The Black Sheep’s Baby

by Kathleen Creighton

  “And you’re not?” She asked it curiously as she came trudging up beside him, and felt him shrug.

  “It’s a reprieve, not a pardon.”

  “Look.” Devon halted and touched his arm so that he had to stop too, though she could see it was grudgingly. “Do you think we could…I don’t know, call a truce or something? Just until after the holiday? Even armies in the middle of fighting wars do that.” She took a breath and closed her eyes, fighting for the self-control that usually came naturally to her, then said, all in a rush, “I didn’t mean for this to happen. But I’m here, you’re here, and I just think we should make the best of it. For your mom’s sake, if nothing else.”

  Eric said softly, without looking at her, “You sound as if you care.”

  “Of course I do.” And Devon was mildly surprised to realize she meant it. She wondered when it had happened. When, exactly, had these Lanagans begun to be people that mattered, instead of simply adversaries?

  Eric’s eyes swept over her with calm appraisal-and something else she couldn’t identify. Daringly, she forced herself to meet and hold his gaze. “Okay-truce, then,” he said, and held out a gloved hand.

  “Until after Christmas,” she reminded him, extending hers.

  His smile slipped sideways as he took her hand in a well-padded grip. Her heart gave a bump, and she was sorry when he released her hand and continued on up the lane toward the house. Too soon, her renegade heart protested. Stay with me…

  “Aren’t you going to show me around?” Hands in her pockets, heart pounding harder, now, she watched him turn back to her.

  He raised one eyebrow. “I thought you were cold.”

  “Well, of course I’m cold.” And to prove it, her voice was bumpy with shivers. “Dammit, after what I went through to get into these layers, I want to make the most of it. This is probably the only chance I’m ever going to have to see an actual farm, you know-especially in snow.”

  “An ‘actual’ farm? As opposed to…what? A virtual farm? A fictitious farm?” But he was grinning as he trudged back to join her. He gave her a mocking glance as he turned and threw his arms wide. “Okay, there you have it. Over there is the actual barn-you saw that yesterday. Next to it are the actual corrals, and down there are the hog shelters-where the lights are burning, see? That’s for warmth. Then there’s the farrowing house-”

  “The what?”

  “Where they have baby piggies.”

  “Oh.”

  “And those are the grain silos, and the equipment barns-”

  “What’s that cute little cottage-looking thing, up there next to the house?” Devon asked, pointing.

  “That? It used to be a bunkhouse-you know, for a hired hand? I had my darkroom in there when I was in high school, but I think it’s probably used for storage, now. That’s not the original-a tree fell on the old one during a thunderstorm. Happened the summer my dad first came here-long story.” He brushed that aside with a gesture.

  They were walking together, now, past the silos and down a slope toward open fields, following dirty hard-packed tracks in the snow, twin ribbons laid down by a tractor’s tires. Far ahead, on a gently sloping hillside, the wind had scoured deeply enough to reveal the rough brown remnants of corn stubble. There, puffing out clouds of steam, grayish-white cattle were busily feeding on piles of hay the tractor had left in a long looping trail across the snowy landscape.

  “Over there-see those trees?” Coming to a halt at a gate in a barbed wire fence, Eric pointed beyond the cattle and the hills and the stubbled field. “There’s a little creek there that runs into the river. That’s where the original homestead was-the one where my great-great-I don’t know how many greats-grandmother outwitted a Sioux raiding party.”

  “The one who set fire to everything and tied her baby in her apron and climbed down the well?”

  Eric threw her a grin. “You were paying attention.”

  “I always do.”

  In the next moment he’d caught his breath; his hand shot out to close on Devon’s arm. “Wait-don’t move.”

  “What?” Her whisper was hushed, breathless. He already had his camera lifted and was holding his breath, too, finding the focus. And then, following the line of the telephoto lens, she saw the reason why. Not twenty yards from where they stood, a little brown rabbit moved in tentative hops through the snow, weaving in and out among the tips of corn stubble.

