I’d winced as something sharp responded. Something that didn’t feel like me.
I shifted backward from his touch, only for him to fall to his knees. He ran his hands over the area of my stomach that had hardened almost overnight. “Della, a-are you pregnant?”
Funny that he was the one to question first.
We’d made an appointment to see a family doctor the next day, and—thanks to identification and insurance—it was the easiest thing in the world to be seen, have an ultra sound, and be checked over.
According to the doctor, it wasn’t unusual for first time mothers not to show for a while. I was physically active with strong stomach muscles and good posture. I already ate healthy and had a vivacious appetite.
I’d been giving my body exactly what it needed with no need for any natural nudges for better.
That had been two and a half months ago. My stomach had stayed flat for as long as it could, but now, it could no longer contain the steadily growing baby bump.
Ren came toward me, running his fingertips around my belly button. “How is he today?”
“Active.” I rolled my eyes. “Your son thinks he’s a footballer.”
He chuckled. “I’ve never played sport in my life.”
“Yes, but you do have a habit of kicking things.”
“I also have a habit of loving you. For the past two decades.”
“And you better not stop anytime soon, seeing as it’s your spawn I’m carrying.”
“Never, Ribbon. It’s physically impossible to stop loving you.” His lips spread into a smile as he bent to kiss me.
I leaned in to him, allowing his tongue to enter my mouth and flatten against mine in a sensual dance of hello and welcome.
I loved this man with every part of my heart.
He was my luck.
My wishing star.
My ever after.
I was pregnant with his child.
His son.
We’d blended ourselves.
We’d beat time at its own game, and instead of death, we’d claimed life.
And we’d keep claiming it.
Again.
And again.
For as long as possible.
* * * * *
Amazing how fast time could skip ahead.
Incredible how easy routine became when you were doing something you loved with the person you belonged to.
My life before—with its stress of loving Ren in secret, going to school, and pretending student friendships—was no longer on my radar.
At eight and a half months pregnant, life had never been so good.
Ren pampered me every night—even though he still worked every hour of sunlight and beyond. He rubbed my back, kissed my belly, brushed my hair, and slipped on my boots, seeing as I could no longer see past my fat stomach.
Jacob wasn’t even in the world yet, but his father absolutely adored him.
Ren read articles online on how babies could hear in the womb, and often stayed up late talking to him.
On those nights, when Ren fell asleep whispering stories and telling tales, I’d listen to him in the dark.
For as long as I could remember, Ren was a bad sleeper. He’d toss and turn, pace in the night, and get up before dawn, just to avoid struggling with sleep that wouldn’t come.
I was used to it.
It had always been that way.
Yet now, Ren had overtaken me in the sleep awards.
When his head hit the pillow, he was out.
His eyes flickering with dreams, his breath rattling with memory of what lived inside him, his body overly warm with circulation that ran just a little too hot.
Normally, I’d believe it was thanks to his long day at work.
But…I’d read up on his condition, and I knew the symptoms in and out.
Night sweats and fatigue.
Those were the ones I and only I knew that Ren had.
In everyday life, he was the poster boy of good health.
But when it was just us in bed, a scary little beast would sit on my pillow and whisper falsities about what Ren projected.
I didn’t trust that he wasn’t hiding how he truly felt.
I didn’t believe he was as pain free as he made us think.
Instead of suffering silently, I should have spoken up—and I did, of course I did; it wasn’t a matter to brush aside. I told Rick Mackenzie at Ren’s last check-up, even as Ren glared at me as if I’d betrayed his confidence.
But the oncologist had just smiled and nodded and, in a bedside manner that I didn’t appreciate—either stress or pregnancy snappiness—said unfortunately, it was to be expected.
Ren was stable, but he was still sick.
His body was fighting the good fight, so of course, he would sleep soundly.
His system was hoarding rest like a starving man hoarded food.
And I got that…but it didn’t make it any easier.
The past eight and a bit months had made me believe in a fairy-tale.
The knowledge of what existed in our future was muted somehow beneath summer sun and lazy Sundays around the pond.
I’d stupidly allowed time to fuzz the urgency inside me, and I cursed myself to the depths of hell when, a few days later, my worries were vindicated in the worst possible way.
I stood in our kitchen in our new house.
It wasn’t entirely finished—the walls were yet to be painted, curtains put up, and fireplace installed, but we’d moved in a week ago to a night of seduction in a bare bedroom with just a king mattress that we’d bought.
We kissed in every room to christen the place. And eventually, we would have sex in every room, but for now, I was too heavily pregnant for Ren to touch in any other manner than with tenderness.
I’d burst into tears as Ren carried me over the threshold the first time and paraded me around the first home we’d ever owned.
Our home.
No one else’s.
Ours.
It wasn’t overly large but had a cosy reading nook, cute living room, and country kitchen. Our bedroom was a simple square with large glass doors that led to a wraparound deck that welcomed the outside in.
The whole design was like a large tent with the main dwellings in the middle and sleeping quarters on either side.
We were twenty-three and thirty-three, both so young, so happy, so blessed.
