A Weaver Wedding

by ALLISON LEIGH,

  He could practically feel his father absorbing that question, and coming to his own—typically accurate—conclusion about its subtext. “Enough,” Jefferson said evenly. “We’ve got more than enough, son.”

  Then the phone went silent and Axel went into the living room. He started a fire in the fireplace. Stuck Erik’s unopened root beer in the fridge and replaced the pool cues in the rack.

  He listened to Tristan’s furious phone messages.

  Mostly, though, he thought about the woman in his bed and wished to hell that she was there for any reason other than this.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You’re awake.”

  Tara eyed Axel’s mother sitting in a wooden rocking chair not far from the bed. A small lamp on top of a packing crate offered the only light in the bedroom.

  The rocking chair was just like the ones she’d imagined for Axel’s front porch.

  “Can I get you something? Water?” Emily’s smile was gently wry. “Whiskey?”

  Just that easily, Tara’s eyes welled.

  Emily clucked softly and set the book she’d been reading on the seat of the chair as she moved to the side of the bed. She brushed the hair back from Tara’s face and cupped her chin. “It’s all right,” Emily soothed. “The important thing is that nobody was hurt.”

  That was true. But it was hard to feel all that blessed, when everything Tara personally owned had gone up in flames.

  She swallowed hard, only to be gripped by a cough.

  “I’ll get you some water,” Emily said. “I won’t be a second.” She quickly left the room.

  Tara pressed her head back against the pillow. It smelled smoky. But then she realized it was her that smelled of smoke.

  She lifted her arm, covering her eyes, and tried blocking out everything. The indistinguishable murmur of Emily’s voice from the other room as she spoke to someone. The warm glow of the lamp in the otherwise dark room.

  The fact that she was in Axel Clay’s bed. A place where she’d tried for months to make herself believe she didn’t want to be. Tried. And failed.

  A flutter tickled low in her abdomen and she went still. Slowly dropped her arm and pushed up on her elbows, her palms creeping across her stomach.

  And then she felt it again. A brush of butterfly wings. Her baby had moved.

  “Here you go, Tara.” Emily reappeared, holding out a glass of water.

  Tara’s hands slowly fell from her tummy and she sat up a little more, taking the glass. The water felt good against her raspy throat and she drank it all.

  Emily took the glass when she was finished and set it on the carton next to the lamp, then picked up her book and sat down once more. “I’m just going to sit here for a while, all right?”

  “How…how long have you been here?”

  “Since Axel called us after he brought you back here. It’s about 2:00 a.m. now.”

  Tara started. “You haven’t been sitting there all that time?”

  “Of course I have.” Emily smiled slightly. “Axel didn’t want you to wake up and be alone.”

  The woman’s kindness was almost unbearable. “Where, uh, where is he?”

  “He went to town with his father last night. Don’t worry.” Emily added. “Mason Hyde’s been here every minute since.”

  Tara’s lips parted. “You know about Mason?”

  “I know about a lot of things,” Emily assured her calmly. “Axel told us about your brother, dear.”

  The baby fluttered again. “I’m sorry,” Tara blurted out. “I’m sorry we misled you.”

  “Misled?” Emily’s eyebrows rose slightly, inquisitively, and Tara suddenly realized that Axel wasn’t quite a carbon copy of his father, Jefferson. He’d inherited this exact look from his mother, as well.

  “About,” she continued and then swallowed again, “about being…involved.”

  Oddly enough, Axel’s mother looked vaguely amused. “But you are involved.”

  “Only because he was assigned to me.”

  Emily set her book down again and moved back to sit on the side of the bed. “Jefferson and I weren’t altogether pleased when Axel decided to do the work he does.” She shook her head slightly. “But that desire inside him—to do what’s right however he can—isn’t just something he learned growing up in this family.” She let out a soft laugh. “I think it was programmed into his DNA long before he—or his father—was born. But never—” she picked up Tara’s hand in hers “—never, has he brought one of his assignments to Sunday dinner. In fact, he’s never brought a woman at all to Sunday dinner.” She squeezed Tara’s hand. “You matter to my son. I’ve known it since he used to volunteer to drive me into town to visit your shop. That makes you matter to us, all that much more.”

