Brave Enough (21 page)

My heart is pounding. My vision is filling. My soul is aching.

“I'm afraid, Tag. You hurt me so much and I . . . I . . .”

“I know, baby. I know I did. And I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you'll just let me. If you can just be brave. Brave enough to trust me. To try again. Just this one time, be brave enough to take a chance on me, knowing all there is to know. I wasn't brave enough to tell you the truth and risk losing you, but I lost you anyway. Be braver than me. Risk for me. I promise you won't regret it. Please, Weatherly.”

As I stare down into his gorgeous face through a galaxy of sparkling tears, I'm torn. My heart is telling me one thing, my head another. Despite their very different urgings, I know which one I'll follow. It's the one I
have to
follow. The only choice I have.

“I'm only saying yes because I have no choice,” I tell him quietly, warmed by the heat of his hands where they hold mine.

Tag's expression falls. “You always have a choice, Weatherly. I would never force you to do something you didn't want to do. I just thought . . . I guess I hoped . . .”

His voice trails off as he drops his head, his fingers loosening their hold on mine. When he releases them, I reach down and
curl them into the front of Tag's shirt. Surprised, he glances up at me just as I'm dropping to my knees.

“You listen to me, Tag Barton. No one can force me to do something that I don't want to do. Not even William O'Neal. But this,” I tell him, tugging until he leans forward and his belly is pressed to mine, “this is what I want. It's what I
need. You
are what I need. I've never been so miserable . . .” I close my eyes at the mere memory of the pain and heartache I've suffered these last weeks.

Hands cup my face and I crack my lids to find Tag's fierce face less than an inch from mine. “Never. Again,” he growls.

“Never again what?”

“Never again will I hurt you. As long as this heart beats, as long as these lungs breathe, you won't be hurt again. Not by me, not by anyone. You're mine. And what's mine, I'd die to protect.”

“You can't save me from all the hurts of the world, Tag, but you can save me from yours. Please. Please, please, please don't disappoint me. I don't think I could take it again.”

“I won't. Ever. I'd do anything for you. Anything.” When I say nothing, his grip tightens. “Do you understand that, Weatherly? Do you really know what it means to me when I tell you I love you? When I tell you that I can't live without you?” He seems almost desperate again, desperate to make me understand what's in his heart.

The thing is, I know exactly what he means.

“Yes. I do.”

“Then you know that when I give you
me
, when I make you this promise, I make it on everything that's ever mattered to me.
You're safe with me, Weatherly Barton. You won't ever have to be brave again. I've got you. I've got you,” he whispers, his voice laced with emotion.

“Never? Not even for, say, childbirth?” I ask, giving him my first real smile since that fateful day when we got back from our honeymoon.

Tag's face softens, so much so that it brings tears to my eyes. “Childbirth? Children? With
me
?”

“Yes, with you. Only with you. I'd love to have some.”

Lips brush mine in the sweetest kiss known to man. Tag then winds his arms around me and crushes me to him in an embrace that tells me finally . . .
finally
everything is going to be all right. I know now—as surely as I know my name and my birthday and that I fell in love with a man the first day that I met him—I
know
that my husband will make sure of it. Because he's brave enough to love me. And I'm brave enough to love him right back.

Weatherly

Five years later

The afternoon sun is pouring onto the patio. I take another sip of water, wondering if this was the best idea. In my condition, getting overheated probably isn't a good idea. But when I hear the delighted squeals coming from the water, followed closely by a deep chuckle, I remember why I'm out here, why I wouldn't miss this.

Tag is in the pool with our daughter, Willow. Since I'm so close to delivery, I can't play with her as much as I'd like. Tag makes up for it, though, by taking her on four-wheeler rides through the grapevines and watching her while she climbs trees. And by throwing her around in the pool at least twice a day.

It didn't take me long to figure out that he was going to be an amazing husband. Once we managed to put all our issues behind us and move forward, he threw himself into it with gusto. I was a little nervous about how he'd do with a baby, but I needn't have
been. He's exceeded my expectations and then some. He can be so gentle, yet so playful. He's every little girl's dream daddy, I'm sure. He would've been mine, for sure.

