The Hostage Bride (18 page)

Resting her fingers on the typewriter keys, Tamara paused to arch her back and flex the cramping muscles. With the break in her concentration, she automatically glanced at the bassinet. A smile wiped the tiredness from her expression at the sight of the sleeping baby girl. A tiny fist waved the air.

“Are you telling me to get back to work, Lucy? You like the sound of the typewriter, don’t you?” Tamara mused aloud.

The little fist flailed the air again, but Tamara didn’t pay any attention to the order. She was enchanted by the doll-like baby wrapped in the yellow-flowered blanket—perfect little features complete in every detail, a mass of dark hair with a hint of red in it. A rush of maternal love engulfed Tamara.

There was a knock at the door of her one-room apartment. The baby stirred at the sharp sound and Tamara hurried to answer the door. “I hope
that’s Mr. Claxton with that manuscript he wants typed,” she murmured to the baby.

Keeping the chain on the door, she opened it a crack. A tall, burly man stood in the hallway outside. His jowled features reminded Tamara of a bulldog. He doffed his cowboy hat and peered at her through the narrow opening. He had a packet tucked under his arm, half hidden by his western-style jacket.

“I called you earlier about your ad in the Fort Worth paper,” he said, and glanced at the number on her door. “I believe I have the right apartment.”

“You are Mr. Claxton?” Tamara verified.

“That’s right,” he nodded.

She closed the door to unlatch the chain and let him in. “You have a manuscript you want typed?” she prompted as he stepped in and made a sweeping survey of the single-room apartment with its kitchenette, sofa bed, and chair.

“Here it is, Miss—” He handed her the packet and waited expectantly for her to furnish her name.

“Mrs.
Rutledge.” She stressed her marital status, noting the faintly surprised gleam in his eyes. “How soon will you want me to have this done?”

“There’s no rush,” he insisted. “Whenever you can.”

Tamara opened the packet to see how long the manuscript was. “I can have it finished for you in a week.”

“That’s fine.” His gaze was traveling around the room again.

“If you’ll just give me a moment, I’ll glance through it and see if I have any questions,” she said.

“Of course,” he agreed. Out of the corner of her eye, Tamara saw him walk to the bassinet. “A boy?”

“A girl,” she corrected, and continued to leaf through the manuscript pages.

“My wife and I have three boys ourselves.” He bent over the white basket but did nothing that would waken the sleeping infant. “I always wanted a little girl. How old is she?”

“Almost seven weeks.”

“She’s precious.” The man straightened and walked to the table where Tamara was standing. He watched her for a moment. “How long have you been doing typing? I don’t remember seeing your ad in the paper before.”

“For quite some time now,” she admitted without being exact.

“Are you from the Dallas-Fort Worth area originally?” He tipped his head to one side in a curious manner.

“I don’t have the required accent, do I?” Laughter danced in her eyes. “I’m from Missouri originally. I moved here shortly before Christmas.” She let the papers fall back into the box. “Everything seems very self-explanatory regarding your manuscript. I have a few pages to finish on this thesis. Then I’ll be able to start on yours.”

“Very good.” He nodded. “I marked my telephone number on the first page. You can call me when you have it finished.”

“I will, Mr. Claxton.” She walked him to the door and locked it after him.

The next morning, Tamara got an early start on the manuscript. An empty glass sat beside her typewriter, a film of orange juice on the sides. A wisp of blond hair escaped from the ponytail to tickle her cheek. Tamara pushed it beneath the confining ribbon and resumed her place on the page. A hiccuping sob came from the baby basket followed by a second, then an outright wail began.

“Sssh, honey,” Tamara murmured. “Mama knows you’re hungry. Just give me a minute to finish this sentence.”

But the angry crying didn’t diminish in volume or impatience. Tamara hit the period key and moved quickly to pick up her squalling daughter.

“Can’t you get your fist in your mouth, hm, Lucy?” she crooned. While Tamara was shifting the baby into the cradle of her arm, there was a sharp knock at the door. She started to ask who was there, but she wouldn’t have heard the answer over Lucy’s cries. She hurried to the door and opened it before she realized the safety chain wasn’t on. By then she was looking into a pair of green eyes haunted with anxiety.

“What happened? Is she hurt?” Bick questioned.

Tamara stared at him for a long moment, unable to speak or move. A dark stubble shadowed his cheek and jaw, adding to his haggard and unkempt appearance. His chestnut hair was
rumpled. Most incongruous of all was the pink and white teddy bear clutched in his hand. Her heart was beating so fast she couldn’t think. Lucy’s cries increased in volume and demand, pulling Tamara’s mind back to his question.

“She’s … just hungry.” The urge to fling herself into his arms, baby and all, was almost irresistible. She turned away from the door to escape its power.

