Stirred

by Nancy S Thompson

  STIRRED

  Copyright © 2015 Nancy S. Thompson

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Names, characters, places, and plots are a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover by Regina Wamba, Mae I Design

  Formatting by Tami Norman, Integrity Formatting

  “An incredibly awesome read. I was completely swept up in it and very, very sad when it ended. Brilliant, riveting, salacious and intriguing! It's a scorching page-turner.”

  ~ Lisa Regan, award-winning author of

  FINDING CLAIRE FLETCHER, ABERRATION, and HOLD STILL

  “Rarely does a sequel live up to the brilliance of the first book in a series. LEVERAGE does not match the literary excellence of THE MISTAKEN, it shatters that already high standard. Mark my word, Nancy S. Thompson has taken a giant step into the upper echelon of Romantic Thriller authors!”

  ~ J.M. LeDuc, Suspense Magazine, award-winning author of SIN

  “A gut-wrenching, high-octane thrill ride. Poignant and visceral, Leverage will get your adrenaline pumping and have you reaching for the tissue box all at once. A gripping, excellent read!”

  ~ Lisa Regan, award-winning author of

  FINDING CLAIRE FLETCHER, ABERRATION, and HOLD STILL

  “Thompson is a rare new talent in the thriller genre, combining an intelligent and well-thought-out plot with complex and relatable characters that will give readers the white-knuckle reading experience of their lives!”

  ~ Lisa Regan, award-winning author of

  FINDING CLAIRE FLETCHER, ABERRATION, and HOLD STILL

  “A deliciously slow burn that builds to a ferocious crescendo, Nancy S. Thompson's THE MISTAKEN kept me riveted until the very last page.”

  ~ Jennifer Hillier, author of CREEP, FREAK, THE BUTCHER, and WONDERLAND

  As always, for Eric and Brandon, my guiding lights.

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Titles by Nancy S. Thompson

  Find Nancy On

  Muscles tightened around my belly like a vise bent on snapping me in two. I doubled over and screamed, my arms wrapped low, as if that might hold me together. I tried to count through the contraction, knowing I had to keep my mind centered and my breathing even, but the pressure on my lower back was relentless and sent needles of searing heat prickling down each leg like a charge of electricity searching for ground.

  “I can’t do this,” I moaned when, after a full count of thirty, the pain finally began to ebb. “Please…I can’t do this alone. I can’t…I can’t,” I said over and over, rolling my head back and forth against the pillow.

  The woman twittering nearby didn’t even bother to glance my way. She continued on her rounds, straightening up the sparse and already tidy room.

  “Listen to me!” I howled, desperate for her attention.

  She stopped and turned to me, her hands on her hips. “Don’t take that tone with me, missy, or you’ll be giving birth to that brat all by yourself.”

  I stared at her for a long moment, my mouth and eyes both wide. Under normal circumstances, I would have told her exactly what I thought of her foul bedside manner, but this night was anything but ordinary, and I was currently alone and at her mercy.

  “Where’s Declan?” I asked. “My husband. He said he’d be here. Why isn’t he here? I need him. Please, please, I need him!”

  I mashed my lips together and squeezed my eyes tight as another spasm seized my body, stronger than ever. My labor was progressing way too fast. The contractions were coming one on top of the other, with barely a minute in between to catch my breath. The latest was accompanied by intense pressure, low in my pelvis, like a bowling ball deep inside me, creeping downward along my tailbone one millimeter at a time. I was suddenly wracked by the urgent need to expel it from my body. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before, and I panicked, surging forward and throwing my legs over the bed as I clenched the edge in a white-knuckled grip, all the while screaming for my husband.

  “Oh my God, Declan! Please, help me! Please!”

  The woman waddled over, a nurse I assumed from the faded scrubs she wore. She pressed me back onto the bed, pried my knees apart, and shoved her fingers inside me.

  “Ten centimeters,” she announced. “You’re ready.” She pulled a syringe from the deep pocket at the front of her smock, held it up, and flicked it three times with her fingernail before plunging it into the IV solution connected to my arm.

  “What is that?” I asked and tried to sit up when the next contraction began to abate. But no sooner had my head lifted a foot off the pillow than it fell right back into place, dizzy and spinning as a kaleidoscope of lights flashed all around. “Wait…wait…” I panted in a shallow whisper.

  I held my hand out toward the woman as she tucked the empty syringe into her pocket and backed away. She glanced over her shoulder when the door opened and three more people entered the room, one of whom my husband had earlier introduced me to as Dr. Brian Sisk. His lips moved as he rambled off orders, but I couldn’t understand what he said. The room teetered first one way and then the other, and my head felt heavy and detached. My whole body felt as if it were falling down into a deep, dark hole, where the doctor’s words bounced off the walls in an unintelligible jumble.

