Justified (20 page)

Chapter Forty-One

“Touch nothing.” The nurse demanded, “Are you the father?”

JohnScott didn't answer. Didn't even seem to hear. He stood three feet inside the door, out of breath and staring into my eyes. “You're all right.” When he stumbled forward, tears left clean trails down each of his cheeks, revealing a spot where the storm had worn his skin away like sandpaper.

A year ago—less, even—I would have been offended by his bedraggled appearance, but now joy bubbled in my chest, and I giggled and cried, holding the baby slightly higher to draw JohnScott's attention.

His gaze fell away from my face, landing on the bundle in my arms, and laughter escaped his lips along with a sigh. “Look at that.”

I couldn't speak for the emotions pummeling my heart. Too much blessing. Too much happiness. Too much love.

He bent his knees, bringing himself down to our level but careful not to lean over lest he get us dirty. He and the little guy looked at each other. The baby made sucking motions with his lips, and JohnScott grinned with his mouth slightly open, his eyebrows lifted in amazement. “Look at that,” he repeated.

Pride swirled around me like a soft summer whirlwind. Pride at what I had done and for the perfect human I held in my arms. I had never felt such deep elation, and the fact I wanted to share it with the likes of JohnScott Pickett left me feeling uncertain and fragile and fresh. As if I were the newborn.

I shook my head as tears stifled my vocal cords. “You're here.”

He removed his hat, causing a waterfall of dust to glide to the floor.

“Enough,” the nurse said as she swept the baby from my arms. “Too much dirt.”

My heart wrenched as though a lifeline had been severed, and I watched longingly as she swaddled the baby tightly, placed him in a rolling, plastic cubby, and pulled him toward the door.

“I'll bring him back after his bath.”

We watched mutely until the door clicked behind her and the room filled with his absence. Then JohnScott laid his palm hesitantly on the side rail of my bed.

“He's all right?”

“Yes.” I grinned, aware of the cheesy pitch of my laughter but not caring enough to stifle it. “I can't believe you came. You could've waited for the storm to blow over.”

“Probably should have.”

“I thought the truck was a mile from the barn.”

He ducked his head. “I ran.”

An image of JohnScott battling the dust storm quickened my pulse, and I wanted to jump out of the bed and dance around the room. But physical exhaustion and the lingering pain of childbirth rooted me firmly between the sheets. “I'm so glad you're here.”

He shrugged, nodded, looked away. “What are you naming him?”

“I guess I'll call him Nathan. It means
gift from God
.”

“I like that.”

His lips parted as though to say something, but then he turned and pulled a chair toward the bed. When he sat, his head slanted in an uncomfortable position. I considered lowering the head of the bed, but before I could, he stood again, clearing his throat.

“Fawn? When I couldn't get out of that barn, I did a lot of thinking.” He fingered the brim of his cap. “Or really, I did a little thinking very quickly.”

My chest warmed from the energy he radiated. Energy that covered me with a gentle glow of security, but not the kind of security that comes from money. A different kind. And I enjoyed the foreign feeling.

He exhaled sharply. “I know this isn't the place for it, but I need to run some ideas past you.”

He sounded as though he had developed a new strategy to add to his playbook, and I smiled at his uneasiness. But just as quickly, my smile slipped, and a wave of guilt pulsed through my veins. The tone of JohnScott's voice left me hoping for something I never thought I could have. But I had just given birth to another man's child, and I quivered in shame.

“When do you suppose they'll bring the baby back?” I asked.

His shoulders fell, but he grinned. “You're already a mommy.” When he leaned over and brushed my lips with his, I smelled the dusty scent of the storm as tiny grains fell from his hair onto my cheeks and pillow. He pulled away, leaving his mouth hovering a centimeter from mine. “I'll go check on the little guy.”

When he left the room, I turned on my side, watching the door he had gone through, wanting him to come back. But then Nathan filled my thoughts, and the sweet miracle of his birth floated around the room like a gentle promise. I yearned to have him back in my arms, feeding him, caressing him, counting his fingers and toes, but I gradually realized I wanted JohnScott to be the one bringing him to me.

Maybe fatigue dulled my shame, maybe euphoria blurred my vision, but at that moment, I couldn't imagine life with anyone other than Nathan and JohnScott. I didn't care if I would live in a mobile home instead of a ranch house. I didn't care if I would sit at football games instead of cattlemen's corporate dinners. And most surprisingly, I didn't care what my parents thought, or even the church.

I lay on the bed, alone in the room. No nurse. No mother. No baby. Now, no JohnScott. Looking around me, I pulled the sheet up to my chin, and my laughter bounced off the sterilized walls, filling me with warmth and goodness and something that felt an awful lot like love.

For the first time in as long as I could remember, I didn't feel alone.

