Frustrated as usual by her uncertainties, she flipped the page on the legal pad and turned her thoughts to the fort project and the coming interview with Dr. Long. The rest of the afternoon, Mara focused on her work and her daughter.
By suppertime, she felt sure she had put everything in perspective. Those were her priorities, after all—Abby and the restoration company. Brock was a confusing, unexpected wrinkle in the tapestry of her life. The best thing to do was stay as far from him as possible until she could secure her job and move out on her own. From a distance, she would be able to look back at the situation and evaluate how she felt about the man. But here—in his house—she was much too close to him to see clearly.
Mara called the kitchen on the intercom and asked Pierre to send a meal to her room. While Abby slept, she took a long bath in lavender oil, then she slipped into her favorite nightgown and fuzzy robe. Curled before the fire in her bedroom, she savored broiled chicken breast and julienne potatoes. She decided she was handling a difficult experience with amazingly good sense.
But in spite of Mara’s self-assurance, Abby chose this night to stay awake for hours after what was to have been her final feeding of the evening. Mara wiped the baby’s runny nose, gave her the medicine she had gotten from the doctor and worried that what she had thought was a cold might be something worse. She tried nursing her daughter several times, but Abby only grew more distressed. For what seemed like an eternity, Mara rocked and rocked until she was so drowsy she could hardly hold her eyes open. But every time she tried to get up and put her in the crib, Abby burst into tears again.
Worn out, Mara finally checked her bedside clock. Two in the morning. With a groan, she picked up Abby, went into the sitting room, and began to walk her around and around. Instead of calming the child, this made her sob harder. Mara tried singing as she walked, then she tried dancing, then she broke down and started crying herself.
“Abby, please don’t do this,” she pleaded over the baby’s shrieks. “I have three days to get ready for my interview. You need to rest and get well. Let’s go to sleep.”
As she bounced the howling baby on her shoulder, Mara did her best to quell the frustration welling up inside her. “Abby, what’s wrong with you? It’s almost time for your night feeding, and you haven’t slept at all.”
Fear ran its icy course through her stomach. “Abby, what’s the matter? Oh, honey, I wish you could talk to me. Where do you hurt?”
“Mara?”
Brock’s voice from the doorway stopped Mara’s restless pacing. She looked up to find him standing just inside the room. He had pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, but his feet were bare.
“Is she sick?”
“I don’t know,” Mara choked out. “It’s okay. I can manage.”
“Let me hold her.”
“No, we’re fine.”
He walked toward her. “Mara, let me have the baby. You’re dead on your feet.”
“Brock, I can do this without you.”
“I know you can. But I’m here, so let me take her for a while.” He lifted the baby out of Mara’s arms. “Hey, Abby, what’s up?” he cooed. “Why so cranky, pumpkin?”
Mara stood in silence, her empty arms hanging at her sides as Brock settled in the rocking chair with the baby. Still wailing, Abby flung her fists at Brock’s chest and jerked her head from side to side. Mara clutched her stomach.
“She was fine this afternoon,” she said. “She had a little bit of a runny nose, so I called the doctor and got her some over-the-counter stuff. Now…she seems so sick.”
“Shall we take her into town? We could go to the emergency room.”
Mara shook her head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. I feel helpless.”
Brock stood up again and tried walking Abby around the room. As the baby sobbed, he hummed and whistled and jiggled her up and down. Mara collapsed onto the recliner, eyes barely open as she watched Brock doing his best to console Abby.
“When was the last time she ate?” he called over the crying.
“I can’t remember. I gave her some medicine a few minutes ago, but…I’ve lost track of when she nursed.”
“Let me check her diaper, and then you can try feeding her again.”
Mara followed him with her eyes as he laid the baby in the bassinet she kept in the sitting room. With surprising expertise, he whipped off the wet diaper and slipped a dry one under the baby’s bottom. In moments, he had the howling bundle in his arms again.
“Can you bring her here?” Mara asked.
