Wilder Hearts. Karen Rose Smith

of immediately correcting him, she accepted his embrace and allowed herself a moment to savor his musky scent, his warmth, his compassion.

      “Actually,” she finally said, slowing drawing away from his arms, “the lump was benign.”

      “So you’re crying from relief?”

      “Yes and no. It’s kind of complicated. It also hurts that my mother refused to return my calls, saying she didn’t want to bother me with her problem.”

      “Maybe she was trying to protect you.”

      “If it were anyone else’s mom, I might accept that. But not when it’s mine.”

      He took her by the hand and led her to the sofa. “Why don’t you sit down and talk to me about it.”

      It didn’t feel right having the ugliness out in the open, but maybe it would be therapeutic in a sense. So she took a seat and waited for him to join her.

      “I told you some of it already,” she said. “About how my mom was cold and unloving.”

      He nodded. “I figured you’d held something back. You always do. But you don’t need to do that with me.”

      She hoped he was right. “I knew that other kids had parents who played games with them. Moms and dads who asked how their day at school went, who tucked them in at night and listened to their prayers. But I never experienced anything like that. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to connect on any level with my mother.”

      He didn’t comment; he just continued to listen as she vented—something she wasn’t used to doing.

      “When I was a kid, I would have to change the channel whenever The Wonderful World of Disney was on television. It was too sad. I’d see commercials about Disneyland or Walt Disney World, with happy, loving families having the time of their lives. But I never even went to an amusement park. No visits to the petting zoo, no pony rides. None of the usual family experiences.”

      “I’m sorry that your childhood was so lousy.”

      “Me, too,” she said. “But don’t get me wrong. I never went without the material things. There was plenty of food. And I had regular health checkups. But sometimes my mom would glare at me. Or strike me for no reason.”

      “You were physically abused, too?” he asked.

      “It’s not like I was beaten. But I learned to stay out of my mom’s reach.”

      While Mike continued to hold her hand, he brushed his thumb across her skin, soothing her, comforting her with the simplest touch. And she couldn’t help but accept all he offered.

      “I have a great mom,” he said. “And I can’t even imagine what I would have done or who I would have become without her.”

      He still didn’t know the worst of it, Simone realized. He didn’t know why her relationship with her mother had been so bad. Or why it still was. And so she decided to tell him what she hadn’t told anyone else.

      “When I was in the seventh grade, my mom told me to clean out the garage. And while I was moving some things around, I found a box of old photos and a diary. I knew her journal contained her private thoughts and that I shouldn’t read it. But I’d always wanted to know my mom better, to understand what made her tick.”

      “And did you?”

      “Yes. The early pages revealed a much different person than the one I’d known. She’d grown up in the sixties and had been happy and carefree. She used to write poetry. I guess you could say that she was…normal.”

      “When did that change?”

      “When she was seventeen. By the time I got to the end of the diary, to the place where she’d finally quit writing, it all fell into place.” Simone’s fingers tightened around Mike’s hands, then she slowly loosened them. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to cling to his touch or pull away.

      His grip tightened, making the decision easier for her.

      “My mom was raped, and I was the result.”

      Mike didn’t respond, and she struggled not to peer at his face, not to try and read something in his expression. She’d just revealed the fact that she’d been the product of a violent act, not a loving one.

      “My mom actually knew the guy and had gone out with him,” she added. “So it would be classified as a date rape now. But back in the late sixties, when it happened, she felt that it was all her fault. And because I look like my father…”

      “Did you know him?” Mike asked.

      “No.” She paused, thinking it best to explain. “Well, my mom never said that I resembled him, and I never asked. But I don’t look at all like her, so I can’t help believing that each time she looked at me she was reminded of him, of what he’d done to her. And for that reason, she inadvertently—and subconsciously—took her anger and resentment out on me.”

      “You have no idea how sorry I am. For you, of course. But for her, too.”

      “Needless to say, this isn’t something I’m proud of. But it’s had an adverse effect on any relationship I’ve had. And that’s why having a husband and children scares me to death. I don’t want to hurt the people who depend upon me the most.”

      He seemed to ponder her words and her concern for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “No, that’s not going to happen. For the past couple of years, I’ve watched you with your patients, young and old. And I’ve even seen you interact with the dogs, even when they’re misbehaving. You’d never hurt anyone, intentionally or otherwise.”

      “I wish I could believe you, Mike. But I’m damaged goods.”

      He cupped her cheek. “You’ll never be able to convince me of that. It’s simply not true. I’m in love with you, Simone. And that’s not going to change.”

      She wanted to believe him—she really did. But she couldn’t take the chance.

      What if he was wrong? What if she couldn’t bond with the baby she was carrying?

      Simone sat in the Walnut River OB/GYN waiting room, thumbing through a magazine and listening for her name to be called. She’d had blood drawn earlier, as ordered, and had already discussed insurance and financial obligations.

      Now she was waiting for her first exam.

      Last night, Mike had stayed at her house until she’d chased him off, telling him not to be late to his father’s birthday party. She could tell he was reluctant to leave her alone, but she’d insisted she was fine.

      And she was. She’d been dealing with her mom and the past for years.

      Several times over the course of his visit, she’d been tempted to tell him about the baby. But she’d decided to wait until after seeing Dr. Kipper. After all, other than a little morning sickness and an occasional bout of light-headedness, she still didn’t feel pregnant. Shouldn’t she wait for some kind of confirmation?

      As she sat in the cheerful waiting room, with its cream-colored walls and the lavender-and green-stenciled border, she couldn’t seem to focus on any of the colorful ads or articles in her magazine.

      Instead, she checked out the other patients, most of whom were visibly pregnant.

      A blonde with a belly the size of a watermelon sat across from her, and she imagined herself big with child, her hands resting on her womb. Maybe she’d feel a little bump move by—a hand or a foot.

      The dark-haired new mother to her left held a sleeping newborn in her arms. And, for a moment, Simone envisioned herself bringing the baby to an after-delivery checkup.

      The door swung open, and someone else—a redhead—entered. She was about six months along and had a toddler with her. An older woman was only steps behind, and Simone