Chapter Forty-Two

Even though exhaustion smothered me, I no sooner could have taken a nap than done a set of jumping jacks. Adrenaline laced my veins, and every swoosh and thud coming through the walls jerked my attention. So when the nurse propped the door open and laid Nathan in my arms, my muscles jittered as though I won first place in a long-distance race.

His face had pinkened as though she had scrubbed him until his circulation increased, and I felt the urge to unwrap the blanket and inspect him all over again. Instead, I pulled at the tiny pink-and-blue knit cap until his curls—now downy clean—were exposed and beckoning to be touched.

Like JohnScott's.

A twinge of guilt brushed across my neck, and I forced my thoughts in a different direction. Nathan had my curls, not his.

I lifted my gaze to the nurse, standing silently at the foot of my bed, her head bowed over a clipboard.

“That husband of yours is a mess,” she said, “but to tell the truth, he's not the only man who showed up looking like that today. Worst storm I've seen in years.”

“Oh …” My face warmed. “He's not my husband.”

Her pencil momentarily stopped scurrying across the page, and then she shrugged. “That's the way of it nowadays. Young people do things out of order, but it all comes out in the end.”

Shame compelled me to be honest even though I wanted to crawl under the bed and hide from the truth. “Actually, he's not the father.”

Her eyes briefly cast judgment before she veiled them with indifference. “Well, he's a keeper. Came down there asking questions. Was the baby healthy? How bad was the labor? Did you seem afraid? Yes, that one's a keeper.” She jotted something on the clipboard and then hung it at the foot of the bed. “I gave him a set of scrubs and showed him where to find a shower. My name's Georgia. Push the call button if you need anything.”

Her description nudged my heart as I imagined JohnScott's slow drawl, and I whispered to Nathan who slept soundly. “I bet he drove her crazy.”

I swept Nathan's soft hair to one side in a swirl, then fluffed it into a mini-Mohawk. I pulled him close to my face and rubbed my nose on his head, smelling his heavenly baby scent as though it were my new life's breath.

Excited voices in the hallway signaled guests, and Velma, Ruthie, and Lynda breezed through the doorway, descending on our quiet intimacy.

“We've been stuck at Raising Cane's Chicken,” Velma said. “Went there for lunch and thought we'd never get to leave.”

“Let me hold him,” Ruthie said, wiggling her fingers.

“Oh … of course.”

Velma snickered. “You don't want to give him up yet, do ya? Can't say as I blame you.” She peered at the baby through her bifocals. “He's a pretty little fella. But how could he not be, considering his momma and daddy.” Her gaze swept from the baby to me. “How're you doing?”

“No worries.”

“And how about the feeding? Is he taking to it all right?”

“I think so, but I've only fed him once.”

Ruthie reluctantly passed the baby to Velma. “Was delivery as bad as they say?”

Already it seemed months ago, but the echo of fear still pressed sharply against my memories. “Absolutely.”

Lynda peered over Ruthie's shoulder, inspecting Nathan. “At least you had a short go of it. Ruthie took twelve hours to get here.”

Ruthie picked up Nathan's cap, stretching it between her fingers. “That might have been a blessing in this case, considering the dust. They're calling it a
haboob
because it's the worst storm Lubbock's had in years.” She inspected the few items in Nathan's crib—a pacifier, a suction bulb, a package of alcohol swabs. “And I can't believe JohnScott. He looks like he's been sprinkled with cocoa powder.”

“Doesn't smell like it, though,” Lynda said.

Velma shook her head and returned Nathan to my arms. “That boy.”

I heard boots scuffing the tile hallway, and I looked up, anticipating a clean and scrubbed JohnScott. Instead, it was Tyler, leaning against the doorframe, holding a bouquet of flowers upside down at his side. Disappointment shadowed my happy glow but immediately changed to embarrassment when I realized I hadn't even thought to call him.

“Hey there, babe. I hear we've got us a little boy.” He sauntered to the side of the bed.

“He's healthy,” I said quickly, “and I'm calling him Nathan.”

“No …” Tyler said under his breath, “you're not.”

Velma waved Ruthie toward the door. “We've got a few errands to run, but we'll drop back by before we leave town.”

“Don't go yet.” I sat up so quickly, my stomach muscles protested, but Ruthie gave me a meaningful frown behind Tyler's back.

“We'll be back later,” she said.

“Thirty minutes at the most,” called Velma.

Then we were alone. The three of us.

I hadn't told them about Tyler's visit to the house, and they didn't know the uneasy feeling gnawing in the depth of my stomach. I told myself not to worry, because the concerns weighing me down were probably only my imagination.

The baby stirred, and I focused my attention on him, wondering if I should nurse him again and wishing Velma was there to tell me. I patted his bottom like she had done, and he settled back into deeper sleep.

