Pressing his fingertips to Ceara’s throat, he felt for a pulse. His own was pounding so hard he couldn’t tell if Ceara had one. He bent low to put his face near hers and felt a shallow breath on his cheek as she exhaled. Alive, she was alive. He ran his hands over her. So much blood. Had she fallen on the knife? He rolled her this way and that, but he saw no wound. Thank God, she hadn’t been cut. His blood, he decided. So what the hell was wrong with her? He was afraid he knew: She’d passed out from the effort of saving him.
At that instant her long lashes fluttered. Then she opened her eyes, looking as disoriented as he’d felt only seconds earlier. “Quincy?” she said faintly. “The bleeding. ’Tis stopped?” Billy Bob crowded between them. “Out!” Quincy yelled. “Out and stay out!” For once they got the message and hurried into the adjacent room, lingering at the door. Maybe they’d caught the terror in his voice.
Fear for his wife and child had wiped all thought of his own safety from his mind. He looked stupidly at his wrist, and all he saw on his skin were his wife’s bloody fingerprints and thick smears of crimson. The slash—and Quincy knew it had to have been deep—was gone. Not even a shallow cut remained.
“Oh, my God, what did you do?” Quincy grabbed her up in his arms, shaking so badly that he could barely support her still-limp upper body. “You promised me you wouldn’t use your gifts, Ceara. You gave me your word.”
She turned her face against his crimson-soaked shirt and started to weep. “But Quincy, ye”—she stopped and gasped—“were bleeding bad. ’Tis . . . sorry . . . I . . . am. I . . . dinna . . . think. When I saw . . . the blood spurting from yer arm . . . I just reacted.”
“But the baby. What about the baby?”
She placed a bloody hand over her belly. “She is fine, I think.”
Quincy spared a thought to turn off the gas burner under the pot of curry. Then, weak at the knees though he was, he swept his wife up into his arms. Once in their suite, he laid her gently on the bed. She smiled faintly up at him, her pretty face smeared with his blood, tear tracks zigzagging paths through the scarlet.
“All went black,” she murmured. She rested quivering fingertips on his left wrist. Her smile wavered and then deepened. “’Tis gone,” she whispered with quiet satisfaction. “The deep cut, ’tis gone. Me gift dinna fail me when I needed it. Ye could have died, Quincy.”
Quincy couldn’t argue the point. He went to the bathroom to wet several washcloths and returned a moment later. “Let me get you cleaned up.”
When she made no protest and just lay there, letting him wash her face, arms, and hands, Quincy’s stomach clenched with worry. “Are you sure you’re okay? You and the baby, you’re both okay?”
She sighed and closed her eyes. “’Tis weak I am, just verra weak.”
“You shouldn’t have done that. We could have gotten the bleeding stopped some other way.” The instant Quincy said that, he saw tears slip from beneath her thick auburn lashes. He felt like a jerk. “I’m sorry, honey. I wasn’t blaming you. You saved my life. Don’t think I don’t know it. And I know it’s pure instinct for you to use your gifts in a crisis, and that it’s really hard for you not to use them right now because of the baby. I do understand how you would just react in a situation like that. Please, honey, don’t think I was blaming you. I was just plain scared to death for you.”
“Ye make me heart sing,” she whispered. “I couldna watch ye bleed to death. And ’tis fine we are, both of us. ’Tis just the drain, ye ken. I’ll be okay.”
He made her heart sing. Quincy wanted to gather her close in his arms, but if he did, he’d get blood all over her again. So instead he wiped his hands clean and went to her walk-in closet. He found the flannel granny gown she’d worn in the early days of their marriage. In central Oregon, the evenings grew cool even in mid-September, when the afternoons were still summery warm. The gown would keep the chill away while he quickly showered and cleaned up. Then he’d join her in bed and keep her snug with his body heat.
Ceara allowed him to tug off her clothing and managed to sit up so he could help her into the nightgown. When she fell back against the pillow, he pulled the flannel down, lifting her hips for her so he could get her legs covered.
“’Tis sorry, I am. Ye’re dressing me like I am a helpless babe.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Quincy leaned over her. “How are you feeling now? Still only weak?”
She nodded.
“I can take you in to the hospital,” he suggested. “I’m sure Stevenson would meet us at the ER to give you a quick check to make sure both you and the baby are okay.”
She shook her head. “Just let me rest for a wee time. Then we shall see. Yes?”
