The Homecoming Baby (20 page)

D
AWN POURED INTO
E
NCHANTMENT
like an overturned chalice of champagne.

In his mind's eye, Patrick could see it reaching across the ranchlands in the east, gilding the sleeping cattle. He could see it running through the quiet streets, down the dewy branches of the towering pines. He imagined it finally reaching the mountains, their golden peaks thrusting up like matches to light the sky.

He couldn't really see all that, of course. But, turning from Celia's window, he saw the soft light wash her cheek and, in that one exquisite, golden curve he knew everything there was to know about dawn.

He knew that dawn was beauty, and innocence, and love.

And it was rebirth.

He thought of The Birth Place, where Celia and Trish both worked. That quiet little haven under the guardian pines.

The Birth Place of a happy family. The Birth Place of love.

He had not come into the world there. His birthplace had been harder, filled not with smiles and mu
sic and soothing scents, but with terror and tears and pain.

He'd lived with that beginning a long, long time. But then the fates had sent him Celia.

And a chance to be born again.

Here, in this room, in her arms, he had found The Birth Place of his new and happy life.

He looked at her. She was still sleeping, her sweet curves turning a simple white sheet into a work of art. His throat closed up with a sudden painful heat.

Without taking his gaze from her, he made a vow. The Patrick who had been born here today would be a good man. He would learn from her. She would teach him about kindness and patience and love. He would put his hand in hers, and she would show him the way.

As the sun grew brighter on her face, she stirred. She made a low, fretful murmur and seemed to reach for him.

He returned to the bed quickly. He didn't want her to be afraid.

“It's all right,” he said. “I'm here.”

Without opening her eyes, she smiled.

“Hi,” she said. She ran her fingers sleepily up and down his naked chest. Immediately he felt his body tense. Though they had made love for hours last night, until in exhaustion she had tucked herself into his arms and drifted into a heavy sleep, suddenly he wanted her all over again.

“I dreamed it was a dream,” she said, with an endearing sleepy confusion. She seemed to hear how
silly that sounded, because she burrowed her head into the hollow of his shoulder and laughed. Her eyes still weren't open. She was like a newborn kitten nestling against him.

“I mean I dreamed you were gone,” she said. “I dreamed you had gone home.”

He smiled down at her warm, relaxed body. Her hair lay everywhere, across the pillow, across her shoulder, across his stroking fingers.

“I dreamed that, too,” he said.

She opened her eyes. Their blue depths were still unfocused, but a frowning question had begun to form between her brows.

“You did?”

“Yes.” He pulled down the sheet and, leaning over, kissed her shoulder. She purred once and stretched out, offering his lips easier access to the rest of her downy skin. He caught his breath. How could he be such a lucky man? Every curve and swell, every pink, secret place was his.

“I dreamed I went home,” he said again. He took her breast in his hand. She moved against him, sensual and sleepy and so ready.

He smiled down at her, at the promise she offered him in her eyes, in her body, in her heart.

“And then,” he said, “when I woke up, I saw you. And I knew my dream had come true.”