What Mattered Most

by Linda Winfree

  “And I’m supposed to be impressed by that?” She took a couple of sips and set the cup down. Weakened by the effort of sitting up to drink, she subsided against the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. The incision on her lower abdomen burned, matching the resentful anger roiling in her chest. “Award him brownie points for hanging around to make sure I didn’t die?”

  A wry smile curved Caitlin’s mouth. “He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who worries about scoring points.”

  Lanie shook her head and glanced away. She didn’t feel like talking anymore, didn’t want to think about John. Tears pushed at her eyes, and she squeezed them shut. She wished she could just blot him out, like smearing correction fluid over a mistake, like having a coma erase days of your life.

  Blotting him out wasn’t an option, though. Her fingers lingered over her oddly flat stomach again. She would be tied to him the rest of her life now. They had a child, a baby she hadn’t even seen yet.

  The weak tears were stronger than she was. They pushed between her lids and trickled down her face. “Cait,” she whispered, weariness tugging at her body. “I want to see my baby.”

  “I know.” Caitlin’s warm fingers covered hers. “Sheila’s working on it.”

  “What is there to work on? Just bring him down from the nursery.” Was that thready, plaintive voice really hers?

  Caitlin’s fingers tightened in a calming gesture. “He’s not in the nursery, Lane. They could only keep him two days. He went home with John.”

  Shock skittered through her, and she opened her eyes. “What?”

  Discomfort fluttered across Caitlin’s face. “He’s a healthy newborn. Without a reason for him to stay, John had to take him home. It was that or foster care.”

  Feeling out of control, Lanie stared at her cousin. Panic rose in her throat. “He took him home. He has my baby.”

  “His baby, too, Lane, even if you don’t want to face that right now.”

  John didn’t know anything about taking care of a baby. He couldn’t do it alone. An ugly suspicion crept through her mind. “What do you mean by home? Beth’s?”

  Caitlin shot her a level look. “Your home. From what I understand, Cameron went to El Paso a couple of days ago.”

  Lanie fought down rising fear. Beth had gone to El Paso? Oh God, what would keep John from taking the baby and following her? Nothing. Caitlin was right—he had as much right to their son as she did. Eyes closed, she stifled a raw moan with her fingers. Her life had turned into a waking nightmare that got worse with each second.

  Gentle fingers brushed her hair away from her face. “You need to rest,” Caitlin whispered, her voice somewhere over Lanie’s head.

  Sleep. The darkness beckoned, promising shelter from the pain and fear.

  A soft sucking noise penetrated Lanie’s consciousness, layers of sleep falling away. From a distance, a deep male voice murmured, and she flinched from the emotions it evoked—anger, betrayal, pain. John. Her eyelids lifted, and she blinked at the brightness.

  She turned toward his voice and found him sitting in the chair by the bed. In his arms was an incredibly small infant, taking a bottle with comical eagerness. Her baby.

  The unreal thought took her breath. The pride and love warming John’s bruised face kept it from returning. A sob strangled in her throat. She didn’t want him to feel that way about the baby, not now. She needed him to be uncaring and uninvolved, the way he had been during the pregnancy.

  He looked up, his navy gaze clashing with hers. He didn’t smile. “Hey. How do you feel?”

  She felt like running as far from him as she could. Swallowing hard, she brushed her hair from her face. “Okay.”

  His hand shifted under the baby’s head, and he returned his attention to their son. “Sheila said you were asking to see him.”

  Mesmerized by his gentleness with the baby, Lanie feathered her hand across her stomach. “It doesn’t seem real yet.”

  His jaw tightened, and when he looked up, remorse darkened his eyes. “I know. I felt the same way.”

  She glanced away, not knowing what to say. She didn’t know how to handle this John, and she couldn’t allow her defenses to weaken. No one ever got the opportunity to hurt her twice.

  “Do you think you could hold him?”

  The soft words jerked her attention back to him. He cradled the baby against his shoulder, rubbing the tiny back until a soft belch emerged. Fear and the urge to cry jumped into her throat. “I…I don’t know.”

