Caress of Fire (34 page)

Always, she'd excused his rotten behavior. No more.

“I think you'd better leave,” she managed to say.

“When I'm damned good and ready. After you've told the truth.”

“I said–leave!”

“I don't follow your orders.”

“Well, then, follow this!”

She reached to the rear and grasped a hard object. All her hurt giving strength to her motions, she pitched the lamp at Gil. As it connected with his shoulder, she felt a strange sensation in her stomach. Not a pain, just a feeling that everything had changed.

She laughed at her ludicrous thought. Of course everything had changed. Nothing would ever be right again.

Liquid gushed down her legs, pooled at her feet.
Gott in Himmel
, she had embarrassed herself by urinating. Was there no end to today's humiliations? Clutching her knees together, she saw her husband raking a hand across his shoulder. Crimson blotched it as well as the sleeve of his shirt.

He glanced down at the floor and muttered a base oath before advancing on her. “Lisette, the birthing has started.”

“Stay where you are.”

She withdrew a step, the back of one knee connecting with the bed; she fell and landed hard on the mattress.

A voice from the corridor shouted, “What's going on here?”

At the same moment, pain–as brutal as that of being kicked by a mule as a child–clamped like the fist of Satan in her stomach. The devil hadn't called her; it was . . .
“Mein Gott, das Baby.”

The desk clerk barged through the door. “What is going on here?” he repeated.

“Looks like we need a doctor.”

“You do look pretty messed up, Mister McLoughlin.”

“Not for me, damn it, for my wife. She's in labor.”

“I'll get Doc Koch.” Rushing away, the clerk closed the door in the dust of his promise.

Depleted, Lisette turned her face to the damnable pillow that held the scent of her husband. Her tears wetting the linen as the fluid of birth had stained the carpet, she cried, “It's too early for Hermann.”

She heard Gil moving toward the bed. “I'd better get Maisie.”

Thrusting the pillow aside, she looked up at his ashen face. “Tell me, Gil, will you fetch her before or after you file for your precious divorce?”

“One or the other.”

She tossed the pillow to the floor. “If you do anything–
anything
–to deprive our lawfully conceived child of his father, I'll make your life a living hell.”

“Calm down, Lisette. Calm down.”

She barely heard him; agony–was it physical or from the heart?–clutched her again. Whatever it was, it grabbed from her womb to the top of her head and seared to the ends of her toes. Her bodily torment receded, but the one in her heart did not.

She and the baby didn't need him.

“Forget I threatened you.” Her voice seemed as if it were outside her body. “I want nothing of you.”

“Lisette, calm down. You need your strength for Hermann.”

“Go to hell, Gil McLoughlin.” She put her arm over her child.
Her
child. “If you want a divorce, fine. If you don't file, I will. You no longer mean anything to me.”

He picked up the pillow and placed it beside her. “I'll get Maisie.”

He left. The door's closing resounded in Lisette's ears. She wept. Life was not hearts and roses. Death would be preferable to this hell called earth.

I'm sorry, Hermann I have no more strength
. For his father, she had no regrets. About anything.

With the local physician in charge, Maisie McLoughlin, sat praying at her granddaughter-in-law's bedside. The light from the window faded; she lit the lamp and saw shadows on the chalky features of the unfortunate Prussian girl. Maisie ran a finger under her tired eyes and choked back tears.

“It doesn't look good,” Wilhelm Koch, doctor of medicine, announced on a blown-out breath. “This should've been easy for her, what with her height and wide hips. The child is breech.”

A noise from the bed drew Maisie's attention. The dear lass's eyes rolled, the whites showing as she reached unsuccessfully for the bed post. A weak cry issued. When the convulsion passed, she dropped her hand.

The physician placed his stethoscope on the bedside table. “Do you know if she's Bavarian? They're Catholics, you understand,” he whispered. “Where is her husband? He should know if her religion demands a priest.”

Maisie ground her teeth. “I doona know where the bloody fool is. If I did, I'd crown him for not being here. And I will, when he shows his face.”

“Search for him. I have done all I can. We need God at this point. God, and the husband of this woman.”

“I'm not a great believer in the Almighty, Doctor Koch. And right now, I doona have much faith in my grandson, but I will find one or the other.”

 

On a barstool in Ma Pinter's Saloon, Gil McLoughlin avoided a tall glass of Scotch. Smoke, whores, and cowboys filled the tavern. A piano player pounded the ivories. Someone approached Gil: Matt Gruene. Bile rose in his throat.

