurry of activity, he couldn’t get close enough to take hold of it. The last thing he saw were her teary eyes, wide with fear and pain.
“Listen, lady,” he ground out, “that’s my wife in there, and she needs me. No amount of your self-important hooha can stop me from going in there.”
He took a step, and she blocked it. Crossing both arms over her ample chest and tapping a white-shoed foot on the shining linoleum, her eyes narrowed. “I’m calling Security,” she snapped.
“You do what you have to do,” he shot back, shrugging, “and I’ll do what I have to do.” With that he barged into the emergency room. Almost immediately he felt guilty for having behaved like a caveman, but he’d have done whatever it took to be near Ciara.
“Did you see where they took my wife?” he asked the first nurse he saw.
“Little blonde, pregnant out to here?” she asked, making a big circle of her arms.
He nodded.
“Second bed on the right. Now, stop lookin’ so worried, hon. Women have babies every day…I’ve had seven, myself. Trust me,” she said with a wave of her hand. “It’s a cakewalk.”
He didn’t bother to point out how elaborate and difficult cakewalks had been for the slaves who’d competed for slices of dessert…. “Thanks,” he said, and headed for his wife’s cubicle.
“Mitch,” she sighed when she saw him. “I heard all the ruckus. I didn’t think you’d ever get past her….”
He kissed her cheek, then flexed his bicep to lighten the tense atmosphere. “Hey, it’s gonna take more than one coldhearted nurse to keep me away from you, especially now.”
She smiled feebly, gave his hand a grateful little squeeze.
“So how’re you feelin’, sweetie?” he asked, pulling a chair closer to the bed.
“I’m okay,” she whispered.
But she wasn’t, and he knew it. Smoothing wispy blond bangs from her forehead, he looked into her blue eyes. It was hard to tell the agony from the fear. He felt incredibly powerless, because she was bleeding and in pain, and there wasn’t a thing he could to help her. Where were the doctors? And the nurses? Did they intend to let her lie here and bleed to death? Did they…
Well, there was something he could do!
Mitch leaped up and stomped toward the pastel-striped curtains. “Hey,” he hollered, half of him in the cubicle, the other half leaning into the hall, “can we get some help in here? My wife is—”
A blue-smocked man blew past Mitch. “Mrs. Mahoney?”
Ciara nodded weakly.
“It’s about time you got here,” Mitch snarled, letting the curtain fall back into place.
Ignoring the husband’s grumbling, the doctor stepped up beside Ciara. “First baby?” he asked, a knowing smile on his face.
Another nod, and a small smile, too.
“Well, don’t you worry, little lady. We’re gonna take real good care of you, I promise.” He pulled the blood pressure cuff from a hard pl
astic pocket on the head-board. “You see, there was a six-car pileup on Route 95 about a half hour ago,” he explained, his voice calm and reassuring as he fit it to her upper arm. “The paramedics brought in the last of the injured just minutes before you arrived.” A half shrug. “Contusions and abrasions for the most part, but the nurses are hot-footing it, just the same.”
He stood silent for a moment, reading the gauge, then put everything back where he’d found it. “You don’t mind a lowly resident working on you, do you?” he asked, scribbling a note on the file attached to the clipboard he held.
“It takes a lot of hard work to become a resident,” Ciara said, smiling. “There’s nothing ‘lowly’ about your position.”
She’s lying there getting weaker by the minute, Mitch thought, and he’s making small-talk! Frustration got the better of him. “It’s been my experience,” Mitch interrupted, “that chitchat can’t stop hemorrhaging….”
“Mitch,” Ciara protested, a restraining hand on his forearm, “it’s all right, I’m—”
“First of all, Mr. Mahoney,” the young doctor said, writing another note in Ciara’s file, “your wife is losing some blood, but she’s not in immediate danger. Secondly, I have a wife, and a kid, myself. If either of them were here now, I’d be breathing fire, just like you are.” He clicked off his ballpoint and slid it into his shirt pocket. “Trust me,” he said, meeting Mitch’s eyes squarely. “We’re going to do everything in our power for your wife and baby.”