  He rose and used the remote to lift the head of the bed a couple of inches. As he leaned over to settle the baby in her arms, his clean, woodsy scent filled her nostrils. His throat was at her eye level, so close she could see his pulse throb under his skin. Unwelcome warmth curled along her nerves.

  She focused on the slight weight in her arms. John didn’t move away, his hand cupping the baby’s head. His fingers brushed her upper arm, close to the curve of her breast. The intimacy unnerved her, and she stared down at the baby.

  His skin held a reddish tinge, and dark lashes fringed navy blue eyes. Already, his chin showed the Falconetti point and stubbornness. He was hers.

  She just didn’t feel like he was. He’d been alive, a whole person, for almost six days, and she’d missed all of it. Loss gripped her throat, and she brushed the edge of the blue receiving blanket back, looking at his hands. Ten long fingers, miniature replicas of John’s.

  Oh dear God, she was never going to be free of him.

  “He needs a name.” John’s voice broke into her panicked reverie. “The records clerk keeps accosting me in the hall.”

  Desperate, Lanie tried to focus on the topic. She lifted a tiny finger with her own. “What have you been calling him? Kid?”

  An affectionate grin quirked at his mouth. “Actually, we’ve been calling him Sonny Buck.”

  Sonny Buck? We? She shot a sharp look at him. “We? You and Beth?”

  Anger tightened his face, the grin wiped away. “No. Your cousins and me.”

  Her head pounded, a sickening thud along the row of stitches. “So did Beth have any suggestions?”

  “I didn’t ask her. I haven’t seen her since the day before she left for El Paso. Damn it, Lanie, I tried to tell you—”

  “Here. Take him.” She tried to lift the baby towards him, but her leaden arms refused to work. He shifted their son into the cradle of his arms, leaving her embrace curiously empty. “You have to go. I’m tired.”

  “You’re not going to let me explain, are you?” Frustration vibrated in his voice.

  She closed her eyes, listening to the rustle of fabric and the click of a latch. “What is there to say?”

  “A lot.” His breath caressed her cheek with the words, and her eyes shot open. He leaned over her, his arms empty, hands gripping the bedrails, navy eyes intense.

  “I want you to leave.” She turned her face away.

  He sighed. “What about his name? Do you have a preference?”

  “No. Just go. Leave me alone.”

  “Lanie, damn it. Please.”

  “Go! Now.”

  He went. Her hands covering her face in a futile attempt to muffle her sobs, Lanie cried.

  Once the tears started, they wouldn’t stop. She wanted to curl into herself and disappear, wanted the pain and disappointment and anguish to go away. The sobs made her stomach hurt, and her head ached. When she put her hand to her scalp, the feel of the bare skin, returning stubble and rough line of stitches brought more tears, harsher sobs. She buried her face in her hands once more.

  “Hey, look what was at the nurse’s station.” Caitlin’s cheerful voice coincided with the whoosh of the door being pushed inward. “Oh, Lanie.”

  Lanie hunched inward as much as she was able. Caitlin’s hand soothed over her back in gentle circles until the sobs abated. Lanie straightened and brushed at her damp cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

  Caitlin held out a box of tissue. “For what? I think you deserve a good cry.”r />
  “Easy for you to say.” Lanie blew her nose. “Ms. Self-Control.”

  Perched on the edge of the bed, Caitlin pinned her with a look. “That’s what you think. Sometimes it helps.”

  With a glance upward, Lanie blinked back fresh tears. “Actually, it made my head hurt worse.”

  “Sheila says the neurologist will be in later to talk with you.” Caitlin pleated the blanket between her fingers, surprising Lanie with what appeared to be a nervous gesture. “I ran into O’Reilly in the hall. So you saw the baby?”

  A fist closed around Lanie’s throat, and she swallowed hard. “Yes. It seems…so unreal, Cait. Like he’s not really mine. I thought… I don’t know. That I’d see him and there would be this huge rush of love, bonding, something. All I felt was panic that because of this baby I’ll never be able to put John out of my life. Not really.”

