The Black Sheep’s Baby

by Kathleen Creighton

  He glared at Devon, primed and battle-ready, but something about the look on her face made him wary, and kept him silent. There was something wistful, almost bleak about the way she watched him, he thought. For the first time in a long time she reminded him of Susan.

  What is she thinking? Is she…could she possibly be remembering?

  His heart gave a bump of excitement and hope, and he softened his glare and waited.

  “What did Susan intend to do with Emily?”

  It was a long way from what he’d hoped for. “Do?” Frowning, he shifted on the couch, getting himself and Emily more comfortably settled. “What do you mean?”

  “What was Susan going to do, after her baby was born? I’m sure-” a smile flickered weakly, then vanished. “I doubt very much that she intended to die.”

  Eric didn’t answer. Instead he stared down at the baby’s face, watched it waver and blur.

  “She was living on the streets, you said. So, did she have any kind of a plan?” Her voice was brusque-almost pugnacious. But when he looked at her, all he saw was the same wistfulness that had touched him so often in Susan-a stretched, fragile look around her eyes…a certain childlike softness to her mouth. She looked…lost, he thought. And-yes, there it was again-vulnerable. “Was she going to put the baby up for adoption? Keep her? What?”

  He drew a careful breath. “I don’t think she’d made up her mind. Sometimes she’d talk about keeping her baby-going into the shelter, getting a job… But then, I think-I don’t know, maybe the fear of failure would get to her, and she’d be just overwhelmed by it all. You know-‘What if I don’t make it? What kind of life will my baby have then?’ And by that time, she figured she’d be that much more attached, and giving her up would be that much-”

  “What was she like-my sister?” The interruption was no more than a whisper.

  Eric narrowed his eyes, but it did nothing to help the pain that had come over him. Giving her up. It was a fear that he understood in his gut, in the depths of his soul. Looking at Devon became too hard, and because he didn’t want to look at Emily either, just then, he turned his head away. “Tired,” he said gruffly. “Defeated. Like most street kids, old before her time-like…nineteen-going-on-a-hundred.”

  He felt rather than saw Devon nod. After a moment she asked in that same fragile whisper, “Was there a funeral?”

  “She was cremated,” he said bluntly. “I took care of it-sorry, it was all I could afford. There’s a marker, though, where her ashes are buried. If you want-”

  “Thank you. I-my parents would appreciate that.” She hesitated, staring at nothing, rubbing at her upper arms. Then she walked quickly past him and out of the room.

  But not before he saw that she was crying.

  A Southern California girl born and raised, Devon had never experienced the profound stillness of snow. Because of it, and because she was still operating on Pacific Coast time, she slept late and awoke to a disorienting brightness that alarmed her before she was at least partly reassured by the numerals on the nightstand clock.

  She threw back the covers and, accustomed now to the shock of the cold floor on her bare feet, rushed to the window. And caught back a cry with a quick intake of breath. After that, she could only look and look…and hug herself and shiver with a strange effervescent excitement. She was unaware, then, that what she was experiencing for the first time ever was only the exquisite delight countless children have known, awakening to discover a world made magic by a simple blanket of white.

  Surprised somewhat by her eagerness to be out in it, she dressed quickly in borrowed clothes and hurried downstairs. She found the kitchen warm and cozy as she’d come to expect, humid with the smells of coffee and something she feared must be boiled oats, with the friendly sounds of a local radio station playing in the background, turned down low. Her heart did a peculiar little bump when she saw that Eric was there before her. She couldn’t for the life of her think why; slouched in a chair with several days growth of beard on his face and an errant lock of hair giving him a vagabond air, he was hardly heartthrob material.

  She couldn’t help but think what a difference a day made. Yesterday morning, bare-chested and holding a baby in his arms, he’d confronted her in this kitchen with all the hospitality of a peasant encountering Frankenstein’s monster. Today, he was sitting at the table placidly reading a book, a coffee mug and an empty cereal bowl on the table in front of him, and he only looked up long enough to mutter a neutral, “’Mornin’-help yourself to coffee and oatmeal.”

