Baroness (41 page)

Dawn said nothing as she hiked Rosie back into her arms and delivered her to the bedroom. Rosie could smell the scented oils Dawn added to the bath, floral and light. As if trying to soothe the darkness from Rosie's spirit.

She settled Rosie onto the bed and left her to fetch her robe.

Rosie ran a hand over her stomach as the baby shifted inside her. Another fist of pain followed the kick inside. She caught her breath.

Dawn returned, watching her with a frown. “Are you sure—”

“What did Aunt Esme decide?” Rosie said, her hand tightening around the brass frame. “Did she perceive the mind of God in taking her husband so early? In giving her a fatherless child?”

Dawn began to untie Rosie's hair, letting it fall, her hands gentle. “Perhaps it wasn't the mind of God that she discovered, but His love.”

His love. Like Lilly. And Oliver.

But Rosie had no Oliver waiting for her, and this child needed a father, a family. He needed a mother who wouldn't look at him and see grief.

There was no love for Rosie to discover.

Another pain coiled around her, bending her over, and in that moment she felt a kick, even a pop, deep inside.

Wetness saturated the damask coverlet of the bed.

Rosie jerked, moaned as the coil around her belly tightened, stealing her breath.

Dawn knelt before her, took her hand, and squeezed. “I believe your time has come.”

No. Rosie stared into Dawn's eyes, a darkness seeping through her, turning her numb. “No. I'm not having this baby. You don't understand. I can't have this child without Guthrie. I
won't
.”

Dawn smiled and patted her cheek. “Miss Rosie, you're going to be a mother whether you want to or not.”

* * * * *

Deep inside the caverns of sleep, and caught in the tangle of prairie smells and the warm rush of wind over her skin, the mourning cry resonated as timber wolves on the far ridges. The sound of it tunneled inside her, resonated, drew her out of slumber in a rush, her heart in her throat.

Lilly stilled in the padding of the night, listening. She was fifteen again, and wolves stalked the herd, thirsty and brutal, ready to devour. She should pull on her boots, grab her rifle, wake Abel, and ride out to protect the calves.

She heard the sound again, robust and high, panicked and angry, and time bled away.

“Charlie!” Lilly threw off her quilt and didn't mind the cool lick of the wood floor across her feet as she grabbed her robe, pulling it on. The cries resounded down the hallway, so loud they could sheer clear through to her bones. She tied the belt, cinching it around her before she stopped at Rosie's door, not sure whether to knock.

A breath, and another loud bellow made her turn the handle.

She pushed into the room, the cries from the cradle at the end of the bed nearly deafening. Rosie lay curled in the center of the bed, her knees to herself, the covers over her head. Lilly stood above the cradle, hesitating only a moment before she scooped up the infant.

“Shh, Charlie. Shh.” She tucked the little one against her chest, her hand finding the wetness of the cloth nap. No wonder the child sounded miserable. She grabbed up the quilt, tucking it around the baby as she found the dressing table. The infant continued to scream, its little mouth wide, its entire body trembling. Lilly unpinned the cloth, found it only wet, cleaned the child, added powder, then pinned on a fresh nap, swaddling the baby back into the quilt.

For a little girl, Charlie had the lungs of a buffalo. She continued to squirm, arching her back, her eyes closed, her hands in tiny fists.

Oh, how Lilly loved her. From her fuzzy prairie-brown hair to her blue-as-the-sky eyes, the red little fists, her round tummy, every petite appendage including her delicate nose, little Charlie seemed nothing short of a miracle.

Just think, she might have had a child like this, soft and downy, with Truman's dark eyes.

No, that dream had died. She couldn't dwell on the things she'd lost. None of them could.

Lilly held the infant in her arms and sat down on the bed. Rosie didn't move.

“Rosie. Charlie's hungry. Are you sure you don't want to try—”

“Go away.”

So she wasn't sleeping.

Lilly bit back her ire, kept her voice kind, patient. What had the doctor said? Depression? But this didn't feel like depression. It felt more lethal, like grief. Like losing Guthrie had destroyed Rosie, and with it anything she had to give to her child.

