Oh, the pain on his face was gut wrenchingly hard to witness. He’d dropped to his knees, pressing his lips to my belly. “I’ll protect you, little one. I won’t mess up this time, I promise.”
From that moment on, Gray did everything but Bubble Wrap me. You’d have thought I was the first woman to have fallen pregnant from the way he hovered around me. He held my hand if I walked up or down steps. It was annoying. Especially when he refused to have sex.
I’d practically had to hold him down and jump on his dick to make him realize that he wasn’t going to hurt me or the baby. He’d known that already. Heck, he’d already gone through this part of pregnancy with his first wife, but the fear of loss hadn’t been there before.
I loved being pregnant. Loved feeling the baby move, loved watching the little feet and hands poke up. By my fortieth week, I was a little less enamored with the experience. Maybe it was the inability to breathe that took the shine off.
When the first contraction hit, I thought I’d been ready. But nothing in the world could prepared a person for something like that. The pain. Over and over and over, not turning off. Not going away.
Gray had been my rock through the labor. His face had been deathly pale, but he’d been right there, front and center. He held my leg while I pushed, bearing down with all my might. He reached down and touched the baby’s head when it first appeared out of me.
He encouraged as I pushed out the shoulders, screaming through the pain. Then he held his breath, his hand a death grip on me as the doctor suctioned her nose, her mouth.
And when she cried, he nearly sagged to the floor, his relief had been so great.
That had been yesterday, and today little Aspen Cynthia Meadows was going home.
During the pregnancy, Gray, when he wasn’t hovering over me, had been busy. He’d hired contractors to build an addition onto the cabin, giving us plenty of room for our growing family. He cleaned out the extra bedroom, giving everything but the pictures and a few mementos away to charity.
I hadn’t wanted him to do that, but he insisted, thinking it was time. And he had looked peaceful as the charity truck took it away, so I thought he was right. It was time.
Possessions didn’t keep a person’s memory alive. Love did. And I knew that the love he’d had for her had a special place in his heart. Just like I did. Just as his first daughter did. And now Aspen.
Walking into the cabin for the first time with our daughter was another reason I knew happy ever afters could be true. She was adorable in her gown and headband from her Aunt Leslie. The pink and green was a perfect complement to the elegant gray I’d chosen for the nursery.
After giving Maggie and Go plenty of time to sniff and welcome our new addition, I’d carried Aspen to her new room.
“Daddy built this just for you,” I told her, gazing into her beautiful blue eyes.
Gray kissed her hair. “Nothing but the best for my little girl.”
That was when I saw it. Something that hadn’t been there before was hanging on the wall.
A four-leaf clover made out of wood. In each leaf was carved my mantra.
Own luck.
Own love.
Own life.
Own legacy.
“Oh, Gray. It’s so beautiful.”
He kissed my forehead. “I went down the mountain and cut out a section of the Aspen tree that saved you.”
Lifting my hand, I touched the wood, tears pricking the backs of my eyes. “This is it.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
I wasn’t sure who or what I was thanking the most. Gray, for this special gift. Or the tree, for giving its own life to save mine.
Maybe I was just thanking the universe. Fate. God. Whatever it was that was giving me this moment to forever cherish.
It didn’t matter, because as Gray took me into his arms, our daughter nestled between us, I promised to be grateful every day.
For the gift of life.
THE END
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Alice Ward
A Bonus Novel
THE HUNT
Alice Ward
CHAPTER ONE
Caitlyn
Sundays were pretty lazy days compared to the rest of the week, when I juggled my jobs at the community arts center and Ma’s Diner, took care of my grandma, and worked on various paintings.
On Sunday mornings, I took my gran to brunch in town where she always ordered the same thing — pancakes with strawberries, black coffee, and a glass of water. She’d eat exactly one and one-half pancakes and all the strawberries, slathered in syrup and whipped cream.
These days were great because, apart from being together and doing stuff that didn’t include pill cutters and measuring spoons, we were rebels. If her doctor knew how much sugar she ate on Sundays, he would kill her. Or me. Probably both of us.
Sundays were “FU” doctor and “screw you” mortality days. We used to go to church, but Gran got kicked out for disagreeing with the minister… loudly. She was a feisty, kindhearted eighty-seven-year old.