  And why on earth did she find herself wishing for more?

  “Where are your mom and dad?” she asked as she pulled out a chair and sat down, curling her hands around a mug of steaming coffee.

  “Feeding cattle,” Eric said without looking up, as he deliberately turned a page. Under the stubble that darkened his jaws she could see a muscle working, and she felt a distinctly childish-and unsettling-desire to kick him under the table.

  “How come you’re not out there helping?” She was secretly pleased when he closed the book and pushed it away from him. Pleased, and yet another part of her couldn’t think what had possessed her, to demand attention like a spoiled child.

  “Somebody has to stay with the kid,” he reminded her. He laughed without humor when Devon straightened as if she’d been poked, then ducked her head to meet her raised coffee mug and bury her face guiltily in the steam. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of asking you.”

  She didn’t reply, but sipped coffee and nursed a little ember of…was it hurt, or annoyance? So, I’m not the mothering type, she thought. So, I don’t know how to hold a baby-what am I supposed to do, apologize for that?

  Refusing to give in to the disappointment she felt, she tilted her head to study the cover of the book he’d been reading. “Harry Potter-I’ve heard of him. Isn’t that supposed to be a children’s book?”

  “Yeah, so what?” He picked up his coffee mug and lifted an eyebrow at her over the rim. “Does that mean adults can’t read it?” He took a swallow, gesturing toward the book with the mug as he set it back down. “Dad told me I should read it, actually. He’s a writer-I can see why he’d like it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s full of words,” he said, then smiled when she laughed at that ridiculous statement. “Well, you’d know what I mean if you read it.” Then, while laughter still warmed his eyes, he slyly asked, “What books did you read when you were a kid?”

  “The usual ones.” She flung it back at him, defiantly, to let him know that, even with the laughter and the smile, he hadn’t caught her off guard this time.

  “What?” he persisted, looking innocent. “Nancy Drew…horse books…Beverly Cleary…The Hobbit-”

  The Hobbit. She pounced on that-she’d read Lord of the Rings in college. “Yeah, I read that.” She said it with an air of victory, and before he could ask more questions, rose briskly, taking her coffee cup with her. “What I want to do,” she announced, “is go outside and see the snow.”

  “Believe me,” he said dryly, “it looks prettier from here.”

  She turned to lean against the sink. Acutely self-conscious under his quiet, appraising gaze, she folded her arms across her breasts. “Hey-I’m from L.A. This is a new experience for me. I intend to make the most of it.”

  “I hope you’ve got your long johns on.”

  “My what?”

  “Long johns-thermal underwear?” His glance swept her from head to toe, a touch as light as snowflakes. Inside the meaningless shell of her clothes, she felt slim and cool and naked. He nodded at the jeans she was wearing. “In those, without thermals you’ll freeze in five minutes.” He made an exasperated grimace. “It’s not a damn Christmas card. Don’t you know it’s cold out there?”

  She couldn’t seem to answer him. It’s true, she thought. Your voice can stick in your throat.

  Impatient, brusque, he shoved his chair back and stood up. “Come on-I’ll find you some.” />
  She moved clumsily to one side so he could put his cereal bowl and coffee cup in the sink. He reached past her to run water into them, then gestured for her to go ahead of him. She obeyed, meek but resentful. And he says his mom’s a steamroller, she thought. Maybe it was in the genes.

  Oh, how she did not want to walk ahead of him up the stairs. She’d never felt so conscious of her body before. She tried to hold herself rigid, wishing she could somehow stop the sway of her hips, the stretch of fabric over her buttocks. She was breathless by the time she reached the top, and her heart pounded as if she’d climbed a dozen flights of stairs.

  In the upstairs hallway, Eric slipped past her and into her room. She followed, and found him opening and closing drawers.