  It happened so quickly. Devon had just uttered a delighted and reverent “Ohh…” when something plummeted out of the sky with a screeching cry, in a fury of dark wings and curved talons. The rabbit uttered a thin, high-pitched squeal, and then was still. Devon watched in horror as the hawk began to tear savagely at the limp body with his hooked beak, holding it down with his talons. Bits of fluff floated into the air and caught the sunlight.

  She became aware, then, of another sound-the rapid click and whir of Eric’s camera. She whirled on him, trembling with shock. “How could you do that? How could you let that happen? Why didn’t you stop it? You…you could have…shouted, scared it away…something!” Eric slowly lowered his camera. Unperturbed by the disturbance so nearby, the hawk went on methodically feeding. “How can you just stand there, clicking away, as if…as if…” Furious with herself and with him, Devon jerked away and began to plunge through the snow, back the way they’d come, brushing an angry tear from her cold cheek.

  She hadn’t gone far when she felt Eric beside her, but she pointedly ignored him. She was angrier than she’d had any idea she could be. He must have known that because he made no effort to talk to her then, just let her plow on up the hill until she ran out of breath and had to slow down.

  They walked on together, then, plodding slowly in step, and after a while Eric surprised her by beginning to talk to her in a musing, reminiscent tone.

  “Once, when I was just a kid, still in high school, my cousin Caitlyn and I were out exploring. There’s this pond-it’s over there, beyond the hill; you can’t see it from here. We saw this mother duck, and she was trying to defend her babies from the drake-a drake’ll try to kill baby ducklings, if he can. Anyway, I had my camera, as usual, and there I was, snapping away, and all of a sudden here comes Caitlyn just flyin’ past me, screaming, ‘Do something!’ She’s throwing rocks and sticks, and she manages to drive the drake off, and then she turns on me. I’d never seen her so mad. She said almost the same thing to me you just did-how could I stand there and snap pictures, and why didn’t I do something.”

  He glanced over at Devon. She couldn’t help it-she lifted her head and looked back at him. Her heart gave that queer little bump again, when she saw the bleakness in his eyes. She’d almost forgotten that look-the one that made him seem older than eternity, the one that said those eyes had seen entirely too much.

  “I never forgot that,” he went on quietly, looking away again, his gaze focused on something Devon couldn’t see. “It was years later, in Africa-that famine I told you about?-when I realized some things are just too big, there isn’t a damn thing you can do.” He paused. “It’s terrible, you know? To feel so powerless. I guess that’s why-”

  He broke it off. “Why?” Devon prompted, almost against her will.

  He threw her an angry glance. “Susan…I think it’s why I got so involved. I thought here was a situation I could do something about-just one person, right? Turns out I was wrong then, too.” Even in profile his smile was bitter.

  He feels things… The thought had come to her, yesterday in the parlor, she remembered, the first time he’d told her about Africa. She’d felt the beginnings of a grudging respect for him, then. So why now did the same revelation make her feel bewildered, resentful and scared? Don’t tell me these things, she wanted to shout at him. Damn you, I don’t want to know what a great person you are. I don’t want to admire you. Most of all, I don’t want to like you.

  Furious with himself, Eric trudged blindly ahead, not caring whether or not she kept up with him. Why do I keep telling her t
hese things? he thought. Personal things, things he’d never told another soul. Things that had nothing to do with awakening her memories. Why did he find it so hard to remember who and what she was?

  From the first moment he’d set eyes on Devon O’Rourke, he hadn’t known what to make of her; his feelings where she was concerned had been confused, ambiguous, at best. So, that initial fear and dislike, even revulsion, had given way to sympathy and an undeniable physical attraction-fine. He had no real problem with that. But what the hell was he supposed to do with this…this strange sort of tenderness that kept coming over him when he least expected it? The bumpy rush of silent laughter he’d had to hold in check so he could snap her picture while she was floundering like a clumsy puppy in the snowdrifts, the urge to warm her hands, and smile at her cherry-red nose, and to pull her into his arms and kiss away the tears she’d wept for a damned rabbit?

  What was he to do with the sore spot that took over the space where his heart was supposed to be every time he thought about Devon O’Rourke and what she meant to do to him and Emily once the Christmas truce was over?