“Okay, but if you’re not feeling stronger by the time I get out of the shower, I’m taking you in.”
She smiled. “’Tis a deal, provided ye’re in the shower long enough to get yerself wet.”
Quincy was grinning on the way to the bathroom. She knew him pretty well, Ceara did. Okay, he’d humor her, but this was going to be one quick ablution. He turned on the water to make Ceara think it was longer, stripped off his blood-soaked clothes, threw them in the tub to deal with later, and forced himself to stand under the hot jets of water while he counted to sixty . . . fast. Wrapping a towel around his dripping body, he went into his closet to don a fresh set of clothes from the skin out, plus another pair of boots.
When he approached the bed, Ceara awakened, pushed up with her elbows to a reclining position against the pillow, and smiled at him. “’Tis better I am.”
“Are you positive? I’m ready for town. I can bundle you up and carry you to the truck. Going to the ER is no big deal.”
She grinned. “I’m verra hungry. I think ye bled into our supper pot, sad to say, so we’ve naught to eat.”
Quincy remembered the mess downstairs, which he needed to clean up, but he didn’t want to leave Ceara alone that long. “How does some soup and sandwiches sound? I can make that fast.”
Her stomach snarled, and she laughed, placing a hand over her swollen belly. Just then the baby must have kicked, because she lifted her brows. “Our wee girl says she is verra hungry, too.”
“Well, a man has to feed his ladies.” Quincy leaned down to kiss his wife, and then he bent to kiss the back of her hand where it rested on her stomach. “Will you both be okay while I run down to make a quick meal? I’ll turn on the intercom.”
“’Tis fine we shall be.”
Before leaving the room, Quincy switched on the intercom. “If you need me, just holler out. I’ll be here in two blinks.”
Once downstairs, Quincy missed a step at the sight of the kitchen. Blood was everywhere: all over the counters, the cooktop, the oven fronts, and the floor. He stood for a moment to take it in and then looked incredulously at his wrist. It had taken a very deep slash and a severed artery to cover such a wide area with blood, but now no one would ever know that he’d been injured. It had never occurred to him that Ceara’s gifts might include healing. Now he could only wonder why she’d never mentioned it. And he also wondered why in hell she hadn’t used it on Loni.
After making sandwiches and heating two bowls of soup in the microwave, Quincy carried the tray upstairs and asked his wife those questions over their simple meal. She frowned before answering. “To be verra honest, I thought the gift was lost to me,” she said softly. “Me other gifts—well, they are only a shadow of what they once were, ye ken, and the gift of healing takes a great deal of power. I didna believe I still had it in me. And while me gifts can also work on illness, Quincy, I’ve no power to break an illness coming from a curse. ’Tis a different thing entirely. I couldna help Loni in that way, only by marrying with ye.”
Quincy took a bite of his sandwich and handed her a paper napkin to dab mayonnaise from the corner of her mouth. “So, because you believed you no longer had the power to heal, you saw no point in mentioning it.” He didn’t state that as a question. “In a way, I understand how you must have felt.” He spooned some chicken noodle soup into his mouth, took a moment to chew, and then swallowed. “Take me, for instance. In my twenties, I reigned as king in rodeo cutting and roping competition all across the nation. I traveled the circuit for a while, and that was a lot of fun while it lasted.” He smiled at the memories. “Winning big purses, hearing the roar of the crowd, and having my pick of the buckle bunnies after an event.”
“Yer belt buckles all have horses or steers or the like. I’ve ne’er seen one with a rabbit.”
Quincy winced. Then he shrugged. “In my misspent youth, I liked the ladies. Buckle bunnies are young women who flock to rodeos, hoping to catch the eye of some champion cowboy who just won a big purse.”
“Ach!” She narrowed her gaze on him. “’Tis unsure I am what a rodeo is, but ye’ll be competing in them ne’er again.”
Quincy leaned over the tray on her lap to gently nip her earlobe. “You’re my one and only now. No more buckle bunnies for this fellow.”
“Just so ye’re remembering it. I’ll na be happy if ye fancy another.”
Quincy couldn’t imagine any other woman catching his eye. Ceara outshone them all, in his estimation. “Anyway, back to my story. Nobody can remain the king forever. Some younger guy always comes along to steal your glory. Some men fight to the finish. Some stay on top for a decade, but I can’t imagine the price their bodies and their relationships pay. I enjoyed myself for a while, and then I threw in my hat. I quit while I was ahead, while I was still a champion, and focused on my ranch. I’d done what I set out to do: earning some renown for the horses I raise and train.”
