Beneath a Southern Sky

by Deborah Raney

  “I prayed all the way here, Daria.”

  “I know.”

  She sounded stronger, confident almost. He wasn’t sure he liked hearing this resolve in her voice. What did it signal? Something had changed since he spoke with her last. He was afraid to know what it was.

  “Where’s Natalie?” he asked abruptly.

  “She’s at Jack and Vera’s. She’s fine.”

  “What can I do, Daria? I want to help, but I don’t know what you want me to do.”

  She bowed her head for a moment. When she looked up, it was to gaze directly into his eyes. “Just keep praying, Cole. For the baby and…for everything…”

  “Do you want me to stay with you, or do you want me to go?”

  She didn’t have a chance to answer before the door to the hallway inched open and a tall, thin man with pale, close-cropped hair poked his head in. Thinking it was a nurse or an orderly, Cole stepped away from Daria’s bed and waited, expecting the man to ask him to leave while he took her blood pressure or something. But then the door was wrenched from the man’s hands and flung wide open as Natalie burst into the room crying excitedly, “Mommy! Mommy!”

  The little girl stopped short when she saw Cole standing there. Instantly her cries turned to squeals of joy. “Daddy! It’s my Daddy!” she said, turning to the man in the doorway. She galloped across the room.

  “Hi, punkin.” He knelt to embrace her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled his face with her own like a puppy beside itself with happiness. He stood with Natalie in his arms, and a sob rose in his throat, taking him completely by surprise. Over Natalie’s shoulder, he looked into Daria’s eyes. She was looking at the other man, her face veiled in anguish. He now noticed the scars on the man’s arms and hands and realized that this man he’d thought to be a stranger was indeed Natalie’s father. Cole squeezed her tightly to himself, amazed at how featherlight she was in his arms, how sweet her silky fine hair smelled.

  Natalie let loose of his neck long enough to lean down and touch Daria’s toe through the sheet. The little girl smiled shyly at her mother and wrinkled her nose. “You look funny, Mommy.”

  Daria’s lovely features had been transformed into a mask of utter misery. This couldn’t be good for the baby. What must this stress be doing to her?

  “Daria,” he started.

  Nate apparently saw the same thing in her face, for he strode to her bedside and bent to read the monitors. “Are you all right?” he asked. But it seemed to Cole to be the loving, possessive husband, not the physician, who was asking the question.

  Daria nodded. Smiling wanly, she looked from one man to the other. “Nate,” she said softly, her voice quavering. “This is Cole. Cole, Nathan.”

  Thirty-One

  Nathan stared at Colson Hunter, his emotions running the gamut from fury to compassion and back again. Hunter reached out tentatively to shake his hand, and Nate took it, truly uncertain if it was anger or possessiveness or sheer terror that motivated the fierceness of his own grasp. Without speaking, they released their hold on each other. Nathan turned away quickly, ostensibly to adjust the dials on the fetal monitor that displayed the baby’s heartbeat.

  Struggling to put aside the unsettling feelings that meeting this man had incited, he tried to remember from his obstetrical training what the safe parameters were for the baby’s heartbeat. The machine emitted a steady whoosh, whoosh, but the pace seemed quite rapid to him.

  “Did they tell you what this number should be?” he asked Daria, trying to keep his voice even, painfully aware of Hunter’s presence behind him.

  “It’s been staying between 115 and 140, I think,” she told him, her voice forced and artificial. “I heard a nurse say they didn’t want it to go much above 150.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Good.”

  He continued to busy himself with the medical equipment in the room. It had been half a decade since he’d worked with such technology, but some things were beginning to come back to him. He took his time, acutely aware that he would have to look Colson Hunter in the eye again at some point. Right now he wasn’t sure he trusted what his own response might be. He felt as though Hunter’s eyes were boring into his back. And the fact that his daughter was happily ensconced in this man’s arms caused his own heart to beat too quickly and a bitter taste to rise in his throat.

  He checked the monitor one more time and straightened. “You’re sure you feel okay, Daria?”