Tyler's gaze traveled around the room, inspecting the television bolted to the wall, the plastic pitcher of water next to the bed, the window overlooking an adjacent roof.

“You can hold him,” I said.

His gaze returned to the bundle in my arms, but his eyes seemed empty, detached. “Of course.”

After I fumbled the baby from my arms to his, he held our son awkwardly against his chest with his elbows pointed out.

“Try it like this.” I pressed my hand against his arm, but when he shifted, the tight sleeve of his T-shirt rolled, exposing a cut. I gasped. “Tyler, what have you done?”

Pulling at the sleeve, I suddenly felt as though I were falling from the rim of the Caprock with nothing beneath me to cushion my fall. My name was carved in his skin. The
F
and
A
had healed into transparent scars, but blackened scabs formed the
W
, and the
N
appeared to be a fairly fresh wound.

A corner of his mouth pulled away from his teeth. “It's my way of showing how much I care.”

“But—” My breathing became shallow, and I couldn't fill my lungs with enough air to satisfy. It would be odd enough for him to get a regular tattoo, considering we weren't really together, but for him to carve my name in blood? I snapped my mouth shut and swallowed. “Those scars will be on your arm forever.”

“That's the idea.” He rested one hip on the edge of the bed and smiled down at the baby, who had opened his eyes. “Ty Cruz? Everyone in Trapp's going to know I'm obsessed with your mommy.”

I gently drew the baby from his grip, and my gaze shifted to the nurse's call button on the side of the bed. “You needn't have done that.”

“Oh, I think I did.” His faced turned to stone. “I couldn't seem to get your attention.”

“But, Tyler—”

“This is
my son
, Fawn, and I'm going to have him. Just like I have you.”

His words, his mannerisms, his instability suffocated me, and I fought the urge to shove him away and call for the nurse—or to scream for JohnScott.

“Tyler, I told you I can't marry you.”

He laid his fist on the top of the bed so his mutilated arm rested directly in my line of sight. Slowly he leaned toward me, squeezing the baby between us. He ran the backs of his fingers along my cheek, then pressed his mouth forcefully against mine. When I tried to turn my head, he gripped my chin tightly, keeping my lips shoved against his teeth until I thought I would smother.

The baby squirmed in discomfort, and Tyler pulled away, but his face hovered inches from mine. “Yes, Fawn, you can marry me.” A muscle bulged in his temple as he clenched his teeth. “You can and you will.”

Chapter Forty-Three

“Is JohnScott with you?” My voice quavered when Ruthie answered her cell phone, but she didn't seem to notice.

“No … he said he was showering, and we left him to it.”

I shouldn't have called her. Tyler was gone now, and I would be fine. I sat in a rocking chair in the corner of the room, my arm cramping from holding the baby one-handed. JohnScott had been gone longer than expected, but he would be back any minute, and he'd know what to do about Tyler. “So are you guys coming back soon?”

“Actually, Velma's Chevy broke down.” Ruthie groaned. “Ansel's on his way, but we probably won't make it back to the hospital till tomorrow. Aunt Velma's about to have a conniption fit to see the baby again. Here, she wants to talk to you.”

The phone twanged. “Fawn, darlin', I can't believe this blasted old tank called it quits today of all days. I'm itching to get back out there. How's our sweet fella?”

“Sleeping like a baby.” I smiled at my own joke, feebly trying to calm my nerves.

“Well, you watch him, make sure he wakes up often enough to eat a good meal. When JohnScott was a wee one, he nearly slept himself to death. Ansel finally took a wet washcloth to the bottom of his feet.”

I frowned at Nathan and jostled him slightly.

“No need to worry about that, though. I'm just rattling because I'm flustered. Oh, there's Ansel. Here, talk to Ruthie.”

The phone boinged again, and Ruthie said, “I better go, Fawn. Sorry, but I need to help Ansel.”

“Okay.” I steadied my voice. “Good luck with the car.”

Ansel's voice hummed in the background, and it sounded as though Ruthie were getting out of the car. “Kiss the baby for me.”

I did just that. Dropping my cell phone to the floor, I held Nathan close, trying not to think about Tyler's arm or his threats. The man was used to getting his way, and I knew from experience what that could do to a person's behavior.

Nathan gave a bleating cry, then opened his eyes and looked at me. Tears pooled on my lashes, and I gushed like a sappy Hallmark movie, saying a prayer of thanksgiving as we rocked together, the baby comforting me as much as I comforted him.

A tap at the door prompted me to lift the blanket to cover myself. I wiped beneath my eyes and smiled, but when the door opened, disappointment pulled a sigh from my throat.

My mother stepped into the room with my father right behind. “I brought your dad to see the baby.” She spoke gently as though to soften the tension snapping between the three of us.

