“I support that one hundred percent.”
She studied me. “What did you do?”
I probably shouldn’t have smiled, but I did. “Nothing big. I looked over at the clock. They said the chaplain can be here in about an hour.”
“Thewhat?” she shrieked and yanked her hand from mine.
I chuckled. “I’m kidding.” I reached for her hand again, relieved when she didn’t resist my taking it. “I signed on as the responsible party.”
“Kick, I can’t let you do that.”
“Isabel?” I kissed the back of her hand again. It was as though I couldn’t stop myself. “The baby is mine, right?”
“Yes, but?—”
“That means Iamthe responsible party.” I winked, hoping she’d smile, and she did.
“My job comes with benefits. I don’t know how long it takes, though.” She groaned. “I have to tell Thomas, which means I might not have a job much longer anyway.”
I didn’t know Thomas Whitmore personally, but I doubted very much that he’d fire Isabel because she was pregnant.
The discharge paperwork took forever,which gave me time to arrange for a ride back to Whitmore. Press lived in Napa Valley with his wife, Luisa. The two ran his family’s vineyard estate, Barrett Family Vintners. Given the hospital was less than a ten-mile drive, he was waiting at the entrance by the time I wheeled Isabel out the front door.
When she spotted him, she looked up at me. “Does he know?” She gasped.
“He does not. No one will until you and I agree to tell them. Okay?”
“Thank you.”
I stopped, rounded the wheelchair, and put one hand on each of its arms. “Isabel, you may not believe me right now, but I intend to prove to you that you can trust me. Your welfare and that of our baby are the most important thing to me.”
“Thanks,” she repeated just as Press exited his SUV and came around to open the passenger door.
Other than his greeting both of us, the conversation on the drive to Whitmore was minimal. Mostly small talk and absolutely nothing about why Isabel was in the hospital. Exactly as I’d anticipated.
The cottage wasdark when we arrived. I helped Isabel inside, flipping on lights as we went.
“When’s the last time you ate?” I asked.
“Breakfast? Maybe?”
“That’s what I thought.” I steered her toward the sofa. “Sit. I’ll make something.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Isabel,” I said gently. “Let me do this. Please.”
When she sat, I covered her with a blanket that spread across the back, then lit a fire.
Once in the small kitchen, I opened cabinets, looking for a pan, cracked the eggs I found in the refrigerator into a bowl, then cut a few slices of bread that I put in the toaster. For tonight, the meal would suffice. Tomorrow, I’d go shopping to get more of what I knew she liked to eat.
I carried two plates of scrambled eggs and toast over to her and sat down too.
She ate quickly, and when she was finished, I could see the exhaustion hit her like a wall.
“Time to get you into bed,” I said, helping her up.
“That way,” she said, pointing to the left. “The guest room’s the other way, and there are clean sheets in the closet.”
