Janice Johnson - All That Remains

He encouraged her to talk, and he listened. Really listened, she could tell, unlike James, who had only pretended. Alec had talked to her, too, as if they were best friends. There were parts of himself he didn’t offer, of course. Flashing yellow caution lights clearly marked those areas, but that was okay. There were things she didn’t talk about, too. People.

She was glad he didn’t ask any more about James. She didn’t want him here even in spirit when her baby was born. He hadn’t wanted Cupcake, and now she was glad. Glad!

Wren couldn’t help having the sneaking wish that Detective Alec Harper was Cupcake’s biological father instead. It was wrong of her to even think that, sort of like having a sudden and inappropriate crush on your obstetrician. Women probably fell for their doctors often; after all, they projected a calm air of confidence and knowledge that no rattled husband could possibly match. But Wren bet Alec would project it, even if it was his baby being born. And he’d never know she was wishing, would he? So what did it hurt to dream a little?

Deciding she’d squelch all these surprising emotions later, she let herself enjoy his care, and even feel entitled to it. Except when he rolled her over so that he could give her the best back rub she’d ever had, Wren hardly looked away from him. She probably wouldn’t have anyway, because he’d become her lodestar. And the truth was she liked looking at him.

She often felt dwarfed by men, but Alec’s size along with everything else about him made her feel safe instead of small and insignificant. Probably a woman in labor shouldn’t notice things such as the way his jeans pulled taut over the hard muscles in his thighs. Or the thickness of his wrists, and the dusting of hair on powerful forearms, but she did. Usually she didn’t like the unshaved look on men, but dark stubble emphasized the hollows beneath his cheekbones and enhanced the air he had of being pure male.

He had a habit of shoving a hand through dark, unruly hair. And his wonderful mouth seemed to be made for smiling, even though he’d looked surprised the first few times he did smile and laugh. Maybe that was just because of everything he’d seen these past two days. He’d told her about some of it: the dead animals floating past, the scared children, the despairing adults sitting in emergency shelters knowing everything they owned was gone. People had died, too. He was one of the rescue workers who had pulled two people out of a submerged car, and known even as they worked that they were too late. Wren had seen the dark flash of emotion on Alec’s face.

She had a feeling, though, that he didn’t do much smiling these days. At least, not heartfelt smiles or real belly laughs. He was so very guarded, she knew there had to be a reason.

Once she asked if he was married, and his response was a terse, “No. Divorced.” She hadn’t dared ask more.

As appealing and sexy as he was, his eyes were what drew her most. As dark as his hair was, his eyes should have been brown like hers, but they weren’t. They were a pure, rich blue, much deeper than the summer-sky blue that blonds often had. The color alone made his eyes riveting, but beyond that they expressed an intensity that she guessed was just him. And even when his face stayed impassive, his eyes betrayed emotions Wren wished she could better read. His clear irises were often darkened by shadows. But his eyes smiled, too, sometimes even when his mouth didn’t. She loved the glints of humor and, yes, the kindness.

The contractions were closer together now, barely giving her any rest between. They came like ocean waves, rolling over her, ebbing slowly even as the next built. The whole “pant, pant, blow” thing had helped, but it wasn’t so much anymore. She kept losing track, crying out, her entire body arching in agony. She quit noticing how sexy Alec was, and cared only that he was here.

Finally, one of those waves was stronger than the others, and she crushed his big hand. “I need to push.”

“Not yet.” He bent close over her, compelling her by sheer force of personality. “Breathe.”

She groaned as the wave receded. “Why can’t I?”

He pried his hand from hers. “I think it’s time I take a look, Wren. I want to make sure you’re completely dilated.”

She didn’t ask how he’d know, because she preferred to believe completely in his ability to deliver her baby.

An hour ago she would have been self-conscious when he lifted the blankets, pushed up the flannel shirt and gently spread her knees. Now, with another wave lifting her, cresting, she couldn’t afford any emotion so petty.

“Breathe.”

She tried. Oh, God, she tried, but she’d never felt anything like this, a compulsion so powerful it gripped every cell of her body. Strange, guttural sounds came from her and her hips rose.

The contraction eased and she sagged back down, although already she felt the next gathering force. “Please,” she whispered.

Alec’s hands squeezed her thighs and he said, “Okay. I think we’re ready.”

He moved away from her briefly, and she felt him lifting her, putting some of the clothes she’d dragged up under her hips. Because this would be messy, Wren realized, in a corner of her brain not quite overridden by pain.

Then he knelt again between her thighs. “This time push.”

She couldn’t have done anything but. Her mind blanked of everything but this huge, overwhelming need—and the sight of Alec’s face, his rumbles of encouragement.

“I see Cupcake’s head. That’s it. I know you’re tired, but…you’re amazing.” He flashed her a huge grin. “I’ve got her head, honey. A little more.”

There was a brief pause, just enough for Wren to gather strength, and then she heard herself screaming as she pushed with everything she had. She felt her baby slip from her. Satisfaction roared in her ears, but already she was levering herself to her elbows.

“Is she all right? Why isn’t she crying?”

He was utterly preoccupied, there between her knees. “Give her a second. I’m wiping her face.”

Then it came, a thin wail, and he laughed, exultation in those blue, blue eyes as they met hers.

“Let me wrap her up.” And finally he lifted a flannel bundle and laid it on Wren’s stomach. She could see his delight. “Meet Cupcake.”

Wren looked disbelievingly at the small, scrunched face of her daughter. She didn’t look anything like television-commercial babies. She was beet-red, and her eyes were squeezed shut as if she was absolutely refusing to see this cold, scary world. She was smeared with blood and slimy stuff, but all the same Wren had never seen anything so beautiful.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, and smoothed a hand over a head damply fuzzed with a shade of brown the same as her own hair. And she was filled with joy, because at first glance there was nothing whatsoever of James in her baby.

“I need to cut the cord,” Alec said.

Wren lifted her gaze from Cupcake. “I didn’t even think of that. What can you… Oh! I brought a knife up from the kitchen.”

He laughed. “I have scissors from the first-aid kit, thankfully sterile.” He brandished them as he ripped off the packaging. “And I found some twine I think will work.”

That hadn’t come from the first-aid kit, which made Wren realize it must have been one of the things he’d been looking for earlier, when he’d been opening boxes. She remembered once hearing a grunt of satisfaction.

She watched anxiously as he tied the still pulsing umbilical cord. Then the scissors flashed, and without hesitation he cut the cord.

“She’s her own person now,” he murmured, and Wren realized her face was wet with tears.

She looked and touched and marveled, hardly aware that she had more contractions and that Alec was still occupied. Eventually he said, “I’m going to clean you up as well as I can without water, and then we’d better figure out something for a pad.”