  Caitlin’s fingers covered hers. “Give it time. Once you’re home, taking care of him, everything will fall into place.”

  “Yeah, and when will that be?” Before she remembered the stitches, she shoved her fingers through what was left of her hair and winced at the raking pain. "I can’t even hold a freakin’ cup of water. Someone has to walk into the bathroom with me. How am I going to take care of him?”

  “With help. From Sheila, from me and whoever else we can enlist. But you’ll do it, Lanie, and everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

  No, she didn’t think she would, and just talking about it exhausted her. Her gaze fell on the small blue and white bouquet Caitlin had placed on the bedside table, and she latched on it as a way to escape the conversation. “Who sent those?”

  “I don’t know.” Caitlin reached for the card. She stilled. “Marie Martinez.”

  Lanie took the small piece of white vellum. Steve’s mother sending her congratulations and wishes for a quick recovery. Oh God. The tears rose again, and she clenched the card in one hand. “I can’t believe she did this. She just buried Steve, because of me.”

  “No.” Firmness coated Caitlin’s voice. “Not because of you. Because of Doug Mitchell. You and Steve just got caught in the crossfire.”

  Lanie recalled Steve’s good humor and his concern for her that night. He’d been her partner, and now he was gone. She hadn’t been able to say goodbye, had been unconscious when he was buried. Tendrils of anger slid through her, looking for someone to blame. She didn’t have to look far.

  John. Everything traced back to him. If he’d told her about Mitchell, that he might be a threat one day. If he’d been honest about his feelings for Beth. If he’d done the honorable thing and not pursued her while he still loved another woman. Hatred and resentment coiled in her stomach, joining with the panic and grief to make her nauseous. “Cait, I need to talk to Troupe.”

  At the mention of her grandfather, also a local judge, Caitlin lifted an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “I want to make sure he can’t take the baby and leave. What’s stopping him from taking off?”

  “I honestly don’t think you have to worry about that—”

  “I don’t trust him!” Her voice rose, and Lanie cringed from the note of hysteria she heard. “Don’t you see? I can’t ever trust him again.”

  “All right.” Caitlin smiled, her voice soothing. “I’ll call Troupe and ask him to come by on his way home. Will that make you feel better?”

  Not really, but she didn’t know what would. Somehow, she knew things would never be right again.

  “What the hell?” John stared at the paper Burnett had laid in his hand moments before. The words swam together in an angry haze. “An injunction?”

  Face set in an uncomfortable expression, Burnett hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “She’s upset and worried that you’ll hightail it somewhere, taking Sonny Buck with you.”

  “I don’t believe this.” John crumpled the paper and crammed it into his pocket. Jerking a hand through his hair, he paced across the living room. “Freaking hell.”

  She thought he’d take their baby. She actually believed he would leave her now, and she’d taken legal action against him. An indefinite court order barred him from taking Sonny Buck out of the state of Texas. Anger burned in his chest, but beneath the fury was a tearing hurt that had nothing to do with his broken ribs.

  A harsh chuckle escaped him. “I guess I’m lucky she’s not having me evicted, too.”

  Burnett scratched his temple. “You know, I think that came up, but Cait talked her out of it.”

  Thank God for small favors. John sank into the leather chair by the fireplace, his head in his hands. He’d been so focused on Lanie waking up that he hadn’t thought ahead. For the first time, the enormity of the situation sank in. Her trust in him was demolished. Talking to her, making explanations about his confused feelings for Beth and for her, wasn’t going to fix that.

  “She’s asked that you not come to the hospital again.”

  John lifted his head and stared at him. “What?”

  “She doesn’t want you there, and Sheila says being upset isn’t going to help her get well.”

  He pushed to his feet, pacing again. “What about Sonny Buck? Does she want to see him?”

  Burnett’s shrug reeked of discomfort. “She didn’t say.”

  John threw up his hands. “So I’m not supposed to take him anywhere, but she doesn’t want to see him, is that it? She’s his mother. Hell.”

