Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,79

he.

An older man, but obviously competent, obviously deeply caring for his pale, lifeless patient. A man who had assured Wes he wouldn’t let her die as he wheeled her away.

But he had been worried. Wes had known he was worried. The sharp old eyes had taken in all the blood.

And so Wes kept pacing, a caged tiger stalking the relentless prison of his heart, fighting fear, cruelly cutting into himself with blame. There was the possibility that he might lose her—and it would be his fault. No, he hadn’t been cruel to her, he hadn’t misused her. He had even been what some might term a good husband since his return. But he knew what she had known—he had held back. He had denied her the security and faith that she had needed from him...He had forced her to have the child...no, she had wanted the child...no, he derided himself fiercely, he had forced her; he could remember with stabbing clarity the way he had taken her in Belgium, the time the child very likely had been conceived...and even that had been all so unnecessary. He had known she didn’t love him, but he had also known that she intended to remain his wife, to offer what she could.

But like a fool he had been insanely jealous of a ghost. If she made it, he swore, he wouldn’t care. He would simply cherish her, be there, take care of her as he had longed to do since he first set eyes upon her gamin face and sapphire eyes.

No. He stopped his pacing and raised his eyes heavenward in a solemn vow, a strange figure, a virile giant in a bloodstained velour robe silently beseeching God.

I’ll release her. I’ll see that she never has another worry, another care, but I’ll let her resume her life alone.

That was the state Cassie and George found him in. Cassie, already worried by Florence’s call, saw the blood on Wesley’s clothing and burst into frantic tears as she raced toward him.

Wes took one look at the panic and anguish on his sister-in-law’s face and was suddenly sure that she knew something he didn’t. He felt his breath leave him, his heartbeat waver. His world became the swirling mist of miserable gray he knew it would be without Sloan.

With an agonized cry that would rip apart the heart of anyone within hearing range, the virile giant crashed to the floor.

Consciousness came back to him with sharp severity which he strove to fight off. He didn’t want to come back. But then he heard Cassie’s voice, felt her touch.

“Wes, she’s okay, she wants to see you. Wes!”

He opened his eyes. He hadn’t been out long—he was still on the floor, his head dragged onto his sister-in-law’s lap. Hovering above him were the faces of George and the doctor—both filled with relief, a relief that was slowly dawning to amusement.

“Your wife is going to be fine, Mr. Adams,” the doctor was assuring him. His voice lowered. “You know, of course, that she has lost the baby, but she will be fine.”

“Oh, God.” His hands were shaking convulsively as he buried his face into them, oblivious, uncaring that his tears of relief and joy were damp on his cheeks.

“Wes,” Cassie reminded him softly, “she wants to see you.”

He stood up, her empathetic eyes still on him, and he found his strength within them. Squeezing her arm, he turned to rush down the corridor.

“Wait.” George caught his arm and stuffed a large paper bag into his arms, his head inclined toward Wes’s robe. “Florence told us you ran down here in your robe. I’m not so sure it would be good for her to see you looking like that.”

Wes nodded his thanks with a brief, rueful smile, then directed his hasty steps for the bathroom to change. “We’ll be here,” Cassie called after him softly. “Tell her we’ll see her as soon as we can in the morning.”

“Five minutes only, Mr. Adams,” the obstetrician called. “She needs rest now.”

Wes nodded to them all, still dizzy with gratitude to the deity who had allowed her to live.

She was still under sedation, and the world was misty. But even while disbelief assailed her, the misery of truth was there. The tiny life that had been within her was gone. The baby was dead. Doc Ricter had tried to tell her that it wasn’t her fault, that miscarriages were often a mystery, an act of God. But Sloan couldn’t believe him. She had