Talking About My Baby. Margot Early

blinked. Was she saying she wasn’t attracted to him? Isaac squeezed the bridge of his nose. “This is supposed to tempt me?”

      “I came prepared to offer you money.”

      Money? That was how much she valued herself as a potential mate? For him? “I need to think about this, Tara.” And about Dan.

      He was going to say yes. Tara knew it.

      Isaac wished he wasn’t curious. And suddenly aching for the body across from him. Just the fact that she’d chosen him, even with rodents. “What’s with you and Dan?”

      Regret. The cafeteria. Dan had asked her to dinner. Had he told Isaac? A lie wouldn’t be smart. “We flirted. He asked me out. I didn’t want to go. Look, I’m a friendly person. That was about my mother’s client. And unnecessary medical intervention.”

      “So you flirted with the obstetrician on call?”

      “He knew it. He told me so when we sat down.” It had the ring of truth; they’d gone from flirtation to argument in a heartbeat.

      “I hate people interfering needlessly with women in labor. It’s oppression.”

      “I appreciate the sentiment. I don’t like your tactics.”

      Shame overtook her. She wasn’t going to stick around someone who made her feel like this. So much for Isaac McCrea. Tara moved to pick up Laura. “I’m sorry to take your time.”

      Everything whirled, flooding. A baby in the car. Inducing lactation. Isaac held it off. This should be the end. He didn’t like her ways, didn’t like women—or men—who threw their arms around people at random. But she was in a bind and so was he, handling the second-to-second immensity of caring for his children without the help of Heloise’s family. And the grief and guilt. Who was he to throw stones? At anyone? “I’m sorry.”

      She hadn’t yet lifted her child, and she faced him. “Don’t be. Not everyone likes me. I can take it.”

      He couldn’t. “Tara—” Searching for words, he covered his face with his hand. When he removed it, she was holding the child and slinging her diaper bag over her free shoulder.

      He stood and took the bag from her. “I’ll walk you to your car. The steps are frosty.” You might trip over a cat.

      “You’re going to have six feet of snow up here before you know it.”

      Her voice never shook.

      The alpine air was frigid. Isaac would return inside alone and try to find sanity in the company of cats and mice.

      Unconsciously, he steadied Tara on the steps.

      She seemed unaffected by the touch. “You ever lived in the mountains before, doc?”

      “Dan and I grew up in Silverton. Our father drove the snowplow on the Million Dollar Highway.”

      Avalanche country. “Boy, I bet he was a local hero.”

      “Yes.” His father had been dead three years, and his mother preferred to stay in Silverton, among her friends and neighbors.

      They took his frosty path to Tara’s car, and he opened the passenger door for her, so she could settle Laura in her car seat and bundle her up. Not a sound stirred the night. Tara finally backed away from the infant, and he shut the door and followed her to the driver’s side.

      When she was in, he crouched beside the door, close enough to feel the heat of her body. He didn’t want her to leave, especially not after some of the things he’d said. Eyes on the steering wheel, he spoke from his heart, the way he’d been trained all his life. “You’re too special to do what you did tonight.” Any woman was.

      “At the hospital—or here?”

      “Both.”

      She laughed. “I love being alive. I love helping women have babies. I love this kiddo here, and I could love your kids, too. What can I say?”

      The words sounded brittle, and he glanced at her face. She was defending who she was. He’d slandered who she was.

      Standing, he tried to make his smile an apology. “I think you just said it. Good night, Tara.”

      

      BY THE TIME SHE turned the car around, to head back to the Victorian, she was crying. And it wasn’t because she hadn’t found a husband to help her with Laura’s adoption.

      It was because she’d offered herself to Isaac McCrea.

      And he had kept her at arm’s distance and said, “No, thanks.”

      

      ISAAC COULDN’T SLEEP, and finally he rose and dressed for winter cold, and when he went outside the stars were gone. He knew the paths around the property and above the trees, the old mining trails that wouldn’t disturb the fragile tundra, and he chose one of them to take him to the talus beneath the far ridge. An unnamed trail led to an unnamed peak, and he followed it, his eyes sharp for the mountain lion whose dried scat and scratch marks he’d found weeks earlier.

      Cold, he zipped his parka higher. As the rocks clinked beneath his feet, the first snowflake wet his cheek. Then another.

      He was thinking of her body. She was leggy and narrow-hipped, with pretty breasts—A burn on her breast? He shut his eyes, wondering.

      She’d offered to marry him, offered to keep house, offered him money! How much money did she think he was worth, seeing that she was willing to buy a spouse?

      Undoubtedly, she’d give her body, too, in order to adopt that child. But he wanted her to want him—more than desire. Much more.

      He reached the peak, and a dusting of snow covered the top. Isaac tried to see the distant mountaintops and couldn’t. He waited in the wind.

      He’d hurt her tonight.

      And she’d hurt him.

      But it was less painful than hurting his own flesh and blood.

      

      “HOW DID ISAAC like the pumpkin bread?”

      Tara knew her mother didn’t mean to be cruel, but she was fragile right now, still feeling the sting of rejection. “Fine. I’ve got to nurse Laura. Excuse me.”

      Francesca trailed after her to the kitchen. “You know, he might think you’re throwing yourself at him, Tara.”

      Great. Tara didn’t answer. Wordlessly, keeping her thoughts focused elsewhere—away from Isaac and her recent humiliation—Tara began the process of making fenugreek tea, getting ready to nurse. Turning suddenly, she held one hand at knee level and snapped, “You make me feel about this high, Mom.”

      Francesca winced. It was the last thing she’d meant to do. “Tara, I didn’t mean to imply that you were throwing yourself at him. I’m just saying that Dr. McCrea is a little standoffish. Not everyone likes to be hugged.”

      “I didn’t hug him.”

      Laura began to cry. “It’s all right, sweetie,” Tara murmured. “Oh, I love you.”

      Regarding the two of them, Francesca frowned. Had Isaac discouraged her? Was there nothing to worry about from him? “Have you looked up any of your old friends in Precipice? Tim?” Tim with his waistlength blond dreadlocks? “Scooter?” Who was thirty-two and still rode a skateboard. “Jack?” Whose claim to fame was having made the “Bartenders of Precipice” calendar.

      “No, haven’t had time, Mother.”

      But time for two rounds of baking for Isaac McCrea. Well, he was several grades above Danny Graine as husband material, several grades above anyone Tara had set her sights on before—at least, from what Francesca knew about him, which was scant. Unfortunately, Francesca couldn’t see the reserved Dr. McCrea appreciating her lively, sensual daughter.