Beside him, Quincy felt Loni press close. She whispered, “If Stormy has healing powers, there is no closer bond than that between a baby and its mother. Maybe just the baby’s touch will heal Ceara. Your little girl needs her mama. On some level, isn’t it possible that she might sense that her mother is ill and about to die?”
Quincy didn’t know, and he was afraid to place too much hope on a possibility. At this point, he needed to dig deep for strength and brace himself for the worst. If he ended up getting a miracle and Ceara lived, he’d be on his knees thanking God at least once every day for the rest of his life. But it was a big if, and he couldn’t count on it.
Stevenson arrived with Stormy carefully swaddled in her arms. She stood off to one side of the door as nurses filed out. One, a redhead who looked a bit older than the other two, paused to express her disagreement with the decision. “The patient is extremely unstable, Dr. Stevenson. It strikes me as very odd that you’re pulling off the nurses. I understand that the family would like a few minutes to say their good-byes, but it seems to me that they could do that while medical staff is present.”
Stevenson nodded. “I understand, Sharon, and I’ll call all of you back in shortly. The family just wishes for this to be a special moment. And that’s all it will be, a moment. You won’t be out of here for long.”
Quincy felt himself being guided through the open doorway by gentle hands. Once he saw Ceara, he could see nothing else. She’d lost ground since his last visit. He knew it with one glance. In his estimation, she could die at any moment, between one heartbeat and the next.
Stevenson handed the baby over to Loni. “This is your show.”
Quincy was glad it was somebody’s show, because he felt too numb and his thoughts were too disjointed for him to be in charge. Loni cuddled the baby close and moved quickly toward Ceara’s bed, approaching on the side where no tubes or cuffs were attached to her arm. Shifting the infant into the bend of one elbow, Loni drew the sheet away from Ceara’s chest. Then she beckoned to Mandy.
“Help me get her gown open. I want them to be skin-to-skin so Stormy recognizes who’s holding her.”
Quincy recalled how the baby had recognized his voice and touch. The memory jerked him out of his stupor. He watched Mandy bare Ceara’s right shoulder and breast. When he glanced at his brothers, he saw that they had the good manners to look away. Tucker, too. Only Quincy watched as Loni unwrapped Stormy’s minuscule body and placed her against her mother’s breast. The baby wailed at the feel of cold air against her, but then, as if instinct took over, the infant went still and nuzzled the side of Ceara’s breast, making tiny mewling sounds. Loni laughed softly.
“Yes, dear heart, it’s your mama.” Loni leaned over the bed, blocking Quincy’s view. Then she laughed lightly again. “There you have it, tiny one. Suckle all you like. Recognize the bond, that this is your mother and all is not well.”
Stevenson surged forward. “You can’t let her nurse. We’ve got Ceara pumped full of so many drugs it’s—”
Loni turned to face the doctor, her left hand curled over the baby, now covered with the sheet, so there would be no danger of her falling off the bed. “It’s only colostrum, already in Loni’s ducts before any drugs. Can it really be that dangerous? She’ll only suckle for a couple of seconds. This should happen quickly if it’s going to happen at all.”
Stevenson threw up her hands. “I honestly don’t know if the drugs have tainted the colostrum.”
Loni held up a forefinger. “Only for a few seconds. Let Stormy come to understand who is holding her. It’s only a getting-acquainted time. The baby is new at nursing. She probably won’t get much of anything, and this is important.”
Stormy had not yet perfected the art of suckling while practicing so briefly on her fist, so the sounds of missed draws reached Quincy’s ears. If Ceara died with the baby at her breast, what would he one day tell Stormy? A lie, he guessed, because hearing the real story . . . well, no little girl needed to be burdened with something so awful.
And yet, watching through a blur of tears, Quincy also realized just how beautiful it was: his beloved wife and his precious baby girl, bonding for perhaps the first and last time.
“Look!” Loni cried. She beamed an excited smile over her shoulder. “Ceara’s heartbeat. Look. I can see it on the monitor.”
Stevenson raced around to the left side of the bed. “I’ll be damned. Nothing I’ve done has worked, and now . . . holy God.”