  “Ah-here we go.” He held up a pair of light blue knit thermals, top and bottom. “These ought to fit you-I think they’re probably my dad’s, so ignore the, uh…guy stuff.” He tossed them on the unmade bed and pulled open another drawer, this one full of socks. “If you’re going to go outside in this, dress in layers-especially your feet-got it? At least three pairs of socks. The boots you were wearing yesterday morning should be okay… Oh-and eat some breakfast. You’ll need the energy to keep warm. There’s oatmeal-”

  “I hate oatmeal,” Devon blurted out. Belatedly recognizing the rudeness of that, she hugged herself contritely, shivering even in the mild coolness of the bedroom.

  “Suit yourself,” Eric said with a shrug. He went out of the room, and a moment later she heard the door next to hers quietly close.

  Still shivering, still resentful, she jumped belatedly to close her own door after him. Then, muttering words like “Bossy!” and “Where does he get off!” under her breath, she began peeling off her clothes.

  It took a while, and by the time she was finished the room was strewn with discarded clothing, but she was satisfied she’d donned enough layers to see her through an Arctic trek. She felt enormous-like a pregnant whale, cocooned in layers of fabric and stuffed into jeans that felt a couple of sizes too small now. And stiff-she could hardly bend her knees. She walked like a B-movie monster. But she was ready. And she could hardly wait to get outside.

  Ignoring Eric’s advice about breakfast-she really did dislike oatmeal-she bypassed the kitchen and made straight for the service porch, where she struggled into the rubber boots and parka she’d worn yesterday. The boots were a snug fit, now, and much less clumsy than they’d been during her brief excursion to the barn. She stomped them experimentally a few times, then clumped across the porch and pushed open the outer door.

  The air made her gasp, and at the same time she wanted to whoop with sheer glee. It was like the coldest coldest champagne she could imagine-effervescent, exhilarating, breathtaking. She paused for several moments, breathing deeply, blinking in the incredible brilliance of the morning. It’s not a Christmas card, Eric had said. No, she thought, it’s a thousand times more beautiful…more wonderful.

  She’d barely reached the bottom of the steps before the dogs came bounding to welcome her; apparently they were old friends, now. Once the amenities were out of the way, the two Border collies went tumbling and romping off through the blanket of snow that covered the yard, rolling and leaping, yipping excitedly as if, she thought as she watched them, laughing, they were trying to demonstrate for her its marvelous possibilities.

  Although, romping in snow was one thing, she discovered as she floundered her way down the hill on what she hoped was the driveway, taking her bearings from the tops of fence posts she could see sticking out of the drifts at the bottom. Walking was another. She’d fallen down several times by the time she reached what she assumed must be the road. In addition to making a clumsy spectacle of herself, snow had managed to find its way inside her boots, and her hands were red and aching, though she tried her best to keep them warm by tucking them deep in the pockets of her parka.

  She halted at the bottom of the lane, hip-deep in snow, and turned first one way, then the other, sighting along the line of fence posts, a curving row of stark black dots against all that blinding white. She shook her head, then looked again. Panic flashed briefly through her mind, followed by bewilderment, and finally, pure stubborn, muleheaded disbelief.

  Where in the hell was her car?

  Eric, who had been following Devon’s erratic progress down the hill from a discreet distance, lifted his camera and snapped several quick pictures before moving on. He’d taken more than a few already-a fact he hadn’t decided, yet, whether to share with their principle subject. Based on what he knew of Devon so far, he wasn’t ready to trust her sense of humor-wouldn’t have given odds, in fact, that she had one.

  “Waiting for a bus?” he inquired as he approached the bereft-looking figure half buried in snowdrifts.

  She jerked toward him, blowing on her hands-bare, of course. When it came to weather, the woman obviously had no sense. Her face brightened, but only briefly. She made an annoyed grimace, lifted her arms and let them fall back to her well-padded sides. “I can’t find my car.” She sounded so astounded, Eric couldn’t help but smile. “It has to be here somewhere,” she insisted, glaring at him as if she thought he must have hidden it, somehow. “I couldn’t have walked that far in that damn blizzard.”