  “Doctor…” I breathed, but neither he nor the three other women even acknowledged me. They just talked amongst themselves in their garbled nonsense. I couldn’t understand them. I couldn’t move my limbs or keep my eyes open. I couldn’t even feel the contractions anymore.

  Something’s wrong… What’s happening to me?

  I should have trusted my instincts when Declan first brought me here, but the labor pains had come on fast and strong. The day before, Declan suggested we take his parents’ yacht for a long weekend cruise up to the San Juan Islands. I told him I didn’t feel comfortable with that, but, just like everything else, he had the final decision, noting it could be the honeymoon we’d never had
following our hasty wedding, not to mention the last break either of us would enjoy for quite some time. So we packed a bag, stocked the galley, and sailed out of Shilshole Bay Marina near Seattle’s West Point. But during our first night offshore, I unexpectedly went into pre-term labor. My pregnancy, though unplanned, had thus far been complication-free. I wasn’t even due for another six weeks, so when the contractions sped up and intensified, I grew increasingly alarmed.

  At first, I thought it was indigestion following the dinner Declan had prepared for us, but he’d eaten the same thing and felt just fine. Then I thought maybe false labor, Braxton Hicks, and all I needed was to wait it out, but Declan wasn’t convinced, and when the contractions became stronger, coming faster and closer each time, he insisted I be examined. In immense pain and genuine panic, Declan loaded me into the dinghy and motored ashore. But we’d moored east of Lopez Island, and the only hospital was in Friday Harbor to the west on San Juan Island, an arduous journey by boat at night and not one Declan wanted to undertake while I was suffering. He’d radioed ahead, and we were met with assistance and taken to what appeared to be a small medical facility, but once here, I realized something was off. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I just knew. I only wished I’d figured that out sooner, but the pain had overwhelmed me.

  Even though I couldn’t move or open my eyes, I could still hear everyone talking and bustling around me. Hands pulled me forward and propped my feet into cool metal stirrups along the end of the bed. Silent panic morphed from dread into horror as more hands pushed against my belly and tugged from between my legs. Time and reality felt as suspended as the rest of my body. But then I heard a voice that grounded me, brought me comfort and eased my fear. It was Declan. He took my hand in his and squeezed as he pressed a kiss to my palm, then another to my cold lips. His warm breath rustled at my ear, his voice clear, but heavy with despair.

  He choked on a sob. “I’m so sorry, babe. We lost her. She’s gone. Ivy’s gone.”

  “No,” I whispered.

  Then everything went quiet, and I felt nothing at all.

  Light filtered bright red through my eyelids. They fluttered open, and I squinted and blinked until my vision adjusted. Judging by the quality and angle of the sunlight streaming in through the window, it looked to be morning, though I couldn’t be sure. I glanced around the room, but didn’t recognize my surroundings. It looked like I was in a hospital. But where? And why? Then a memory of being onboard my in-laws’ boat came surging back, then pain, and Declan motoring me ashore. We got into a car and… I remembered being in a room with a hospital bed, but it didn’t feel like a hospital…

  I wasn’t in that room now. It didn’t even look like the same facility. The room was larger, cleaner, and better outfitted with modern equipment and new furniture. The door to my room stood open, and outside in the hallway, doctors, nurses, and technicians all rushed from place to place, every one more professionally dressed than those I remembered from the previous evening. At least, I assumed it was the previous evening. I couldn’t be sure of that either. Everything was so jumbled in my mind. I couldn’t seem to remember exactly what had happened. The last thing I could recall was Declan saying something about…

  “Oh God, no…” I whimpered as I smoothed my hands over my belly. It was deflated, puffy and soft. No movement. No baby. What happened to my child? “Hello! Someone, please…” I cried out. “Declan, where are you? Where’s the baby?”

  I threw the covers back and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The sudden movement made my head swim with dizziness, and nausea rolled through me from my gut up to my throat. I covered my mouth with my hand as two nurses hustled into my room.

  “Mrs. Ross, you need to stay in bed,” the older, blonde nurse said. “You’ve been through quite a trauma. Here, let me help you,” she added, steadying me with one hand and lifting my legs back onto the bed with the other. My head and body followed suit, too weak and shaky to remain upright on my own. “Cindy, go see what’s taking Dr. Baylor so long,” she ordered her colleague.

  The younger, dark-haired nurse rushed toward the door, but was stopped by another woman, this one fiftyish and attired in the long, white lab coat of a physician. She held an arm out for her to leave then approached the blonde at my bedside.

  “Thanks. I’ve got this,” she said and nodded when the other nurse left. Alone now, she turned to me. “Mrs. Ross, I’m Dr. Baylor with the grief counseling office here at the hospital. I know you must have a lot of questions.”

  “Grief counseling?”

  She grabbed one of the two padded guest chairs and slid it close, angling it so she could reach over and shake my hand before she settled back. “How’re you feeling this morning? Any better?”