  She nodded wanly.

  “I’m going to go check on something at the nurse’s station. I’ll be right back.”

  As a paltry atonement for his cowardice, he met Hunter’s gaze and nodded as he left the room. He spoke with the head nurse. After he was satisfied that the reading on the fetal monitor was within reason and that they were watching Daria closely, he walked away from her room. He simply couldn’t go back in there with the man who had taken over his life while he suffered alone in the jungle. Is this how God rewards his servants? Stop it, he chided himself. But his emotions did not submit. As he walked down the hallway the disturbing scenes continued to play over and over like a film on a continuous loop. In his mind’s eye, he watched his daughter run into Colson Hunter’s arms again and again. Daria’s quiet introduction pounded in his head, a haunting soundtrack to the film. Nate, this is Cole, she’d said. He wondered if she had rehearsed her words, if there was significance to the order of the introduction. He seemed to remember that the rules of etiquette gave special importance to the person who was introduced first? Did Daria know that? Or was it merely happenstance that had put her words in that particular order?

  The hallway ended in a small waiting room comfortably furnished with overstuffed chairs and a small television set that droned a continuous weather report. The room was empty, and Nate sank into the nearest chair and put his head in his hands.

  What in heaven’s name are we going to do? How are we ever going to make sense of this whole mixed-up disaster? And how deep will the wounds be for all of us when everything is finally settled?

  Above him, the perky weather girl was predicting severe thunderstorms in the Kansas City area. How appropriate, Nate thought.

  Cole watched Nathan Camfield leave the room. In spite of the threat the man was to his own happiness, he couldn’t help but put himself in Nate’s shoes. How must it have felt for him to watch the daughter of his own flesh run into another man’s arms? Instinctively he tightened his grip on Natalie. He looked down at her and saw that her eyes were heavy. She had her thumb firmly in her mouth, but she kept one hooded eye on her mother.

  Cole went to the chair beside Daria’s bed and sat down, arranging Natalie’s spindly legs across his lap, turning her head so she could still see Daria, until he could sense she was comfortable.

  “Daria?”

  She gazed up at him, the sadness in her eyes spilling over in tears.

  “Hey…it’ll be all right.” He wished he could believe his own words.

  “Oh, Cole…how can it possibly be all right?”

  “Shh,” he whispered, knowing that she was talking about much more than the baby, but choosing to pretend otherwise. “You just need to stay calm until this baby is safe. That’s all you need to think about for now.”

  She nodded, closed her eyes, and burrowed back into the firm pillows.

  He resisted the urge to caress her face, to take her into his arms and reassure her, as he would have before Nate had come back into the picture. Even taking her hand seemed too fraught with implications.

  On his lap, Natalie relaxed. Within minutes her thumb fell from her mouth and her deep, even breaths told him she was asleep. He sent up a prayer of gratitude for one more precious opportunity to hold her in his arms. He couldn’t allow himself to think that this might be the last time he would hold her.

  Daria opened her eyes again and looked from Natalie to Cole. “Do you think she understands?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Probably not everything.”

&nbs
p; “Cole, if”—her voice broke, but she went on—“if I lose the baby, please promise me you won’t blame God.”

  He shook his head and swallowed hard. “I won’t, Daria. But you’re not going to lose the baby. The doctor said if you can just go another week or two there’s every chance that he’ll be fine.”

  Daria nodded and turned to gaze out the window. Tears brimmed in her eyes and shone brightly, but she didn’t weep.

  He tried not to think how final her words had sounded, as though it was her last request of him. He watched her closely, longing to find some hint of her decision in her voice, in her eyes. Of course he wouldn’t speak to her of such things now. He’d always been sensitive to her every thought and emotion. Only now did he realize what a gift it had been.

