The Wrangler’s Christmas Gift (The Malones of Grand, Montana #4)

Chapter Twenty-One

T he wrangler once known as JP Malone, then Father Patrick, alone in the world but for his god and his parishioners, entered the maternity ward. A banner over the nurses’ station read “For Unto Us a Child is Born” and glittering balls hung from the ceiling. A small Christmas tree sat on the front desk, surrounded by boxes of chocolate and baked goods.

He tiptoed to the doorway of room205 and lifted his hand to knock. Inside the room, the crisis had past, the new little girl out of danger, but Bayleigh and Lucas would be reeling from the experience and he didn’t want to intrude.

Lucas, his son.

This new infant, his granddaughter.

His family. The children he’d created with Honey Hudson, the love of his life, Heather Malone, who’d named herself after the fictional character he’d made up for her.

It didn’t seem real.

But the woman in the wheelchair behind him was one hundred percent flesh and blood.

“You ready for this?” he whispered.

She huddled into herself, elbows clutched tightly in white-knuckled fists, her forehead furrowed, her lips moving.

He knelt down. “Honey?”

She nodded tightly, without opening her eyes. “I’m fine.”

She was not fine, but if he had any power in him—through prayer or faith or brute human strength—she would be. He had a lot of years to make up for, and he’d never let anything hurt her again. If she allowed it, that was.

He pushed the door open a crack and peered inside. In the bed, Bayleigh appeared to be asleep, her hair tousled against the sheets, her face pale. Lucas sat in a chair next to the bed, his bad leg on an angle, his head resting on a rolled-up towel.

A nurse adjusting the IV in Bayleigh’s arm put her finger to her lips and glanced at her sleeping patients.

JP shifted the wheelchair so Heather could view the room.

“See?” JP whispered. “She’s fine.

He touched her arm. Her flesh was like steel. She was wound so tight he feared she might fly apart at the slightest wrong move.

“But where’s the baby?” Heather said in a strangled voice.

The nurse led them out. “She’s in the neonatal intensive care unit. They’re still checking her out. Dr. Oliver will give you more details.”

Dr. Oliver. Brade. Heather’s other son. His other son. Their other son.

How strange that he’d been acquainted with these people, he’d been living in the same town as them all this time, without having any idea. All the times he’d sat in the pub and chatted with Lou over a pint, never knowing that they were both father to the same young woman.

But Heather frowned. “Don’t lie to me. I can handle the truth.”

She was breathing fast, and her foot wiggled back and forth as if she was barely holding herself from running away.

He smoothed the blanket over her shoulders. “Take it easy, Honey.”

She shrugged off his arm and pressed her hands on the arms of the chair. “I don’t need a wheelchair. I’m going to find Brade.”

Reluctantly, he helped her to her feet. She let him take her hand. Her skin was cold. She kept her eyes on the door to Bayleigh’s room as they walked past, as if afraid they might disappear if she stopped her vigil.

Once they were out of earshot, he stopped and turned her to face him. She was so pale, so drawn.

“What’s happening to you?”

Her lashes fluttered, as if just coming awake. “What do you mean?”

“This is more than normal worry. You’re not just concerned. You’re terrified.”

He thought about the things the detective had said about the birth of their triplets. It had been traumatic, he said. It had been a close call for mother and babies, and a long recovery. Clearly, the simple words didn’t convey the breadth of her experience, the lingering effect.

“And why wouldn’t I be terrified?” she asked. “This baby nearly died.”

“No, she didn’t,” he corrected. “Mother and child are fine.”

Heather, his Honey, bent her head, shaking. “They could have died. They still could die. Anything could happen and how would Bayleigh live with losing her baby? How would Lucas survive if he lost them?”

He ached for the pain she’d gone through all alone, pain he should have been there to shoulder for her, to protect her from. It had been tragic when it was just a story about people in his town and a poor, unknown mother; now, however, it was also his story, his tragedy, his guilt. His failing.