“Rosie, she's so beautiful. Look at her. Just one look. I promise, she's worth it. She has these amazing fingers, they curl right around your finger. And this nose—it's your nose. And she smells delicious.” She pressed her lips to Charlie's forehead, inhaling. “Shh.”

“I don't want her.” Rosie rolled over, her back to her. “I can't.”

Lilly drew in a breath and couldn't keep the frustration from her voice. “I don't understand you, Rosie. You have everything to live for. This child is here because Guthrie loved you. You're not alone. You have me and my father. We're going to help you. And you're not destitute. Your mother and Uncle Bennett wired that you could come back to New York, live with them. You still have the money they gave you. And look at your precious, beautiful daughter—”

“Get out!” Rosie sat up, glaring at her with reddened eyes. “I don't want her. I don't want any memory of Guthrie, or the life we were going to have. I don't want any help. I just…” She closed her eyes, held up her hand as if to push them away. “I just want to forget.” She lay back down, pulled the covers up over her head. “Please, leave me alone. And stop calling her Charlie. That's the name Guthrie wanted for our child. This child is an orphan.”

Charlie writhed in Lilly's embrace, one skinny arm snaking out, fingers splayed as if grabbing for something unseen. “We'll be downstairs when you change your mind,” Lilly said softly. She got up and found Dawn in the hall, also in her bedclothes and robe, her long black hair down to her waist.

“I'll warm some milk,” she said.

Lilly descended to the parlor, stood by the window, staring out as the dawn pushed back the darkness. A sliver of gold simmered against the horizon, the sky a slate gray. She put the baby against her shoulder, rocking her, singing softly.

A miracle child, and Rosie didn't want her. After two days of labor, after Lilly drove to Silver City in Abel's Packard to fetch the doctor, after turning the baby out of the breech position, after nearly dying from exhaustion, the loss of blood, Rosie didn't want her child.

Lilly heard footsteps, light on the floor behind her. Dawn bore a bottle of milk. “Shall I feed her?”

“I can. You go back to bed. We'll be fine.” Lilly sat in the rocking chair and nestled Charlie on her lap. The baby's mouth opened for the bottle and she sucked hungrily, her eyes closing, her sighs shuddering out of her.

Dawn stood above them, arms akimbo, shaking her head. “I've never seen the sickness this bad. Already nearly two weeks and she still can't bear to look at the child.”

“She'll get better,” Lilly said.

Dawn sank down onto the velvet divan. “I don't know, Lilly. She's all healed up, yet she refuses to leave her bed.” She ran her hand over Charlie's head. “It's nice to have a baby in the house. To have you back.”

Lilly met Dawn's eyes, found them shiny. “I missed you too.”

“I long dreamed of looking up one day and seeing you ride down the driveway on Charity, as if you were just out overlooking the herd with Abel.”

“I'm sorry it took so long for me to return. I tried, years ago, but then my father needed me after Mother died.”

“I'm so sorry about your mother, Lilly. She was like a daughter to me. She wrote to me often after you left the ranch, told me about your life in New York. I never could see you in those fancy dresses. In my mind, you will always be riding Charity across the hills, your long braids stringing out behind you. Scared me to death when you showed up in an aeroplane.”

“It's not mine. It belongs to…” She wasn't sure what to call Truman. Husband? Friend? Pilot?

“The man you love?”

Lilly stared down at the baby, jostling her a bit to keep her awake, still suckling. “Why do you say that?”

“Because every day you stand on the porch, watching the road, and I'm wondering who you are waiting for.”

“My father.” She removed the bottle, still half-full, and handed it to Dawn. Then she turned Charlie over on her knees, resting her face in her hand, rubbing her back for a burp. “I left him in New York in a rather precarious situation. He told me he'd come when he could.”

But Dawn was shaking her head. “Oh, Lilly, you're so much like your mother. I knew her before she and Daughtry were married. I know the look of a woman in love. A woman with her hopes upon her countenance.”

Charlie emitted a tiny pop of sound, startling herself awake. Lilly rolled her over, nestling her back into the cradle of her arms before she could start to wail, and took the bottle from Dawn.

“What you see, Dawn, is what can never be. I do love this man. His name is Truman, and I married him years ago. He's the one who taught me to fly. But that's the problem—he's a barnstormer, a risk taker, a man who belongs in the skies.”