And as I looked up from where I stood in the kitchen, the view of rolling meadows and untouched perfection better than any dream—I melted at how incredible it all was.
I rubbed my bulging belly, poking at the tiny foot making itself known in my side.
I sighed contentedly as I kept one eye on the view and one on cutting the crusts off Ren’s turkey and mayo sandwiches.
Height of summer and he was working late.
The field had been cut three days ago and allowed to air dry in the heat. He’d turned it this morning and raked it into long rows, and now, as the sun hung low in the sky teasing with dusk, he was about to bale.
No rest for the farmer in summer.
Packing the sandwich into a bag with an apple, bottle of water, and a couple of Hershey’s Kisses, I left the sun-drenched house we’d built and waddled my way down the garden with its flagstone pavers, through the yet-to-be-painted gate, and to the meadow beyond.
The sound of the tractor churned and coughed, the motor of the baler whirring in rhythm and clunking with age as loose grass went in one end and spat out the other as a rectangle bound by string.
Halfway across the large field, the crunch of metal and the abrupt sound of an engine ceasing wrenched my head up.
Oh, dear.
The first cut of the season was always the thickest, and the old equipment sometimes didn’t cope.
Peering into the setting sun, I caught sight of Ren as he leapt from the tractor and went to investigate the attached baler.
He staggered a little from jumping from a height.
He stumbled forwa
rd as if gathering his momentum.
I thought nothing of it.
I’d seen him trip from the tractor a thousand times.
He might not be the most agile, but he was springy.
My eyes stayed on him, expecting him to solve the puzzle of his legs and stay upright.
Only…this time, he didn’t find his feet.
His arms didn’t spread out for balance. His body didn’t twist for purchase. His spine rolled, his head flopped, and he tumbled forward, vanishing into the rowed grass.
For a second, I couldn’t compute what had happened.
My retinas still burned with a picture of him standing.
But he was gone.
Disappeared.
No, no, no, no.
“Ren!” My screech sent a cloud of sparrows and starlings feeding on bugs in the grass into the skies. “Ren!” I dropped his dinner and forgot I was pregnant.
I broke into an ungainly sprint. “Ren!”
He didn’t get up.
He didn’t appear.
Please, please, please.
I ran and ran.
Waddled and waddled.
Galloped and galloped.
The field was big, and I was slow.
It took an eternity to reach him, and by the time I did, my belly sliced with an agonising blade.
Grimacing, I ignored it, skidding to my knees beside Ren.
“Come on. You’re okay,” I gasped, telling Ren he was okay, but maybe telling myself more. “Wake up.” Face first in the grass, I brushed aside his sun-bronzed hair and found a closed eye.
Slack lips.
Smooth forehead.
Shallow breath.
Another slice cut right around my middle, wrenching a grunt and groan-scream from my lips.
Once again, I ignored it, and with all my strength, pushed Ren’s shoulder until he rolled and flopped onto his back.
His hands stayed unmoving.
His arms bent.
Legs crossed over each other from being rolled.
Grass stuck to his hair and face, and my hands shook as I tried to brush it aside.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t speak.
Another lacerating pain rippled through my abdomen as I bent over him, tapping his cheeks. “Ren.” Tapping turned to slapping the more unresponsive he became. “Ren! Don’t you dare do this to me, Ren.”
Tears cascaded.
More pain pulverised my belly.
No one was around to help.
Pulling his head close, I had no lap to cradle him, thanks to my pregnant belly. I had to settle with an awkward hug.
I rocked him.
I cried for him.
I did the only thing I could.
I screamed.
And something answered that scream, deep in my belly, twisting and tearing, desperate to get out.
Once again, I ignored it.
“No, no, no.” I hugged Ren, another blood-curdling cry tumbling from my lips.
I didn’t know what I screamed, only that I did.
I screamed again and again.
And still, he didn’t wake up.
And then, in a flash of sunset, something winging caught my eye.
Cassie.
Thank God, Cassie.
She bolted fast on Mighty Mo. Bare back and just a halter, as if she’d snatched the horse from his stable and kicked him into a run. His hooves ploughed through grass rows, jumping others. “Della!”
I groaned, tipping forward into the grass as my own pain overcame me. Planting a hand over the worst pressure I’d ever felt, my palm nudged the small hardness of my pocket-stored cell-phone.
Stupid.
So stupid.
Wrenching it out, I shook and grunted as yet another knife punctured my insides. Crawling closer to Ren, I blinked back tears and punched the numbers for help.
The call connected quickly.
An operator urgent and brisk. “What’s your emergency?”
My breath tore and laced with misery and woe. Another vicious band of agony worked through my belly, my hips naturally spreading, my thighs growing warm.
“A man. He’s unconscious. He has stage one mesothelioma. Please—” Pain cut me off. “Send an ambulance. Cherry River—”
I hissed as yet another wave hit me, this one stronger than the last. I moaned into the phone, buckling over, holding the baby in my belly. The baby who’d chosen this exact moment to arrive. “—Farm. Please hurry.”
“Okay, ma’am, we’re sending someone right now.”
A gush of wetness drenched my underwear, and I laughed.
