Baby on Board. Lisa Ruff
would protect her child from that pain, even at the expense of her own heart. Kate turned away from him and felt the heat of the furnace on her face. Usually comforting, this time the blaze fired her anger and unhappiness. She needed to get away from Patrick. If he wouldn’t leave, then she would; Kate moved to the door.
Patrick followed and grabbed her by the arm. When she jerked free, he slipped his arms around her. “Please, Kate. Don’t run away. It’s my baby, too.”
She wriggled in his grasp. “You won’t be the kind of father a child needs. You won’t be here. You’re just a sperm donor.” She didn’t hesitate to use his words against him.
When she tried again to break from his embrace, one of his hands slipped over her abdomen, onto the soft bulge there. Kate stopped struggling. They stood still for a long moment. Kate could feel his breath in her hair and his heart beating against her back.
Slowly, Patrick’s other hand slid to her abdomen. He gently cupped the slight swelling where there had once been a flat expanse of skin. Kate didn’t stop him. The shield she had erected against him slipped a little as he touched her. This was the father of her child. No matter how she tried to stop it, having him stroke the life they had created brought a lump into her throat.
He spun her around in his arms and raised her shirt. After gazing at her pregnant belly for a long, silent time, his eyes met hers.
“How long?” he asked.
“Four and a half months.”
He put a hand on her stomach again, spreading his fingers as if to encompass all that lay beneath the surface. The back of his tanned hand was dark against her pale skin.
“Can you feel anything yet?”
Kate nodded. “She’s pretty active. At first it was like having a butterfly trapped inside, but now it’s like she’s dancing.”
“She?” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s a girl?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t want to, either, but I don’t like saying ‘it’.”
“I am the father, Kate.” He glared at her. “Don’t take that away from me.”
With a jerk, she pulled back, tugging her shirt down over her stomach. “It’s not about what I want or you want. It’s about my child.”
Patrick locked his eyes on her. “Our child.”
“Her happiness is all that matters to me. I don’t think you’re willing to be that unselfish. I’m not sure you can be.”
“You won’t even give me a chance, will you?” Patrick thrust a hand through his long hair. He paced away from her across the studio, holding one hand to the nape of his neck. He stood with his back to her for a long minute, then dropped his hand and turned around. “I didn’t get you pregnant and then just walk away.”
“I know that.” Kate took a deep breath. “Look, for me, everything’s changed.”
“You talk like it’s been years. It’s only been three months.”
“Three months without you. Alone. On my own, with a child to think about. My life is different now, Patrick.” She placed a hand over her abdomen where his had rested. “I don’t think you’re capable of giving me what I need or what a child needs. And, honestly, I can’t afford to give you the chance to hurt me again. Or the baby.”
“Kate, I—”
“No, Patrick. I’m tired and I don’t want to argue about this anymore.”
“We need to—”
Kate put up a hand. “No, not today.”
He clenched his teeth. “This morning I found out I was going to be a father. Now you tell me I’m not. I need time to think about this. We both do. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
Kate shook her head. She imagined he wasn’t going to let this lie. He was a stubborn man. She also knew that he wouldn’t win. The baby trumped every argument he could make. He wouldn’t be there as a father for her and nothing less was acceptable.
“Not tomorrow. I have an appointment.”
“With who? Your doctor? I’ll go with you.”
“No.” Kate felt a flush creep up her cheeks.
She turned away and began to rack her tools on a Peg-Board panel hung across from the worktable. The loose mandrels clanked together as she gathered them up and put them in a cabinet drawer beneath the board. Carefully, she poured the two dishes of glass frit back into their jars and put them in a rack at the end of the table. She picked up the paintbrush she had dropped earlier and put it in a jar of cleaning fluid. With a rag, she wiped the smear of paint off the table. Patrick watched her closely, but she refused to meet his gaze.
“So you’re meeting one of my replacements.”
Kate spun to look at him, wide-eyed. “Who told—” She stopped abruptly when she saw his face. He had been guessing, but her reaction had confirmed it.
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Damn it, Kate. I can’t believe this.”
Keeping her flushed face averted, she put away the glass rod he had fidgeted with and screwed the lid on the jar of paint. She swished the brush in the cleaner and dried it with a rag.
“Don’t believe it, then, but there’s nothing else to say. I’ve made my decision.”
“This is crazy.” He stalked to the door and wrenched it open. “This is not over. Not by a long shot.” He strode out of the workshop, slamming the door behind him.
Kate jumped at the sound, then plunked herself down on the stool with a sigh. The baby moved restlessly inside her. Soothingly, she stroked the small bulge.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Mama did the right thing.” Kate let out a hiccupping sigh as tears ran down her cheeks. “It’s over now. It’s all over now.”
Chapter Two
Patrick skidded his truck into a parking space at the marina, jammed it into neutral and turned off the engine. The gravel lot was nearly empty. Most of the vehicles belonged to marina employees. Their cars were easily distinguished from the boat owners’ by age, abuse and layers of dirt. Like Patrick’s Dodge: once white, it was now a dull, mottled tan and sported a V-shaped dent in the roof where a mast had accidentally landed on it.
He sat in the pickup, staring out the windshield, hands braced on the steering wheel for a long, silent minute. Then, in a burst of movement, he shouldered his door open, got out and slammed it closed as hard as he could. The truck rocked on its suspension from the force of his fury. Out of the air-conditioned cab, the hot July breeze from the Chesapeake Bay wrapped around him like a wet towel. At the back of the truck, Patrick reached over the tailgate and grabbed his bag of sailing gear.
She can’t deny me my own child!
The thought had him dropping the bag and curling his fingers over the warm metal tailgate. She has no right. But what could he do about it? With a growl of pure rage, Patrick balled his hand into a fist and slammed it into the tailgate. The blow dented the panel just above the O and shot searing pain from his knuckles up his arm.
“Damn her to hell!”
He spun away from the truck, tucking his hand into his armpit. The action did nothing to soothe the agony. He sat down heavily on the back bumper, still cradling his battered appendage. “Damn her,” he repeated softly.
The pain overwhelmed his fury. Slowly, anger was replaced by an ache in his heart that seemed to complement the throbbing in his fingers. That ache was a surprise, a hurt for something he hadn’t even known he cared about. He ran his uninjured hand through his hair and lowered his head, hunching his shoulders. His mind reeled and lurched but came up with no direction.