down the steps of the city bus at the stop closest to home. Michael in one arm, and the bulky stroller in the other, she ignored the grumbling of the bus driver because she was taking too long to exit.
The lighthearted little jingle played constantly on local radio and television urging everyone to take the bus had failed to mention cranky bus drivers, other passengers who brought imaginary friends with them and patrons who failed to bathe regularly, if at all. She missed her car desperately, but she’d sold it months ago to help pay for Michael’s delivery.
She whacked her elbow on the metal handhold as she lurched off the last step. The bus pulled away from the curb, belching noxious exhaust that enveloped her in an eye-stinging cloud.
She sighed, trying not to feel sorry for herself. She’d better get used to public transportation. After what her father’s attorney had just told her, it would be a long time before she would be able to afford a car. Any car.
Apparently the ride had not bothered Michael at all. He was sound asleep. She clutched him against her shoulder with one hand and struggled to unfold the unruly stroller with the other. Whoever had invented the contraption must have had a sadistic streak.
She finally got the stroller open, settled the baby and started the three block walk home. She blinked and recognized the changes in her vision as the beginning of one of her killer headaches.
Great, she thought as she squinted against the sun. Just what she needed to round out a wonderful morning.
As she pushed the stroller down the quiet residential street she concentrated on her sleeping son through a kaleidoscope of colored lights that always signaled the start of a migraine.
If she hurried home, took her medication and got herself into a dark quiet room quickly enough, she might be able to stop the pain before it blossomed into a full-blown headache.
She’d started having the headaches after she’d arrived in Canada. A doctor had told her they could be stress-related. Alone, pregnant and her father missing, she hadn’t needed an M.D. to figure that out.
Michael sucked contentedly on his fist as he slept. He usually napped during this part of the day, and that would give her a chance to lie down.
The wickedly beautiful colors that had fringed her vision disappeared and the throbbing started across her forehead. One and a half blocks, she chanted to herself. She would be home in one and a half blocks. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
Think of something besides the flare of pain. Think about what you will do tomorrow. She had to contact the man who ran the exclusive antiques shop on West Lewis Street. If Mr. Denny didn’t want to handle her things, he could probably recommend someone else.
She felt like someone had buried a hatchet in her forehead. Tears blurred her eyes so much she stumbled over a uneven spot in the sidewalk. All she had to do was get around the next curve and up her front walk.
Home. King’s X. Ollie, Ollie, in free.
For today, at least, it was her home.
Home and Joe. Dreams of him coming to her bed had awakened her during the night, with her nightgown twisted up and her body drenched in sweat.
Her mind knew she couldn’t trust him, that he was no good for her, but her body refused to get the message.
Just as she came around the corner, she saw Joe’s car in front of her house.
He stood by his car, his hands on his hips, sport coat drawn back so that she could see the weapon strapped under his arm. She wondered vaguely if he had practiced the intimidating pose in front of a mirror. He was very good at it.
“Where did you go?” Chin jutting forward, he had the body language of an angry man.
She squinted up at him, the sunlight unbearably harsh. “For a walk.”
“Do you always dress up in a suit and heels to take the baby for a walk?” He scowled at her clothes.
Nikki ignored him as she walked by and pushed the stroller through the gate and up the long front walk, bumping over the rough flagstones. It was none of his business where she went or who she saw.
Her stomach roiled with nausea. If she stood out here and argued with him she might disgrace herself in the front yard.
She didn’t have to turn around to know he was right behind her. She could hear him breathing.
She tipped the stroller on its back wheels to maneuver it up the porch steps. Joe stepped past her and picked up the whole thing, setting it gently on the porch. His calm handling of the stroller did not hide the tension in his shoulders. Carefully he set the brake.
She fumbled in her bag and fished out her house key. It slid from her fingers and bounced off her shoe. She looked down in dismay, knowing if she bent over to pick it up the pain in her head would double.
Joe reached down and scooped the key up, then inserted it in the lock, his arm brushing against hers as she stumbled out of his way, attempting to avoid contact.
“What’s the matter, Nikki?” he said sharply, his hand on the door handle.
He just stood there, blocking the way. “I don’t want you here. Go away.” Instead of the sharp command she had intended, her voice sounded thin and whiney, something she couldn’t stand, especially in herself.
He turned and stared at her and she fought the urge to squirm under his direct gaze. She knew how pathetic she looked when she had a migraine.
He held the door open a few inches and stared at her. Just let me in so I can lie down, she thought, unwilling to plead aloud for what she needed most.
“Nikki, what’s the matter?” he repeated.
This time the words were the same but his tone was soft and concerned. He let go of the door and slid his big warm hand around her elbow, rubbing his thumb over her sleeve.
Oh, she thought, don’t be nice. She couldn’t handle nice from him right now.
“Nothing,” she muttered.
He ran his hand up her arm. “Don’t tell me nothing. You look terrible.” He leaned toward her.
God, how she missed his touch. The feel of his breath against her face as he coaxed her with his soft voice made her knees weak. Even his unflattering words sounded good when he said them like that. Self defense had her pulling her arm out of his grasp.
“I’m fine, just tired. Get back so I can bring the baby in,” she said, fighting the urge to forget the past and melt against him, take strength from him.
He frowned at her answer and ran his finger down her cheek. “You’re pale and—”
She had to stop him before he wore down her resistance. “I said I’m fine,” she said sharply.
The pain in her head stabbed and the nausea roiled. She shoved past him and bolted into the downstairs powder room.
Joe stepped back as she pushed past him and stared after her. She must really be upset. She’d left him alone with the baby. He hadn’t missed the fact that she acted as if she had to protect his own son from him.
He turned and released the brake on the stroller and wheeled his sleeping son into the house. He closed the front door and then stared down at the baby’s tiny hand, curled against his cheek.
Michael, he thought. My son Michael. The wonder of it struck him anew.
He reached to unhook the safety belt around the baby’s middle, aching to pick him up. It would piss her off to come back and find him holding the baby, but he didn’t care. She was just going to have to get used to the idea, because he’d given her all the time he was going to.
Before he could unclasp the belt, he heard the sound of retching coming from the bathroom.
Damn, he’d been right. He’d known something was wrong the minute he spotted her pushing