Her Soldier's Baby. Tara Quinn Taylor
been one specific event that had done so.
Only a handful of people knew that. And none of them were talking. Ever. The pact was as rock-solid all those years later as it had been when it was made.
Not to save his butt. In some ways he’d just been the pawn. The one who drew the short straw.
But in the end, he’d been the perpetrator, too.
Because he’d made a choice. One he’d probably make again if faced with the situation again. And one he’d regret for the rest of his life.
And that was the crux of his predicament. You couldn’t be forgiven for something you knew you’d do again.
“When we were young, you talked about wanting to be a father.”
He didn’t miss a physical step, had only a bit of a mental blip.
“You were going to be everything your own parents were not...”
He heard the words. Didn’t relate to them. But held her hand. Because doing so was best for both of them.
“I know this is difficult ground, Pierce, considering your injury, but we need to talk about it.”
The thing was, the injury he’d sustained that had rendered him incapable of fathering children—it had been just. A man who’d taken the life of a child did not deserve to have children of his own.
He walked beside her. Would remain by her side for as long as she’d have him there. He’d made her that promise.
Of course, he’d promised, when he’d left his sweet young lover all those years ago, that he’d be back for her. He’d been too much of a kid back then to understand that life changed you—sometimes beyond anything that would fit into the life you’d left.
Still...he’d come back to her. Eventually.
“What do you think about adopting?”
Her words stung his skin. Hurt his ears with their volume. Tightened around his chest.
Pierce let go of Eliza’s hand.
SHIVERING AS SHE walked beside Pierce up the sidewalk that led to their home, Eliza refused to give in to the self-pity that was pushing its way up her throat.
He wasn’t cutting her off. Or out. He was experiencing something beyond his control. The result of having been sent, as barely a man, to fight a war that so much of the time made no sense to him. Pierce’s time in the Middle East had involved full combat against insurgents. The physical injuries he’d sustained, while horrendous, weren’t as horrible as the mental battles he still fought.
Her job as his spouse, his partner, was to understand his silences for what they were. He’d been up-front with her from the very beginning this time around. He’d let her know that he wasn’t the man he’d been.
He still didn’t get that, to her, he was. The essence of him, the heart and soul, was battered but intact. Pierce was every bit the boy he’d been. And so much more.
“I’m not asking you to bring a baby into our home, Pierce,” she said softly half a block from the inn. “Or even telling you, yet, that I want to. I just wanted to talk about kids. About us not having any. About how it’s hard sometimes. I wanted us to think about the fact that if we both wanted a child badly enough, we could check into adoption...”
She’d been thinking about it a lot. Anytime her brain hadn’t been filled with her son and Family Secrets and...Pierce. Her visit to the agency...remembering how it had felt, for those few brief moments, to be a mother. Thinking about the family who got to have a baby of their own through her. Picturing her and Pierce on the receiving side, instead of the losing side—no, not losing, giving. They’d been on the giving side.
For so long, ever since Pierce had come back and she’d known about his injury, she’d resigned herself to being half of a childless couple. Had thought it was her fate for having given away her baby. Pierce’s obvious struggle with his infertility had just been the final seal on the decision...
“I don’t want a child.”
They were the first words he’d spoken in almost half an hour.
“It’s just...well...when you married Bonita...it was because of her son. You said you married her because her son needed a father and you wanted to be there for him. Whether you think you were a good father or not, you still wanted to be one...” She was rambling. And he knew her well enough to figure out that she was upset. If enough of him was there with her to notice.
A few yards from home, he stopped, turned her to look at him. “I understand if you feel different, Eliza, but please hear me. I do not want a child.”
His words were a death knell to her future.
The deep emotion shining in his eyes, overflowing with all of the things he couldn’t say, held her heart tightly, passionately bound with his.
* * *
“NO.” INSTANTLY AWAKE, Eliza lay frozen. She hadn’t dreamed the fierce growl.
Was Pierce in the bed with her?
His body wasn’t touching hers, and she was afraid to move to find out if he was there. She hardly breathed but couldn’t hear his breath.
Pierce wasn’t a heavy sleeper. Waking to find herself alone wasn’t uncommon. When his demons were doing their worst, he’d get up and roam. Sometimes just in their suite. Sometimes outside on the grounds. Depended on how much air he needed to clear his mind.
Some nights he turned on the television and lay awake watching sitcom reruns. At first, she’d thought maybe the sound of the television had woken her. But she could tell by the lack of light and shadows on the wall that the TV wasn’t on.
“Nooooo.” The sound came again. Fiercer this time. And then it was a howl. A wail. No longer in doubt as to its origin, Eliza still didn’t move. Her husband was in a hell she couldn’t share. But if she startled him, he might mistakenly take her there.
Pierce had never hit her—or even swung her way—during one of his nighttime episodes, but he’d insisted that she go to counseling with him before she’d ever spent a night in his bed. She knew that it wasn’t impossible that she could inadvertently be hurt.
She also knew it wasn’t likely to happen. Not after all these years. Pierce was diligent with his mental and emotional awareness.
So much so that they’d gone so long without an episode that she’d thought perhaps he was over them.
Had hoped that her love, their life together on the island, gave him enough peace to keep the demons at bay.
It would help if he worked in a field other than the dangerous one he’d chosen. Dealing with thugs and break-ins all day was too reminiscent of battling insurgents. But it had been decided, with professional input, that in Pierce’s case, being out on the streets actually helped him work out some of the panic bottled up inside him. He was more at peace when he was doing something to help make the world a safer place.
The bed started to shake and so, then, did Eliza. Alarmed, she held her breath. He’d never convulsed before. Was he having a seizure?
Willing to risk a fist in the face if it meant saving her husband’s life, Eliza shot up and turned toward Pierce, ready to cram her fingers in his mouth and hold on to his tongue if need be—something she’d read you had to do to prevent someone having a seizure from swallowing their tongue. Nothing she had any real knowledge about at all.
Before she’d even touched his shoulder, she stopped. His back was to her. And now that she could see him, she knew he wasn’t convulsing.
He was sobbing. Leaning over him, careful not to disturb him, she saw his eyes were closed,