Quincy was afraid to hope. Ceara’s breathing had been so shallow and slow. For all he knew, she might already be in the company of the angelic escorts who would guide her to heaven.
Loni sighed. Quincy saw Ceara’s previously lifeless arm tighten slightly around her daughter. Loni turned to Quincy with tears in her eyes. “It’s not just Ceara’s heartbeat that has changed, Quincy. So has her breathing. It’s working! She’s rallying.”
Quincy finally found the presence of mind to make his feet move to go toward the bed. Loni laughed and hugged his waist. “You gotta eat crow, bro.”
Quincy gaped at the heart monitor. As he watched, he saw Ceara’s blood pressure coming back up toward normal. Slowly. Fractionally. But steadily. He was afraid to believe his eyes, and yet he couldn’t deny the evidence. He glanced at Stevenson. She wore a smile so radiant that it had erased the lines of exhaustion from her face.
“Trust in it,” she said softly. “These machines don’t lie.”
Quincy suddenly felt as if his bones had melted. He jerked his gaze to Ceara’s face and saw that color was returning to her lips and cheeks. “Oh, my God. It worked.”
Behind him he heard laughter, both deep and light, the music of his family when something incredibly wonderful had happened. Quincy gently elbowed Loni out of the way to bend over the bed and embrace his wife and baby girl, almost afraid to credit what all his senses were telling him. Just as quickly as Ceara had healed their daughter, now their daughter was healing her mama.
Stevenson approached again and reached to check the baby’s breathing and pulse. Then she nodded, clearly satisfied that Stormy had suffered no ill effects.
Quincy saw Ceara’s lashes flutter. Then he was looking into her beautiful blue eyes, the most gorgeous he’d ever seen. Ceara smiled drowsily. Loni pushed in to kiss her sister-in-law on the forehead. Then to Quincy she said, “This is a time for you to be alone with your little family. We can all come back to visit later. Out, Harrigans. Right now.”
Like a drill instructor, she got every Harrigan into marching mode and herded them from the room. At the door, Stevenson swung back to say, “Get that baby off the breast now.”
Quincy heard that sucking sound again and glanced down to see his daughter going after her mother’s breast like it offered Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings. Ceara smiled and cupped a trembling hand over the baby’s dark head.
“Sorry,” Quincy said. “You’ve been pumped full of drugs. It isn’t safe for her to nurse any longer.”
He plucked Ceara’s nipple from Stormy’s eager little mouth. The baby instantly stiffened and started to cry. Almost simultaneously, wind hit the windows of the suite, and rain quickly followed, striking the glass like lead from a scattergun.
“Shit!”
Quincy offered his daughter his knuckle. It looked like he was trying to shove a torpedo into a flower stamen. The baby screwed her face into a frown and geared up for another screech. Ceara saved the day by offering her own knuckle, which was smaller and softer. Stormy seemed to find that more satisfying. The gale beyond the window immediately began to lessen and then abruptly stopped.
Quincy, still embracing Ceara with one arm, actually felt strength returning to her body. “She healed you, Ceara. You were dying, and our baby girl healed you with her touch. I didn’t think she could do it, her being so tiny and all, but Loni swore up and down she could, and she was right.”
Ceara nodded. “’Tis as it happens with the gifts. From the instant we’re born we ha
ve them. ’Tis good that we got her quieted quickly. ’Twould na be good if she got in a temper and called up a horrible storm.”
Recalling Stormy’s first tantrum, Quincy laughed, and oh, how good it felt to laugh, really laugh, with all the pain gone from his chest. He quickly disabused his wife of the notion that their daughter hadn’t already wreaked havoc on Crystal Falls. Ceara, still weak but growing better by the second, smiled and nodded.
“Ach, ’tis a job we have afore us, Quincy. We canna allow her to make trees fall down every time she feels unhappy.”
Quincy just thanked God there was a we in that sentence. Ceara didn’t seem to realize how miraculous it was that she was alive. “You came so close to dying. Do you understand that?”
She cuddled their baby closer and closed her eyes, still smiling. “I dreamed of ye. Ye called to me and said lovely things, asking me to come back to ye.”