“You survived, Honey,” he said softly. “I don’t know how you did it, but you built a life for yourself. A good one. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known. Maybe I can’t really claim to know you, but I’ve heard this from the people who do: your children.”

“But I don’t know how to do it anymore,” she confessed. “I thought I did. I had. I was Heather Malone, a nobody, with a past I’d left behind. My mistakes couldn’t be undone but they no longer haunted me. Then they found me and now…”

She shook her head again.

He touched her chin, tipped it toward him. She was still so beautiful, still his Honey, after all this time. Yet, she was also someone wholly new and different, grown past their brief moment in the sun together.

“I know,” he said, and he saw when she understood his meaning.

She squeezed his hand. “Yes, I believe you do.”

Lucas, now awake, poked his head out into the hallway. “Hey, you two. I heard you were here. Your granddaughter is awake. Would you like to meet her?”

Honey’s eyes were tortured with yearning, yet she hesitated.

JP folded his other hand over hers, surrounding her with his grip. “We certainly would.”

They followed him to the NICU where they scrubbed their hands, used sanitizer and donned gowns and masks, then followed Lucas into the small room. Bayleigh had woken up too and sat next to a plexiglass bassinette, in which a tiny child lay, naked but for a diaper and a variety of tubes and wires. The baby blinked dark eyes and moved her little head back and forth, her rosebud mouth pursing, as if she was tasting this new world of hers. To think that this new life was blood of his blood.

“How…how are you, Bayleigh?” Honey asked. She hung back and JP gave her a little nudge.

“I’m fantastic,” Bayleigh said. She held out her hand. “Here. Would you like to touch her?”

“Oh,” Honey said. She glanced up at JP, her eyes wide. “I’m not…maybe…”

JP pushed her gently into a chair, then watched as Bayleigh guided Honey’s hand through a port in the side of the bassinette.

The image of this woman, her index finger gripped in a tiny fist, suddenly took him back, hurtled him through time to his sister with his nephew, another woman with a different infant but similar hurdles ahead of her. He felt faint. If this is how it affected him, how must Honey be feeling?

She was smiling but tears streaked her cheeks and she was shaking. “Are you sure she’s okay?” She looked up at Lucas. “You’re positive?”

“Yes, Heather.” Lucas glanced at JP. “Father Patrick? Um…JP… Would you like a turn? You better enjoy yourselves here while you can because as soon as my parents get here, you might not get a chance anymore.”

At some point, they’d likely figure out and become comfortable with how they would refer to each other. Who would be Mom and Dad, who would be something else, some role as yet to be determined? For certain, though, this baby girl had more grandparents than the usual double set and that could only be a good thing.

*

A few hours later, Heather sat in the chair in Bayleigh’s room. Lucas and JP had left in search of coffee, and she was torn between wanting to flee and wanting to clutch the tiny girl to her chest and never let her go. The baby, they were told, had been taken to the NICU as standard procedure. Aside from being small, she had none of the health concerns associated with prematurity, and was allowed to be reunited with her parents.

Thank you, God!

A little laugh hiccupped in her throat. Bayleigh must think she was crazy.

A nurse entered the room. “How are you feeling, Mama?” she asked.

“Much better now that I can hold her.” Bayleigh smiled down at her new daughter.

Heather watched the nurse first palpate Bayleigh’s abdomen, then open the receiving blankets to examine the baby. Her voice was soft, her touch gentle and her movements slow and deliberate.

When she finished, on her way out, she brushed Bayleigh’s shoulder lightly. “You’re doing a great job, Mom.”

The kind words made Heather’s throat sting and Bayleigh, still shaking with fatigue and flooded with hormones, got teary also.

“They’re being so helpful. I think I’m a bit of an oddity. They probably don’t see too many mothers with children this far apart in age.” She adjusted the baby’s position, winced, then smiled. “Giving birth in your forties is different from giving birth in your twenties.”