  “Hey, no fair.” Something nudged him in the side. Looking down, he saw green eyes glistening at him from below the rolled-up brim of the knitted ski cap, which had slipped down almost over her eyes. “I thought we had a truce.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, you’re mad at me again.”

  “Mad at you?” There it was again-he couldn’t help but smile. Did she know how childish that sounded? And how much she looked like one, shapeless in her layers, the cap low on her forehead…round, roly-poly and rosy-cheeked. And utterly adorable. “I’m not mad at you, for God’s sake.”

  He stopped and looked up at the sky. Ah, hell. What did a man do with feelings like his? Only one thing left, Eric thought, since fighting them obviously wasn’t working. Give in.

  “Hey,” he said, “did you ever make snow angels?” He grinned at her before she could reply. “Guess not, since you’ve hardly even seen snow, right? Where’d you go to college?”

  “Berkeley-law school, too.”

  “Ah. Okay, then. Here’s what you do…” He looked around. Next to the tractor tracks, the slope was pristine, and except for a few rabbit tracks, an untouched blanket of white. He turned his back to it, and catching hold of Devon’s arm, made her do the same. “Now-do what I do.” He let go of her arm and took two giant steps back. Then, first tucking his camera inside his ski-jacket for safekeeping, he held his arms straight out from his shoulders, took a deep breath and toppled over backward into the snow. “Your turn,” he yelled.

  A moment later he heard a squawk of alarm, followed by an “Oof!” and then a surprising cackle of laughter. “Now what?”

  “Okay, now, move your arms up and down, and your legs in and out-like this, see?” His own “angel” completed, Eric levered himself upright and turned to look at his masterpiece. “Hah-one of my best, if I do say so.”

  “Is that it?” Devon was still flat on her back.

  “That’s it-be careful climbing out, or you’ll mess it up.”

  A peculiar look flashed across her face. “I don’t think I can.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Eric, I’m serious. It’s all these damn layers. I’m stuck. Give me your hand-oh, no-don’t you dare. Eric, put that thing away. I swear, if you take-ooh, I’m going to kill you!”

  He laughed and snapped pictures as fast as he could. He felt younger, lighter, more carefree than he had in more years than he could remember.

  Threatening dire reprisals, Devon managed to turn herself over, then push up onto her knees. She had her back to him when she was finally standing upright, and his view was obstructed somewhat by the camera. So he didn’t see that, when she turned, she wasn’t empty-handed. He didn’t see the snowball at all until it splatted him in the chest.

  “Hey,” he yelled, hurriedly stuffing his camera back inside his coat, “for somebody with no snow experience, you sure do catch on quick!” Pretending outrage when what he really felt was delighted-and surprised.

  “I’ve always been a fast learner,” she purred, dusting her gloved hands and looking smug-for about two seconds. Her dismayed “Ack!” and upraised arms were barely in time to deflect the worst of Eric’s retaliation.

  He had to say one thing for her: she wasn’t a whiner. And she gave as good as she got. Eric hadn’t been involved in a decent snowball fight since junior high, which was about when he’d finally gotten big enough and fast enough to get the best of his sister. Funny, though-he couldn’t remember snowball fights with Ellie ever being like this. For one thing, Devon wasn’t his sister. For another, they weren’t either of them kids. And what a spectacle they must have made, he thought, two adults chasing each other around in the snow, firing snowballs as fast as they could make them, screaming and laughing until they were so out of breath neither of them could stand up.

  If he’d taken a moment to think, he might have wondered why it didn’t bother him to be acting like such an idiot. But he was caught up in it, his blood pumping, adrenaline flowing, and all he could think about was that he’d never had so much fun with a woman in his life-or desired one so much.

  Later, when his blood had cooled and his heart resumed its normal pace, that was what stayed with him-the realization that what he’d wanted more than anything during that wild romp was to get them both to someplace warm and dry and peel her out of those layers of clothing, one by one, and make love to her every way he could think of until he couldn’t anymore.

  If things had been different, he knew, the morning might have ended that way, because unless his instincts were way off, he was pretty sure the same thought had occurred to Devon. In a perfect world, one with no abused and thrown away kids living on the streets, no Susans, no Emilys, no innocent baby girls in need of protection, making love might have been the most important thing on their minds, and anything that happened to develop from that, within the realm of possibility…

  Of course, he reminded himself, in a perfect world, one with no Susans, he’d never have met her sister, Devon.