“Give me a beer,” Matthias ordered the barkeep, then said to Gil, “You look like hell.”

Looks were not deceiving; Gil was in hell.

Matthias lifted his beer, took a slow sip, and lowered the glass. “I won't be leaving with T-Bill and the remuda.”

“That's what I heard.”

“Why aren't you with Lise?” Matthias asked.

“You tell me.”

“I'm not a mind-reader. What are you getting at?”

Every muscle in his body hankering for a fight, Gil abandoned the bar stool. Glaring, he asked with a grate, “How many months have you been sleeping with my wife?”

Brown eyes hardened. The glass got set aside. “If Lise hadn't told me about the trouble you'd had with your former wife, I'd beat the living hell out of you, McLoughlin, for a remark like that. Lise–”

“Give it a try.” He raised his fists. “Come on.”

“Sit down, McLoughlin.”

“Like hell I will.”

With all the fury of damaged pride, he charged Matthias. But the big German was lightning quick, and Gil was slowed by his injured shoulder. Matthias hauled back and struck his jaw. Pain exploded. Another punch caught his stomach, drawing a groan. He tumbled, but righted himself. Thrusting his left elbow into Matthias's gut, he plowed a puny right hook into his opponent's face.

“Out,” the barkeep shouted. “No fighting in Ma Pinter's.”

Two customers grabbed Gil from behind. Another couple of them seized Matthias. The brawlers were tossed outside, the former strawboss into the dirt street, Gil into a horse trough.

Spitting water, he tried to heave himself to his feet. A heavy board whapped against his right arm, sending him sprawling onto the saloon's porch, barely missing the window.

Matthias tossed the board aside and stood above him. “Are you ready to listen to reason?”

“Y-yeah.”

Gil swiped mud from his face and followed after his ex-strawboss. They crossed the street to the depot, and sat down on opposite ends of the bench.

Matthias spoke. “This morning I had a few minutes with Lise. She told me you're divorcing her. And I'm glad to hear it. You see, once she's free, I'm going to marry her.”

Jealously, Gil said, “A little soon after Cactus Blossom, isn't it? Or was she just a diversion while you couldn't get to Lisette? Tell me, Gruene, are you the baby's father?”

“Not yet.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Being a child's blood father means nothing. It's the rearing that makes a father. I will do that for Lise's child.”

Gil took a long look at Matthias. “You're serious.”

“Never more so in my life. I appreciate, love, and respect her, and–”

“So do I.”

“No, you don't. You may love her, but you don't appreciate or respect her.” Matthias leaned back against the bench. “And you'll never be able to ... unless you quit fighting yourself over that first wife of yours.” Matthias pointed to the right. “There's another horse trough. Clean yourself up, Gil McLoughlin. Inside and out.”

Matthias left the bench, disappeared into the night, and Gil studied the ground. Thoughts tumbled over and over in his brain, but he sorted them. And tried to clean his soul.

Now that he thought about it, he realized that he should have never suspected Matthias of cavorting with Lisette. The German loved her all right, but his feelings were honorable. And Gil got the impression that he had been tricked over that marriage business . . . tricked to open his eyes.

They were open.

Now what should he do? What was it Matthias had advised? To quit fighting himself over Betty? How could he do that? By washing away the past, forgetting it ever existed. Impossible.
Learn from the past.
That would work, provided he concentrated on the positive.

His time with Betty had been hell, but they had had a few good moments. There, that felt better. He hoped she was doing all right, had found peace. This felt even better still.

He hoped he could give Lisette peace. With all his heart, he loved her, and that made the difference between her and Betty. It was, and always would be, Lisette in his heart.

Yes, she could have been in the family way when desperation had driven her to him, but she had proved to be a good and dear wife, supportive and loving. And Matthias had been right: it was the day-to-day that made a father.

Gil recalled two nights before, when he'd had a chat with young Hermann about disturbing his mother. The lad hadn't heeded Lisette's pleas, but he'd behaved when Gil had put in his two cents. A child needed a father.

“I'll be that for Hermann.”

If
Lisette would give him another chance.

He walked to the horse trough. Almost there, he caught sight of his grandmother.

“How is my wife?” he asked worriedly.

“Gilliegorm, it's . . . I'm sorry.” Maisie dabbed her eye with a handkerchief. “She's not going to make it.”

 

A light from the end of a tunnel. It was hazy here, calm and peaceful. She floated through the channel. A specter appeared, clothed in a gossamer gown. A gentle breeze soughed, ruffling the hem of that fabric. “
Mutti
.”