  The whir of the fetal monitor, the antiseptic odors of the hospital, even the hushed sound of the nurses’ footsteps on the tiled floor in the hallway brought back memories of the time Bridgette had spent in the hospital when Carson was born. If that happened—God forbid that it happen again—he knew he would lose Daria forever. God, don’t let this baby die! Don’t let this be Carson all over again. Please, God. Don’t do that to me again. His prayer was selfish, but he prayed fervently nevertheless.

  He shifted Natalie on his lap and rubbed his face with a work-roughened hand, forcing his thoughts back to the present. Daria needed him. And for now he would sit beside her. He would hold the child he loved as much as life itself on his lap, and he would wait for as many days as God granted them.

  Thirty-Two

  Nate paced the length of his boyhood bedroom and rubbed the stubble of beard on his chin. If he had to remain under his parents’ roof another day—if he had to live under this cloud of oppression, not knowing what the future held for him—he would go mad. The impending birth of Daria and Cole’s child had put everything on hold, and while he knew Daria had never planned for events to unfold the way they had, still the waiting was excruciating.

  She had to make a decision. He knew it wasn’t fair under the circumstances to rush her, but he had to know what she wanted to do. He had made his intentions very clear: She was his wife, and he still loved her. He wanted to raise their daughter together, wanted to make up together for the lost years of his life—of their life.

  Still he struggled with feelings of anger—toward Daria for leaving him behind in Colombia, toward the Chicoro for refusing to help him, toward Juan Mocoa for ensuring his captivity, and finally, toward God for allowing any of this to happen in the first place. And yet he knew that on Daria’s part, it had all been a tragic mistake.

  He bowed his head and prayed the prayer that had become his watchword over the last days: “Father, forgive them. And help me to forgive them. Help me to forgive Daria. She couldn’t have known.”

  He thought again of the child to whom Daria would soon give birth. Cole’s child, if it lived, would complicate matters immensely, but Nate was completely willing to take it in, to raise it as his own. His father assured him that any court would quickly grant Daria custody of the child with reasonable visitation rights for Cole Hunter. Nate was even prepared to allow Natalie to have visitation with Hunter. After all, the man was the only father she’d known until now. It was obvious that he loved her—and that she loved him as well. Hunter seemed like a decent man, a reasonable man.

  A twinge of guilt rose in him, and it made him furious. Why should he feel guilty for wanting to be reunited with the woman he loved and the daughter he’d never had a chance to know? He felt deep sympathy for Colson Hunter. He knew it would be a huge grief to give up Daria—and yes, Natalie, too. Of course he knew that! Hadn’t he been forced to do that very thing? He had no doubt that Hunter loved Daria and Natalie both deeply. But right was right. A man belonged with his wife and child.

  He wished he could have some time to talk to Daria, find out what she was feeling. He’d learned from his mother that Hunter had stayed in Kansas City, that he was visiting Daria every day in the hospital. That fact scared him to death. He could only imagine the kind of bond that waiting for this child had formed between them.

  His heartbeat quickened, and he felt the bile rise in his throat. It was wrong to let himself become so angry. He knew the only right thing was to leave this in God’s hands. He held his scarred hands in front of him and despised the fact that they were trembling. He longed for the sense of peace that he’d been granted so many times before. How strange that in the danger and squalor of a jungle prison he had known that peace, yet in the affluent luxury of this house, in the safety of this free country, it eluded him.

  He crossed the room and picked up the Bible that lay open on his dresser. Leafing aimlessly through the thin pages, his eyes were drawn to the twelfth chapter of the book of John. He read the words, whispered them aloud, seeking comfort in the very pronunciation of the syllables.

  The truth is, a kernel of wheat must be planted in the soil. Unless it dies it will be alone—a single seed. But its death will produce many new kernels—a plentiful harvest of new lives. Those who love their life in this world will lose it. Those who despise their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. All those who want to be my disciples must come and follow me, because my servants must be where I am. And if they follow me, the Father will honor them.

  At first the words were meaningless, but as he continued on, they seeped slowly into his heart, the words of Jesus echoing the cry of his heart.

  Now my soul is deeply troubled. Should I pray, “Father, save me from what lies ahead”? But that is the very reason why I came! Father, bring glory to your name.