  Tara wasn’t ready to examine the notion that she’d held any interest to Axel before that night in Braden. But this kind woman was her child’s grandmother. And that fact was staring her right in the face. “Emily—” she said and broke off, the words she wanted to say dammed behind years of reticence. “I’ve never met anyone like you. Your family.” It wasn’t at all what she needed to say.

  The older woman smiled again. “We’re just a family. Good, bad, occasionally quirky. But we pull together when we need to.”

  “My family wasn’t like this.”

  “You have just your brother?”

  Tara looked away. Not even her brother, anymore. Not really. “Our parents died in an auto accident almost ten years ago.” A perfectly ordinary—if such a thing could be termed that—car accident. One that had nothing at all to do with the CIA, or the constant upheaval of their lives.

  Just a drunk kid who was driving a stolen car. Just.

  “That’s how I lost my parents,” Emily replied softly. “I was a child, though. Squire—he was a relation of sorts by marriage—brought me here to live with him.”

  “Then you were raised with—”

  “Jefferson? Well, he was somewhat older, but yes.” Emily squeezed her hand again, then let go. “But we can talk about that another time. Right now, you should try to get more sleep.” As if Tara were no older than a child, she tucked the quilt over her, then moved back to the chair and her book. “I’ll just sit with you for a while longer. Make sure you go to sleep all right. That is if the light won’t bother you?”

  “It doesn’t bother me.” Tara’s voice was husky and not because of the smoke she’d inhaled. “Thank you.”

  Emily’s eyes looked a little surprised. “For what?”

  Tara told the bald, sad truth. “My mother didn’t sit with me at night even when I was a little girl. That would have been…coddling, which my father didn’t allow.”

  Emily’s brows pulled together. “Oh, honey.” She sighed a little. “Sometimes even a grown woman needs a little coddling.” She sat forward, leaning over the book on her lap, toward the bed. “And you say you don’t have your brother. But he’s the one insisting on your protection. Whether he’s with you or not, he’s obviously concerned.” Her hands spread. “Rightfully so, it appears.”

  Tara shook her head. “I’ve lived too long with Sloan’s paranoia. The fire will turn out to be completely unrelated to him.”

  “Maybe you’ll be right. Axel will probably have more answers in the morning. For now, just try and sleep.”

  “What about you?”

  Emily’s smile was gentle. “You can chalk it up to conditioning for when I get to help out when my next grandbaby is born.”

  Somehow, Tara managed a faint smile. And then she closed her eyes.

  When she woke the next time, light was flooding through the unadorned windows opposite Axel’s bed.

  Tara looked around. The rocking chair was unoccupied; the lamp turned off. She leaned over and took the water glass that had been refilled and drank it right down.

  The door to the bedroom was ajar, and she could hear the low murmur of voices. The only one she recognized, though, was Axel’s.

  She exhaled and pushed ba
ck the quilt. Aside from the bed, the only other furniture was the chair and lamp. And a stack of packing boxes. She didn’t spot a clock anywhere, either.

  She had no idea what time it was.

  She looked out the windows opposite the bed and saw nothing but an expanse of snow, glistening under the bright sun, and a jut of craggy rocks beyond that. Axel’s bedroom, she realized, overlooked a mountain base.

  The bedroom possessed two doors—both closed—aside from the door leading out to the living area. She opened one and found a closet. A full closet.

  Her fingertips drifted over the sleeve of a dark blue shirt. If she hadn’t reeked of smoke, she would have pressed her face into the fabric. Instead, she closed the door and opened the other. Mercifully, it led to a bathroom.