  “Look, give her some time. She’s been awake, what? Thirty-six hours? She’s got a baby she doesn’t remember giving birth to, a neurosurgeon telling her everything that could still go wrong, and you’re pissed off because she doesn’t want to see you? You royally screwed up, O’Reilly. You’re lucky she didn’t dispatch Cait to kill you in your sleep and hide the body.”

  An unwilling laugh started in John’s throat, but he stopped it before it took hold of his chest. “What did the neurosurgeon say?”

  Burnett shrugged again. “I wasn’t there. All I can tell you is what Cait told me. Basically, with a head injury, there can be a lot of aftereffects. Loss of impulse control, headaches, stuff like that. Lanie’s having trouble with numbers.”

  John shook off a chill. “Numbers?”

  “Transposing numbers in birthdays and phone numbers. Problems with figuring time and some math items they tested her with. The doctor said there may be other issues that turn up over the next few days.”

  His anger had cooled into a lump of ice low in his abdomen. Shamed by that earlier anger, he rubbed a hand over his face. Burnett was right—he’d screwed up, and Lanie was paying for his mistakes. He had no right to anger. He had no right to anything except the scourging remorse that did neither of them any good.

  He moved through the next few minutes in a daze, not able to remember afterward what he and Burnett talked about on the way to the door. He checked the locks and turned off all the downstairs lights except the small lamp on the end table. On that table lay a photo album, one Lanie had catalogued with painstaking care. He tucked it under his arm and headed upstairs.

  In his crib, Sonny slept on his back, one hand curling and uncurling. John made sure he was covered and warm, his hand lingering over the baby’s head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, throat tight. “You deserved to come into something better than this mess I made.”

  When he entered the bedroom, he sank into the chair by the window and stared at what had been his and Lanie’s bed. The album on his lap, he flipped the cover open. Lanie’s neat handwriting captioned a photo chronicle of their relationship. Tennis tournaments, lazy days on a chartered sailboat, a snazzy New Year’s Eve party. In all of them, Lanie smiled, her golden eyes bright with love and laughter. Why hadn’t he seen it? Or had he simply not wanted to?

  He pulled a photo from its sleeve and stared at it. He couldn’t remember where they’d been or who with, but Lanie wore the little black dress with spaghetti straps and sequins that always took his breath. Her hair was up, and diamonds glittered at her ears. With his arms wrapped around her wa
ist, she smiled at the camera, an affectionate hand on his wrist.

  But it wasn’t the emotion on her face that stopped him. His nose rested against her temple, his eyes were closed, but written all over his face was the same emotion that glowed in Lanie’s eyes. He looked like a man in love, like a man who held what mattered most in his arms.

  God, it had been right there in front of him, all along. He’d had everything, and he’d blown it. His eyes burned. He’d hurt Lanie, almost gotten her and their baby killed, destroyed her trust in him.

  A droplet splashed on the photo, and he brushed it away, returning the picture to its protective sleeve. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes and let the tears have their way.

  Chapter Ten

  “So basically you’re telling me I’m screwed.” John stopped in front of the window and glared out at the busy Houston street. Behind him, Sonny slept, his carrier on the floor in front of Jeff Reinholdt’s desk. In the glass, John could see Jeff’s reflection—tilted back in his chair, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, his gaze on Lanie’s injunction.

  “I did not say you were screwed,” Jeff said, laying the paper down on the desk. “I said, right now I have as much right to that child as you do.”

  John ran his hands through his hair and paced back to the worn leather chair facing the desk. “So what do I do?”

  Removing his glasses, Jeff set them aside and folded his hands on the blotter. “The first thing you do is get a DNA test to prove your paternity.”

  “I know I’m his father.”

  Jeff waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’m not implying you’re not. You need the DNA results to establish legal paternity. From there, we ask for joint managing conservatorship, or if you want, under the circumstances, you could probably go for sole managing conservatorship. That would give Lanie specific visitation rights—”

  “I’m not taking him away from her. That’s not why I’m here.” John paused a moment and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “What does that mean, joint managing conservatorship?”