Year One (Chronicles of The One #1)(125)

“I read one of his books. Not the one you have,” he said, when she stared at him. “One of the others. It was good. He was a good writer.”

“He was.” She smiled over the ache in her heart. “He was good.”

*

Habitually after a long day, after the evening meal and the evening chores, Simon worked in the barn. He usually wound down before bed in his mother’s library for an hour or two with a book.

He missed TV, and wasn’t shamed to admit it, but books made up for it. He missed beer, and had high hopes the group trying to put together a little brewery would succeed. He settled most nights for tea, and had—almost—acquired a taste for it.

That didn’t make up for the lack of beer.

The dogs generally settled down with him, making it a nice, easy way to end the day. He’d let them out for a last round before heading up.

The book took his mind off the work, the world, the woman sleeping upstairs. The work would always be there, he couldn’t do a damn thing about the world. And he limited his thoughts regarding Lana to a very narrow window.

The last few nights he studied. Books were good for that as much as entertainment.

He’d done plenty of scavenging in the months since his parents died. Running a farm the way things turned out was a different prospect than growing up on one the way things had been.

He’d added considerably to the library.

Books gave him instructions on beekeeping, on butchering—though he’d happily turned that task over to the settlement—on making butter, cheese, holistic medicines and treatments.

Cooking—before Lana had come along.

So he did what he thought of as his homework with a mixture of fascination and horror—laced with a good dose of dread.

When he heard her coming, it surprised him enough to have him slap the book shut and rise. She never stirred out of her room once she’d gone in, shut the door.

But she stepped in now, her hair tumbled over her shoulders, the big, baggy T-shirt flowing over Baby Mountain and barely reaching the middle of her thighs.

She had damn nice legs, he thought, then immediately shut that part of his brain down.

“Sorry. Couldn’t sleep.”

“No problem. Do you need something?”

“I thought maybe a book…” She trailed off as she caught sight of the one he held. “Home Birthing Guide?”

She’d distracted him, he realized. Her legs had distracted him, and he’d left the cover facing out.

“They’ve got a lot of books at the settlement you can borrow. I stole this one because I couldn’t figure out how to explain borrowing it. I figured I should know what the hell to do when the time comes.”

“Good idea, because that’ll make one of us.” She pressed a hand to the aching small of her back. “I talked to Rachel some—the doctor in New Hope—and we were going to start birthing lessons in September. That was the plan. Anyway, I thought maybe a book, and I’d make some tea.”

“I’ll make it. No, you look a little ragged.”

“I’d be insulted except I feel the same. Should I read that?”

“Not if you want to sleep tonight.” He added a smile that made her laugh.

And press a hand to her side. “Whoa.”

“Must be hard to sleep with her kicking you from the inside.”

“I don’t know—I don’t think. Rachel said Braxton-Hicks contractions are like a preview of coming attractions.” Her voice hitched through the words as she braced on the back of the sofa.

“You’re hurting?”

“It’s just … It’s not that bad. Enough to keep me up.” She let out a breath, straightened.

“Maybe it’s … the thing.”

“‘The thing’? Labor? Oh, no, it’s just those fake contractions. I’d know. I mean, I’d have to know. I think some chamomile tea and a book. Maybe just the tea, actually.”

“Okay.” He tossed down the book, went to the kitchen with her. “I can bring it up.”

“Thanks, but being up feels pretty good. I’m just restless. Looks like the dogs are, too. Should I let them out?”

“Yeah, go ahead.” He put on the kettle as she opened the door.

Wind moaned in.

“It’s really blowing,” she murmured, standing for a moment and letting the cool air blast over her. “Might be a storm coming in.”

He turned away from the vision of her hair flying, the shirt dancing high on her thighs, appalled by the attraction.

Pregnant woman, he reminded himself. A woman who trusted and depended on him. A woman grieving for the man she’d loved.

“Dark nights full of wonder when magicks poise to rise. Max wrote that, or something close to that. It’s what tonight feels like.”

On a quick sound of shock she wrapped an arm around her belly. And her water broke.

They stood, her at the door, the wind blowing, him at the stove, the kettle steaming, and stared at each other in complete shock.

“Oh my God. My water broke. Did you hear it? Did you? It went ping. Oh, Jesus Christ! I don’t think these are the fake ones.”

“Okay, okay. Wait.” He turned the kettle down. He’d need the boiling water to sterilize … Don’t think about it yet.