Alice shifts the bundle, easing the baby toward me. “Kodiak…meet your daughter.”
“Lord above,” I whisper, like anything louder might break her. “She’s so small.”
My hands hover in the air like I don’t dare touch her, but Alice nods gentle. I sit on the edge of the bed, and Alice lays her in my arms.
She’s warm. Lighter than I expected. Delicate, like her momma.
Her tiny fingers flex once, then curl back in like she’s ready for her first fight. She’s mine all right.
I swallow hard, trying to keep it together. The baby—our baby—lets out a sigh, like she’s bored of the fuss.
“What do we call her?” I ask.
Alice smiles. “Stella.”
“Stella,” I echo. “Like the stars.”
Alice nods, eyes welling with tears. “Because she came from the sky. Like we asked.”
I press my lips to the downy crown of our daughter’s head, and something inside me settles. All that fear, all that running…it goes still.
She’s here.
She’s real.
Our spark of love and strength.
I’d lay down all I am to keep her safe…until the stars quit shining.
Chapter 46
ALICE
Late Summer
The sun’s just slipped behind the hills, and the sky’s caught in that soft stretch of twilight where everything glows rose and lavender. Inside, the world is peaceful.
Stella lies between us on a soft blanket, reaching for her little feet in the air. We’re upstairs in the observatory, all three of us curled up in a pile of pillows and blankets under the dome. The telescope’s pushed aside tonight, the stars free to shine down on us to admire their handiwork.
One of the windows is cracked open, letting in the song of crickets, the soft evening breeze rustling through the trees.
Kodiak rests back against the curve of the window seat. My legs are draped over his lap, and his hand rests on my shin, thumb brushing circles there like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.
“Tell her the story,” I whisper, and that soft, crooked smile finds its way across his lips.
“You wanna hear a tale?” he asks Stella, who kicks in reply. He lifts his head up toward the sky above us, stars pricking through the deepening dusk.
He begins, voice deep and warm:
“Once upon a time, there was a bear who lived up in the stars. He was big and ornery and didn’t much care for people. He liked the mountains and whiskey and playin’ cards. Despite what some folks might have you believe, he ain’t never paid for the company of a woman.”
He winks, and I give him a chiding nudge. “Kodiak.”
“Oh, come on. She don’t know what I’m talkin’ about.”
“Finish the story.”
“The bear was always runnin’. From the law, from the past. Maybe even from himself.”