My own father has come around quite a bit since the birth of our daughter. It's like he realized he was being given a second chance to make different choices and set different priorities, and he did. He and Mom come to visit at least once a month and stay for a week. It's not Tag's
favorite
week, but they get along a lot better now that there's no room for a hostile takeover in their relationship. The merger of a part of each of their companies worked out better than anyone could've anticipated. Dad's money is safe. Growing, in fact. And Tag's is, too. Not that he cares as much about it as my father does his. It's nice to have a fortune, but our life is pretty simple. We're happy spending our time here at Chiara, with each other and with our child. And soon, there will be another little laugh to add to the mix.

As if in agreement, I feel a tight squeeze low in my abdomen. It steals my breath for a second. I breathe through it, thinking that it's just a Braxton Hicks contraction. I realize that it might be more than that, however, when five minutes later another one seizes my uterus. And another one five minutes after that.

“Uh, babe?” I call out to Tag when the third one eases.

He glances over at me, his face still wreathed in a gorgeous smile. “Beautiful?”

“I think you might need to cut the swimming short and call my parents.” I do my best to get out of the lounger gracefully, but I know it's no use. At this point, the best I can do is lumber.

When I straighten, I see Tag's smile fade. He stills, his long fingers unmoving where they're wrapped around Willow's waist as he was preparing to pick her up and throw her. “What's wrong?”

“Whassa matter, Mommy?” Willow chimes in, her tiny hands resting over her father's much larger, much tanner ones.

“I could be mistaken, but I think we might be making a trip to the hospital.”

With lightning speed that one wouldn't expect from a man as big as my husband, Tag hauls himself and our daughter out of the pool. He runs, dripping wet, a giggling child in his arms, over to me to help.

“Don't worry about me yet. I'm fine. Go get some dry clothes on both of you and bring my suitcase to the car. I'll meet you there.”

“You got it, Mrs. Barton.”

They disappear in a swirl of excited whispers that include something about momma and a baby brother. I smile as I waddle my way across the patio and out to the garage. I have to pause twice, once to catch my breath and once until a contraction passes. This one seemed like it might be less than five minutes from the last one. Quite a bit less.

“Better hurry,” I call out to no one in particular. My labor with Willow was brutal, but surprisingly short, especially for a first child. I can only imagine how quickly our son might get here once he gets started.

I press the button to open the garage door. The cool interior air brings attention to the wetness between my legs. “Oh shit, oh shit,
oh shit,” I whisper, rarely ever using that kind of language now that little ears hear every word we say. And often repeat them.

Another contraction hits and I cry out. That can't have been more than two minutes at the most.
Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!

Sweat breaks out across my upper lip and a sense of panic starts to erupt in my chest. If this is real labor, which it seems to be because it's escalating, we won't have time to make it down the mountain.

My mind races as I run through my options, wishing I'd listened to Tag about staying in Atlanta for the last month of my pregnancy. I wanted to be here, though. Our home. And Willow loves it here so much. Just like I did when I was her age. I didn't think it would be a problem, but what if I
am
in labor? What if I
can't
make it down the mountain? What if I've risked the safety of our son?

The thought is agonizing. It brings with it a searing pain to my heart. Behind my eyes, too, as tears rush in.

I hear the scuffle of feet behind me seconds before I feel Tag's hand at my lower back.

“You coming? Or are we going without you?” he teases. When I turn to face him, his expression falls and turns to one of alarm. “What's wrong?”

“I don't think I'm going to make it down the mountain,” I say in a trembling voice, all the while silently praying that God protect my baby from my own stupidity.

“Wh-what do we do?” he asks, his words hushed, his eyes full of fear.

“Let's go back into the house. We can do this. Right?” When the color leaves his face, I prompt, “Right?”

“Yes. Yes!” he replies, his second response more certain that the first. He sets Willow on her feet. “Walk behind us, cricket. I'm gonna carry Momma.”

That's the only warning I get before he sweeps me off my feet and walks briskly back to the house. He takes the front steps two at a time, pausing to look back for Willow, who is running as fast as her little legs will carry her. Tag starts toward the stairs, but I stop him.

