Page 5 of One Last Storm
She might have only been married for a year, but she knew when something distressed her husband.
“Mom? Mom, where are you?”
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Tillie forced brightness into her voice. “In here, sweetheart.”
Hazel bounced into the bedroom, her dark curls uncombed, a mess, wild and cute. She’d changed into purple leggings and an oversized sweater that nearly swallowed her small frame and now clutched a thick red book against her chest—the same worn copy of Clifford she’d been reading for weeks. Her brown eyes sparkled.
“Did you know that Emily Elizabeth named him Clifford because it was her favorite name for a dog? I’m making a list of good dog names for when my puppy comes.”
Right. The puppy. The last of the fist released from her body, and she stood up. “That’s wonderful, honey. What names are you thinking?”
“Well, if it’s a boy, maybe Thunder or Storm—you know, because he’s coming in winter. If it’s a girl, maybe Snowflake or...” Hazel flopped onto the bed, book falling open to a dog-eared page. “What do you think? Do you have a favorite dog name?”
Another cramp.
Stronger this time.
Tillie breathed through it, keeping her expression neutral. “I think any name you choose will be perfect.”
“Really? Even if I picked something crazy like Pickles?”
“Even Pickles.” The laugh came out real enough to fool a nine-year-old.
Hazel grinned and bounded back toward the door, energy undimmed. “I think maybe Pickles isn’t a good name for a sled dog.” She headed down the stairs.
Tillie sank onto the edge of the bed, hands trembling as she reached for the antique silver jewelry box, a wedding gift from Moose’s mother, sitting on the nightstand. Inside, tucked beneath her pearl earrings, lay the folded ultrasound photo.
From the first baby. The one she’d lost at exactly twelve weeks. She ran her thumb over the form. Could have been a son. Or a daughter.
But a secret from the team because they’d been so sure they had time to share the news when they were ready. The terrible expressions Moose’s team had worn—London, and Shep, Boo and Oaken, (although he wasn’t really part of the team), Axel and his cop girlfriend Flynn. And even Dawson, his cousin. They all looked at her as if she might be broken.
Even, flawed.
So this time…well, not even Moose knew. Not yet. Because Christmas would be twelve weeks, almost to the date and…
She pressed her hand to her womb. Please.
She had a plan. Baby booties sat in her dresser drawer, wrapped in tissue paper. Pale yellow, gender-neutral, tiny enough to fit in her palm. Three weeks ago, she’d bought them. Christmas morning, she’d place the tiny yellow booties in his stocking, watch his face light up when he realized...
The radio crackled downstairs. She heard Dawson answer. Air One communications.
Another cramp doubled her over.
And shoot, common sense said she should be in a hospital right now, not hiding upstairs trying to preserve a Christmas surprise.
But then Moose would rush home from a rescue mission, abandon Winter Starr, all because she couldn’t handle…
She was tougher than this.
“Tillie?” Dawson’s voice carried a cop-ish concern up the stairs. “You okay up there?”
“Fine.” She called back, forcing strength into her voice. “Just changing clothes.”
Lies came easier than they should.
She pulled on a loose sweater and leggings, hiding any evidence of discomfort. Deep breath. Game face on.
Downstairs, Dawson stood at the counter, wiping his hands on a towel. His dark hair was still wet from the snow, and he wore a sweater, a pair of jeans and an apron. He’d turned on the oven to preheat for the ribs, which sat doctored and in a flat sheet, waiting for a long roast.
