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Authors: Loree Lough
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Lord hadn’t acted.
Barely half an hour had passed since she’d sat across from him in Georgia’s Diner, sipping tea and calmly telling him how four months ago, in the space of a few hours, she’d become a widow and learned about the baby. He didn’t think it strange that she’d glossed over the particulars of the accident that killed her husband; Reid had never been the type to dwell on the gory details, either. But she’d been downright happy to talk about the baby. “This kid changed my whole life for the better,” she’d said, joy in her voice and glittering from her dancing brown eyes. “I can hardly wait to meet him…or her!”
Though Cammi had hardly made a sound since they’d left the diner, he knew she was in pain—physical and emotional. Rather than cry out, instead of whimpering, she sat quietly, alternately holding her breath and panting—something else they had in common: he’d handled the broken bones, muscle pulls and torn ligaments in exactly the same way. Reid didn’t think for a minute that she’d adopted her stoic demeanor just for his benefit. Her behavior last night—taking full blame for the accident—told him she was made of sturdy stuff, the “no point cryin’ over spilt milk,” “grin and bear it” type. Just one more reason to respect and admire her.
“It’ll be all right,” he said yet again, wishing he could turn back the clock to a time when she had reason to grin.
Last time he’d spoken those words, Cammi had whispered, “I hope so.” She obviously hadn’t intended him to hear her greatest fear, whispered on the heels of what appeared to be another severe cramp: “Miscarriage…” Much as he hated to admit it, he thought so, too.
Seemed unfair, comparing a li’l gal as gorgeous as Cammi to a pregnant mare, but it was the only parallel he could draw from. He’d spent years around the stables, and knew the signs when he saw them: Cammi was losing her baby, if she hadn’t already. He’d succeeded in saving a few foals in his day…and had failed a time or two as well. It had been hard, mighty hard, watching the mamas nuzzle limp, leggy newborns, determined to bring them ’round with soft, loving snorts and whispery whinnies. He’d risked being stomped more times than he could count, going into the stalls to carry the lifeless critters away. But the “out of sight, out of mind” theory, he’d learned, didn’t heal the hurtin’ any quicker in the four-legged world than in the two-legged kind.
Most times, thankfully, after a few rough days of searching for their young’uns, the fillies came to grips with the cold, cruel facts. But sometimes, the heartbroken mothers were never the same again. Cammi seemed strong enough to survive her loss, but then, every mare that gave up after the death of a foal had surprised him….
Cammi’s raspy, trembling voice broke into his thoughts. “Reid. Please…pray for me?”
Pray? he thought. To the God who had let her husband die, who had let this happen to her—all in the space of a couple of months? Reid couldn’t believehis ears. He blamed her blood loss, delirium, panic…what else could make her spout such gibberish?
He chanced a peek at her, at the tears glistening on her long dark lashes, at the hope emanating from her big frightened eyes, and realized she’d meant it, right down to the last syllable. Foolish as it seemed, Reid couldn’t refuse her anything, especially at a time like this. If prayer would bring Cammi even one moment’s comfort…
Reid cleared his throat, tried to remember something—anything—Martina had taught him, tried to conjure any of the hundreds of passages he’d memorized under his stepfather’s brutal hand. Isaiah 49: 13 seemed as good as any: “‘Sing, O heavens; and be joyful, O earth; and break forth into singing, O mountains,”’ he recited, “‘for the Lord hath comforted his people, and will have mercy upon his afflicted.”’
Eyes closed, Cammi heaved a
Barely half an hour had passed since she’d sat across from him in Georgia’s Diner, sipping tea and calmly telling him how four months ago, in the space of a few hours, she’d become a widow and learned about the baby. He didn’t think it strange that she’d glossed over the particulars of the accident that killed her husband; Reid had never been the type to dwell on the gory details, either. But she’d been downright happy to talk about the baby. “This kid changed my whole life for the better,” she’d said, joy in her voice and glittering from her dancing brown eyes. “I can hardly wait to meet him…or her!”
Though Cammi had hardly made a sound since they’d left the diner, he knew she was in pain—physical and emotional. Rather than cry out, instead of whimpering, she sat quietly, alternately holding her breath and panting—something else they had in common: he’d handled the broken bones, muscle pulls and torn ligaments in exactly the same way. Reid didn’t think for a minute that she’d adopted her stoic demeanor just for his benefit. Her behavior last night—taking full blame for the accident—told him she was made of sturdy stuff, the “no point cryin’ over spilt milk,” “grin and bear it” type. Just one more reason to respect and admire her.
“It’ll be all right,” he said yet again, wishing he could turn back the clock to a time when she had reason to grin.
Last time he’d spoken those words, Cammi had whispered, “I hope so.” She obviously hadn’t intended him to hear her greatest fear, whispered on the heels of what appeared to be another severe cramp: “Miscarriage…” Much as he hated to admit it, he thought so, too.
Seemed unfair, comparing a li’l gal as gorgeous as Cammi to a pregnant mare, but it was the only parallel he could draw from. He’d spent years around the stables, and knew the signs when he saw them: Cammi was losing her baby, if she hadn’t already. He’d succeeded in saving a few foals in his day…and had failed a time or two as well. It had been hard, mighty hard, watching the mamas nuzzle limp, leggy newborns, determined to bring them ’round with soft, loving snorts and whispery whinnies. He’d risked being stomped more times than he could count, going into the stalls to carry the lifeless critters away. But the “out of sight, out of mind” theory, he’d learned, didn’t heal the hurtin’ any quicker in the four-legged world than in the two-legged kind.
Most times, thankfully, after a few rough days of searching for their young’uns, the fillies came to grips with the cold, cruel facts. But sometimes, the heartbroken mothers were never the same again. Cammi seemed strong enough to survive her loss, but then, every mare that gave up after the death of a foal had surprised him….
Cammi’s raspy, trembling voice broke into his thoughts. “Reid. Please…pray for me?”
Pray? he thought. To the God who had let her husband die, who had let this happen to her—all in the space of a couple of months? Reid couldn’t believehis ears. He blamed her blood loss, delirium, panic…what else could make her spout such gibberish?
He chanced a peek at her, at the tears glistening on her long dark lashes, at the hope emanating from her big frightened eyes, and realized she’d meant it, right down to the last syllable. Foolish as it seemed, Reid couldn’t refuse her anything, especially at a time like this. If prayer would bring Cammi even one moment’s comfort…
Reid cleared his throat, tried to remember something—anything—Martina had taught him, tried to conjure any of the hundreds of passages he’d memorized under his stepfather’s brutal hand. Isaiah 49: 13 seemed as good as any: “‘Sing, O heavens; and be joyful, O earth; and break forth into singing, O mountains,”’ he recited, “‘for the Lord hath comforted his people, and will have mercy upon his afflicted.”’
Eyes closed, Cammi heaved a
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