  “Then it must be here.” Scratching his chin and making exaggerated “Hmm, let’s see…” noises, he looked up the road in the direction from which he knew she’d have come, studying the patterns the wind-driven snow had made along the fence. Resisting the urge to lift his camera one more time, he plowed his way around Devon and halted beside a drift larger and slightly more rounded than the others. He gave the side of the drift a kick, and was rewarded with a solid-sounding thunk.

  “Oh, my God. It’s my car. It is. I don’t believe it.” Devon had wallowed her way to his side, and was already trying to brush away the blanket of snow that had completely buried what appeared to be a spanking new luxury car, navy-blue-ignoring the fact that her bare hands were cherry-red with cold.

  “For God’s sake, here-put these on before you get frostbite,” he said as he roughly bumped her arm with the hand he’d pulled from the pocket of his parka.

  She looked at him-first, in surprise, at his face; then uncomprehendingly at his hand. When she saw the pair of heavy, thermal-lined ski gloves, she jerked her eyes back to his, and he saw in them the beginnings of a glow that spread slowly over her whole face, a kind of lightening, not unlike a sunrise.

  “Thanks…that was nice of you,” she said as she took the gloves from him and awkwardly put them on. She sounded breathless, but it might have been the cold.

  “Don’t you know you lose most of your body heat through your hands and head?” he growled, holding up the blue-and-white knitted ski hat he’d pulled from his jacket’s other pocket. “Here, hold still.” He kept his expression pained as he turned her toward him and yanked her closer, so she wouldn’t know what he was thinking.

  As he lifted the ski cap and pulled it roughly over her cold, damp hair, he was thinking what a shame it was to cover it up and how heartstoppingly beautiful those wild, flame-red curls were, part of the reason he’d felt compelled to focus his camera lens on her again and again on her ungainly trek down the lane, the one spot of color and warmth in a frozen black-and-white landscape.

  As he tucked away an errant curl with a gloved finger and tugged the cap ungently over her ears, he was thinking how young and fresh and sweet she looked, with her nose and cheeks all rosy and her mouth blurred and trembling with the cold…and how fiercely, how intensely he wanted to kiss her.

  Chapter 10

  “W hat am I going to do?”

  The question, asked in such a small voice, with stark appeal and unheralded meekness, startled him. It so closely echoed his own thoughts just then. Swallowing to dampen down the desire that coiled in his belly and lingered like the taste and smell of something delicious and forbidden at the back of his throat, he let his gloved hand drop away from her.

  “I kne
w it was in the ditch-I knew it, I knew it. How am I ever going to get it out of there?” More upset than she’d ever thought she could be, Devon pressed a gloved hand to her forehead. What am I going to do? she thought. What was I just thinking?

  She’d been thinking how it might feel to kiss him, thinking about his mouth. His lips would be cold and firm, warm inside. Thinking about it with such intensity, her whole body now felt bereft…cold. She shivered with the shock of it. Oh, God, what am I going to do?

  “Don’t worry about it-I can pull it out with a tractor. No big deal.” He was moving away from her; she wanted so badly to call him back. To have him put his arms around her and hold her until she stopped this infernal shivering.

  “And then what?” She flung out an arm, taking in the buried road.

  Eric paused to glance back at her. “They’ll get it plowed-eventually.”

  “When? New Year’s?” She was irrationally furious. Even the highway department, it seemed, was determined to keep her here against her will.

  Against her will? But how could that be, when in her deepest buried heart what she really wanted to do was stay?

  He paused, shrugged. “They usually do the interstate first, then the main roads, any emergency stuff-police, fire department, hospitals, things like that. Doubt if they’ll get out here until tomorrow, the earliest.”

  “Tomorrow…that’s the 23rd, right?” She stared across the frozen landscape, eyes narrowed against the incredible glare as she did the calculations. “By the time we’d get to the airport, get a flight-if we’re lucky…” She shot Eric a look and her lips curved stiffly. “Your mom’s right-we’d be getting back to L.A. just in time for Christmas Eve.” It was hard to admit defeat. She took a deep breath and puffed it out in a cloud of vapor. “Looks like your family’s got an uninvited guest for Christmas.”

  Eric’s smile was as sardonic as hers. “Mom’ll be happy.”