Dance Away with Me(58)

But who would take care of Tess?

Despite her best intentions, she’d fallen in love with this tiny creature. A ferocious, unconditional love more powerful than anything she could have imagined. She’d warned herself not to get attached, but it had happened. How could it not? She’d spent her days, her nights, her weeks with this tiny morsel pressed against her heart.

The baby slept better than she had in weeks, her breathing punctuated with noisy little goat grunts. As the dark hours ticked by, Tess absorbed the smell of her, kissed the flush of her cheeks, brushed her fingers over the soft fontanel. This baby was hers. She would give up her life for this child. She could not let her go.

But she had to.

By the time the first streaks of dawn crept into the room, she was nauseated. Wren, on the other hand, was wide-awake, ready to rock. Tess carried her downstairs and fed her, breathing in her milky smell. She took the bottle so much easier now than she had at the beginning. Her eyes focused on Tess’s own. She curled her starfish fingers around Tess’s.

Ian appeared from the back bedroom, his hair damp from his shower and the scar on his neck flushed from the warm water. He’d pulled on a pair of gray athletic shorts and a T-shirt. He was silent as he walked past her to make coffee.

Wren finished her bottle like a champ. Tess curved her hand around the baby’s head as Ian brought her a mug. “She doesn’t know I’m not her mother.”

“She’ll be well cared for.”

If Tess hadn’t been holding Wren, she would have launched herself at him. He was cold. Heartless. A man who didn’t seem to understand any emotion except anger.

He was the one who got Wren’s things together while Tess cuddled her in the geode bedroom. He was the one who packed up the bottles, the formula. He retrieved the stack of onesies from his dresser drawer and set the box of preemie diapers in the sleeping nest. He put the baby sling next to the diapers, but Tess couldn’t imagine Diane or Jeff wearing it. Would they let Wren cry it out at night, alone and frantic in her bed?

Even the thought of it chilled her.

She heard the crunch of tires on gravel outside. “They’re here,” Ian said unnecessarily.

She nodded.

He went to greet them.

She broke out in a cold sweat. She was going to die. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t hand her child over to strangers. Her stomach heaved. She raced for her jacket, for Wren’s fleecy sleeper. Fumbling with the snaps, she pushed the baby inside.

The voices were coming closer. He was getting ready to bring them into the house. She ran from the room, through the kitchen, out the back door. She raced across the meadow, Wren clutched to her breast.

Ian’s tree house had no walls yet. No place to hide. She dashed into the woods, her heart pounding so hard her ribs ached. She gasped for breath. Plunged off the path deeper into the trees. “It’s all right, my angel girl . . . It’s all right.”

Her lungs burned. She couldn’t go to the cabin. It was the first place he’d look. The old church . . . a ruin. She cut through the underbrush and ran toward the fire tower, not knowing what she’d find there, only knowing she had to keep running.

She climbed the rotting wooden steps with one arm around her child and one hand gripping the unstable railing. “Don’t worry. I have you. Nobody’s taking you from me. Nobody.”

She got to the top. The door was stuck. She put her shoulder to it. It gave way. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, drawing in great gulps of oxygen.

Wren gazed up at her, trusting. Not seeing a crazed woman.

Tears spilled over her lashes. She slid down the wall and sat on the dirty floor. Bending her knees, she tucked the baby against her. “We’ll go to Wisconsin.” Her words were garbled from her tears, but she kept on. “Or Arizona. I have friends there. Or Canada. Just the two of us. We’ll stay someplace where no one will ever find us. . . .”

On and on she went. One insane, impossible scenario after another while Wren listened, content to be held.

She didn’t know how much time passed before he found her. The door of the fire tower creaked open. He stepped inside and looked down at her crouched in the corner. “Tess . . .”

The way he said her name. So much sadness. He knew. He understood.

But he didn’t. “Give her to me, Tess.”

“No! You can’t have her.”

He knelt on one knee in front of her. “Don’t do this.”

“She’s mine!”

He slipped his fingers in her hair, touched her temple with his thumb. “No. She’s not.”

She shook him off. “You don’t care! You don’t understand!”

The jerky movement, the shrillness of her voice, made Wren cry.

“I do understand,” he said. “Let me have her.”

Wren cried louder, her little chest spasming. “You can’t. You can’t take her.”

“I have to.”

She struggled against him, trying not to let go. . . .

“Tess . . . Tess, please . . .”

He peeled the crying baby from her arms.

“Don’t.” She staggered to her feet. “Don’t do this!”

“It’ll be all right.” They were the same words she’d spoken to her child. But he was wrong. Nothing would ever be all right again.