My mind went numb. This hospital room acted as a revolving door, spinning people in and out of my presence, allowing them to jerk my feelings up and down, back and forth, but my postdelivery hormones weren't keeping up. My heart had gone from joy to love to peace to fear, and anything my parents heaped on me would necessarily be kept at arm's length as a precautionary measure.

My father leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets.

“Oh, heavens.” Mother pulled back abruptly. “If you're feeding the baby, we can come back later. I wanted to get flowers from the gift shop anyway.”

“No, it's fine.” The baby relaxed into slumber, and I lifted him slowly to my shoulder, dreading the inevitable. “Mom told me about Clyde Felton.”

For the first time in my life, my father looked away from me uncomfortably. I had never approached him so boldly, never stood up to him. Sure, I had rebelled against his strict ways, but always in a passive-aggressive manner he could choose to ignore.

He inspected a fire-escape diagram posted on the wall by the door, and silence filled the room, broken only by a soft burp. I curled my arms around Nathan as though to shield him.

“We should have told you before.” My father's shoulders dropped a centimeter. “When Clyde came back to town last year, I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“You should've told me a long time before that.”

“Maybe.”

Scores of angry accusations perched on the edge of my tongue, but every ounce of energy had been squeezed from me. I didn't even have the stamina to explain Tyler's alarming behavior for fear I'd have to debate them, backing up each accusation with a convincing rebuttal.

My father slowly touched the corner of the fire-escape notice, his shoulders hunched forward around his heart.

I had never seen him like this. Even when things went bad with him and the church, it only increased his false confidence. Now he had no more secrets to hide behind, and I hardly recognized him.

“Dad, I'm sorry.”

At my apology, my father's feet grounded shoulder width apart in his usual pose of power, and I wondered if he was bolstering himself, climbing back up the crystal tower he had fallen from. But his eyes told a different story. They were sad and tired, and surprisingly affirming. He said no words to convey his regrets, but he held my gaze for a split second before he nodded. Then his eyes hardened to their usual coldness. “Susan, we should leave.”

He opened the door and stepped one fancy leather boot into the hall, and my mother scurried after him, but she turned back and said quietly, “Fawn, you're a stronger person than either of us ever were.”

The door closed softly behind them, echoing in my thoughts, and I leaned my head against the back of the rocking chair, exhausted, and stared at the ceiling. My soul needed a good cry, but my body didn't have the strength. Every tear had been milked by the emotions of the day, and my eyes and my heart had dried out in the process.

Another knock at my revolving door barely caused me to lift my head. Only the nurse, Georgia.

“One more check before I leave for the day, but I'll be back tomorrow. I'll see my reality-TV star again before you're discharged.”

Her comment cut, but it didn't make a dent in my rusty armor of detachment. “So I'll be able to go home tomorrow?”

“Probably in the afternoon.” She took the baby's temperature, checked his umbilical cord, and changed his diaper—something I hadn't remembered to do—then swaddled him tightly again.

When she handed him back, I drew him close. Already he was my strength, my reality, my motivation.

The nurse's lips clamped into a frown, and I wondered what I had done. My life was so repulsive, even strangers were offended. “Thank you for changing him, Georgia. I had so much fun holding him, I didn't think to do it.”

“You'll be a good mother if you like rocking your baby.” Her eyes softened, and she sighed.

“What is it?” I asked quietly, not sure I wanted to know. Not sure I cared what this strange nurse thought of me anyway. And not sure I could bear it.

Her nose wrinkled on each side as if she smelled something foul. “I met the baby's daddy.”

“Oh.” I had no response, no rebuttal, but I wondered what Tyler had done to make such a vivid impression on her.

“He kissed you,” she snapped.

My cheeks warmed until I felt sure they were scarlet, the color of the letter branded to my chest. “His doing, not mine.”

She watched me for several seconds, then seemed to reach a verdict. “I suppose your life is different, so the rules are different.” She stepped to the door, unable to hide her scorn. “You've had a busy day, and you need rest.”

The door closed behind her, and I wished for the old recliner and Rowdy. I wanted to lie back and sleep for a week, or forever. I wanted to talk to JohnScott. Where was he? He hadn't wanted to leave. Not even long enough to shower. He had wanted to come back.

The door opened again, and Georgia thrust her head into the room. She remained partially covered by the door as though she preferred not to get mixed up in my business. “Your filthy man?” She shook her head. “He also saw you kissing the other one.” She planted her hand on her hip as though I had thrown away a winning lottery ticket. “I liked the dirty one. I liked him a lot.”

The door closed behind her, and my heart burst open, releasing all the tears my exhaustion had been holding at bay. No wonder JohnScott hadn't come back. No wonder he had abandoned me and left me to fend for myself against my family and his, against Tyler and his threats.

I could only imagine what JohnScott thought.