My Baby, My Love

She stared at him, frustrated by her inability to wipe the wetness from her cheek. “I wasn’t planning to give in to hysterics.”

His expression softened. “Good. That would send me screaming. Do you remember everything that happened?”

If only she could forget.

She tried to sit up and found she still couldn’t move her hands. For the first time, she noticed the IV bottle on the other side of the bed. She blinked rapidly in frustration and Noah withdrew a crisp white handkerchief. He blotted her cheeks and eyes.

The elusive scent she’d noticed on awakening came from him, she realized. Probably a cologne, though it was so faint she couldn’t be certain. The distracting smell helped to calm her, for some reason.

“Mrs. Argossy?”

“Dead,” he answered quietly.

Sydney cringed.

“Take deep breaths,” Noah encouraged.

A long shudder passed through her. Once again she tried to move. “My hands—”

“They tied you down so you wouldn’t thrash around anymore. You pulled the IV out twice. They were afraid you’d injure yourself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You slammed your head against something when you fell, Sydney. You suffered a concussion. When you finally started to come to, you began to thrash around so violently that they had to sedate you.”

“I don’t remember.” Yet she could almost remember horrible screams that felt lodged deep inside her. She stared up at him, focusing on his face in a bid for control.

“My head hurts.”

He nodded. “That’s to be expected.”

“I wasn’t expecting it.” He smiled and she relaxed. “Jerome didn’t know you were coming, did he?”

Pain flashed in his dark eyes. “No. I was due for some leave next week, but I hadn’t planned to come here.”

Sydney didn’t know what to say. She knew the brothers weren’t close. And knowing her husband as well as she did now, she suspected more than age and distance had separated the men.

“Sydney, I know the timing is off, but we need to talk.”

“I’m sorry, Noah. I’m afraid I’m muzzy. What—”

“So, you’re awake at last! You aren’t supposed to be in here at this hour, Mr. Inglewood. Official visiting hours don’t start until ten.”

The anemic-looking nurse bustled inside. She frowned at Noah, and came forward so she could stand officiously over the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Sydney didn’t know how to answer the question. Mostly, she felt confused. Her gaze sought Noah. She sensed him willing her to remain in control and she swallowed hard.

“I’d like to move my hands,” she managed.

“I’ll check with the doctor. Do you know who you are?”

“Of course I know who I am.”

The nurse waited.

“Sydney Edwards.” She saw Noah’s frown. “Inglewood,” she added.

“Do you know where you are?”

“The hospital.”

“Do you know why?”

Her irritation mounted along with her headache. Sydney glared at the nurse. “I was shot. Now, I’d like to speak to the doctor, please.”

“He’ll be by to see you shortly.” The nurse planted a thermometer in her mouth.

Sydney thrust the offending object aside with her tongue. “Now!”

“Mrs. Inglewood, you really mustn’t get excited.”

Sydney stopped listening. “Will you get him for me?” she asked Noah, avoiding the thermometer.

He nodded. “I’ll be back.”

Sydney waited, but he didn’t return. And by afternoon, she knew everything.

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to determine if you’ll regain the full use of all the fingers until after the swelling goes down,” the self-important surgeon told her. “The nerve and muscle damage was extensive.”

Staring at her completely bandaged right hand, Sydney was barely able to control the fearful anxiety the doctor’s words created. Her career as a jeweler might be over. With only one usable hand, could she do the intricate work required? Her heart pounded. Her throat went dry.

Then he dropped his bombshell.

“Fortunately, the baby is fine. Your concussion had us worried at first, naturally, but it appears there’s no permanent damage done there either. You may experience some headaches and a little dizziness from the concussion….”

Baby?

He might as well have spoken in Chinese.

“I’m pregnant?” Sydney could only stare at the man. Jerome’s friend, the fertility doctor, had told them the procedure hadn’t worked! “Are you certain?”

Thrown off stride by the interruption, the doctor rubbed the pen tip against the side of his face as if bewildered. “Quite certain, Mrs. Inglewood. You appear to be about three months pregnant. When was…?”

That incompetent twit! Hadn’t she guessed she couldn’t trust Jerome’s friend? His entire clinic had done little to inspire confidence. She should have known he’d get the test results wrong.

“I got pregnant three months and nine days ago,” she told the surgeon. That date was engraved on her mind for all time.

Like a delayed electric charge, the impact of his revelation suddenly slammed home. She was going to have a baby! Jerome’s baby.