He didn’t wait for Mitch’s agreement or approval. Instead, he plowed through the curtains and began barking orders, commanding attention, demanding assistance. When he returned a moment later, shoving a tool-laden cart, he looked at Mitch. “How well do you handle the sight of blood?”
“He’s an FBI agent,” Ciara answered on his behalf. She sent Mitch a crooked little smile. “My husband has seen more than his share of blood.”
The doctor snapped a pair of surgical gloves over his hands. One corner of his mouth lifted in a grin. “Stand over there, then, near the wall. If you don’t get in the way, maybe I’ll let you stay.”
Mitch crossed both arms over his chest, fully prepared to follow the doctor’s orders to the letter. He’d been away from her long enough. No way he would leave her now, especially not now. He pressed a knuckle against his lower lip, and watched.
He’d been on the scene when emergency medical technicians tended the victims of shootings, stabbings, near drownings. Once, he’d been the only one available to help a woman give birth to twins. Always before though, as his adrenaline had pumped and his heart raced, he’d managed to keep a professional distance from the lifesaving—or life-giving—experiences. Keeping an emotional arm’s length from them had been easy, because the people involved had all been strangers.
Admittedly, he hadn’t known the beautiful young woman on the gurney very long, but she was his wife, and the great bulge beneath the sheet that covered her was his unborn child. Unconsciously he began to gnaw his thumbnail.
As a small kid his mom was forever admonishing him to keep his fingers out of his mouth. By the age of seven, he’d left the habit behind, along with his nightlight and Peppy, the stuffed bear. And no matter how stress-or pressure-filled the situation, he hadn’t chewed his fingernails since, not when he took his SATs, not when he sat for the CPA exam, not before the final test at Quantico.
A tiny stab of pain told him he was back at it again. Mitch searched for a napkin, a paper towel…anything that would blot the bloodstain from his thumb. He spotted some tissues on the small counter against the wall and plucked one from the box. Wrapping it around his thumb, he squeezed.
He tried to see Ciara. She was all but hidden from his sight as doctors, nurses, interns and residents gathered round. He felt like that seven-year-old nail-biter again. He’d been through terrifying situations. He’d faced death at point-blank range. Through it all, he hadn’t shed a tear for himself, or anyone else involved. So why was he on the verge of tears now?
Because you could lose her, he admitted.
For the first time, Mitch understood how the bad guys must feel once they’d been snagged, frisked and cuffed, because he felt caught—smack between his career-focused, solitary lifestyle and the reality that without Ciara life would be meaningless.
Snap out of it, Mahoney! he berated himself, gritting his teeth. Pull yourself together, for Ciara’s sake.
Mitch chanced a glance over his shoulder, caught a glimpse of her between the broad shoulders of the young resident and the shower-capped head of a nurse. He’d seen blood—his own, fellow agents’, criminals’—hundreds of times. So why did the sight of Ciara’s make him feel as if a tight band had been wrapped round his chest?
Mitch swiped at the sweat that had popped out on his forehead, discovered that his palms were damp, too. His ears started to ring, the room started to spin, and he realized if he didn’t get out of there fast, he’d keel over.
He took another look at her: eyes closed, jaw clenched, fists bunched at her sides. She hadn’t uttered a word of complaint since he’d cradled her, there on their kitchen floor, when she’d admitted how badly it hurt. You weak-kneed wimp, he chided himself. She’s the one going through this, so why are you swooning like an old woman?
Mitch closed his eyes again, took a deep breath and prayed the extra oxygen would clear his head.
It didn’t.
Pressing his forehead to the wall, he prayed the dizziness would pass, at least long enough for him to make it into the hall. He turned and headed for the curtain.
“Mitch,” came her exhausted voice, “you’re pale as a ghost. What’s wrong?”