“Maybe we should do this in the living room, near the kitchen. Just in case we need things from there.”

He changes his direction, taking me to the couch and depositing me gently on the cushions. When he straightens, he takes his phone out of his pocket. “I'm calling 911.”

“Okay,” I say, breathing through pursed lips as another contraction squeezes my uterus. “Oh God! Call your mom, too. Maybe she'll know what to do.”

He tells the 911 operator what's going on and where we're located, then hangs up and dials his mom, who is only a few dozen yards away at her house. “Mom, Weatherly's in labor. We can't make it down the mountain. Can you help?”

Her response must've been short because Tag hangs up within seconds. My contraction has eased and my brain is working a little more clearly.

“We'll need towels and boiling water,” I tell him. “At least that's what they always need in the movies. Maybe you should Google midwifery,” I suggest.

So he does. He's still spouting off all sorts of facts when Stella arrives. She's cool and collected and takes charge immediately.

A sense of hopefulness and peace settles over me and I think that, if the paramedics don't get here in time, my child and I will be in good hands.

—

I never imagined I'd be here, that I'd be lying in a hospital bed after having delivered my baby at home with the help of my husband and my mother-in-law. Yet here I am. Tag is in the rocking chair in the corner, rocking our son, Jenner, as he sleeps. He's humming quietly, a look of perfect happiness on his handsome face. All I can see from the bundle in his arms is the one chubby hand that still holds his father's finger. He went to sleep clutching it. As long as I live, I don't think I'll ever forget this picture.

Stella took Willow with her to meet my parents at the hotel so they can rest. It's been a stressful couple of days and none of us have had much sleep. I started bleeding uncontrollably after Jenner was born. I'd lost an alarming amount of blood by the time the paramedics arrived. They rushed me here, where I underwent emergency surgery to remove some parts of the placenta that weren't delivered properly. That's what led to the postpartum hemorrhage. I must've scared the life out of Tag. He hasn't left my side. Asleep or awake, evidently he's been with me from the moment I went into labor until right this minute. I can tell that he's tired, and that he's in desperate need of a shave, but otherwise, he looks like the happiest father in the world.

As though he can sense my eyes on him, my thoughts on him,
he lifts his head and captures my gaze with his own. We stare at each other for countless seconds until he gets up and walks to the bedside.

He bends to press his lips to my forehead, still cradling the sleeping Jenner. “You're my life. You know that, right?”

I nod, emotion clogging my throat like cars on a congested interstate.

“Thank you for marrying me. And forgiving me. And for the gift of our children,” he says softly. “But most of all for your love. You're making me the man I've always wanted to be.”

“You've been that man all along. I saw him from the start.”

“Thank you for not giving up on me.”

“I didn't have a choice. I love you too much.”

“You could never love me too much. It's impossible.”

“I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I couldn't be me without you.”

“It's only fair. I
know
I wouldn't be me without
you.
When you started bleeding,” he says, his voice cracking and his eyes filling with tears. “Shit! I just . . . I couldn't . . . There was nothing I could do except hold your hand. And it was so cold . . .”

Tag drops his head to my chest, right over my heart, and I run my fingers into his silky hair.

“I'm not going anywhere. And next time, we'll stay in Atlanta.”

He raises his head and locks his shining eyes onto mine. “Next time? You mean this didn't scare you out of having more?”

I shake my head confidently. “No. These are little miracles of our love. I'd have a dozen of them if I could.”

His smile is happy again. Excited, even. “Well, you know, we
could start working on that. I mean, I
am
your husband and I guess it's my duty to . . . you know.”

“Yeah, I guess you'll just have to suffer through . . . you know,” I say with a grin. Nothing seems to impair our sex life. It's even more amazing now than it was in the beginning. And it was pretty damn amazing then.

“I love you, Weatherly Barton.”

“And I love you, Tag Barton.”

When he leans down to press his lips to mine, our son whimpers in his arms, his grayish blue eyes opening to lock on to mine. Tag scoots into bed beside me and I'd swear for a second that I could see Jenner smiling up at me.