He sat on a chair beside the recliner and laid Abby in her mother’s arms. For a brief moment, Mara thought about turning aside in modesty. That lasted until Abby let out an ear-splitting shriek, and Mara swiftly pulled open her nightgown and drew the baby close.
Suddenly, the room fell silent. In spite of her stuffy nose, the baby nursed with deep, ravenous draughts. The only sound was her hungry snuffling.
Mara looked up at Brock. He had leaned against the chair back and stretched one leg onto the recliner’s footrest. A tired grin lifted one corner of his mouth.
“I guess she was hungry,” he said.
Mara couldn’t bring herself to smile in return. “I guess.”
“You think she’s sick?”
“I’ll take her to the pediatrician first thing in the morning.” As the baby grew calm, Mara felt the tension ease from her body. She shut her eyes, one arm wrapped around Abby and the other tucked beside her as she dozed off in the soft chair. Drowsy warmth flowed through her veins.
“We’re tired,” she mumbled.
Brock settled his other foot on the recliner. “I’ll wait till she’s done and put her back to bed.”
“Mmm,” Mara murmured.
Brock’s hand covered hers, and she slipped her fingers through his. This was exactly right. No question at all.
Chapter Seventeen
Pearly-gray light bathed the room when Brock opened his eyes. Abby lay nestled against her mother, her mouth open and her tiny fingers curled into a comfortable ball. Mara was still sleeping, long lashes fanning against her cheeks and golden hair spread across the cushion.
Brock rubbed a hand across his eyes as a groan of dismay rumbled through his chest. His desire for Mara was still strong, and he had been trying so hard to keep his distance. While his newly awakening prayer life began each time with praises to God and a strong dollop of thanksgiving, Brock realized he spent most of the time asking for divine help in controlling his feelings for Mara.
But it was more than a physical desire for the woman that stirred him this morning. It was the silent, early hour…the drowsy baby…the scent of lavender…the whisper of winter breath against the window…the promise of a crackling fire…and the woman in her robe…his wife, if she would have him.
Sometime in the past weeks of living with Mara, he had felt this change come over him. Maybe it had begun the first time he cooked breakfast with Abby in his arms. Maybe it was the night he held Mara on the snowy roadside. No matter when it started, the change had come swiftly—blindsiding him in its intensity. For the first time in his life, Brock had come to believe in family…and in himself as a successful part of a family.
Not only did he believe in it, he wanted it. He could credit this amazing transformation only to God. His image of a mother as a cynical, embittered woman who could do nothing but flee from her unhappiness had given way to the picture of a blond angel with her baby nestled at her breast and her warm eyes filled with love. The idea of children as unnecessary nuisances to be tolerated but never enjoyed was brushed aside by a tiny baby with pink lips and downy hair who liked nothing better than to be cuddled, hugged and adored. The concept of a house as a place to do little more than sleep and change clothes evolved into the constant refuge of a home—a secure, comforting haven of good food, laughter and conversation.
Fatherhood was no longer the province of men who didn’t have anything more important to do with their lives. Nor was it
an inconvenience in a real man’s quest for power and wealth. Fatherhood became suddenly a place of hope, happiness, delight, surprise and dreams. Without realizing it, Brock had come to crave that role—head of a family of his own—as strongly as he had ever wanted anything.
Gently he scooped up the sleeping baby, pushed himself out of the chair where he had spent the night and deposited her safely in the cocoon of the bassinet. For a moment he studied the unmoving bundle of pastel blankets and plump pink skin. A gritty lump formed in his throat as he drank in the twin arcs of her closed eyes with their wispy lashes, the bud of her nose, the perfect roundness of her cheeks. If the child had been conceived from his own loins, he could not have loved her more.
Yes, he loved the baby.