  He wasn’t sure exactly what the words meant for him, but nonetheless he sensed that they were for him. He knew the context in which they had been spoken. They were Jesus’ words before he went to his death on the cross. Suddenly he felt that precious peace begin to flow over him, to fill him up.

  He flipped the pages, anxious to be comforted, anxious to discover just what the words meant for Nathan Camfield. He read on:

  In his kindness God called you to his eternal glory by means of Jesus Christ. After you have suffered a little while, he will restore, support, and strengthen you, and he will place you on a firm foundation. All power is his forever and ever. Amen.

  He had surely suffered for more than a little while. Was this God’s promise that his suffering would soon come to an end? Was this confirmation that Daria would choose to make her life with him? Was that the restoration God meant for him?

  He turned the passages over and over in his mind, knowing the answer was there, but not quite getting a grasp on the true meaning of it. And yet, there was no anxiety, no fear connected to this unknown. Only peace.

  He lay down on top of the quilt on his bed, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling, but seeing far beyond it.

  Scenes of Colombia materialized before him, and he felt a longing, a physical homesickness like he hadn’t experienced since he’d gone to camp the summer he was eight. He missed his Timoné family. They still thought him dead, and he longed to see them, to tell them of God’s goodness to him even while he had been imprisoned. He feared they had felt deserted by Daria and him—and perhaps by God. He prayed that Anazu had not grown weary of seeking God’s truth. He prayed that the man’s wife and daughter continued to walk in faith toward God.

  After a long while, he rose to shave and dress.

  Thirty-Three

  Cole was beside Daria when Nicole René Hunter came screaming into the world at six o’clock on a brisk April morning, eleven days after Daria had been admitted to the hospital.

  The baby was a tiny four pounds, five ounces, but her lungs were strong and healthy, and the doctors were optimistic that she would be fine. Daria had always pictured this baby as a little boy. Perhaps she thought a son would heal the wounds little Carson’s death had inflicted on Cole. They had planned to name him Colson, after Cole. But they had also chosen a name for a little girl—Nicole, also after her father. Daria wondered now if it had b
een wise to give both her daughters their fathers’ names.

  Forty-eight hours after the delivery, she walked down the hallway toward the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, still sore and aching from the birth. The nurses in the outer room greeted her with the same mix of compassion and pity that had been the hallmark of her stay in the hospital. Their situation was no secret to any of the employees here since the press had tried continually to breach hospital security to get pictures to go with their stories. The Associated Press had picked up the story, and they’d heard reports that it had run in one form or another all over the nation. Daria knew they could not escape the press’s insatiable curiosity about this story forever.

  Daria scrubbed and put a sterile gown over her robe before she went into the room where a sea of Isolettes, radiant warmers, and plastic bassinets stretched. Each vessel cradled the tiniest, most precious cargo imaginable, and the rhythmic beeps and whooshes of the various monitors and respirators reverberated through the room like waves against a rocky shore. Over the two days since Nicole’s birth, Daria had learned many of the other babies’ names and had shared a bond with the other parents who visited this room daily. It had torn her apart to come in the first morning after Nicole’s birth to find that one baby hadn’t made it through his first night. She hadn’t thought she had the energy to grieve anymore, but she had cried bitterly for the young single mother, a girl she’d never even met.

  Now Daria made her way to Nicole’s Isolette and reached in to stroke her tiny back. The baby was lying on her side, naked save for a diaper that dwarfed her in spite of its miniature size. At Daria’s touch, the infant stretched slowly and her eyelids fluttered ever so slightly. Love for this child welled up within her, but sorrow welled up alongside it. The doctors were optimistic that she would grow and develop normally, but what would life hold for Nicole Hunter? Would she know the blessing of a mother and a father who loved each other and tucked her into bed together each night? Or would hers be a life of being shuttled from one home to the other, with secrets about her circumstances whispered everywhere she went? And what about Natalie? Oh, how Daria ached for her firstborn.