The Right To Remain Mine (25 page)

        "Jesus," he said and tried to pull away, but she wouldn't let go. She sobbed harder and looked scared to death by the time the pain passed.

        "I want Dylan," she bawled.

        "It's okay," he murmured and smoothed his hand over her hair, unconsciously calming the locks that had become frazzled. "Don't cry. I'll get him for you. Put your arms around my neck for now, though, and I'll carry you to where we need to go."

        Shaking her head, Willow's cousin stared up at him with a pair of wide blue eyes. The poor girl was frightened to death.

        "I'm too heavy," she croaked, looking absolutely mortified.

        Raith chuckled. "Honey, you can't weigh but a buck twenty-five and that's as pregnant as you are. I can carry you, no problem."

        But the stubborn woman only bit her bottom lip. "I'll get you all wet. You know what that is, right? My water broke."

        He'd had his suspicions, but she didn't need to go and verbalize it. Ignoring the fact he'd have that stuff drenching his clothes, he took the woman's chin and looked her directly in the eye.

        "Camille," he commanded. "Put your arms around my neck. Now."

        She did so without further complaint. He hefted her into his arms and moved past the checkout registers toward the front doors before she spoke again.

        "That's exactly something Willow would've done, you know," she murmured thoughtfully and then shocked the stuffing out of him when she rested her head on his shoulder. "You bossing me around back there; it reminded me of her."

        "Just be glad you got me instead of DeVane," he answered. "I doubt she'd be able to carry you so easily."

        Camille Taggart lifted her face and sent him a surprised look. "You call her by her last name too."

        Raith opened his mouth but didn't have the opportunity to answer, which was just as well. He wasn't too sure what he would've said. Instead, her eyes went huge and her arms tightened around his neck, damn near choking him. Face turning purple, he tried not to pass out and drop her, and gratefully sucked in air as soon as her contraction passed.

        "God, I feel like such an idiot," she wailed, burying her face into his collar.

        "It happens," Raith commented and then muttered, "Thank God," when he heard the sound of an ambulance blaring down the street toward them.

        "I'd been having pains all morning," Camille went on, lamenting her predicament. "But the baby isn't due for another three weeks. I just thought it was a false alarm. So I went grocery shopping and all of a sudden the Atlantic flooded out around my ankles right in the middle of the frozen food section, and the pain came so fast, I just... I couldn't stop it."

        Raith carried her toward the approaching vehicle. As it stopped in front of them, he turned his attention back to her. "Looks like your ride's here, Mrs. Taggart." He set her gently on the stretcher two paramedics had readied. But as soon as he tried to release her, she grasped his arm.

        "Where do you think you're going?" she said in a panic. "Don't you dare leave me."

        "Uh..." he sputtered, not wanting her to strangle him again. "Mrs. Taggart, I don't think—"

        She tightened her grip. "You get my cousin pregnant, you can God damn keep calling me Camille." When another contraction began, she wrapped her second hand around his forearm. "And you're not leaving until Dylan or someone in my family gets here." Then she gripped him tight and groaned out an ungodly sound of pain and anger.

        So Raith decided to stay with her all the way to the hospital and into the maternity ward. He held her hand, and they both winced every time a contraction hit. Afterward, he mopped her sweaty brow dry. Then, without fail, she asked for her husband. And every time, Raith would answer, "He's on his way," which seemed to relax her.

        He almost hugged Dylan Taggart when the man finally blew into the delivery room, twenty minutes later.

        "Camille," he gasped, hurrying to her and pressing his hand to her stomach.

        Raith immediately stepped back and muttered, "About freaking time."

        "I'm okay," Camille assured her husband, taking his hands and

bringing them to her mouth for a kiss.

        Raith scowled. With him, the woman had been a complete mess, panting and sweating, begging for her man. But now that Taggart had arrived, she was composed and smiling like an angel, as if nothing had ever been wrong.

        "Raith stayed with me," she added, making Dylan Taggart lift his head abruptly to realize someone else was in the room with them. He took in Raith's uniform and then shocked all three of them when he lurched forward and hugged the deputy.

        "Thank you for being there," he said with genuine heart-felt emotion before he quickly pulled away and returned his attention to Camille, who was starting to have another contraction.

        Malloy blew out a breath, grateful he was off the hook. But as he walked from the delivery room, his mind drifted to another delivery room and another woman in a time yet to come.

        He wondered if Willow would let him watch their child enter the world. He wondered if she'd even ask for him as Camille had begged nonstop for Taggart. God, he wondered if he'd ever even see her again, though that question was answered thirty seconds later as he strode toward the exit. He jerked to a stop when the sliding doors opened and she breezed inside. She nearly plowed into him before she realized he stood in her path.

        Eyes widening, she yelped out a scream and slammed her hand to her chest. "Oh, my God."

        He studied her face, wanting to reach out and touch her. "Your cousin's still in the delivery room," he said.

        She frowned. "You've seen Camille?"

        He nodded. "Someone called 911 when her water broke in the middle of the grocery store. I was the first on the scene."

        Not even realizing what she was going to do, he blinked when she reached out and anxiously grasped his arms. "How is she?"

        He snorted. The woman was in labor, how did DeVane think she was? But instead of turning snarky, he lifted his hand to flex his fingers. "I think she broke a few bones because she squeezed so hard every time she had a contraction."

        Willow's shoulders relaxed. Taking her hand off him, she lifted a brow and sniffed. "Well, good. It's no less than you deserve."

        Glad they were back to their insult-tossing exchange, he blew out a breath. "DeVane, we need to talk."

        But she lifted a hand and sent him a cool glance. "Not now. I'm here for my cousin. I don't want to deal with you or any of that today."