He couldn’t let Abby go. Not ever. There was too much ahead. There were tricycles and trees to climb and drippy Popsicles on hot summer days. There were horses and picnics and swimming holes. There were breakfasts to cook—thousands of them. There were bicycles to ride and wildflowers to gather and dollhouses to build. This baby deserved a father, a living father, who could wipe away her tears and listen to her heartaches as no one had ever done for Brock Barnett.
He reached out a finger to touch the tiny form, and a warm hand slipped over his shoulder. The scent of lavender drifted around him. He shut his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. Mara, his wife. And he was her husband. God had done this thing. Brock knew it.
Within the whirlwind of new images, the profile of husband had changed for Brock, too. Husband had always been a vague term that involved legal obligation, financial support and parental responsibility. Now it meant deep relationship. A husband was one member of a marriage—a fortress built on a foundation of faith in God. A husband was friend, companion, partner…and lover.
Brock couldn’t let go of this woman, either. Not ever. Turning toward her, he saw that she was still half asleep. Was she thinking of Todd? Maybe.
Running his hand down her arm, he nestled her close. He tried to tell himself she was thinking of her first husband. He decided he ought to go check his cattle. Instead, he let his hand slip apart the edges of her gown.
“Mara,” he said in a low voice.
“Brock.” It was almost a moan. This time her eyelashes fluttered open. Gray-green eyes beckoned him.
“At last,” he murmured, his lips touching hers as he spoke the word. He lifted her into his arms and carried her toward her bedroom. “Mara…my wife.”
“It’s honeymoon time at the Barnett house,” Brock announced into the phone he had taken from Mara’s bedside table. His eyes feasted on her as she sat curled on the bed, cradling her baby as the little one nursed contentedly.
“Take today and the rest of the weekend off, Pierre,” he continued. “And tell Ermaline and Rosa Maria, too. I don’t want to see hide nor hair of any of you for three days, got that?”
“S’il vous plaît, what about your work? What about the cattle?” The excitable chef’s voice registered disbelief. “Surely the men on the ranch will wonder where you are!”
“I’ll call them and explain.”
“Well…if you think it is best.”
Brock could hear Pierre’s wife in the background as she uttered exclamations of delight. “Honeymoon? Très bien! They are together now, Pierre. Leave them! Put down the telephone!”
“Yvonne!” he growled at her. Then he returned to his amused employer. “What about your dinner tonight?” Pierre asked. “Perhaps you will change your mind concerning this three-day honeymoon? You will become hungry?”
Brock slid his hand down Mara’s arm. “Nope,” he said. “We can make do with what’s here.”
Pierre fell silent for a few seconds before speaking again. “Perhaps this happiness en famille will mean you do not wish to dine à la francaise any longer. Perhaps five-star cuisine and a chef trained with the very finest on the Continent will no longer be necessary for the Barnett household. What do you think? Will everything change now?”
Brock leaned over and kissed Mara’s hand. She tousled her fingers through his hair. Things had definitely changed, but not the way his chef thought. “Don’t worry, Pierre. Mara’s going to start working at Fort Selden next week. She won’t have time to cook.”
“No?” Pierre’s voice brightened. “Perhaps no time to clean house, either?”
“I imagine she’ll be busy with other things.” He hoped he could keep Mara so happy she wouldn’t even have time to run a finger across a dusty table. “And tell Ramona she’s on full-time duty with the baby starting Monday.”
“Oh, très bien! Full-time is good. Give our love to the cher enfant. Please tell your lovely wife not to worry, all will be taken care of to perfection. Au revoir!”
Brock was smiling as he set down the receiver. He scooted next to Mara on the bed and tucked her against him as she continued to nurse her baby. Abby’s eyelids were so heavy she could barely hold them open. All the same, her gaze was transfixed on her mother’s face.
“Is everything okay with Pierre?” Mara asked.
“Très bien.” He traced Mara’s face with the side of his finger. “Is everything okay with Mara?”
“It’s hard to think about being apart from Abby.”
