Нора Робертс - Year One

“Not yet. A vet assistant’s as close as we’ve got.”

She lifted the omelette onto one of the plates he’d set out, cut it in half, slid half onto the second plate.

“Are there any Uncannys?”

“A few sprinkled in. Nobody has a problem with it. Do you want that milk?”

“I hate milk, but yes, it’s probably good for the baby.”

He got out the jug, poured her a short glass.

They sat at the kitchen counter, a classy and mottled gray granite. The first bite had her closing her eyes as her system absorbed.

He took a heftier bite. “Okay, you were serious about the chef deal. I haven’t had anything close to this good in a hell of a while.”

Calculating, she ate slowly. “If I could stay for a couple of days, I could pay you back with cooking. And we had a garden in New Hope, so I learned how to garden. I could help there. A couple of days should be safe.”

For both of us.

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about anything but moving, getting away, keeping the baby safe.”

“When’s she due? You said she, right?”

“Yes. The last week of September.”

“You figure to deliver her on your own, on the road?”

She knew how it sounded, had worried about it constantly, but hadn’t seen a choice.

“I hope to find a place and … do what I need to. I won’t let anything happen to her. Whatever it takes, nothing’s going to hurt her.”

“There are women in the settlement—houses scattered around.”

“I can’t … I can’t risk so many people. The Purity Warriors, you don’t know.”

A pretty park, a happy celebration. Bodies scattered, smoke rising. Max’s blood soaking the brown earth.

“Yeah, I do. Some of them came through the settlement a few weeks ago. They didn’t get a warm reception.”

Fear jumped back into her voice. “They were here.”

“From what I hear there are some of them traveling around, looking for others who think like they do. Like I said, they didn’t find that here.”

He ate, considered. Between the Purity Warriors, Raiders, and general assholes, the road wasn’t close to safe for a woman alone. Add in that that woman was due to give birth in about eight weeks.

And fierce or not, she apparently had a target on her back.

He scooped up the last of his eggs, turned to her. “You should think about staying here. You can take over the kitchen, that’s for damn sure. You should think about staying at least until after you have the kid. Four bedrooms upstairs. I’m only using one.”

“They could find me. Eric—”

“That’s the brother?”

“He’s mad with power. There’s something about my baby, something special. Important. I don’t know. But Eric and Allegra want to kill her.”

“Well, if she’s special and important it’s just more reason to get her here safe. I don’t like people who start trouble, start wars, look to generally fuck things up. However they’re built, I don’t like it.”

“You don’t even know me.”

After nudging his empty plate aside, he shrugged. “What the hell difference does that make?”

Nothing, nothing he could have said would have reassured her more.

“I’m so grateful. And I’m so tired. I’m just so tired. Can we take it a day at a time?”

“Sure. You can pick a bedroom. It’ll be clear which one’s mine.” He rose, started to clear.

“I’ll do the dishes. Part of the deal.”

“Next time they’re all yours. No offense, but you look pretty done. So go up, pick a bed, tune out. I need to get the produce into town. You ought to take my parents’ room. It’s one of those master deals. Got its own bathroom.”

“Simon. Thank you.”

He carted dishes to the sink. “Can you make meatloaf?”

“If you have the meat along with what I’ve already seen, I can make amazing meatloaf.”

“You put that together for dinner, we’re square.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Lana found the master suite with its four-poster bed at the top of the stairs. A duvet of deep forest green covered it along with four thick shams in the same color edged in a quiet and dull gold that matched the walls.

His parents had died here, she remembered. He’d put their room to rights again, cleaned what must have been heartbreaking, cleared the room of all signs of illness.

Even through a gnawing fatigue, she recognized that his caring to restore the room to how his mother certainly would have wanted it said something about the son.

A man who’d given her food and shelter. It made her think of Lloyd, what he’d said at that first full community meeting.

Still, she locked the door behind her, adding a charm to block entrance. She didn’t consider it overkill to carry a chair over and prop it under the doorknob.

She wanted to sleep, just wanted to go away for a while. On clean sheets, with pillows, under a duvet of forest green. Thinking of his mother, she considered the dirt and grime she carried from the trail, and stepped into the adjoining bath.

She wouldn’t disrespect the woman whose home offered sanctuary by besmirching her bed.

Here, too, he’d put things to rights. A stack of fluffy towels on clean, if dusty, counters. Setting aside her pack, she opened the glass door of the shower.

Shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, even a woman’s shower razor. As her own supplies had dwindled, Lana ignored the niceties as she stripped down. She’d use whatever she needed now, apologize later.

If she wept a little as hot water beat down on her, as she watched the dirt—that quick washes in streams and creeks hadn’t touched—spiral down the floor drain, she told herself she was entitled to a few tears.

She indulged—who knew how long this bounty would last?—wrapped her hair in a towel, her body in another.

Soft, so blissfully soft.

Turning, she studied herself in the mirror. Her breasts, her belly, so ripe. She must be at thirty-three or thirty-four weeks now. With all her heart she believed her daughter remained healthy and strong. She felt that light, that life—both depending on her.

If that meant she had to depend on the largess of a stranger, she would. Cautiously, but she would.

She eyed the baskets on the open shelves beside the mirror.

Body lotion, skin cream, all so wonderfully female.

“Madeline Swift,” she murmured. “I’m grateful, and hope you don’t mind.”

She slathered herself, all but felt her thirsty skin gulp in the moisture. As nothing in her pack resembled clean, she borrowed the robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

Trembling with gratitude, she turned down the duvet, slid into the sheets. She slept, and slept dreamlessly.

Awoke with a jerk, her heart pounding as she tried to remember where she was.

The farmhouse, the man with the tough face and careless generosity. She got up as quickly as her heavy belly allowed, tidied the bed, rehung the robe. Dressed.

The sun told her it was after noon—she’d gotten good at gauging the time. So she’d slept at least two hours. If she wanted to stay the night—God, she wanted to stay the night—she had to earn her keep.

Curious, she moved quietly along the second floor, found another bathroom, smaller than what he’d allowed her, and obviously what he used.

A towel hung over the shower door, a toothbrush stood in a cup on a small vanity.

She found a guest room—as she didn’t imagine Simon Swift slept under a cover dotted with pretty violets—another room, a spare bedroom and sitting room combination, she supposed, with a sewing station under the window.

Lastly, his room—unmade bed, a shirt tossed over a chair back, and air that carried the faint hints of earth and grass.