Falling into You (Falling #1)(73)

“Where does she go when she runs?” I demand.

“Why do you want to know? Are you two…”

“Where does she go, Rachel?” I’m standing inches from her, towering over her, glaring. I should back down, but I can’t.

Rachel is trembling, white as a sheet. “She’s—the old county line road. North. It goes in a big arc and she—she cuts across Farrell’s field back this way.”

I’m out the door and running, full-on sprinting. Terror claws at me, and I can’t fathom it, can’t get out of its grip. It’s hounding me, pushing me. She’s pregnant and she ran from me rather than talking about it, but that’s not enough for the kind of reaction that’s driven me since this morning. It’s coming from way deep inside me, a kind of psychological foreknowledge that something is horribly, horribly wrong and I have to find her.

My feet stomp in the dirt, pushing mile after behind me. Dark now. Stars out, moon low and round. My blood is on fire, my heart pounds and my head throbs and my hands are clenched into fists.

I’m shaking, I’ve been flat-out running for at least two miles and I’m not in that kind of shape, but I can’t stop. Can’t.

Not won’t…

Can’t.

Another mile, and I know I’ve slowed, but I’m pushing myself, because I have to find her.

Farrell’s property, a wide expanse of high grass and old fallow fields and lines of trees subdividing properties. If she fell in the grass out here, I could pass right by her and never know it.

But there she is. Jesus, thank you.

She’s just sitting, hunched over, face in her hands. She’s sobbing. Even when she told me everything and cut loose with years worth of pent-up grief she didn’t weep like this. It’s…god, it’s the single most awful sound I’ve ever heard.

Worse even than the wet thunk of the bullet into India’s head.

Nell has been absolutely broken, and I don’t know by what.

I crouch beside her, touch her shoulder. She doesn’t even respond, doesn’t look at me. I scoop her in my arms, and something hot and wet coats my arms.

The ground where she was sitting is wet, black in the dim light. A huge swath of grass is blackened with dark liquid.

Blood.

Fuck.

“Nell? Baby?”

“Don’t call me that!” A sudden, vicious scream. She wrenches out of my grip and falls to the grass, crawls away, heaving so hard she’s close to vomiting. “It’s gone…it’s gone, it died…”

And I know what happened but I can’t even think the word.

I scoop her up again, feel hot sticky wet flowing from her. She’s still bleeding. “Nell, love, I’m here.”

“No, no…you don’t understand. You don’t—don’t get it. I lost it. The baby…I lost the baby.”

“I know, sweetheart. I know. I’ve got you, I’m here.” I can’t keep my voice from cracking. I’m as shattered as she is, but I can’t let on.

She hears anyway. She finally seems to realize it’s me. She’s limp in my arms, twists her head to look at me. Her face is streaked with red and sweat, hair tangled and plastered to her forehead. “Colton? Oh god…god. You weren’t supposed to follow me.”

Anger billows out of me. “What the fuck, Nell? Why’d you run? I love you. You think I wouldn’t—wouldn’t…shit…what did you think I’d say?”

She pounds my shoulder with a weak fist. “It’s what you did say. A baby is the last thing you wanted. And that’s what I was going to have. A baby. A fucking baby.”

“No, Nell. No. That’s not what I said. I said a pregnancy is the last thing we need. I did not say a baby is the last thing I wanted. And regardless, running was…so wrong. You’re mine. The baby would—would have been mine. I’d take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.” I’m crying. Like a fucking girl, I’m just openly crying as I carry Nell across the field, stumbling over roots and branches and hillocks. “I’m here…I’m here.”

She’s too quiet. Looking up at me, half-lidded, weak eyes. Unfocused. Shimmering wet in the moonlight. Bleeding onto me. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was just so scared. I’m scared, Colt.”

It’s the first time she’s ever called me Colt. “I know, Nelly-baby. I’ve got you. You’ll be okay.”

“No…no. It’s not okay. I lost the baby, Colton.” Her voice hitches, breaks.

“I know…” so does mine. “I know.”

“I didn’t want a baby. I didn’t want to be a mother. I’m too young. It was too soon. I begged to not be pregnant all the way here. But—but I didn’t mean this. I swear. I didn’t want this. I’m sorry…Not this way.” She’s barely audible, rambling.

She’s lost a lot of blood. I’m covered from the chest down. My arms are trembling, my legs are jelly. I ran so far, so fast, and I’m operating on adrenaline right now, pure determination. I’m half-running with her, stumbling in the darkness.

Then the yellow glow of the Hawthorne’s backyard appears and I’m fumbling at the sliding door with bloody fingers. Rachel Hawthorne is frantic, begging, demanding to know what happened. Jim Hawthorne is on the phone.