“I imagine so,” Heather said.

Bayleigh watched her from her nest of pillows. “Does it bring back memories?”

Heather looked away. This was nothing like her experience with the triplets. There’d been little patience, or explanation or kindness. “It was a long time ago.”

Time had put a filter over the memories, washing out the brilliance, softening the sharp features, but the essence of fear and dread remained. She pressed her hands together and felt the bite of her nails into the soft flesh of her palms. She took in a breath, held it, let it out slowly. She had to manage her emotions.

She cleared her throat. “Have you thought of a name yet?”

Bayleigh eyed her carefully. “We’ve got a short list but Little Miss Impatient here arrived before we’d made up our minds.”

“Brade was supposed to be James Peter.” Heather snapped her head up. “I’m sorry. This is your time.”

Bayleigh’s eyes widened. “Heather,” she said. “This is our time, all of us. Your experience is part of this. You don’t have to apologize for remembering what happened to you. Do you know why I wanted you to be there at the birth?”

Heather shook her head. “I’m a little afraid to ask. It’s such a huge…honor.”

“You’re Lucas’s mother.” Bayleigh smiled. “You’re also Diana’s mother. But those were not joyful experiences for you, were they?”

Before opening Belle Vista Recovery Ranch, Bayleigh had been a mental health therapist. “You don’t leave work behind at the office, do you?”

“And you’ve been mothering people most of your life. The scariest job you could do.”

Heather’s throat tightened again. She’d explained as much as she could, as much as she felt necessary, but again, with Bayleigh’s frightening experience so close at hand, she didn’t want to add to the trauma.

“I’ve been thinking about everything you went through with the triplets, Heather,” Bayleigh said. “My heart breaks for you. You never should have been treated with such callousness, such cruelty. And yet you overcame that. You found such a wealth of love inside you, and the strength to share that with those who needed you.”

Heather squeezed her eyes shut, feeling suddenly overexposed. “This is not the time or place. This should be about you and your baby, not me.”

“Labor is about women supporting women. The long hours of preparation, of opening, of accepting this new life, this new role—throughout history it’s been a sisterhood. Yes, I’m glad most fathers see their children arrive, now. But we’ve lost something in removing it from the sisterhood. You saw that in the worst possible way, and yet you have so much to offer about motherhood. I wanted—I still want—your wisdom. I wanted you to see how good birth can be, Heather,” Bayleigh said. “You’re a permanent part of our life now, me, Lucas, Ted and this little one. I hoped that maybe, if you could share in this, it might exorcise some of the demons of your past.”

Heather looked at her doubtfully. “You were in premature labor, yet you were concerned about my demons?”

“I’m not superwoman.” Bayleigh laughed. “I had good intentions but as soon as this one got serious, trust me, I forgot about you.” Her expression grew serious again. “But your feelings are legitimate, Heather. Healing doesn’t happen on a schedule. You could see this as an opportunity. You could say that you’re overdue.”

Heather shook her head. The memories of those dark days after the triplets floated up and down, overlapping and mixing with the memories of Diana’s infancy. Similarities, differences, causes, effects, no real through-line. She’d wanted to be a mother, so badly. But she couldn’t do it.

“You should never have been treated the way you were,” Bayleigh continued. “These days, health care providers are trained to recognize the signs of postpartum mental illness. I’ve counseled a lot of women over the years. I’ve heard so many different stories and one of the things they have in common is the feeling that they are alone, that they are the aberration. In fact, that feeling of being overwhelmed and inept is probably the most universal among new mothers.”

“Not a lot of women have a story like mine,” Heather said.

“Thank goodness,” Bayleigh said. “Yet even women with so-called normal births will have feelings of uncertainty as they adjust to parenthood. A frightening birth experience can leave both parents, but the mother especially, with a lot to process. The anxiety and depression you experienced is so common, even after uncomplicated births. But someone who went through what you did is at particular risk. Intrusive, obsessive thoughts, even psychotic episodes are far more common after a difficult birth, especially when the mother has little or no support.”

