Нора Робертс - Year One

That fierceness pulsed from her now, sharpening her eyes, glowing on her face—and her cries were those of war, not of pain. When sweat soaked through his shirt, he stripped it off, tossed it aside.

Like Lana, he wore a chain, and he carried a medal bearing the image of Michael the Archangel.

“Breathe it out, breathe it out.” He swiped his forearm over his brow as she lay back and gathered herself. “We’re really close.”

Lana curled up, gulped in air. Pushed while the first rumbles of thunder joined the howling wind.

“There’s her head. Jesus, Lana, look. There’s her head. No, pant, don’t push. Wait, pant, don’t push. Okay, yeah.” Carefully, he lifted the cord from around the baby’s neck. “Let’s get the rest of her out here. Ready?”

Tears mixed with sweat as she rode the birth pangs, watched Simon guide one shoulder, then the other.

The room, the night sky burst with light. On the mantel over the little gas fire, the candles flashed to flame.

On a mother’s fierce call, the baby slid into Simon’s hands. And with her first breath, loosed a cry like triumph.

“I’ve got her.” Stunned, awed, overwhelmed, Simon stared down at the wriggling infant. “I’ve got her. Wow.”

“She’s beautiful. Oh, isn’t she beautiful!”

As Lana reached out, Simon gave her the child. “Damn right she is. You gotta hold her head lower, the book said. Drains the fluids. I’m gonna clean her up some, okay? And we need to keep her warm.”

Laughing, weeping, Lana pressed her lips to the infant’s cheek. “It’s my baby. She’s here. She’s beautiful.” Lightning flashed again as she looked at Simon. “Out of me, into your hands, and into mine. She’s yours, too.”

Because he couldn’t speak, he nodded.

Dealing with the practicalities steadied him. Birth was a messy business, and by the time he’d cleaned up, the sun shimmered pink through the windows. And the baby nursed at her mother’s breast.

That was a picture he would carry in his head for the rest of his life.

“How about I scramble up some eggs, get you that tea we never got around to?”

“I could eat.” She stroked a finger over the baby’s hair. Max’s dark hair. “I don’t have the words, Simon. I just don’t have them.”

“What are you going to call her?”

“Fallon. She’s Fallon. Born in the Year One. Conceived and saved by one man, delivered into the hands of another. I know she’ll honor them both. I know it.”

He brought her food, made sure she was comfortable before going out to deal with the stock. The fields would wait.

* * *

He checked on them, found them sleeping, and took the time to grab a shower where he braced his hands against the tile while the water beat on him and tried to sort out his feelings.

Too many to sort.

He went out to the barn, brought back the project he’d worked on in the evenings for weeks.

The cradle stood waist high, built with pine he’d stained a deep, rich brown. It rocked gently at the push of his hand.

The baby opened her eyes. The dark, somehow magickal infant blue seemed to see straight into him.

“Man,” he murmured, using a fingertip to stroke her cheek. “You look like you know everything there is and more. I’m going to catch a couple hours of sack time myself. So…”

What if they needed him?

With a shrug, he stretched out on the bed beside Lana.

If they needed him, he thought as he drifted off, he’d be right there. The baby whimpered, had him blinking his eyes open again.

“Don’t wake her up, okay?” he whispered, gave the tiny rump a couple of awkward pats. “In her place, I’d sleep a month.”

When she whimpered again, stirring restlessly, he shifted.

“Okay, let’s try this.” He gathered her up, and when she curled against his chest, rubbed her back. “Yeah, that’s better. That’s better. That’s my girl.”

As he slept, Fallon watched him. Knew him.

EPILOGUE

On the last day of the first year Lana stood at the window watching a light, pretty fall of snow. She cuddled Fallon as she wondered what the New Year would bring.

A year before she’d been with Max at a party in SoHo, drinking wine, laughing, dancing while thousands gathered in Times Square to watch the ball drop.

She thought of Max often. She had only to look at Fallon, the already thick raven-dark hair, the eyes slowly turning from infant blue to smoky gray.

The pang had lessened, and the baby was part of the healing.

So, she knew, was Simon.

Just as she knew his feelings for her, as she knew his unquestionable love for the baby.

She’d end this year, this first year, with memories of the man she’d loved, memories she’d always hold precious. And she’d begin the next giving her heart to the man she’d come to love.

“You’re the link between us, my baby.” She brushed her lips over Fallon’s hair. She lifted the baby high, making her gurgle and kick her legs. “You’re the everything.”

She heard the dogs bark and, lowering the baby, saw a man on horseback riding down the lane toward the house.

Fear came first. Would it always?

She ran to get the sling she’d made, secured Fallon in it to free her hands before she retrieved the shotgun. Ready to protect, defend, she watched as Simon walked toward the horseman.

The man dismounted. He wore a long, dark coat, held the bay’s reins in one gloved hand. He wore no hat, and snow fell over his wavy mane of hair. His beard, trim and dark like his hair, carried a white streak.

They spoke. Simon glanced toward the house, then left the man standing in the snow with his horse.

“Who is he?” Lana demanded when Simon opened the front door. “What does he want?”

“He says his name is Mallick. He says he’s come to pay tribute to The One and her mother, and won’t come in without your invitation. He claims he has things to tell you. He’s not armed.”

“He knows about the baby?”

“He knew the night she was born, Lana. He knew the hour. He knows her name. He says he’s sworn to her. I believe him.” Simon took the shotgun from her. “But I’ll tell him to go if you don’t want to talk to him.”

“He has power,” she said. “I feel it. He’s letting me feel it so I understand he won’t use it to harm. I wish I didn’t have to talk to him. I wish she was only a baby, my baby. But…”

Lana stepped to the door, looked out. “Please, come in.”

“Thank you. Is there a place my horse can rest out of the weather? We’ve traveled a long way.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Simon brushed a hand over Fallon’s hair, ran it down to give Lana’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “Nobody’s going to hurt her.”

“Bring him into the kitchen. I’ll make him something to eat.”

She heated soup, made tea, warmed bread. And steeled herself when Simon brought Mallick in.

“Blessings on you,” Mallick said. “And on the light you’ve brought to the world.”

“There’s food.”

“And kindness. May I sit?”

She nodded, but kept one arm protectively around the baby in the sling. “How do you know about my daughter?”

“Her coming has been written, sung, foretold. One year ago today, the fabric ripped, the scales tipped when the blood of the damned defiled holy ground. So the purge followed, and magick strikes back. You have nothing to fear from me.”

“Then why am I so afraid?”

“You’re a mother. What mother doesn’t fear for her child, especially one who has hints of the child’s destiny. May I eat? I’ve fasted three days in honor of The One.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Here.” Simon lifted Fallon out of the sling. She immediately babbled at him, tugging at his hair. Then she looked solemnly at Mallick.