  I shook my head, feeling like I had cotton between my ears. “I don’t know. I…I’m a little groggy. I don’t remember much. How long have I been here? And where’s my husband? Is he with Ivy in the nursery? Can I see her?”

  Dr. Baylor’s mouth tensed into a firm line, her eyes filled with sorrow. “Your husband’s downstairs making arrangements. Your daughter, she…well…according to the doctor’s report, she had exceptionally low blood sugar and wasn’t breathing when he delivered her last night. I’m afraid their efforts to resuscitate were unsuccessful. I’m very sorry, Mrs. Ross. I was told you knew.”

  “What?” I asked, confused, though her words had a ring of truth. But I shook my head. “No…no, you’re wrong. I…I’d remember that.” My hand fell back to my belly as tears filled my eyes and spilled down my cheeks.

  “I understand you were suffering from some delirium last night. Your chart notes untreated gestational diabetes, which would explain both your confusion and the baby’s hypoglycemia. I’m surprised you weren’t being treated for your condition.”

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t have a condition!” I insisted, feeling like I was being blamed somehow. “My pregnancy was perfect…no problems at all…up until…” I looked away and thought hard on what had happened the previous night. “I felt nauseous after dinner. Then…then the pain started…contractions, one after another.” The memories were tangled and chaotic, but slowly, they began to take shape. “I went into labor, but…it was too early. Declan radioed ashore and… I don’t think… I wasn’t brought here, was I? It was some other place. The nurse, she gave me something, and…and then I… Everything got all…fuzzy.”

  “With uncontrolled diabetes, it can be very difficult to balance blood sugar during the physical stress of hard labor,” she explained. “I’m very sorry, but…sometimes these things just happen. But you’re only twenty-one, Mrs. Ross. Still so young. You can have more children.”

  “More children? No! No, you don’t…you don’t understand. Ivy…she isn’t…wasn’t my husband’s child. She was Jacob’s,” I tried to explain, but choked on a sob so deep and painful, I couldn’t get past it.

  “Wait. Back-up. Who’s Jacob?” Dr. Baylor asked.

  “My…my boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend? But your chart says you’re married.”

  “I am.”

  Her brow tensed in censure. “Mrs. Ross, perhaps this isn’t—”

  “Jacob died…months ago, before I even knew I was pregnant.”

  “Oh my God, I…I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.” Dr. Baylor snagged a tissue from a box on a nearby stand and handed it to me. She paused and looked me in the eye. “What on earth happened?”

  I shook my head. “He was killed defending me. We were in a club and a couple cowboys came in, started harassing people. One of them grabbed me. Jacob intervened. But the guy pulled out a metal bar and smashed it over Jacob’s head. He collapsed on the floor; his eyes were open, but…he was gone. He died.”

  I wept into the tissue while Dr. Baylor laid a hand on my shoulder. I was relieved she didn’t try to soothe me with token words of comfort. She just stroked my arm until I pulled myself together.

  “I don’t remember much after that,” I continued
. “Only what my friends told me later, that I freaked out when they took Jacob’s body away. I woke up in the hospital. I’d passed out. When they asked if I might be pregnant, I realized it was possible, so I had a test, and it turned out positive. Only four weeks, but…still…”

  “And your husband?” Dr. Baylor asked.

  “He and Jacob were close. When Declan found out I was pregnant, he promised to take care of us. He offered to marry me and help raise the baby. I thought Jacob would’ve wanted it that way if he’d known; he’d want us to be taken care of. And I didn’t think I could do it on my own, not without a degree or family who could support us. I didn’t have a job or any work experience, and if I quit school, I’d have to start paying off my student loans immediately. I remember how much my mother struggled with my sister and me as a single parent. So…I did it. I married Declan Ross.” I turned my head and stared out the window as the full weight of my situation settled over me. “But it was all for nothing. Ivy was my last connection to Jacob. But now she’s gone. I’ve lost them both.” I buried my face in the pillow.

  Dr. Baylor sat quietly while I cried my heartache away. After several minutes, she handed me another tissue. I swiped my eyes, but stared out at nothing.

  “Eden,” Dr. Baylor said, using my first name as if we were old friends. “This is all very difficult, I know. The pain is so fresh, but…I think it might help if you discussed your feelings, your plans, figure out where you’ll go now that so much has changed.”

  She offered an anemic smile, and while I realized it was probably well-rehearsed, the look in her eyes was one of genuine concern. Gone was any implication of judgment. And I supposed she was right. Everything—Jacob’s death, my pregnancy and sudden marriage, losing Ivy—it had all happened so fast, I’d barely had time to process my feelings. From day one, I’d simply reacted, marrying quickly to protect myself and my child, because I’d told myself Jacob would’ve wanted it that way.