Quiet Walks the Tiger (25 page)

He opened his eyes. He hadn’t been out long—he was still on the floor, his head dragged onto his sister-in-law’s lap. Hovering above him were the faces of George and the doctor—both filled with relief, a relief that was slowly dawning to amusement.

“Your wife is going to be fine, Mr. Adams,” the doctor was assuring him. His voice lowered. “You know, of course, that she has lost the baby, but she will be fine.”

“Oh, God.” His hands were shaking convulsively as he buried his face into them, oblivious, uncaring that his tears of relief and joy were damp on his cheeks.

“Wes,” Cassie reminded him softly, “she wants to see you.”

He stood up, her empathetic eyes still on him, and he found his strength within them. Squeezing her arm, he turned to rush down the corridor.

“Wait.” George caught his arm and stuffed a large paper bag into his arms, his head inclined toward Wes’s robe. “Florence told us you ran down here in your robe. I’m not so sure it would be good for her to see you looking like that.”

Wes nodded his thanks with a brief, rueful smile, then directed his hasty steps for the bathroom to change. “We’ll be here,” Cassie called after him softly. “Tell her we’ll see her as soon as we can in the morning.”

“Five minutes only, Mr. Adams,” the obstetrician called. “She needs rest now.”

Wes nodded to them all, still dizzy with gratitude to the deity who had allowed her to live.

She was still under sedation, and the world was misty. But even while disbelief assailed her, the misery of truth was there. The tiny life that had been within her was gone. The baby was dead. Doc Ricter had tried to tell her that it wasn’t her fault, that miscarriages were often a mystery, an act of God. But Sloan couldn’t believe him. She had killed her own baby, she had been oblivious, she hadn’t taken care. She had insisted on dancing...

And it wasn’t just her baby she had killed; it was Wes’s. The baby he wanted so badly...the baby who had held them together, offered them hope...

She had asked for Wes because she had needed him. She hadn’t been able to control her plea with the sedative making her weak. But as the seconds ticked by in her world of white, she knew she could no longer ask him to stay. Doc had severely warned her against trying again for quite some time...

She had nothing left to offer him.

But suddenly he was standing in the doorway, paused for a second, and then he was at her side.

Her hand was enveloped within his large ones; he was on his knees. She could vaguely feel a dampness as he brought her fingers tenderly to his cheeks, and then to his lips.

“Wes,” she whispered, trying to get the words out without choking on the ever-present tears, “I’ve lost the baby.”

“I know, my love, I’m so sorry, so very sorry.”

It was like Wes, she thought vaguely. Always so concerned for others first. She had to keep trying, she had to make him understand. “Wes, we...I may not be able to have another.”

“Hush,” he murmured, his fingers moving to brush back her damp hair. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. You’re going to be all right and I’ll never ask anything of you again; I’ll see that you never want for anything...”

Oh Lord, she thought sinkingly, he did want to be rid of her; he would care for her, pay her anything, to be free of her...

“I...I don’t want anything, Wes,” she murmured miserably. “I’m going to release you so that you can have your child for sure...” She simply hadn’t the strength to prevent them. In anguished silence the tears began to cascade down her face.

“Child?” he was awash with confusion, not daring to believe what was staring him in the face. “Oh, dear God, Sloan! I don’t care if I ever father a child; you gave me three of them already...” She was still dazed, he knew; she might not be understanding all he was saying, but his words were coming in a torrent. “Sloan, I wanted the baby because I wanted to tie you to me any way that I could. I loved you since the day I met you, and that never, never changed. My pride was wounded in Belgium—and so I struck out at you, but while I was away, I knew that somehow I had to keep you. Yet even having you I wasn’t sure. I’ve been so afraid that you were still in love with Terry...I was there, you see, the day that you buried him. I knew that I had to give you time...I never had to come to Gettysburg; I made business here...” His voice trailed away softly. “All I ever meant to do was care for you, Sloan, to make you happy, to take some of your burden from you...If you want me, my wife, my sweet, sweet wife, I’ll be with you.”

