Wings of a Dove (46 page)

    Allie's hand closed around it. She felt its strength and love transfuse her. She heard her mother's voice whisper to her consolingly. She saw a love untainted by bitterness in Delaney's eyes. She saw the Lady's sweet face.

    A stronger pain gripped her, but a new peace began to replace her fear. She was no longer alone in her heart. The memory of love had returned to dwell there and it made her strong. The promise of love had found its place, and it gave her hope.

    She gripped the medal tighter, turning to flash a brief, grateful smile toward James. She saw understanding in his eyes.

    Another wrenching spasm breathtaking thrust deep, tearing pain, then it was over.

    And there was life.

    It was evening. Allie had awakened an hour before and she was strangely unwilling to yield again to sleep, despite her exhaustion. Dr. Peters had returned to town, leaving behind a few instructions, which James had listened to with sober attention. Allie had listened, too, for she had no intention of allowing James and Papa Case to do her work for long. She was young, she was strong. She would soon be on her feet.

    But for now, Allie was content to lie abed with her baby in her arms. Love welled within her as she adjusted the lightweight coverlet in which her daughter was wrapped. She was so beautiful.

    A step sounded at the door, and Allie raised her eyes to James as he entered the room and came to sit beside her on the bed. He pressed a light kiss against her lips and reached out a freckled hand to stroke the baby's cheek.

    "She looks like you, Allie. I'm glad."

    Taking only a moment to consider her daughter's fair skin, dark eyes, and the silvery gold down that covered her head, Allie looked back at James.

    "Would you feel differently if she didn't, James?"

    James frowned at her question, finally raising her chin with his hand so he held her gaze firmly with his.

    "I love her because she's a part of you, Allie. She's my daughter now, and no matter who she resembles, I'll always love her. But I admit to being pleased she looks like you. I like the idea of having two Allies instead of one."

    "No, James. Allie and little Margaret."

    James's eyes grew suddenly moist, and his voice was husky with emotion when he finally spoke. "Thank you, Allie. Pa will be very happy to know his grandchild bears my mother's name."

    Allie's smile dimmed. "Do you think he'll really come to think of her as his grandchild, James?"

    "Pa already thinks of little Margaret as his grandchild. Don't ever doubt that he loves her. And don't ever doubt that I love you both."

    Allie nodded, her eyes on James's face as his expression flickered momentarily and he continued in a new, deeper tone. "Margaret was my daughter even before she was born, Allie. I watched her grow inside you, I felt her move, and I shared your anticipation. She's as much mine as she would be if my own blood ran in her veins. I have only one thing to ask of you,  Allie.'' James paused, his brow tightening in a frown. "I want you to promise me that you'll never tell anyone she's not mine."

    "I would never do anything to embarrass you, James. I'm your wife, now."

    "Promise me, Allie."

    Tears flooded Allie's eyes.

    "I promise."

    Nodding, James remained silent a moment longer before lowering his head to press another kiss against her lips. This one lingered. It was a kiss filled with love and promise, and Allie returned it full measure.

    James finally drew himself to his feet. His smile was tremulous.

    "Try to get some rest now, Allie. I'll be back in a little while."

    Watching as James closed the door behind him, Allie lowered her daughter to the bed beside her. She studied the small, perfect face, the fine lips which smiled briefly. There was no trace of Delaney in her daughter's light coloring and small features, but James had not noticed the firmness of Margaret's wee chin, or the determination in her searching, unseeing gaze and tiny frown.

    Much had changed for Allie in the past few hours. A strange metamorphosis had occurred at the moment of her child's birth. No longer in limbo, she had come to life as an adult, a mother, and a woman.

    An adult, she accepted the painful reality that Delaney would never return to claim his daughter. As a mother, she realized that her first responsibility was to her helpless infant. Truly a woman at last, she knew where her duty lay, and to whom. She also knew that if passion did not play a part in the life ahead of her, a deep, abiding love and gratitude would.

    That would be enough. It would have to be.

    In those hours since her child's birth, Allie had also recognized the mistakes she had made in attempting to come to terms with the direction her life had taken.

    Delaney's familiar image appeared again in her mind, his handsome face sober, his translucent eyes seeming to see into her soul. Allie smiled. She had tried desperately to expel him from her heart in an attempt to deny a basic truth. Delaney would always be a part of her and she would always love him.

    That would never change. Her mistake had been in attempting to forget him. She now knew that was impossible. But whether he had failed her or she had failed him was no longer of consequence. The time had come to put memories behind her and make a permanent place in her heart as well for the man who would share all her tomorrows.

    Turning on her side, Allie drew her child close. With her free hand she clutched the medal she wore around her neck, her eyes closing briefly at the bittersweet memories that ensued. She prayed that she would have the courage to put her past behind her, that she would be a good mother to her child and a good wife to James.

    Then she added a final, silent prayer. She asked the Lady to forgive Delaney because he no longer wore her medal. She asked the Lady to send her prayers for him into God's ear, to protect him, even from himself, for deep in her heart, Allie knew Delaney needed the Lady much more than ever before.

    Still holding the medal, Allie allowed her eyes to dwell on her sleeping daughter's face. Quiet settled within her heart.

    She hoped she would see Delaney again someday. Maybe by then she would be able to forgive him.

    The intense heat of summer had been
unabating
, and the city of Chicago sweltered under its assault, but Delaney was all but oblivious of its rigors. He glanced at the man who walked at his side through the busy rail terminal.