“I do na see how yer story relates to me lost powers.”
Quincy chuckled. “You haven’t let me get to that yet.” He chucked her under the chin. “Some guys can’t turn loose of the glory, even after they’re burned out, so they blow their own horns to anyone who’ll listen about how great they used to be. Whenever I hear someone brag about how big a man he once was, I get a sour taste in my mouth, so I seldom tell anyone of my successes in rodeo competition. I once had a great run, but that’s done and over.”
She still looked perplexed.
He continued. “And your gifts, once so very powerful, are now diminished. You no longer believed you still had the power to heal, so you didn’t mention it to me.”
“Ah,” she said, drawing out the word. Then she nodded. “’Tis a wee bit the same, I ken. I believed I had lost the power; it made me sad to think of it, and I saw no reason to talk of it.”
“Precisely.” Quincy sighed. “I just thank God that what happened tonight didn’t harm you or our little girl.”
After Ceara finished both her sandwich and soup, Quincy set the tray on the table in the reading corner, laid and lit a fire, and then stripped down to his boxers to join his wife in bed. She turned into his arms, her belly bumping his just under his ribs. He felt their daughter give a hard kick and smiled as he burrowed his face into Ceara’s beautiful hair.
“It must feel like you’ve got a kickboxer inside of you,” he said.
“What is a kickboxer?”
Quincy explained, turning so she could rest her head in the hollow of his shoulder, and let his eyes fall closed.
“What of our romantic ending to me celebration?” she whispered.
He hugged her closer, pleased to feel his daughter move again. “I think we’ll postpone that until tomorrow night. After what happened, I’ll feel better if you just rest.”
She yawned sleepily. Then she nodded. “’Tis a good idea. I am verra tired.”
“But other than that, you feel fine?”
“Fine as a frog’s hair.”
Quincy grinned. He had picked up some of her speech patterns, and she had learned some of his sayings. It was a good mix. He reached up and backward to turn off his bedside light. The amber flicker of the fire played over the walls, creating a nice blend of dance and shadow. Good mood for making love, but that wasn’t happening. He took a deep breath, loving the smell of Ceara’s hair and the wispy curls that tickled his cheek. His eyes drifted closed, and he turned loose of the day to join her in dreams.
* * *
“Quincy!”
Ceara’s cry jerked Quincy from deep sleep. He bolted upright in bed. “What?” Not liking the fear he’d heard in her voice, he switched on the lamp. His wife was sitting up and her eyes mirrored terror. His stomach vised. “What it is, sweetheart?”
“Something . . . I am wet, and I swear to ye, I dinna pee.”
Quincy’s heart caught. He snapped back the covers and blanket. Ceara’s gown had damp, slightly pink splotches at the hip, and as the sleep cleared from his eyes, he saw that the sheet beneath her bottom was soaked.
“Oh, my God.” He leaped out of bed. “Your water broke. Are you having pains?”
She planted a trembling hand over her middle. “Nay, but I ache deep inside.” Just then her face twisted, and she turned on her side, drawing up her knees. “God’s . . .
teeth
! It hurts—Quincy, it
hurts
.”
“Sweet Jesus, you’re in labor.” Quincy turned in a full circle twice, searching frantically for his pants. He no sooner got them in his hand than he dropped them to the floor again to grab his cell phone from the nightstand. After dialing 911, he hurried around the bed to put a hand on Ceara’s shoulder. “Just lie still, honey. Don’t try to get up, okay?” A dispatcher answered his call. “Yeah, this is Quincy Harrigan. My wife has gone into premature labor.” He quickly explained how far he lived from town. “It’ll take an ambulance close to thirty minutes to reach us. I don’t think she can wait that long, so I’m taking her in. I’ll need a police escort to clear the way for me once I reach the city limits. There’ll be more traffic there, and I may have to run a few lights.” He told the woman where the car should meet him. “I drive a big green Dodge with a bent cattle guard and a winch. Tell the officer to be watching for me and take the lead. I may not be able to stop for a powwow.”
Quincy ended the call, threw on his clothes, pulled on his boots, and then bundled his wife up in the coverlet. As he carried her downstairs, he felt her body clench as another pain hit her.
Too soon
. She was what—twenty-five weeks along? The baby couldn’t come right now. It just couldn’t.