Page 25 of When the Sky Breaks

“I’m helping,” Neal said. “I want to.”

So I sighed and let myself enjoy his touch. Close. I was close to forgiving him, to moving forward, to letting myself love him, like it was clear we both so badly wanted.

“And I know baby will slow us down, but Ansel seems to think it provides some sort of political insurance policy?” I said when he was done.

“It does,” Neal replied, rinsing his boots clean. “Dynasties with no heirs are a target. And right now it’s just you. Best I understand, there’s one distant cousin? But the claim is tenuous.”

“I thought I’d be excited,” I said quietly as he got to his feet and helped me up.

“About?” Neal asked, brow furrowing.

“The baby, you idiot,” I snapped, but there was no real venom in it. “Your baby.”

Neal froze, expression somewhere between embarrassment and concern.

“I didn’t expect it to feel lonely like this.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

And I just nodded, took his hand, and followed back to camp.

I sat down by the fire, wincing. “I’m getting dizzy.”

“I figured as much when you couldn’t successfully get off your horse,” Ansel put in.

Neal handed me a canteen as he sat down. My hands were shaking. I willed them—unsuccessfully—to stop. He unscrewed the cap and put a hand on my back. “Drink.”

“Didn’t I literally just throw this up?” I asked.

“It’s what we’ve got.” Neal shrugged, apologetic expression flickering across his features.

“I’ll grab some pine needles and boil them for you,” Ansel suggested. “Some babies hate plain water.”

I nodded.

“It’s just the altitude and the hormones,” Ansel said. “I’m sure you’re perfectly fine.”

Thirteen

Neal

Ansel only slept three or four hours on any given night. So I took first watch while he rested, then slept through until morning while he stayed awake and worked. It was a good system. It capitalized on Ansel’s supernatural resiliency, and it let Sorcha get a full night’s sleep.

At least usually. Tonight she crept up and sat down beside me.

“I hate sleeping out here,” she said quietly.

“You ever camp with your parents?” I asked by way of reply.

She shook her head, gaze fixed on her hands clasped in her lap, very pointedly not touching me.

“Has it occurred to you that maybe you hate sleeping alone?” I asked. I’d sworn to myself I wouldn’t push her to forgive me before she was ready. But this wasn’t a vie for compliments or affection, it was an observation, backed by weeks of hearing her wake up startled and crying in the next room, followed by weeks of her sleeping hard and steady in my arms.

“Ansel will see.”

She didn’t look at me.

“Ansel knows you’re carrying my baby,” I replied. “You want me to hold you?”