He was surprised to find his feet carrying him toward the bed instead. He stopped beside it, gazed down at the baby, still in awe. She lay next to her sleeping mother, swaddled in linen, a tiny miracle.
To his surprise, her eyes were open, and she seemed to examine the world around her with keen interest. But then, as if on cue, she began to fuss—a little squeak more than a cry. Moved by some irresistible impulse, he reached down, lifted the baby gently into his arms. Perhaps he could rock her back to sleep, win Bethie another hour or two of rest.
He strode silently to the rocking chair, settled himself, stared down at the bundle in his arms. She was so tiny—her pouty lips, her toes, her fingernails all perfect, but unbelievably small. Her little head was covered with hair so golden and so fine that it was almost invisible. She had her mother’s features.
Bethie had named her Isabelle.
Isabelle turned her head toward him, her little mouth open like a baby bird, and he knew she was seeking her mother’s breast. He loosened the swaddling and, as he’d once seen Jamie do, guided her tiny thumb into her mouth. She sucked greedily, and her eyes drifted shut.
Nicholas felt an overwhelming swell of protectiveness, and he thought he understood something of what his father and Jamie must have felt. Bethie’s suffering had been agonizing to witness. And yet this—the tiny creature he held in his arms—had been the result. And although he was not the baby’s father, he was proud to have played at least some role in her birth. The cord had been looped over her head and wrapped once around her little neck. She had come close to suffocating before she’d taken her first breath.
Those seconds when she’d lain in his hands, blue and seemingly lifeless, he had found it hard to breathe. He’d done what he would have done with a foal—cleared her throat, wiped her face, rubbed her skin. But then she had drawn that first weak gulp of air and seemed to come to life in his arms. And he’d known Bethie’s anguish had not been in vain. His relief had been overwhelming.
Did saving one life atone for causing the loss of another? He hoped that perhaps in some small measure it might. He had not meant for his baby to die.
As he watched Isabelle suck her thumb, Nicholas was surprised to find himself feeling some sense of regret that he would not be around to watch her grow. He cursed his foolishness. He had long ago given up all hope of a life with a wife and children. He’d already spent far more time in this cabin than he had planned.
But even as he mocked himself, he knew he would not feel truly free to ride west again until Bethie and her baby were somewhere safe, perhaps with her family back in Paxton. The last thing he wanted to do was to ride east; the very idea left him feeling trapped, smothered, agitated. And he tried one last time to tell himself that the two of them were not his problem. But gazing upon the newborn baby’s sweet face, watching Bethie sleep, he knew he could not abandon them.
Then Isabelle’s thumb escaped her, and she began to cry.
“Is she hungry?” Bethie’s sleepy voice interrupted his thoughts. She lay on her side facing him, concern in her eyes.
“I was hoping to lull her back to sleep so that you could rest.”
She gave him a weak smile, tried to sit.
“Let me help you up.” He rose, walked to the bed, tucked little Isabelle into the fold of one arm, held out the other.
“I can do it.” She pushed herself up, winced.
She’d be sore for a long time, Nicholas knew. That part of a woman’s body was very tender, exquisitely sensitive. He’d seen what Isabelle’s birth had done to Bethie.
And men thoughttheywere brave.
Nicholas slipped a pillow behind Bethie’s back as she undid the front of her gown. Then he placed her baby daughter in her arms.
Bethie bared a creamy breast, tickled Isabelle’s cheek with a rosy nipple, gasped when the baby latched on and began to suckle.
A torrent of tangled emotions surged up from Nicholas’s gut, so intense and raw that he wasn’t even sure what he was feeling. Sexual attraction? He must be an animal to think of sex knowing how much Bethie had just suffered. Regret that he would be leaving them soon? ’Twas best for them. He was no longer a gentleman and could only bring them grief. The desire to be a husband and father? The kind of life he led was unfit for women and children. Envy that he wasn’t Isabelle’s father? Clearly, he was out of his damned mind.
He felt sweat bead on his forehead, felt his heart pound. He turned his back, walked away, and, needing something to do, took up the poker and jabbed angrily at the fire.
“Nicholas?” Her voice was sweet, like music.
“Aye.”
“Thank you.”
He said nothing.
“If no’ for you, I dinnae think I’d have made it. You were my anchor. You saved Isabelle. You saved us both.”
He fought to subdue the maelstrom inside him, forced himself to speak. “I’m glad I was able to help.”
“How did you know what to do?”
He hadn’t spoken of his past to anyone, not for six long years. He hesitated, feeling that he stood upon some kind of perilous edge. “I... used to breed horses. The same thing sometimes happens with foals. It can be fatal.”
