Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,80

killed her own baby, she had been oblivious, she hadn’t taken care. She had insisted on dancing...

And it wasn’t just her baby she had killed; it was Wes’s. The baby he wanted so badly...the baby who had held them together, offered them hope...

She had asked for Wes because she had needed him. She hadn’t been able to control her plea with the sedative making her weak. But as the seconds ticked by in her world of white, she knew she could no longer ask him to stay. Doc had severely warned her against trying again for quite some time...

She had nothing left to offer him.

But suddenly he was standing in the doorway, paused for a second, and then he was at her side.

Her hand was enveloped within his large ones; he was on his knees. She could vaguely feel a dampness as he brought her fingers tenderly to his cheeks, and then to his lips.

“Wes,” she whispered, trying to get the words out without choking on the ever-present tears, “I’ve lost the baby.”

“I know, my love, I’m so sorry, so very sorry.”

It was like Wes, she thought vaguely. Always so concerned for others first. She had to keep trying, she had to make him understand. “Wes, we...I may not be able to have another.”

“Hush,” he murmured, his fingers moving to brush back her damp hair. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. You’re going to be all right and I’ll never ask anything of you again; I’ll see that you never want for anything...”

Oh Lord, she thought sinkingly, he did want to be rid of her; he would care for her, pay her anything, to be free of her...

“I...I don’t want anything, Wes,” she murmured miserably. “I’m going to release you so that you can have your child for sure...” She simply hadn’t the strength to prevent them. In anguished silence the tears began to cascade down her face.

“Child?” he was awash with confusion, not daring to believe what was staring him in the face. “Oh, dear God, Sloan! I don’t care if I ever father a child; you gave me three of them already...” She was still dazed, he knew; she might not be understanding all he was saying, but his words were coming in a torrent. “Sloan, I wanted the baby because I wanted to tie you to me any way that I could. I loved you since the day I met you, and that never, never changed. My pride was wounded in Belgium—and so I struck out at you, but while I was away, I knew that somehow I had to keep you. Yet even having you I wasn’t sure. I’ve been so afraid that you were still in love with Terry...I was there, you see, the day that you buried him. I knew that I had to give you time...I never had to come to Gettysburg; I made business here...” His voice trailed away softly. “All I ever meant to do was care for you, Sloan, to make you happy, to take some of your burden from you...If you want me, my wife, my sweet, sweet wife, I’ll be with you.”

Into her gray swirl of misery was rising a gleaming ray of incredible hope. “Terry,” she murmured blankly, fighting the mind-robbing sedation. “Oh, Wes, I did love Terry, I’ll never deny that. But I don’t think I ever even felt for him what I do for you. I thought you weren’t sure because you never seemed to plan to take me to Kentucky...You were leaving alone...”

“Oh, Sloan, I have been afraid, but because of you. Your life was here. I was afraid that if I took you away, you would eventually leave me...”

She tried to pull him up by threading her fingers through his hair, but her strength wasn’t sufficient. “Wes.” He finally looked at her, moved to sit beside her on the bed. “Wes,” she repeated softly, “my life is with you—wherever that is.”

They stared at one another for moments of excruciating happiness, all barriers gone. They would still mourn for the child they had lost, but they would mourn together. Wes finally broke the contact, his eyes closing as he lowered his head to touch his lips against hers, lightly, gently, reverently. There was still so much to be said, but it was all inconsequential when compared to the silent love and security they had now discovered.

A throat was suddenly and very gruffly cleared from the doorway. “I’m sorry, Mr. Adams,” Doc Ricter advised quietly, “but