Humiliation washed over him like a tidal wave. Even in her weakened condition, and surrounded by half a dozen medical professionals, her thoughts were of him, not herself. He didn’t know what minor miracle had prompted her to say yes when he’d asked her to marry him, but he knew he’d never done a thing in his life to deserve a woman like Ciara.
Too ashamed to meet her eyes, Mitch looked at the young doctor instead. “I, ah, I…”
“Get out of here, Mr. Mahoney,” he said, frowning over his round-lensed glasses. “The room’s too crowded as it is. I’ll come for you when we’re finished here, bring you up to speed.”
With a nod of gratitude, and another of relief, Mitch hurried out of the cubicle. He slumped into the first chair he came to, a ghastly orange thing of molded plastic, being held up by four aluminum legs. What in God’s name is the matter with you? he demanded of himself, an elbow resting on each knee. Mitch hung his head, stuck his face in his hands and prayed for all he was worth.
“Let her be all right,” he whispered into the warm dark space between his face and his palms. “Give me a chance to show her how much she means to me….”
“You’re doing fine,” Dr. Peterson said, patting her hand.
“I’m so glad the hospital was able to get hold of you,” she admitted.
“Relax, now. Everything’s under control.”
But was it?
The baby hadn’t moved, not once, since—since right after Mitch had come home. She remembered the exact moment because, when she’d felt the baby stir, she had wanted to interrupt him, in the middle of explaining that he had written, to say, “Mitch…our baby is moving…give me your hand….”
Instead she’d stared into the handsome face of the man in her kitchen…her husband, yet a virtual stranger. Had she refrained from sharing that warm “baby” moment with him because he’d left her alone for seven long, lonely months? Or had she kept it to herself…to punish him for those months?
A little of both, she admitted, a twinge of guilt knotting in her heart.
“You doin’ all right?” Peterson asked.
Ciara nodded.
“Then why the big sigh?”
“Oh, just talking to myself. I do it all the time.”
He grinned. “Well, keep it down, will ya? We’re tryin’ to concentrate here.”
> His teammates snickered. “Yeah. You’re noisier than a gaggle of geese,” a nurse said.
“What’s the matter,” said another, “aren’t you gettin’ enough attention?”
Ciara smiled weakly. She knew the purpose of their lighthearted banter was to keep her calm, and while she appreciated their attempts to reassure her, she could have saved them the bother. Nothing could calm her as long as she was worried….
She was terrified, right down to the marrow of her bones, that the baby had stopped moving because something terrible had happened.
And what if Mitch didn’t want the baby?
Possible, she thought, but not likely. He’d been so sweet and understanding during the drive from the house to the hospital, saying all the right things, patting her hand lovingly, concern flashing in his big brown eyes. But had it all been a joke, like those the doctors and nurses had been telling, to keep her quiet and still? If not, why had he dashed out of the room just now, looking like a deer with a hunter hot on its trail? And why had his usually ruddy complexion gone ashen? Perhaps because the sudden news had overwhelmed him….
She’d known from the moment he’d seen her belly that he would need time to come to grips with the fact that he’d be a father soon. She’d had months to get used to the idea—he’d had half an hour before the bleeding started.
Since they’d arrived at the hospital, she’d been lying there telling herself that, in time, Mitch would be as overjoyed and exuberant about the prospect of parenthood as she was.
But what if he wasn’t?
Ciara’s lower lip began to quiver, and she bit down to still it. Her eyes welled with tears, and she squeezed them to keep new ones from forming. Stay calm, she scolded herself, for the baby’s sake…. But the lip continued to tremble, and the tears fell steadily.
“We’re almost finished here, Ciara,” Dr. Peterson said.
Sniffling, she summoned enough to control to say, “Um…the baby…hasn’t moved, not once in all this time….”
“Perfectly normal under the circumstances. You’ve gotta give the little tyke credit…he’s already smart enough to know when to lay low.”