Brock studied the now-familiar sight of Mara nursing her daughter. He reached down and took one of the baby’s round pink toes between his thumb and finger. As he rolled the tiny toe, he thought about what must have gone into her decision to work. “If you take Abby to the fort, you can keep nursing, can’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “I’ll do that. And if Ramona comes with us, it will be better. She’s wonderful with Abby. Still…it’s not easy to think of putting in full days again.”
“Mara, you know you don’t have to do this for the money. My promise to provide for you is good, no matter what.”
“It’s not that.”
“Are you doing it for Todd, then?”
She lifted her head. “No, it’s not for Todd. I want to do this for me.”
Brock couldn’t suppress the elation he felt at her words. Maybe Mara finally had begun to see her first husband as a memory to treasure, but a memory nonetheless. If she felt Todd was a part of the past, that left the present and the future open to Brock.
Seated behind Mara, he watched her lean over the edge of the bed and nestle her sleeping baby in the bassinet. The night they had spent in each other’s arms was everything he had dreamed of—and more. Now she was looking over her shoulder at him as a coy smile lifted her lips. “Did I hear you tell Pierre this was a honeymoon?”
“That’s what I said.”
She sat down on the bed, picked up her pillow, and hugged it tightly. “Does that mean what happened between us wasn’t a mistake?”
“Does God make mistakes? He brought us together, Mara. We married each other for wrong reasons, but God saw what we couldn’t. He knew we were meant to be together—not just because of Todd, but because of who we are. We’ve changed each other. You’ve made me a better man in so many ways. You helped me see my need for God, and now I’ve found Him, Mara. I let Him take control of my life, as I should have done long ago. But now I understand this was His plan. You and me. I’m sure of it.”
Closing her eyes, she buried her nose in the pillow. When she raised her head, he could see the tears. “I feel alive again, and it’s you…you who brought me back. Oh, Brock!”
“Mara,” Brock whispered against her ear as she plunged her face back into the pillow. “Look at me.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid to.”
“Why?”
“I’m too happy. This has to be a dream. I’m scared that if I open my eyes, you might vanish.”
“No, ma’am.” He lifted her chin and kissed her eyelids. “I’m not going anywhere. What about you?”
“I’m not going anywhere, either,” she whispered.
For three days, Mara was sure she had somehow slipped across the perimeter between heaven a
nd earth and was walking down streets paved with gold. Between nursing and playing with Abby, she and Brock spent hours sleeping, talking, laughing, eating. Oh, they ate.
Late one evening, while stretched out by the fire in the great room, a plate of home-baked chocolate chip cookies beside her, Mara glanced down at her robe and worried aloud that she was gaining back all the weight she had lost after Abby’s birth. Brock laughed, handed her a cookie and told her he’d want her no matter what she weighed.
“I wanted you when you were nine months pregnant and your stomach stuck out to here,” he reminded her. “I didn’t really understand it then, but I wanted you. I want you right now, even with cookie crumbs on your chin. And I’ll want you when your hair has turned white and your skin is wrinkled.”
Mara stared at his face and absorbed the honesty in his deep brown eyes. But how could this be the carefree, insincere, uncommitted Brock she had known before? “Are you sure you’ll want me? Even when I’m old?”
“You and nobody else.” He brushed the crumbs from her chin. “I hope you believe that.”
She rolled over onto her back and studied the heavy beams in the ceiling. The past three days had been a blur. She had thought about nothing but Brock. Even Abby, who seemed to relish the extra attention of two doting adults, took second place to Mara’s desire for this amazing man God had brought into her life. It was as though he had become her entire world, and there was nothing but the present moment. She had relegated the past to memory. And the future…
“Brock, what’s going to happen to us?” she whispered. “Job interview, work, the fort, the ranch, church, friends. The outside world is going to start turning again tomorrow.”
“And we’re going to get back on. Together. I want everyone to know the business arrangement we had is history. This is personal now—a marriage created in heaven, not on earth.”
“What will people think? I haven’t even been widowed for a year. And you were Todd’s best friend.”
“Do you care?”
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