  He could almost hear Gwen’s lilting voice, the musical grace-note of her laughter: Sometimes Providence works in mysterious ways, Eric.

  Maybe so, but Eric was well aware that, in his far-from-perfect world, desiring Devon was out of the question. He remembered that fact as he lay with her lumpy, snow-encrusted parka-padded body pinned beneath him, and her wet, cold-reddened cheeks between his gloved hands, and his mouth about two inches from kissing hers. He remembered it as her laughter died, and her eyes, gazing into his, were turning dark as forest pools.

  And he knew that it was already too late. Like Pandora, having let those feelings out of the box, there was no way, now, that he could ever put them back.

  It took all the willpower he possessed not to kiss her. Instead, with his mouth still hovering over hers he said, “You’re shivering,” in a voice so gruff and bumpy, it was obvious he was shivering, too.

  “I guess I am,” she said, sounding suffocated. “So are you.”

  He rolled away from her so she could breathe. “We’d better go in before you catch your death, as Mom would say. Shall we call it a draw?”

  “I think you won, fair and square-well, maybe not fair.” She struggled to sit up, glaring at him. “You’ve had more experience than I have.”

  He held out his hand; she took it, and he hauled her to her feet. “What’s experience got to do with it? A snowball’s a snowball-you make ’em, you throw ’em. I’m just better than you-admit it.”

  “Better-hah! Bigger, maybe. Definitely louder-”

  “And faster…plus, you do throw like a girl-”

  “What? I do not-”

  Bickering, Eric thought, was as good an escape valve as any. They managed to keep it up all the way to the house.

  “Mike,” Lucy whispered over the head of the sleeping baby in her arms, “come here. Quick.”

  “What?” He came to join her
at the window of their bedroom, moving in close so that her body brushed against his as she gently swayed. She tilted her head back to grin at him.

  “Look-down there…”

  He ducked his head so he could follow her line of sight. “Uh-huh…okay, I see them. What in the world are they doing?”

  “Having a snowball fight.” Lucy could hardly contain her glee.

  “Funny,” Mike mused, “I don’t remember snowball fights involving that much body contact.”

  “Oh, hush.” She jabbed him in the stomach with her elbow. “Don’t you know what this means?”

  He wrapped his arms around her and dropped a kiss onto the baby’s downy head. “No, my little Machiavellian…tell me.”

  “My plan,” Lucy said smugly. “It means it’s working.”

  “Oh, God-I can’t feel my feet. Does that mean they’re frozen?” Devon asked as she clumped up the steps to the back porch. She felt as though she were walking on blocks of wood.

  “Only if they’re black,” Eric said blandly, holding the door for her. “In which case, they’ll have to be amputated.”

  She threw him a look to make sure he was teasing her, which of course he was. She looked quickly away again, but not before her heart had given that unnerving bump; she was beginning to expect, and in a strange way, look forward to that bump-and to dread it at the same time.

  As cold as she was-and that was colder than she’d ever been in her life-there was a strange little core of heat deep inside her, a burning that was equal parts lust and shame. He’d almost kissed her; of that she was certain. What was worse-she’d wanted him to. Even now, cold to the point of pain and shivering uncontrollably, she was disappointed that the game, the time, those magical moments of fun and freedom and romping in the snow like a carefree child, had to end. And a profound sense of loss, because she’d never known such fun and freedom before in her life, and was afraid, was sure, she never would again.

  Following Eric’s example, she brushed and stomped away the worst of the snow there on the porch, then clomped after him into the service room where he was already shucking off his ski hat and gloves. She stood unmoving, then, and watched him unzip his jacket, peel it off and hang it on one of a row of hooks on the wall, then pull off his boots one by one, hopping comically on one foot. When he turned to her and with a ghost of a smile on his face, reached up to touch her cheek, brush it with the backs of his cold fingers, she still didn’t move. Wrapped in a strange and unfamiliar lethargy, she stood and quietly watched him as he pulled her cap off, then her gloves, and finally unzipped even her jacket, as if she were a child.