all those photos on the walls of his home and felt like crying, as much for herself as for him—not that she was foolish enough to think of Tate Bronson as anything other than a nice young man who had been dealt a heavy blow. She just hated for any of her friends to carry around the kind of sadness she now sensed in him.
Chapter Five
L ily Farnsworth was a quiet one. Well, quieter than the other women of his acquaintance, anyway, Tate mused. She was quieter than his mom, way quieter than Gayla, quieter than Eve had been or certainly Isabella would ever be. Tate had seen her looking at the photos, and he knew that she wanted to ask questions, but she wouldn’t. He could avoid the whole subject just by keeping his own mouth shut. The puzzling thing was that, for once, he didn’t want to avoid the subject.
He waited until the house fell from sight in his rearview mirror, then he just said it.
“She died of a stroke about four minutes after Isabella was born.”
Lily gasped, her face turning to him so that the dash lights reflected off the lenses of her glasses. “What?”
“Eve. My wife. She died about four minutes after Isabella was born.”
“Oh, my.”
“It was a long, difficult labor,” he went on. “Eve’s blood pressure had spiked repeatedly, but the doctor wasn’t worried. Then we went into delivery. Evie was so tired. I said, ‘Let’s get this over with, sweetheart. Let’s bring our little girl into the world.’ I don’t know how she did it. She pushed so hard, and then there was Isabella, beautiful and perfect. We were laughing and holding her together while the doctor and nurses took care of things, and then they asked Eve for one more push. Suddenly she convulsed. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she died in the space of a heartbeat.”
“Tate.” Lily reached across the cab and latched onto his forearm with her finely knuckled hand. “I’m so sorry.”
He nodded, feeling oddly comforted. “They tried to bring her back. They knew she’d stroked, that her brain was gone, but they’d hoped to keep her heart beating so she wouldn’t die on our daughter’s birthday, but it didn’t work.”
Lily took her hand back. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing to say. Eve and I were high school sweethearts. We married young. Everyone thought too young, but we were sensible and got our house built and in order before we started our family. And then Eve was gone.”
“Your greatest joy and deepest sorrow within minutes,” Lily whispered.
He nodded. “That about sums it up. A father and a widower on the same day. I don’t think I’d have made it through the loss without my daughter.”
“I’m glad you have her.”
“So am I, but you can see now why Isabella latches on to every single woman of a motherly age who crosses her path.”
“Because she never knew her own mother.”
“Just so. Make no mistake about it, though.” He shifted in his seat and said it straight out. “I never intend to remarry.”
“But marrying again doesn’t mean that you’d be widowed again.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, I don’t know, but the odds against it are—”
“The odds against it the first time were high.”
“Still—”
“I won’t marry again because I won’t have more children,” Tate stated flatly. “I can’t go through that again. I just won’t risk it,” he told her, “and no one has a right to ask me to. No one. Not after what I’ve been through.”
“O-of course,” Lily whispered, ducking her head.
Tate nodded, telling himself that it had to be said. It was better this way. Now, no one would be hurt. No one would start imagining futures where none could exist. They could be friends without worrying about romantic foolishness.
He changed the subject, chatting about fireworks and dewberry tea, the calf he’d treated and the progress they’d made in the shop that day. She nodded, hummed and tried to act interested, but he felt like Isabella,
Chapter Five
L ily Farnsworth was a quiet one. Well, quieter than the other women of his acquaintance, anyway, Tate mused. She was quieter than his mom, way quieter than Gayla, quieter than Eve had been or certainly Isabella would ever be. Tate had seen her looking at the photos, and he knew that she wanted to ask questions, but she wouldn’t. He could avoid the whole subject just by keeping his own mouth shut. The puzzling thing was that, for once, he didn’t want to avoid the subject.
He waited until the house fell from sight in his rearview mirror, then he just said it.
“She died of a stroke about four minutes after Isabella was born.”
Lily gasped, her face turning to him so that the dash lights reflected off the lenses of her glasses. “What?”
“Eve. My wife. She died about four minutes after Isabella was born.”
“Oh, my.”
“It was a long, difficult labor,” he went on. “Eve’s blood pressure had spiked repeatedly, but the doctor wasn’t worried. Then we went into delivery. Evie was so tired. I said, ‘Let’s get this over with, sweetheart. Let’s bring our little girl into the world.’ I don’t know how she did it. She pushed so hard, and then there was Isabella, beautiful and perfect. We were laughing and holding her together while the doctor and nurses took care of things, and then they asked Eve for one more push. Suddenly she convulsed. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she died in the space of a heartbeat.”
“Tate.” Lily reached across the cab and latched onto his forearm with her finely knuckled hand. “I’m so sorry.”
He nodded, feeling oddly comforted. “They tried to bring her back. They knew she’d stroked, that her brain was gone, but they’d hoped to keep her heart beating so she wouldn’t die on our daughter’s birthday, but it didn’t work.”
Lily took her hand back. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing to say. Eve and I were high school sweethearts. We married young. Everyone thought too young, but we were sensible and got our house built and in order before we started our family. And then Eve was gone.”
“Your greatest joy and deepest sorrow within minutes,” Lily whispered.
He nodded. “That about sums it up. A father and a widower on the same day. I don’t think I’d have made it through the loss without my daughter.”
“I’m glad you have her.”
“So am I, but you can see now why Isabella latches on to every single woman of a motherly age who crosses her path.”
“Because she never knew her own mother.”
“Just so. Make no mistake about it, though.” He shifted in his seat and said it straight out. “I never intend to remarry.”
“But marrying again doesn’t mean that you’d be widowed again.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, I don’t know, but the odds against it are—”
“The odds against it the first time were high.”
“Still—”
“I won’t marry again because I won’t have more children,” Tate stated flatly. “I can’t go through that again. I just won’t risk it,” he told her, “and no one has a right to ask me to. No one. Not after what I’ve been through.”
“O-of course,” Lily whispered, ducking her head.
Tate nodded, telling himself that it had to be said. It was better this way. Now, no one would be hurt. No one would start imagining futures where none could exist. They could be friends without worrying about romantic foolishness.
He changed the subject, chatting about fireworks and dewberry tea, the calf he’d treated and the progress they’d made in the shop that day. She nodded, hummed and tried to act interested, but he felt like Isabella,
Similar Books
