Chapter 18
RAKE IN HAND, DEACON paused in his work to watch his girls race through the yard. Nearly an acre lot, backed up by another forty yards of evergreens that divided his property from the back edge of a park, provided ample yardwork. He didn’t mind, especially not on a day like this.
Margo kicked a ball into the rosebushes, making their one-eyed tabby, Cat, dart for cover. Maci pounded in after her. They both wore jeans and red sweaters, and they’d both ditched their little windbreakers he’d zipped them into. But the temp was edging over fifty, and the early-October sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky. They were fine.
He smiled as they raced through the piles of leaves he’d raked that morning and not finished bagging for that very reason. They hadn’t been quite old enough to experience the joy of pouncing on a pile of leaves last year or the year before. This year they were in their prime.
He turned as his dad pulled into the driveway. His mom waved through the windshield. He’d asked his dad to borrow a ladder, but his dad, being his dad, had insisted on bringing it over himself.
His mom had barely stepped through the back gate before the girls rushed her.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, honey. And my little angels.” She hugged the girls to her legs. “I’m here to supervise your father, and,” she said looking down at the girls. “I thought we might make cookies.” The girls cheered, and Deacon smiled as he fished his buzzing cell out of his pocket, expecting it to be Jax.
“I found her,” said the voice on the other end.
“What?” He pressed a finger to his other ear and stepped away as his father came into the backyard, voice booming in greeting.
“I had to go down there myself, but you said spare no expense. I know a guy who knows a guy—hell—” The PI chuckled. “You don’t need the details, but let’s just say that with the date you gave me, I found her on the airport camera feed and then with a whole lot of luck, I found her cab driver.
“I showed her photo, and lucky for you, she’s a looker. The guy said he’d never forget a pretty woman who looked so sad. I had to bribe him to go through his records—not that hard—and he found it. Remembered the day he took her to the airport because it was his daughter’s birthday and he was running late to the party. How’s that for luck?”
“Yeah,” he said, stunned. He’d found her. After eight months, he’d found her.
“She paid with a credit card, so I’ve got it. Clare Franklin. Already tracked her down.”
Deacon took the address he gave, thanked him, ended the call, and stared blankly as the breeze scattered his leaf pile across the yard.
I found her. His heart pounded with a nervous stutter at the thought of seeing her again. Would she want to see him? Did she hate him? Was she with someone else?
“Deacon?”
He turned and faced his mom, staring at him anxiously, the obvious question in her eyes. His father stood right behind her.
“Deacon?” His mother took a step toward him. “What is it?”
“I found her. I found Clare.”
* * *
CRYING. CLARE HEARD CRYING, but just one. She opened burning, gritty eyes, pushed herself up, and… No. It was two. Both babies crying.
It was dark out as she made her way to the nursery right next to her room. Dark and light was her only sense of time these days. It could be seven at night or two in the morning. She slept when they slept. She wasn’t picky.
The clock beside her bed said it was six-thirty, and shaking off the cobwebs of sleep, she remembered lying down, intending to close her eyes for a few minutes. That was around four in the afternoon.
She swung her feet over the side of the bed and shuffled to the nursery, wondering if it was possible to be so tired you couldn’t feel the carpet under your feet. Or was it…wait. She looked down and saw she was still wearing her Uggs. The cries escalated in the thirty seconds it took her to reach them. Her two little buds, her babies, her most precious.
“Now, now,” she crooned, breaking off with a yawn. “Who started all this fuss, hmm?” She scooped Patrick up and onto her shoulder, keeping a hand spread over his neck and head. I’ll be right back, baby.”
She walked into the den, laid Patrick on the couch, and hurried back for Parker. She’d been advised not to carry both twins at once because if she tripped, she wouldn’t be able to catch herself. But it made her stomach hurt to walk away from one of them every single time. She hurried back for Parker, cuddling his tiny body close as she went to the couch.
“What is it, my little angels? Hungry?” she asked, working them into feeding position. “Wet? Bored? General discontent with your life at this moment?”
She smiled then hissed when Parker latched on. Those tiny, rose-petal lips were stronger than they looked. She arranged another pillow, and holding Patrick like a football, she leaned over so as not to jerk Parker’s mouth off while she used both hands to help Patrick latch on. There. The hard part’s done. Now she’d just sit here and relax for the next fifteen to twenty minutes.
The lamp she’d left on threw soft light over the suede sectional, or at least she thought that was her couch. It more closely resembled an explosion of blankets, burp cloths, breastfeeding pillows, diapers, butt cream, and nipple cream.
Why had she thought it was going to be so easy? Why had they slept the entire two days they’d spent in the hospital? And then the next six days? Granted, her mother had been here to help, but she hadn’t really needed much help. They slept. They ate. That was it. It hadn’t seemed so hard.
But in the past forty-eight hours, they’d come into their own, like it had taken them that long to realize, Hey, we’re out!
She watched them, their little mouths working rhythmically. She wanted to stroke a finger over a cheek, over the thin, silky black hair that covered both their heads, but she didn’t have enough hands for that. So she watched them with pure joy and disbelief at the miracle of them.