  A long, wood-framed mirror ran the length of one wall, throwing her haggard reflection back at her. A single toothbrush sat in a stainless-steel holder and a single set of thick black towels hung on the rod next to a glass-walled shower. Feeling like a snoop, she opened a few cupboards, but most were empty. No extra towels, though she did find toothpaste and a disposable razor.

  She peeled off her clothes, flushing over her absent panties, then reached in to flip on the shower which turned hot almost immediately. She stepped inside, trying not to think about her old claw-foot tub and slow water heater, because if she did, she’d start crying again.

  He had a bottle of shampoo on a ledge built high into one slate wall, and a bar of soap. She snatched the soft washcloth from the towel rod, grabbed the nearby tube of toothpaste and the razor, and stepped beneath the comforting spray.

  She washed her hair. Twice. Soaped her body. Scrubbed her face and rubbed toothpaste around her teeth until she no longer felt as though she’d swallowed a mouse. Then she unwrapped the razor and used that, too. Because she could have stayed in the steamy shower blocking out reality for about an eon, she made herself turn off the water and get out.

  Her pile of clothing was right where she’d left it on the floor. Wrinkled, and smelling of acrid smoke.

  She wrapped the towel around her torso, tucking the ends in above her breasts and stepped over the pile, pulling open the bathroom door. She’d wear something from Axel’s closet before she’d put that skirt and sweater on again.

  But the sight of him, sitting on the side of the bed with a huge plastic bag beside him, stopped her short.

  Her hands went to the knot holding the towel together. “I, um, I took a shower.” Then she flushed to the roots of her hair for stating the obvious. “I hope that’s all right.”

  “I’ve been using your shower for a week. What do you think?”

  “I think you look tired.” He did. Older, grimmer, and more worn than she’d ever seen him. The gray T-shirt he wore was smudged with black, and dried mud was caked on his boots and his jeans. “You haven’t slept at all, have you?”

  “I grabbed a few hours last night. A few of us picked through the debris this morning.” She realized he was holding a much smaller bag when he held it out to her. “I’m afraid this is all we could salvage.”

  She slowly reached for the bag. Inside was her mother’s hand mirror. The glass was cracked.

  “We cleaned it up as best we could.”

  She sank her teeth into her tongue until she’d mastered the shaky sob that wanted to escape. “We?”

  “My cousins. My mother. We all went out there.”

  She looked at him. At the deep gold hair that looked as if he’d been clawing through it. At the filthy state of his clothing, earned by trudging through the remains of her house. She tightened her fingers around the mirror. “You should have woken me.”

  “You needed sleep more than you needed to sift through ashes.” He sighed deeply. “Maybe I needed to not see you having to sift through ashes.”

  Her throat tightened even more. She looked back in the bag and pulled out the narrow albums that she’d kept locked away. She rubbed her thumb over the rippled, blackened covers that had once been smooth leather.

  “I found them in a metal foot locker,” he told her.

  “I kept it in the hall closet.” She slowly opened one of the albums. The pages cracked as she turned them, but by some miracle, hadn’t melted together.

  She traced her fingertip gently over a faded black-and-white snapshot of her mother wearing a parochial school uniform. She carefully closed the cover and held the two albums against her heart. “Thank you.” Her voice was thick.

  “Don’t thank me. If I’d been—” he said and broke off, exhaling sharply through his nose.

  She very nearly reached out to touch him. “This wasn’t your fault.”

  “It wasn’t arson,” he said abruptly. “The fire department ruled it accidental. Faulty wiring in the basement.”

  “Wiring,” she echoed, stunned despite everything.

  His hands clenched. “I wanted to keep your routine varied. Not head straight back to your house after you closed the shop every damned day. Turns out, if I hadn’t finagled dinner at my folks’, we’d have been at your place. Might have caught it earlier—”

  “—and we might not have,” she reminded him. “You said that yourself, Axel. But you could have told me that’s what this was all about.” She waved her hand. “Varying our routine, I mean.”

  “Making love to you was not about varying. It damn sure wasn’t about my job!” He blew out another breath. “Here.” He pulled open the top of the large bag sitting beside him. “My mother brought these by yesterday afternoon for you.”