Psychotic episodes? Her breath was coming too fast again. “I just thought I was crazy.” Or nuts, stupid, bad, sinful. So many names she’d called herself or been called or had implied. “What’s taking them so long with that coffee? I’ll go find out.”

She escaped to the hallway and found a small alcove with a couple of chairs. She’d never considered that what she’d experienced had a name, a diagnosis, that other women may have had similar fears, that giving birth triggers emotions so powerful that without the guidance and sheltering arms of those who’ve gone before, they can incapacitate the new mother.

She dropped her head in her hands and focused on her breathing. She didn’t know how long she’d been there, when a soft voice interrupted her.

“Um…hi.” It was Diana, carrying her coat over her arm. “Are you okay?”

Heather straightened up, swiped her cheeks and pasted on a smile. “Of course. I’m sure Bayleigh will be delighted to see you.”

“She sent me to look for you.” She gestured to the chair. “Okay if I sit?”

Heather nodded, cautious.

“She’s a beautiful baby,” Diana commented.

“Oh, she is.”

“Scary night, though.”

Heather nodded.

“It’s good that you were here for them. You and Father Patrick both. I still can’t believe he’s the JP Malone you were looking for, that he was here, all the time.”

Heather nodded again. “You and me, both.”

“Do you still have feelings for him?”

Heather looked up in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“You know.” Diana bit her lip. “Like maybe you could get back together or something?”

“He’s a priest, Diana.”

“But if he wasn’t.”

“There’s no point in even thinking about it. The man I fell in love with wasn’t real. He was a fictional character that I clung to, someone who helped me through a lonely time in my life. Then he left.” She shrugged. “Whatever I might have wanted between us was never going to happen. That doesn’t change now that I know who he really is.”

“Is that how he feels, too?”

Heather sighed. “It doesn’t matter, Diana. I can finally stop wondering about him, and that’s a blessing.”

“Heather.” Diana sounded as if she had something to say but wasn’t sure how to say it. “Mom.”

The word landed softly, sweetly, bringing heat to Heather’s throat.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

Diana cleared her throat. “I need to say something.” She looked down at the leather gloves in her hand, smoothed them, folded them, patted them, then looked up. “I understand why you did what you did. Why you left me.”

This was the moment she’d been waiting for between them, and Heather knew that there were many wrong reactions and probably no single right one. Diana didn’t want to know about a bad marriage, broken dreams, or the loss of JP and the triplets. If she and Diana were to have a relationship, Heather had to shut out everything but that pivotal moment looking down into the crib in the darkened room of her beloved daughter, when the terror inside her was so huge and the images flooding her mind so horrible that the end toward which she was hurtling could only involve devastation of one kind or another.

“You believed,” Diana said, “that you couldn’t do it. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand, but I’m trying.”

Heather couldn’t meet her eyes. “Is that what you were talking about with Bayleigh?”

She nodded. After all these years of secrecy, it seemed nothing was safe from examination anymore. “I believed I might hurt you.”

Diana looked at the floor. “So you left to save me.”

It was the truth but she couldn’t tell whether Diana believed it or not.

“And once you were…better? You didn’t think of coming back for me?”

Her heart broke for the child speaking from Diana’s mouth. Children should never have to bear the burdens of a parent, yet parents are human and humans make mistakes. Perhaps one day, she’d tell Diana the fuller truth of that time, about the semicolon on her neck and the long crawl back to life. But for now, it was the child who needed comfort.

“Heather Scott died when I left,” she said softly. “It was the best I could do.”

Diana’s eyes glistened. “She didn’t die. And I’m glad she’s back.” She reached out and clasped her mother’s hand. “Maybe you’ll feel the same way about JP, eventually.”

Heather squeezed her daughter’s hand. “That’s different.”

“Is it though? You left to save me, to protect me. Because you loved me. What if he did the same?”