“And you are needed here.”

She couldn't agree, not really. “The buffalo herd has nearly doubled in size. Maybe I belong in New York.”

“Abel tends the animals with your heart. It's why he leased the ranch from your father. Perhaps the buffalo don't need you, but yes, this little one does. You've always been a nurturer, Lilly. Perhaps this is the mind of God, bringing you back here, now, with Rosie, for this child.”

“This child has a mother, Dawn, and it's not me.”

Dawn ran her hand over Charlie's forehead again then nodded. The baby had fallen asleep with the bottle in her mouth. Lilly removed it.

“Would you like me to return her to Rosie?”

“Let Rosie sleep. I'll put her down in the bassinet.” Lilly got up and put the baby in the wicker Indian basket Lilly had found in the attic and cleaned, the one she set on the window seat for moments like these. “I'll just nap on the divan in case she wakes.”

Dawn took the bottle but paused at the door. “This house still echoes with the laughter, love, and dreams of the people who loved you. I saw the paper, I know this Cesar fellow is dead. But Montana is not a terrible place to raise this child. You might tell Rosie this.”

Not a terrible place, indeed. Riding through the prairie that first day back with Abel stirred up the taste of galloping Charity through the tall grasses, the odor of sun-baked cow pies saturating the air. She loved this land, the sky, so deeply blue, so wide it might be the sea, the gray-black ripple of foothills feeding into the white-laced mountains to the north. Sparkling rivers, the lush paint of the pink bitterroot flowers, the yellow buttercups, lavender clover.

And, the buffalo. The shaggy-coated beasts roamed over the land, no longer corralled in the canyon bordered by the meager river. “The drought pushed them out, in search of water,” Abel said, sitting tall in his saddle, his once-dark hair now sanded with white. He was every bit as wide-shouldered and wise as she'd remembered. “Now, we have to ride for miles to find them, and camp out during calving season to watch for wolves, cougars. They still roam our land, however, and for now, they're safe.”

Truman's plane might help in the search in the spring. The thought tripped into her head, and she shook it away.

Truman would return, yes, for his plane. Then he'd hand her the signed divorce papers and fly out of her life, and she wouldn't blame him. She'd nearly gotten him killed. Again. And now she had Rosie and her child to care for.

She would care for Charlie until Rosie broke free of her grief. As long as it took. And then she'd return to New York where she belonged and help Oliver run the paper.

Leaning over the basket, she kissed Charlie's tiny nose then curled up on the divan, pulling her robe over her. From here she could hear every rustle, even a feeble cry.

She sank into sleep despite the plume of morning sinking into the room, yet lightly because the house creaked and it roused her. Lilly listened, her eyes blinking in the rose-gold light, but perhaps it was only her imagination. Getting up, she tiptoed to the baby, found her still asleep, beautiful translucent eyelids closed, tiny rosebud lips open, her quilt still tucked around her.

So precious.

Lilly lay back down, closed her eyes. Yes, for as long as Rosie needed her, and then some.

Another creak of the floor and this time a footstep accompanied it. Lilly opened her eyes, realized that morning had parted the curtains, the room lit and warming. She pressed a hand to her cheek, found the creases of the divan pillow in it.

“Rosie?” She sat up, hoping to see her cousin in the hallway, searching for her daughter.

Instead, in the middle of the hallway, under the gleam of the sun, wearing a sharp black suit and tie, his hat in his hands, stood Truman.

Truman.

Alive and well and unscratched, looking so painfully handsome that for a terrible moment she thought it might be a dream.

And as long as she was dreaming, she imagined herself launching into his arms and holding on. Dreamed of hearing him say that he'd returned for her, that he loved her, that she was everything to him.

For a moment, as she dreamed, silence thudded between them. Then a devastating smile twitched up his face. “Hello, Lola.”

Lola. She drew in a quick breath.

Real. Not a dream. So she shook herself free and held onto the brutal truth. Truman wouldn't stay here, wouldn't commit to live this life, or whatever life lay before her. “I suppose you're here for your plane.” Oh, that hadn't emerged quite like she'd intended, but he didn't flinch.