Into her gray swirl of misery was rising a gleaming ray of incredible hope. “Terry,” she murmured blankly, fighting the mind-robbing sedation. “Oh, Wes, I did love Terry, I’ll never deny that. But I don’t think I ever even felt for him what I do for you. I thought you weren’t sure because you never seemed to plan to take me to Kentucky...You were leaving alone...”

“Oh, Sloan, I have been afraid, but because of you. Your life was here. I was afraid that if I took you away, you would eventually leave me...”

She tried to pull him up by threading her fingers through his hair, but her strength wasn’t sufficient. “Wes.” He finally looked at her, moved to sit beside her on the bed. “Wes,” she repeated softly, “my life is with you—wherever that is.”

They stared at one another for moments of excruciating happiness, all barriers gone. They would still mourn for the child they had lost, but they would mourn together. Wes finally broke the contact, his eyes closing as he lowered his head to touch his lips against hers, lightly, gently, reverently. There was still so much to be said, but it was all inconsequential when compared to the silent love and security they had now discovered.

A throat was suddenly and very gruffly cleared from the doorway. “I’m sorry, Mr. Adams,” Doc Ricter advised quietly, “but your wife absolutely has to get some rest.”

“Yes, she does.” Wes released her hand and stood immediately. Doc Ricter tactfully disappeared, and Wes bent to touch her lips one last time. “I’ll be here first thing in the morning,” he whispered against her mouth. “I love you.”

Sloan savored the taste of lips that knew passion and tenderness. “I love you,” she whispered back, knowing that he believed her, knowing that they would both say the words over and over during their lifetime together, and both be fully aware of the depth of the emotion that lay behind them.

Sloan closed her eyes while still feeling his touch. She was sinking into a haze, losing herself to the sleep of sedation, but his touch lingered. The pain of loss and sadness was still with her, but so much less now that it was shared. Her husband had given her rest. He had given her love; he had accepted love.

One day her sister would tell her how her giant of a man had fallen into oblivion with the fear of her loss, and she would smile with tender adoration.

But that was in the future. Now she slept with the memory of his gentle, sustaining lips against hers.

A
S SHE SWIRLED AND
floated with grace, with beauty, she was mercury; she was the wind, so fluid and light that she was ethereal, a goddess of the clouds upon which she appeared to hover. As always with her, she was a creature of the music, a dancer by instinct, a woman of regal beauty which the passage of time merely served to enhance.

To most who watched her, she was untouchable magic. An illusion of splendor to view, but never to capture.

And yet she had been captured, by one man in the audience.

He too was ageless. His presence would always be noted; till the day he died he would be petitioned for autographs, advice, appearances, and opinions.

It was also his name that blazed outside on the marquee. It was the prestigious Adams Dance Company that the audience had come to view, although the audience was not necessarily aware that the Adams who would be remembered as a football hero was the same who owned the dance company.

It didn’t really matter.

At the performance’s end, he cordially signed autographs, but his mind was not with his automatic action. He was anxious to get backstage.

She had teasingly promised him a surprise, and he had been about to go crazy even while seduced by the performance.

Backstage, she was quickly changing into street clothes, a secret smile on her lips—her mind also absent as she replied to others. She was eager to see her husband; she had marvelous news for him. Intimate, wonderful news.

Wes tapped lightly on his wife’s door, then stuck his head inside. She was just brushing out her hair; her eyes met his in the mirror and she smiled. “Come in for a second,” she said, dropping her brush and swirling in a circle to display the soft folds of the beige silk skirt she wore. “Like it?” she inquired.

“Umm, very much,” he assured her, brows raising as she finished her twirl in his arms, planting both hands on his chest and giving him a mysterious, tantalizing smile. He caught her wrists. “Okay, minx,” he charged. “I love the outfit, but why so dressy? And what’s this secret? I’ve been going nuts the entire show.”

Sloan laughed, unperturbed by his determined demand.

“I’m ‘dressy,’” she informed him, “because you’re taking me somewhere elegant for a late supper. And”—she ran her fingers lightly over his lapel—“after you’ve suitably wined and dined your hardworking wife, you’ll be in on the secret.”

“Un-unh,” Wes shook his head. “Now.”

“I’ll compromise.” Sloan chuckled. “As soon as you’ve ordered the champagne, I’ll tell you.”