“It wasn’t a dream.” Quincy’s throat went tight. “Well, more like a nightmare, the worst of my life.”
Ceara yawned sleepily. “’Tis time to name our daughter.”
“I’m thinking of naming her after a famous hurricane.” Quincy perched on the side of the bed, content to watch his wife drift in and out of sleep. “Zach nicknamed her Stormy. That’s probably better. It’s cute and sort of suits her.”
Ceara nodded drowsily. “Fer now, ’twill do. Later, when I can stay awake, we shall think of a better name fer her.”
Quincy leaned over again to hold his wife and daughter carefully close. He felt as if he were holding two beams of sunlight in his arms. While mother and baby dozed, he sent up a fervent prayer to thank God for saving both of them.
They were right where they belonged, alive, well, and held snugly against his heart.
A nurse burst into the room. Quincy recognized the redhead who’d protested so firmly about having to leave earlier. She advanced on the bed, her manner all business. “I must see to my patient. For now, you’ll hold the baby, please. Either that, or take her back to the NICU.”
Quincy had no intention of taking Stormy that far away from her mother, so instead he lifted the infant from the curve of Ceara’s body. Stormy immediately started to shriek, and Quincy wasn’t surprised when, an instant later, high wind and torrential rain slammed against the windows again.
“Hey, baby girl, you’ve got quite a temper.”
Quincy guessed the child came by it naturally. The Harrigan clan had a corner on mad sometimes. Hoping that Crystal Falls and the surrounding area could survive another of her temper tantrums, Quincy gently bounced her on his shoulder.
“It’s time for you to get better acquainted with your da,” he told her. “I’m not going to allow you to pitch fits, you know.” Quincy considered his options and wasn’t exactly sure how he meant to exert his will over someone so tiny and helpless who didn’t understand a word he said anyhow. “You can’t unleash your fury like this and cause trouble for people. Somehow you have to learn how to control it.”
Mouth open to scream, Stormy turned her head and got an accidental taste of Quincy’s neck. Apparently she liked the saltiness, because she began to suckle. Quincy lifted the blind and watched the violent weather subside. When the sun peeked through the clouds again, he knew that his baby daughter was once again content. Smart girl. Her mama had found her way into his arms, and now Stormy recognized safe haven there as well.
Quincy exchanged a long, silent look with his wife, who’d been awakened by the nurse. Ceara smiled at him. Given the fact that she had saved his life last night, he couldn’t say that her radiant grin was the most extraordinary gift he’d ever received, but it was definitely the sweetest.
Epilogue
Quincy couldn’t believe a whole year had passed since his daughter’s debut into the world, but today they were celebrating her first birthday. Though the name Stormy had started out as a temporary handle, it had stuck and become official—for very good reason. Every time the child grew displeased and started to cry, the heavens opened up, weeping and wreaking havoc with gale-force winds. Zach loved the fact that he had named his niece, and Quincy figured it would take at least fifty years or so before his youngest brother stopped bragging about it. No matter that her middle name was Daireann, after Ceara’s mother. She went by Stormy.
After a brief and sporadic crystal-ball reunion with Ceara’s family so they, too, could be present for part of the child’s name-day party, the whole Harrigan clan had gathered to celebrate, along with all their furry friends that weighed less than three hundred pounds. Mojo, Nana, Rosie, Billy Bob—well, hell, with them milling around, Quincy couldn’t do an accurate head count. Frosting and cake bits drew the animals like yellow jackets to raw meat. Quincy and Ceara’s kitchen looked . . . well, Quincy didn’t have words to accurately describe the room. It was a people-animal zoo, and he seriously needed a larger area to hold everyone. In this family, all they did was celebrate something: birthdays, anniversaries, and God only knew what else. Last weekend it had been Trevor’s soccer game win.
