Debbie shrugged. “Go ahead. He ate more than I did these last nine months. I can’t believe how much ketchup he eats. Did you know he eats it right out of the bottle? Do you know how many bottles of ketchup we’ve gone through?”
Shoulders shaking, Preacher buried his face against Debbie’s arm to muffle his laughter.
“Preacher?”
He looked up. “Hmm?”
Peering down at him, Debbie’s eyes were shining with emotion. “I’m glad you’ve been home,” she whispered.
Guilt swamped him. He knew full well he’d been neglecting her these last few months—that she’d been spending more time with Tiny than with him. But as much as he wanted to apologize, to tell her things were going to be different from here on out, he knew he couldn’t. Especially now, with the added responsibilities of the Road Warriors and the acquisition of the Columbian imports, the club would have to continue to come first.
“You think of a name yet?” he asked, changing the subject. “We can’t call her baby girl forever.”
They’d left the hospital with a nameless baby. Debbie had spent her entire pregnancy unwilling to discuss anything baby-related, and Preacher had been so busy with the club that when it had come time to name their daughter, neither of them had known what to say.
Debbie looked down—sound asleep, their daughter was nuzzled between her breasts, mouth agape and snoring softly. “I still like Ginny,” she said, glancing sideways at Preacher.
His lungs constricted. Every muscle in his body involuntarily tightened and twitched.
Debbie hadn’t been the only one to suggest naming the baby after Ginny. Nearly everyone had suggested it, and each time they did, Preacher had the same gut-churning reaction.
Suddenly awash with uninvited images and feeling restless, Preacher shoved himself upright and scrubbed a hand down his face. The surprise birth of his daughter had been enough of a distraction to keep his darker thoughts at bay, but they were slowly, surely creeping back in.
He’d killed a man—albeit a man who’d killed countless others, his own parents included. But no matter which way he spun it or justified it, he’d still killed a man.
And because of it, Preacher couldn’t think of his mother without seeing the blood on the trailer door, a coffin being lowered into the ground, and the gasping, dying face of Salvatore Rossi.
He didn’t want any of that ugliness associated with his daughter.
Hell, he didn’t want any of that ugliness associated with him. But he’d made a choice—as if there’d been any other option for him—and now he had to learn to live with that choice. There was no room for men with regrets in his world.
Debbie slipped her hand beneath the hem of his T-shirt and up his spine. Her palm paused on the space between his shoulder blades—a comforting reminder that he still had something good and pure—and Preacher eventually found his breath.
“We don’t have to name her Ginny. We could name her Evangeline instead? Or maybe just… Eva?”
Preacher shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Debbie continued to rub his back. “Sylvie wants to name her Marie.” She laughed softly. “And Anne is convinced that Anne is the perfect name.”
Preacher wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. What about you? Is there anyone you wanna name her after? A grandma? A great aunt? A friend?”
His questions were met with silence. Glancing over his shoulder, Preacher found Debbie staring out across the room, her bottom lip tucked beneath her teeth. “Wheels?”
“No,” she said, looking at him. “I don’t have anyone.”
Preacher turned around and faced her. “You don’t have anyone? What the fuck are we?” He pointed between him and their daughter. “Chopped liver?”
Debbie rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant I don’t have any family.”
“Yeah you do. You got me and her. And you’ve got all them assholes, too.” He nodded at the bedroom door. “We’re your family now.”
Debbie’s chin began to wobble, and her eyes filled with tears. Cursing, Preacher leaned in and kissed her lips. “No cryin’,” he said, and kissed her again. “Can’t have both my girls cryin’ all the damn time.” Another kiss. “Gonna drive me crazy.”
Debbie laughed through her tears. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just…”
“Emotional?” Preacher kissed her three more times. “Sentimental? Over-tired? Half-fuckin’-crazy?”
Debbie continued laughing. “Yes. All of that.”
There was a knock on the bedroom door. “Preacher?” The door cracked open and Frank’s voice filled the room. “We’ve got a problem.”
“Hold that thought,” Preacher said, and kissed Debbie twice more before rolling out of bed.
? ? ?
Laying her daughter down beside her, Debbie leaned over and pressed a kiss to each of her rosy cheeks and a third to her forehead.
“I hope your daddy agrees,” she whispered, “because Eva is a beautiful name. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
She continued to nuzzle her cheek. Happily breathing in her clean, sweet scent, Debbie marveled at how much she already loved her. Every day, it seemed, she loved her more.
Sylvia had been right—giving birth had been horrible, and Debbie had felt as she was splitting in two. But once it was over, and Debbie was holding her daughter in her arms, staring down at her sweet little face, her pain became a distant memory.
Every single misgiving she’d had about becoming a mother had instantly shifted. Anxiety had turned to awe. Resentment had turned to protectiveness.
That wasn’t to say that she wasn’t still afraid. She still felt fear. She was terrified of making a mistake or doing something wrong, or accidentally hurting this little life entrusted to her. But this fear was different; this fear had a purpose, a reason, and was ultimately overshadowed by joy.
Debbie brushed a fingertip over the soft swell of her daughter’s cheek, admiring her. With dollish, delicate features and flawless porcelain skin, she really was a beautiful baby. Her eyes, though, were downright entrancing.
The sudden urge to draw her had Debbie reaching across the bed and plucking her sketch pad and pencils from the bedside table. Setting the pad in her lap, she flipped it open to a clean page. The tip of her pencil hovered over the page while she looked at her daughter, deciding on what to draw first.
Slowly, carefully, Debbie drew the soft curves of her closed eyes and then, with quick flicks of her wrist, added her dark lashes. She’d just set to work on her little pink mouth, pursed in the shape of a bow, when the bedroom door opened.
“… There’s room at the warehouse in Greenpoint.” Still talking to Frank, Preacher backed slowly into the room. “Put another couple of Rocky’s boys on watch.”
“Consider it done,” Frank replied. His dark eyes shifted, landing on Debbie. Unnerved, Debbie quickly looked away.
Since learning Maria’s heartbreaking secret, Debbie could hardly stomach even the briefest of glances in Frank’s direction. She felt culpable now—as if keeping Maria’s secret somehow made her every bit the monster Frank was.
The door clicked closed and Debbie looked up to find Preacher leaning against it.