Aware that Bick followed her inside, Tamara began shaking so badly that she was afraid she was going to drop the baby. She laid her in the basket and walked to the kitchen area of the room. Remembering that Bick liked her hair down, she pulled the ribbon from her hair. She half-filled a baby bottle with warm water and screwed the nipple on, her action an instinctive response to the baby’s crying.

When she turned from the sink, she saw Bick standing by the bassinet holding Lucy in his arms along with the teddy bear. Cold fear splintered through her. Had he come to take Lucy away from her?

“She’s mine,” Tamara stated. “You said I could have anything you gave me. You gave her to me, Bick.” When she walked over to take the baby from him, he didn’t resist. His gaze was riveted to Lucy’s face, taking in every detail. “I … I named her Lucretia after my mother,” she offered. “But I call her Lucy.”

The crying stopped abruptly when the little mouth found the nipple of the bottle. After one swallow, Lucy rejected the taste of water and began crying again.

“Don’t you have any milk?” Bick asked. “I’ll go to the store for some.”

“No.” Tamara tried to tease Lucy into accepting the bottle—without success. “Formulas don’t agree with her. I … I nurse her,” she explained after a self-conscious hesitation, and Lucy continued to wail.

“She’s hungry.” Concern laced his voice.

“Yes, I know. I—” She realized she was being foolish and needlessly shy. Turning, she walked to the kitchen chair pushed up to the table where her typewriter sat. She pulled it out at right angles to the table and sat down. Lucy wanted nothing to do with the bottle of water, so Tamara set it upright on the table and unbuttoned her blouse. Within minutes, Lucy was nursing greedily, tiny fingers kneading her breast. Tamara smoothed her daughter’s soft brown hair with its red-gold highlights and smiled at its silken texture.

“Come home.” The hoarse phrase lifted Tamara’s gaze. Bick was sitting in the solitary armchair facing her. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, the teddy bear clasped in both hands. Tears were shimmering in his eyes. “Have pity on me, Tamara, and come home.”

“B … Because of the baby?” she asked, because that’s all he had talked about since he’d arrived.

He seemed to struggle for the ability to speak. “If that’s the only thing that will bring you back, then, yes, because of the baby.”

“How did you know I was here? How did you find me?” she murmured.

“I’ve gone through hell these last four months trying to find you,” Bick admitted on a thread of pain. “I’ve had every police department, every detective agency within a thousand miles of Kansas City looking for you. Finally Claxton picked up on the information that you used to do typing in your home. He started calling every ad in the newspaper.”

“Claxton,” she repeated. “He was here yesterday.”

“Yes. He called to tell me he’d found you. I flew in yesterday afternoon. I spent last night at the bar on the corner—with this guy”—standing up, Bick tossed the teddy bear in the seat he’d vacated—“trying to get up enough courage to come up here. A half dozen times I made it all the way to your door, but … Finally I heard … Lucy crying, and I had to make sure you were all right.” He turned away to rub at his eyes.

“I’m fine. We’re both fine,” she said.

After a moment of agitated hesitation, Bick walked over to crouch beside her chair, gazing at her with such longing that she wanted to die. “I know you said in the note you left that our marriage would never work, but give it another chance, Tamara.”

“It’s no use.” It was the hardest thing in the world to say. “You don’t trust me, Bick, you don’t believe me. You are all filled with doubts about me.”

“I was … once,” he admitted grimly. “I had to hear someone else say all the things I had said. And the minute I looked at you, I knew they
couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Everything you told me was the truth. I know that now, Tamara.”

“If you did, then why didn’t you say so the night you heard Frank say all those things? Why didn’t you tell
me?”
she protested.

“Because … I had to figure out why I was trying to hang on to all those doubts, why I didn’t want to believe you. When I was in California, I realized that it was because I was so much in love with you, it scared the hell out of me. One person who could make me so happy—or torture me with endless pain. Oh, God, Tamara,” he choked, “why did you leave me?”

“Because—” Her heart was soaring at his words. “Because I loved you so much that I couldn’t bear it any more that you didn’t love me. I … I came here to start a new life.”

“Will you start a new life with me?” The emotion in his eyes implored her to agree.

“Yes. Yes!”

His arms went around her and the baby. “A new life for the three of us,” he promised against her lips.

JANET DAILEY
is the author of scores of popular, uniquely American novels, including the bestselling
The Glory Game; Silver Wings, Santiago Blue; The Pride of Hannah Wade;
and the phenomenal CALDER SAGA. Since her first novel was published in 1975, Janet Dailey has become the bestselling female author in America, with more than three hundred million copies of her books in print. Her books have been published in 17 languages and are sold in 90 different countries. Janet Dailey’s careful research and her intimate knowledge of America have made her one of the best-loved authors in the country—and around the world.