True to his word, Quincy had looked up Randall Whitmeyer in the phonebook and taken him out for a whiskey. Before Quincy could pay the tab, he’d known that he couldn’t let the old fart continue his lonely existence. Though he had eight kids, not a single one of them called regularly, and only two sent Christmas cards. Randall sat with Father Mike at the safe end of the table, beyond the reach of the birthday mess. Stormy, elbow deep into her own special cake, had frosting everywhere. In her dark auburn hair. All over her face. Globbed on her small fingers. And, well, hell, that wasn’t to mention any surface of the kitchen within ten feet of her high chair. All sane adults sat well beyond her throwing distance.
Quincy had come to believe that his daughter might grow up to be a famous pitcher, and maybe a great batter, too. She had a swinging arm that was impressive for someone so little. Last week, when Ceara had given the child a wooden spoon and a pot to play with, the whole house had resounded with metallic thumps.
Quincy, who prided himself on being a hands-on dad, decided to give Ceara a break by cleaning their daughter up. Problem: The moment he disengaged Stormy’s high-chair tray and lifted her from the seat, she puckered up and stiffened her body to shriek. Quincy knew what was coming, and he was right. Still warm in mid-September, it had been a fabulous, sunny day, so they’d left the kitchen door open. Rain suddenly slammed against the screen door in sheets. The solidly built house trembled in the high wind. Quincy had good reason to wonder how his pastured horses were faring.
“How in the hell are parents supposed to deal with temper tantrums of this caliber?” he asked no one in particular.
Ceara, now able to drink wine again, had been enjoying herself at the long kitchen table with her sisters-in-law, the indomitable hens. Sam, early in a much-yearned-for pregnancy, sipped sparkling cider, and Tucker, ever the supportive husband, was matching her glass for glass because he’d sworn off alcohol. They were finally pregnant again.
Quincy, holding his sticky child well away from his shirt, stared at Stormy’s contorted face and wondered what he was supposed to do with her. Frank said Stormy was a pistol, and Quincy had no better word to describe her. Holy Mother. He could control a huge stallion with clicks of his tongue, but he had no impact at all on Stormy, who was still very tiny for her age. Quincy figured she’d always be little, a mixture of prematurity and sixteenth-century stature playing against her. If as an adult she topped five feet, he’d be surprised, but he’d still take his hat off to any man who came along in the distant future who thought he could handle her.
Someone rushed to close the kitchen door, and Ceara jumped up from her chair, plucked the child from Quincy’s arms, and firmly said, “Nay!”
Quincy decided to make himself one of his dad’s Jack and Cokes. Two Irish roses, beautiful and dear as they were, truly could, on occasion, drive a man to drink. As he measured booze into his glass, he heard Ceara speaking to their daughter behind him.
“’Tis na the
way we follow. Do ye ken? Ye be druid, little one. Ye canna unleash yer powers and hurt people and animals. I shall na have it. Ye’ll straighten up or I’ll box yer ears.”
Quincy had never yet seen that disciplinary tactic occur. Ceara threatened the child with it all the time, but he’d never seen her so much as grab one of the baby’s earlobes. For some reason, Stormy got it, though. Maybe it was an Irish thing, and if so, he should start making the same threat. God knew he needed some way to handle his daughter. She was feisty and willful and bullheaded, challenging him at every turn. Even worse, she had her mum’s big blue eyes, and damn it, when they filled with tears, all Quincy could think about was how to keep her from crying, partly because he loved her so much, but also because Stormy’s tears equated to possible property damage.
The stern tone of her mother’s voice had Stormy gulping and swallowing her yells. Quincy just didn’t get it. He was starting to think of himself as Good-time Da. He was in charge during baths. He pointed to the pictures in storybooks. He played on the floor, carefully tumbling his daughter around, always cautious not to hurt her. But when it came to discipline, he could talk himself blue, and Stormy continued to pitch a fit. He guessed it was something to do with the druid bond. When Ceara spoke, the little girl snapped to attention.
He glanced over his shoulder to see mother and daughter sharing a long look, and just like that, the storm subsided. Ceara cleaned the baby up at the kitchen sink and then sat at the table to hold Stormy on her lap. Quincy leaned against the counter to sip his J and C. What was he going to do if his daughter threw a tantrum when her mother was out shopping with the hens, enjoying a well-deserved break?