“Daughter, if you give up, the child will die with you.”

“You have Maisie McLoughlin. You have Matthias Gruene–he could make a good father to your child.”

“If you still want him, fight for him.”

“Don't give up, my little one.”

“You are not. You could expel a child with no problem.”

Another form floated forward. Olga. Olga, as beautiful as she had been before the Comanches had taken her. Lisette tried to reach for her sister, her hand drawing empty air.
I've missed you, sister
.

“You will have eternity to miss your husband,” the young girl chided. “The Scotsman's resting place won't be with us.”

“Yes. Unless he heals the chasm of his heart, which I'm thinking he has ideas to.” Olga sighed. “Lise, you must save your child.”

Mother drifted closer. “Listen to your sister, Lisette.”

“Yes, you do. Draw in your breath–and push!”

 

 

“It's a girl!”

Smiling despite his fears, Gil lifted his head from the bedside. “A girl. I always hoped so.”

Doctor Koch handed the squirming mass to Maisie, then bent to cut the cord. “Luck's given your wife a second chance. Pray it holds.”

“I've been praying.”

“You need to leave, Mister McLoughlin.” The doctor shooed him away. “You're in the way.”

“I'll go. But first,” Gil leaned over his wife, “if you'll give me a chance to prove my love, you'll never regret it. I don't care who gave you our daughter–she's mine. And I'll raise her as such.”

He felt the tiniest movement against his hand. “Don't make promises you can't keep,” his wife whispered weakly.

“Lisette, my darlin', I will never again let you down.”

“Get out, man!”

Turning to the doctor, he asked, “May I hold my daughter first?”

“Later.”

He kissed his wife's forehead. “I'll be downstairs.”

She convulsed.

“What is it going to take to get rid of you, man? We've got a problem. When you get to the lobby, send up the manager's wife, Mrs. Hocker.”

It took all Gil's strength to leave that third-floor room. No . . . to leave his wife. He trudged down the corridor and descended the staircase. What was the problem that had turned the doctor's face ashen?

The desk clerk brought a cup of coffee; Gil didn't drink a drop. The hotel manager's wife answered Doctor Koch's summons, then returned to fetch supplies. Three times she made the trip.

Gil collared her on the fourth. “How is my wife? How is my daughter?”

“Haven't the slightest idea,” Mrs. Hocker replied. “Your grandmother cracks only the door when I go up there.”

A grandfather clock by the front desk ticked away the minutes, one turning into sixty of them. One hour turned into three, then four. They seemed like forty. Gil could stand it now longer. Damn it, Lisette had delivered the baby. What was the delay? Why wasn't Maisie giving him reports?

“Why can't I hear my daughter crying?”

“You're out of hearing range,” replied the yawning desk clerk.

A few moments later, Dr. Koch descended the staircase, black bag in hand. “Your wife is recovering.”

Gil pushed the air out of his lungs. “Thank God.”

“I'd say He had something to do with it. Your wife says it was angels, though.”

“May I see her?”

“Not now.” With one of those stern physician scowls, Koch said, “She had a mighty rough time. She's going to need a good deal of rest to get over this.”

“My daughter? Is she all right?”

“Doc, you want a cup of coffee?” the desk clerk asked.

“Yes, Roscoe, that sounds good. Pretty it up with some of that brandy you've got stashed in the desk.”

“Damn it, you can think about drinking after you've answered me. How is my daughter?”

“Couldn't be better, all things considered. Ah, thank you, Roscoe.” The physician accepted the steaming cup and took a large swallow. Once again giving attention to the new father, he continued his discourse. “Awfully small, and they'll need extra attention for a while, but I think they'll make it.”

“What's this ‘they?' ” Gil asked skeptically.

“They've got your midnight-black hair.” Wilhelm Koch waved a finger at Gil's head. “Black Celts, just like you and your grandmother, if I'm any judge of lineage, which I am. They were born a couple months too early, but their lungs are pretty strong. I've got hot water bottles around them.”

Gil stared up at the ceiling, wishing he could see into the third floor room, to the rear of this hotel, where his family had struggled so. “What's this ‘they?' ” he repeated.

“Didn't I tell you? Mister McLoughlin, you're the father of triplet girls.”

Triplets? By the Holyrood.
Three
of them. Gil felt the floor climbing up to meet him. Triplets! For the first time in his life, Gil McLoughlin fainted.