Sloan let out a startled gasp as she felt a vise clamp on her wrist—and her feet suddenly fly across the room. “Hey!” she protested laughingly.

“I’m compromising,” Wes explained patiently, “but let’s get there.”

With stern patience, he did wait for the champagne. Then, when the waiter had moved on, he leaned his frame over the table and his eyes challenged hers. His patience was at an end. “Okay, Sloan, out with it.”

She didn’t hedge a minute longer. “I’m pregnant.”

She saw the frown creep into his brow, the worry and concern wrinkle his forehead. She loved him for it.

“Sloan,” he began carefully, taking her fingers into his. “I’m happy, of course; you know what this means to me, but not enough to take any risks. We have three children; we’ve discussed this before—”

“Wes!” Sloan pressed a finger against his lips. “Don’t worry, please don’t worry.” In a hurry to assure him, she began to trip over her words. “I’ve known for some time...I waited to tell you to make sure...Wes, I’m past the real danger point, and I had ultrasound today. Everything is fine. I promise.”

He caught her hand, kissing the palm, then each finger. His eyes met hers; the love and joy she saw in their green depths were all that she would need to sustain her for a lifetime, come what may.

“When,” he asked, his voice absurdly shaky.

“April.” She smiled.

“Oh, Sloan,” he murmured, clasping her hand to his cheek. “You have to be so very careful. I don’t think I could bear the thought of losing you again—”

“I intend to be very careful,” she said softly, the fingers she held moving against his cheek. Was it possible that he could love her so very much? That all their trials had come to this magnificent result? The past—the time they had spent crossing in the night but never touching—was now so worthwhile. It made their lives so infinitely more precious; it made them both realize how important it was to always value the love that they had learned to share.

Suddenly stern, Wes lowered his voice, still holding her hand, but clasping it firmly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my life, Sloan, but this will be it—I want your promise. A son or a daughter will be wonderful—but then we will have four. No more risks, promise.”

Sloan twisted her lips into a wry smile. “I’d like to promise, Wes, but—”

“No ‘buts,’” he said sternly.

“Wes!” she chuckled, eyes wide. “I’m not trying to dispute you, but I can’t change what already is.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sloan took a moment to refill their champagne glasses. “I think you’re going to need a drink,” she told him sagely.

He accepted his glass from her fingers, his green gaze wary upon her face. “I have my drink.”

“Well...” Sloan took a sip of her own champagne. “I told you I had been to the doctor...or did I? I’m not sure. By my own choice, not his—he says I’m as healthy as ever—I’ve decided to curtail the dancing for a while. Tonight was the last performance I’ll be doing with the company until next summer—”

“Sloan,” Wes interrupted, “I approve, I’m glad to hear all this, but why do I need the drink?”

“Because we are going to have five children,” she explained with a guileless smile. Laughing at his stunned confusion, she lightly tapped his cheek. “Twins, Wes. We’re having twins.”

“Twins.” He repeated the word.

“Twins.” She agreed.

“Wow,” he said blankly.

“Aren’t you happy?”

The slight edge of nervousness in her voice spurred him out of his shock. Oblivious to any other patrons in the restaurant, he inched around the booth and enveloped her into his embrace, claiming her lips fully with both tenderness and passion, love and desire. Sloan had no objection. Her lips parted beneath his as they always would, savoring his love afresh each time.

At long last he broke away. He lifted a champagne glass to be shared between them. “To our twins,” he murmured, his eyes caressing her with his love, “to our family of five,” he continued, his voice lowering to the husky sound of velvet she would always thrill to, “but most of all, my darling, to you. A dream of a lifetime come true.”

Wes started to sip the champagne, but Sloan held him back. “Wait a minute,” she murmured, lashes lowering as she lifted the glass to him. “To you, Wes.” Her eyes raised back to his. “To knights in white armor who do come along!”

“To us!” Drawing her into the firm shelter of his arm, he was finally able to sip his champagne.

Heather Graham (b. 1953) is one of the country’s most prominent authors of romance, suspense, and historical fiction. She has been writing bestselling books for nearly three decades, publishing more than 150 novels and selling more than seventy-five million copies worldwide.