  “Yesterday.” She frowned. “But the fire was last night.”

  He shook his head. “You slept through the entire day, yesterday. It’s Monday. Almost noon, in fact.”

  “But—”

  He lifted his hand. “Don’t say that the shop should be open.”

  Her gaping mouth closed. The shop, for once, had been the furthest thing from her mind. “I’ve never slept an entire day.”

  “You just did. I even called Rebecca to come over and check on you.”

  She went still. His aunt, Rebecca Clay, was the chief of staff at Weaver’s small hospital. “What—” She had to stop and clear her throat. “What did she say?”

  “That you were exhausted. In shock. And to let you sleep.” He looked back at the bag. “Sarah’s going to bring by everything that Dee and the rest of your neighbors collected for you after she’s finished teaching for the day.” He waved a hand. “But for now, you’ve got some clothes. Shoes. Personal …stuff. If there’s anything else you need, someone’ll get it for you.”

  Her nose itched. Her eyes burned. She carefully set the albums on the bed and looked in the bag, pulling out the blouse folded neatly on top. “Your mother bought this from me a few months ago.”

  “She’s a few inches taller than you, but she figured some of her stuff would fit you. Leandra sent the boots and the tennis shoes.”

  Tara slowly unpacked the bag. Aside from more garments that she recognized from the shop, there were packages of socks, cotton panties, and spaghetti-strapped undershirts. “These are brand new.”

  “Leandra’s doing. The other bag of stuff in there was her idea, too. She said what you carry in your shop is a lot nicer, but this stuff would get you by for a few days.”

  She’d already discovered the other “stuff.” Small bottles of toiletries. Even a package of tampons.

  She clutched the small box. “Why is everyone doing all of this? For me?”

  “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “I don’t deserve it.” She dropped the box onto the pile and it slid off, tumbling to the floor. “I don’t deserve any of this.”

  “No. You don’t.” His voice was as rough as his expression. “You didn’t deserve to have that house of yours burn down while I wasn’t looking.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant, all of this.” She waved her hand over the items she’d pulled from the bag. “Your family—everyone has been too generous. And I—” Her throat closed up. She loo
ked at him, knowing she couldn’t continue keeping the truth from him when it had been so wrong of her in the first place. “Axel—God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “For what?”

  But her words—her thoughts—were tumbling over each other in a race to expunge her horrible deed. “I should have told you. I should have found a way to reach you. Or at the very least, to tell you that first day, at the festival. I—”

  He rose from the bedside and caught her arms. “Calm down. You should have told me what?”

  But even staring into his frowning eyes, she couldn’t make the simple truth come. “I—”

  “Hey.” He cocked his head to one side, his voice gentle. “Just tell me what’s bothering you. We’ll find a way to fix it.”

  She laughed brokenly and pulled his hand until his palm was pressed flat against her towel.

  Against the swell of their child. “How do we fix this?”

  He went still for an interminable moment.

  Then with a sudden yank, he pulled the towel right away from her, flinging it to the side so she didn’t even have a chance to snatch it back to cover her nudity.

  “You’re pregnant.” His words dropped like stones in the room. His hand went back to her abdomen and she felt singed by the heat of his palm. “How?”

  “The usual way.” Her attempt at humor fell painfully flat. Because she couldn’t bear it another moment, she grabbed the towel again, whisking it around her torso, but there was no concealing her naked nerves.

  “We used condoms!”

  “Obviously one of them failed!”

  He scrubbed his hand down his face, moving around her to pace across the room. “I’ve been with you practically nonstop for a week.” His voice rose again. “When the hell did you plan to tell me?”

  Her guilty silence evidently spoke volumes and an oath escaped his clenched teeth. “You didn’t plan to tell me.” In two strides he was back to her, his hands hard on her shoulders. “At all?” He bit the words off.

  “I…I thought it would be best.” Even to her, it sounded paltry.

  He looked furious. “For who? You?”