always looked like the Icenian queen Boadicea, who had avenged the rape of her two daughters by waging war against the Romans.
Francesca suited the role.
Tara cranked down her window and smelled snow, unfallen.
Her mother saw Laura.
When Tara released the buckle on the infant car seat and lifted her, Laura didn’t wake, just curled her knees up to her chest. You are so sweet. I love you. I love you.
As Tara unfolded herself from the car with Laura, a blue Toyota Land Cruiser beat its way up the road, rocking over the bumps. The road led up to Tomboy, a ghost town recently turned real-estate speculation-ground. Though several properties were listed, her mother said only one resident had settled on the high alpine tundra, buying up half of what was there. So this must be Francesca’s troublesome landlord. But first Tara saw the children, with luminous skin shades darker than the Rio Grande and wavy, shiny, black hair. A boy, a little girl, another boy.
Finally, she caught an impression of black hair, granite cheekbones and fair skin behind the steering wheel. No one had ever mentioned his looks—only that he was an obstetrician and difficult. Now, there was a real-estate sign in the yard. Was he selling the Victorian?
Where will Mom go?
Where will Laura and I go?
Evicting Francesca so that he could rent out her house to skiers. So why was there a real estate sign on the front lawn?
Francesca plastered on a grin and waved.
The driver nodded, and Tara noted the careless scrape of his eyes, eyes some murky shade of dark gray or green. The children were speaking to each other, ignoring everything else.
“Friends?”
“Shut up and smile.” The hiss of a sigh escaped Francesca’s lips, saying plainer than words, What have you done now, Tara? Whose baby is that?
The Land Cruiser halted in the rocks and mud alongside the road, beneath evergreens. As the dust settled, a car door slammed, and the driver strode toward them.
“Great,” muttered Francesca.
“What?”
“Please, Tara. Let me do the talking. This is my landlord.” She added, “And Dan McCrea’s brother.”
Dan McCrea. The other creep in her life who’d been christened Daniel. Why did she have so much trouble with people named Dan? There was Danny Graine, her ex-husband—
And Dan McCrea, M.D., OB/GYN.
His brother was six foot three or four. Tara rocked Laura, singing softly, “Hush a-bye, don’t you cry, Go to sleepy, little baby....” Under the pine trees, she adjusted the receiving blanket over the tiny head in a cotton hat. She’d found the hat at Wal-Mart in El Paso, along with the infant car seat—everything but the cotton diapers she’d bought from a supplier, also in El Paso.
“Hello, Francesca.”
Tara thrust out a hand. “Hi, I’m Tara. Francesca’s daughter.”
“Isaac McCrea.” He shook her hand, then ignored her. “The buyers signed the contract today. Occupancy is set for November twenty-fourth.”
His eyes were hazel, with black lashes and eyebrows. Yeah, the resemblance to Dangerous Dan was there, alongside the differences. Great chin, nice jaw, straighter hair, more interesting eyes... In Tara’s arms, Laura stirred, made a soft crying sound.
She would have to get the milk and supplemental feeder from the cooler in the car. Her plan was to link up with some of Francesca’s nursing moms, see if any would donate breast milk.
“Is there something I can do to change your mind, Dr. McCrea?” asked Francesca.
“No.” He shook his head.
“Is it because I’m a midwife?”
Tara liked the direct question, the only relevant question. Relevant to everything when one’s life was midwifery—in the United States.
“Of course not.”
“Then, perhaps, when I find a new place for my home and office,” Francesca suggested, “you’ll be willing to serve as backup physician.”
Gutsy, Mom! Incision Dan’s brother serve as backup for the local midwife?
“I have no maternity insurance. I don’t do births.”
Didn’t do births? Tara broke in. “Aren’t you an obstetrician?”
“Family practice. You’re thinking of my brother.”
She blushed. On the phone, months and months ago, Francesca had said he was an obstetrician; but that was when he was new to town. Or maybe there was confusion with his brother, who’d lived in Precipice for years. In any case, Francesca had been getting flak from the hospital about her homebirth practice, and she always assumed the worst.
From the corner of her eye, Tara glimpsed motion. “Your car is rolling.”
The Land Cruiser connected with a house-sized boulder behind it and stopped.
“Not anymore.” Unconcerned about his children releasing the parking brake? Backing away, he murmured, “Enjoy your visit,” and he was partway to his car before he turned and looked at Tara.
She felt to her bones what he saw.
A woman with a newborn and a slender body and flat stomach. Quelling panic, fear of discovery, she grinned. “Bye, doc.”
“TARA. YOUR ETHICS!”
“Ethics, schmethics. This has nothing to do with being a midwife.”
“You attended that child’s birth! You can’t just keep the baby! And you can’t raise a child alone.”
“What would you have done?”
Francesca thought, We’ve been here a hundred times before. Butting heads. “I would have driven straight back to Maternity House. What possessed you to do anything different?”
“I told you. I swore—”
“The mother is clearly not dead.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But her wishes were obvious. She considered herself dead—to this child. And now, Laura can grow up knowing that her mother and I made a pact, rather than that her mother abandoned her, which is the story she’d hear if she was adopted by strangers.”
Francesca pressed her lips together. The baby was darling, with her thatch of dark hair and huge dark eyes. I don’t dare hold her. But Tara... Tara was nursing her with supplemental milk. Ten to twelve times a day. What was she thinking? “Tara, that baby is stolen. From the next couple in the state of Texas waiting to adopt a child.”
Tara had already considered that. “I disagree.