So perfect. They were just so perfect. And without warning, love for them swamped her. And with the love came the enormous weight of responsibility for their every breath and happiness for their entire lives.
“I love you,” she whispered and shouldered a tear from her cheek. “Everything’s going to be fine. Mommy’s just tired.”
She closed her eyes. It would be fine. She could do this. It hadn’t even been two weeks. Twelve days was hardly any time to learn to be a mother. But twelve days without sleep…would that be considered torture? Didn’t men in the military train for things like that? Going days without sleep? Of course they had to carry men over obstacle courses, escape and evade. She pictured Army Rangers and Navy SEALs hunkered in the woods, whining about episiotomies and cracked nipples. A laugh bubbled up. She was losing it.
THE NEXT MORNING, SHE sat in the same spot, wearing the same clothes. She’d just finished feeding and burping when her doorbell rang. She glanced at the cable box and saw it was just after seven. It would be Jess or her brother.
With a close eye on the babies, lying on the couch beside her leg, she gathered her hair back into some semblance of a ponytail, grabbed a baby wipe, and rubbed at her face. Then she took a swipe at her armpits before tossing everything she could reach into a nearby laundry basket just as a key turned in the lock and the door opened.
“Connor. Hey. I was coming.”
“Hey, sis.” He held up a bag and a go cup from Starbucks. “Who’s your favorite brother?”
“If that’s an everything bagel with cream cheese and any kind of coffee, you are.”
“That’s me. How are the nuggets?”
“Great. Best babies in the world,” she said, looking down to see that her sweat pants were not only inside out, but had several patches of crusted…something.
“Sleeping all night?” Connor asked, kneeling on the floor next to the couch.
“Oh, yeah. Just about. Hey, watch them for one sec.” Her brother knew next to nothing about babies, but she trusted him not to let them roll off the couch. Not that they roll, she thought, rushing into her bathroom. Of course every baby book that listed ages and stages added those were only guidelines, so she didn’t exactly know when they would turn over. Not helpful.
Her freshening up consisted of turning her pants right-side out and splashing cold water on her face. That was all she got before she heard the first cry. Patrick. She was pretty sure it was Patrick. Shouldn’t she know her own baby’s cry? Deodorant and brushing her teeth would have to come during the next five-minute reprieve.
“Clare?”
“Coming!” And in her rush, she rammed her baby toe into the doorway. Shit! Shit! Shit! She stopped, put one hand on the wall, grabbed her foot, and squeezed. Shit, that hurt.
Limping, she made her way back and picked up Patrick, who immediately settled. Score one for motherhood.
“I didn’t do anything,” Connor said as she patted the baby’s back.
“Sure you didn’t,” she said, managing a smile for her brother.
Just then, Parker let out a wail.
“See. Told you it wasn’t me.”
She leaned over until Patrick’s body was next to his brother’s, then scooped up Parker. There was a science to it, and standing right beside the couch, she figured she was safe. She did a bounce step from side to side with a little sway added in, and they quieted. She just wanted one gulp of that coffee before she sat down to nurse. Her only hope at that point would be if her brother fed it to her through a straw.
“Damn, Clare. How do you even hold them both at once? You’re like Super Woman there.”
“Right. That’s me,” she said, eyeing the Starbucks cup on the counter, her toe still throbbing. “Super Woman.”
“Even if you do look like you’re doing the chicken dance in super slow motion, minus the head bob.”
“Ha, ha.”
Seeing her hands were full, he set the coffee on the table next to the couch, just close enough that she could smell it. Damn him. He’d always been a cruel brother.
“You really are doing great,” Connor said, watching her with a smile, and she didn’t miss the pride in his eyes.
Okay, maybe not so cruel.
She took a chance and laid Parker in the crib. Connor had helped her set up one in the nursery and one in the den. She’d gotten the idea on a moms-of-multiples website. She said a small prayer he’d be happy there for a few minutes.
“Yep. Easy peasy.” She went for the coffee like an addict, ignoring the scorching burn.
“Okay. Well, since you have it under control, I’m going to work. Enjoy your bagel, and don’t forget how great I am.” He kissed the top of her head then the baby’s head. “Later, Parkman. Have fun lounging around all day,” he added with a smirk just as he left.
Just as the door closed with a click behind her brother, Parker let out a cry that nearly made her drop her cup. She spun and took in his scrunched face and tiny fists.
She laid Patrick down to go to him, but before she got back, Patrick let her know that was not what he wanted. Now they were both crying that high-pitched, frantic sound of a newborn who needed something, and she wasn’t sure what.
She maneuvered until she cradled one on each shoulder and began her step-bounce walk again.
The boys’ crying intensified, and she knew exactly how they felt. The coffee would have to wait.
WHEN THE DOORBELL RANG at eight-thirty that evening, Clare wanted to groan. Jess and her brother both had keys—they could damn well use them. Both boys were asleep, and she’d just gotten horizontal on the couch. It would take a crane to get her up.
When the doorbell was followed by a knock, she swung her feet off the couch, tightening the drawstring of her navy sweatpants as she walked and plotting death to whoever was on the other side of that door.