        Though he wanted to press the issue, Raith merely nodded. "Later then." He stepped aside to let her pass and then watched her stride down the hall. After she disappeared from view, he cursed and stormed out of the hospital.

~ * ~

        Well, that was a start, Willow decided as she turned the corner in the hospital hallway, only to pause and press her back against a wall. At least Malloy wanted to talk to her. Ignoring the little hitch in her chest as a spark of hope ignited, she pushed from her support and continued toward the maternity ward.

        Half her family had already arrived and were gathered in the waiting room. Finding a seat next to Kit and her uncle Fletch, she crossed her legs and waited.

        Thirty minutes later, Dylan rushed into the room. "It's a boy!" he declared, though everyone had known for some time the child was supposed to be male.

        "Come quick. You've got to see this kid. He's perfect." Lining up behind Kit's wife Tina, Willow waited her turn to get into the packed room and meet William Matthew Taggart.

        "We're going to call him Will for short," Camille explained after announcing the name they'd been keeping to themselves for the past nine months. "That way he can be named after both Willow and his Grandpa Fletcher because Daddy's middle name is William."

        "I like it," Willow said and held her breath as Dylan lifted the child from his mother and turn to set Will in Willow's waiting arms.

        "Meet your mommy's best friend," Dylan told the boy.

        Tears clogged her lashes and she laughed as the infant opened his eyes and gazed up at her.

        "Hey there, handsome," she cooed.

        "Please thank Malloy for all he did," Dylan said, pressing a hand onto her shoulder. "Camille's glad he was there for her. I'm glad he was there for her."

        Willow lifted her face in surprise. As her gaze met her cousin's, Camille smiled softly. "It won't be long until you to hold your own."

        Unable to help herself, Willow wept a little harder.

        It took five days for Willow's visitor to return.

        She'd locked all her doors since then and even slept with a light on. But tonight, exhausted after a long day of work, she couldn't make herself care or even think about intruders.

        Morning sickness had struck. Hard. And she was always so tired; she wanted to sleep around the clock.

        Too worn out to hurry through a shower, she soaked in the tub for about an hour, turning wrinkly and cold before she forced herself to climb out again. After slipping on a robe, she reached for a towel and rubbed at her dripping hair. But as she opened the door to her bathroom and started into the bedroom, she saw him.

        A stranger stood by her closet. Jerking to a stop, she stumbled in reverse, back into the bathroom.

        His face had been turned away, but when she tripped on the terrycloth belt hanging from her open robe and stumbled, making a noise that echoed through her head, her intruder spun around. Short, with lean shoulders, thin, scraggly hair and beady, deep-set eyes, he stared at her with a vacant expression.

        Yelping, she dropped her towel and regained her balance, still scurrying backward toward the bathroom. He smiled wickedly, displaying a mouth full of rotting teeth—no doubt decaying from too much meth use— and shook his head a split second before he pulled a knife from his pocket and flipped it open.

        "So, we meet at last," he said in a voice that was too low for a man this slight of frame.

        Then he charged.

        Willow screamed, whirled and flung herself into the bathroom. She slammed the door and locked it just as he reached her. He rattled the handle; her breathing hitched as she watched it jiggle back and forth.

        Oh, God. Oh, God.

        She had no idea what to do.

        Realizing he couldn't get in that way, the intruder slammed his entire body—or something equally big—against the door panel.

       Willow jerked.

       Oh, God.

        The door shuddered and heaved. When she heard wood splinter, she leapt into action. Grabbing a cabinet she'd bought and assembled last year because her shelves were overflowing with cosmetics, she pushed it toward the door, hoping it could work as a blockade. Bottles of lotions, perfumes, and hair gel rattled off the shelves, scattering across the floor and tripping her.

        More wood cracked. She whimpered, beginning to hyperventilate. Slipping on the damp tile, she fell to her knees twice and banged her shins but popped right back up to shove some more. Just as he might've broken inside, she propelled the cabinet in front of the doorway and planted her own body in front of that.

        Not even realizing tears streamed down her cheeks, she braced all her strength against the flimsy piece of furniture. He screamed at her, telling her she couldn't evade him forever.

        "Oh, yes I can," she muttered and shoved wet hair out of her face.

        "I'm going to kill you, bitch," he roared. "Kill you!"

        Something thudded against the door, making a strange pinging sound. Willow glanced over her shoulder long enough to see the tip of his knife pierce through before he pulled it out to stab again. She sobbed, realizing he wouldn't stop until he broke into her bathroom. Glancing around for something to help her defend herself, she spotted her purse on the vanity. She'd been so fatigued she'd carried it straight into the lavatory with her.

        Sobbing out a cry of relief, she stretched for it only to realize it sat about a yard beyond her reach; she'd have to shift her weight away from her post to grab the bag. Yet if she moved, he'd gain entrance and she'd never have a chance to dig her cell phone out to call anyone.

        Cursing and panting, she closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. A picture of Raith's face popped her into her head.

        She choked out a dry heave, wanting that arrogant, conceited jerk here more than she'd ever wanted anything.

        But she had to do something before she'd ever see him again. Growling out a sound of rage—her war cry, she thought instantly—she dived for the purse, grabbing the strap and pulling it to her even as she darted back to the blockade. The door moved in a good six inches and she could actually see her attacker's face, the insanity in his eyes and the glint from his blade, before she plopped her body back against the cabinet and slammed his fingers in the latch.

        Ignoring his scream of rage, she dug into her bag. Wanting to call Raith, she suddenly remembered she'd never programmed his number into her phone. His business card currently sat in her bedroom on her dresser, inches away from her attacker's elbow as he hacked through her bathroom door. Trying to remember those seven elusive digits, she squeezed her eyes shut and started to pray. But the phone number never came to her. Thinking maybe he'd been the last person she'd called since the last time her intruder had broken in, she hit redial.