    Albert Holmes Bodman, the
Tribune's
dynamic, irrepressible representative in the "Bohemian Brigade" of war correspondents, was not the kind of man one would have come to expect from reading his articles. The physical differences between Delaney and Bodman could not have been more extreme. Delaney's classically handsome features, his unusual translucent eyes and his naturally muscular stature were in direct contrast with the short, plump, sleepy-eyed Bodman. But Delaney was aware that Bodman, although at times solemn and aloof, was a brilliant correspondent and businessman from whom he had much to learn.

    Vicksburg had surrendered to Grant's siege on July 4, in line with
Bodman's
expectations. Bodman had returned to Chicago    for a few weeks as planned. He was now returning to the front, and Delaney was going with him.

    Delaney had not bothered to respond to Mulrooney's grunt of satisfaction when he had accepted the opportunity to work with Bodman. He had known the entire issue hinged on
Bodman's
approval. Surprisingly, a chord of mutual respect was struck between Bodman and himself upon their meeting. The result was that they would soon board the train that would take them on the first leg of their journey to the continuing war on the western front.

    Bodman made a few brief comments about the noise and congestion in the terminal, the confusion that accompanied the arrival and departure of trains in wartime, and the fact that he would be glad to be back at work again.

    Delaney nodded without replying. The congestion and noise did not bother him, nor did the confusion. Very little touched him these days. Very little had touched him since early spring when he had returned to this same terminal from Cass County.

    They approached the train, and Bodman began a discourse on the progress of the war as he saw it and the eventual course it would take. He was still talking as they took the few steps up onto the rail car and entered to find their seats.

    His comments precise, detailed, and to the point, Bodman continued speaking as they settled themselves in the car, but Delaney had considerable difficulty concentrating on his words. Despite himself, his mind wandered to a time years before when a group of orphans trailed through a train station like this. The focus of that memory was inescapable Allie. It was always Allie. Delaney attempted to dismiss the image of her dark eyes filled with love and the echoes of her soft voice whispering his name.

    The whistle screeched and the train began its first quaking rumbles forward. It moved slowly onto the open track just as an unexpected sound of flapping wings at the window caused Delaney to turn toward a bird fluttering at the glass. Flying down, it settled on the track beside the car, seemingly inured to the turmoil around it.

    It was a dove.

    His throat tightening, Delaney watched as the bird cocked its head in his direction. It remained motionless for the long space   of a moment as it appeared to study him with its dark, unblinking eyes.

    The car suddenly jerked as it picked up speed. Startled, the bird took wing, flying directly up into the sun. Delaney leaned closer to the window following its flight steadily upward until it disappeared from sight in the cloudless expanse of blue sky above him.

    Beside him, Bodman was still talking. Delaney nodded, hearing little that the man said.

    He was too busy remembering.

1870

RENDEZVOUS

Chapter Seventeen

    Morning sun filtered through the closed blinds of the bedroom, playing against Delaney's eyelids as he resisted awakening. Finally surrendering to the persistent light, he stretched the long length of his body, frowning in momentary discomfort as something pricked the skin of his back. A moment's search of the mattress beneath him revealed the source of his annoyance. A hairpin.

    Holding the slender object between his fingers, Delaney frowned at the resurgence of an unexpected memory a sunny hillside, warm grass beneath him, and a slight fair-haired girl lying beside him, struggling furiously as he freed her long, pale hair from confinement. Delaney's frown deepened as he firmly dismissed the intrusive image from his mind. He had severed all ties with that portion of his past several years ago when he heard about Max Marshall's death. That part of his life was over, and he had determined it would be forgotten.

    With the aid of long practice, Delaney forced his mind back to the present and the article in his hand. A faint smile slowly erased his frown. Sybil's hairpins were distinctive, doubtless ordered specifically to match the raven sheen of her hair, and he remembered the inborn sensuality with which she had slowly removed them the night before and allowed those heavy tresses to fall to her smooth ivory shoulders. He also remembered, almost too distinctly, the-heated gaze she had gradually raised to him as she stood naked before him in this room and beckoned him toward her. There was nothing shy about Sybil. She was an intelligent, beautiful woman born of wealthy parents, who had always had everything she ever wanted. Now she wanted Delaney, and she was determined to have him on her own terms.

    Delaney's smile hardened. Sybil was extremely lovely, worldly, cultured, and she was a willing and eager mistress. But he had had many mistresses before her. He would have many more after her. He had told her as much the first night he had taken her to his bed six months ago, and last night he had repeated that warning. Sybil had laughed and he knew she had paid little heed to his words.

    He shrugged. Whatever she chose to believe, marriage was not in his plans. He had been honest with Sybil, and if she refused to take his admonition seriously, that was her problem.

    Delaney drew himself slowly to his feet, stretching his naked muscular frame to its full height as his gaze skimmed the masculine furnishings of the master bedroom. He had selected the pieces carefully. There was not a touch of femininity here, or anywhere else in his eight-room home on Wabash Avenue at Peck Court, one of Chicago's better neighborhoods. He had also chosen the furnishings with an eye to reflecting the status he had attained with the hard work, clever investing, and courage of a man who had everything to gain and nothing to lose.

    Taking the few short steps to the massive wardrobe in the corner of the room, Delaney pulled open the door and surveyed the custom-tailored suits inside. With a low grunt of satisfaction, he remembered he had come to this city with only the clothes he wore on his back, a deep ache inside him, and a fierce, driving determination to succeed. Now, eight years, a war, and what felt to be a lifetime later, he had achieved most of the goals he had set for himself. He had also established the pattern he intended to follow for the rest of his life.