Laughed with sick disbelief and incredulous timing.
“Oh, Goooddd,” I groaned, not able to hold my belly and my husband at the same time.
Death had visited.
Life wouldn’t be ignored.
Both battled to kill me.
“You okay, Ma’am?” the operator asked.
I shook my head, my lips spread wide.
I couldn’t speak.
But I didn’t need to.
Cassie arrived in a flurry of horse and hooves, leaping off to slam to her knees beside me. Mighty Mo snorted like a dragon, wired and amped, feeding on stress.
Cassie ignored him, took one look at Ren, then focused entirely on me. “Shit, Della.” Snatching my phone, she barked. “Ambulance. Two of the damn things. One for a man with asbestos cancer and another who’s just gone into labour.”
She nodded to whatever the man said on the other end. “Yes. Back meadow. John Wilson will help you.”
I screamed as yet another deeper, demanding fury filled me. A fury tangled with bone and blood and bruises.
“You need to hurry,” Cassie snapped.
Throwing my phone into the grass, she gathered me close, placed her hand on Ren’s shallow breathing chest, and kissed my cheek. “It’s okay, Della. You’ll both be fine. You’ll see.”
I was glad she was there.
Grateful for help.
Only problem was…I didn’t believe her.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
REN
* * * * * *
2022
FLASH.
The field with grass at optimum dryness to bale.
Flash.
A clunk and crunch as the baler wrapped up in stalks.
Flash.
Red and blue lights around me. Sirens loud inside me.
Flash.
Intruders, questions, the swish and sway of reckless driving.
Flash.
Wheels screeching, oxygen flowing, a sharp prick in my arm.
Flash.
Della’s screaming, strangers shouting, a world in utter disarray.
Something dragged me down, something heavy and warm and thick. I wanted to go with it, to give in, but the awful, awful sound of the one person I’d promised to protect every day of my goddamn life wrenched me through the fog.
I clung to her voice, clawing to her, crawling to her, fighting mud and sludge and pain.
My eyes opened.
I was no longer in the field.
I was no longer dressed from the waist up.
I was no longer a farmer but a patient.
“Oh, thank God!” Della grabbed my hand, her fingernails digging in. “Ren. I thought…” She shook her head. “You wouldn’t wake up.”
The outside world had been replaced with the insides of a hospital.
An emergency room with traffic and trauma and triage.
My throat was raw and lungs seared.
I’d been in pain lately.
The backache.
The chest ache.
But I had things to do.
Life to conquer.
A future to pave.
Della bowed over me, pressing her forehead to my cheek. “Please, please don’t scare me like that again.”
My arm came up from where I lay on a narrow bed, hugging her head, kissing her hard. “I’m sorry, R
ibbon.” I coughed, and she flinched.
Her eyes widened, then she buckled over me, digging her face into the crutch of my shoulder, her lips spread in a guttural scream.
My weakness?
My confusion?
None of it fucking mattered.
Jack-knifing upward, I tore at wires stuck to my chest and ripped an oxygen tube from my nose. “Della.”
“Hey, Mr. Wild. You need—”
“Stop!” I roared, clutching onto Della as she stumbled by my bedside. “What the hell is wrong with my wife?”
“She refused to leave,” a skinny nurse with mousy blonde hair snipped. “She’s in labour. Apart from physically manhandling her, we couldn’t do anything about it.”
“Goddammit.” I swung my legs off the narrow bed, dislodging yet more medical equipment. My lungs burned. Chest throbbed. Heart palpitated in an uneven rhythm.
But I didn’t care about any of it.
“Get back into bed, sir,” someone commanded.
I grimaced as my world flipped upside down. My feet found a ground that rocked. My mind found a world that sloshed and greyed. I swam in light-headedness, scooping Della into my arms, and laying her pregnant weight on the very same bed I’d just vacated.
“Sir, she needs to be in maternity.”
“She’s in pain, can’t you see? Help her instead of spouting bullshit!”
Della screamed as yet another contraction worked through her. Her legs spread wide and dirty shoes dug into sterilized white. “Oh, fuucckk. God, it hurts.” Her hand found mine, squeezing me to the point of metacarpals crunching.
“Someone get her something!” I yelled. “What the hell good are you, huh? Do your goddamn jobs and help her!”
My lungs wheezed, and a ribcage-splintering cough found me, bending me in half.
“Sir, you need to calm down.”
Coughing, coughing, always fucking coughing, my anger spilled like magma. When I could breathe, I roared, “And you need to fucking help her! Now!”
Della groaned, adding another layer to the mayhem.
“Sir—”
“What the hell is going on here?!” A doctor with a shaved head and goatee marched forward, waving his arms as if he could part the sea of medical staff like the messiah.
Grabbing a clipboard that hung on the end of the bed, he scanned the notes, then pointed in my face. “You. Seeing as you’re awake. Oncology. Now. You need some tests.” Spinning to face the skinny nurse loitering around Della, he ordered, “You, go get the midwife assigned to Mrs Wild.”
Ren and Della: Boxed Set (Ribbon Duet Book 3) Page 83
