Page 1 of And Forever
PROLOGUE
CHARLOTTE
“The next time I decide to have sex, remind me of this moment,” I grit out as I adjust in the hospital bed and another zing of pain shoots its way up from my very battered vagina.
“It’s not like all sex roads lead here, Charlotte,” Ada Prescott, my best friend and birthing partner, says from next to my shoulder. She repositions the pillow behind my back, then reaches under my arm and lifts the tiny, warm bundle I hold. “Bring her a little closer, nose to nipple, and she’ll latch.”
I look at the tiny, splotchy, squished face of my daughter as she figures out her third attempt at breastfeeding. Her tiny cupid’s bow hunts along the curve of my breast until it closes over the nipple, suctioning hard and fast. There’s relief when my milk finally lets down, but it’s an unusual sensation to have a tiny mouth pulling there. It adds to the various other pains and feelings I can’t begin to catalog. It’s been twelve hours since Winona Grace Styker-McCoy came into the world without a cry; blue eyes wide and assessing as she took in the hospital staff, and shocking everyone with a delightfully full head of black hair.
“Still,” I hiss, “No sex for me. Ever.”
“Stop acting like you wouldn’t do this all over again,” Adapins me with her mocha-colored eyes. They’re framed by thick lashes, perfectly matching the stick-straight hair she has pulled into a high ponytail. Her gentle hand runs through Winona’s downy fluff, swirling the baby strands and laying them flat again as she continues to suck. “She’s the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen.”
Winona’s eyes close, and the next second, her little lips pop free. I look up in alarm at Ada, who smiles warmly and wordlessly offers to take the baby.
“They don’t eat for long periods of time at first,” she explains, hoisting the sleepy newborn over her shoulder and patting at her back before rubbing her hand in circles. Ada is a registered nurse, trained in midwifery, and I have come to rely on her for a lot of my prenatal information. I’ll forever be grateful she picked up the phone when I called seven months ago after our chance meeting on the day I found out I was pregnant.
I stare in amazement when Ada’s hand nearly covers Winona’s entire body. She measured nineteen inches and weighed eight pounds, a very average-sized baby on the charts, but as I look at her now, she seems so small. I also startle at the realization that shefit inside me for the last thirty-nine weeks.
When the most adorable gurgle sounds from Winona, I set about putting my boob back in my robe and taking a long drink of water. Ada has lectured me for weeks on how important staying hydrated is after giving birth, and I understand why. Not having fluids—except through an IV—for the duration of my twenty-nine-hour labor has left me feeling like I’m part desert. Of course, another part of me feels like it went ten rounds with a prize fighter, andthendid a marathon. I’m pretty sure my vagina is never going to recover from pushing an actual human being through it—even with the stitches and doses of acetaminophen I’m allowed to have.
But Ada’s right: I would doallof itagain. Because I know without question that Winona is worth it. She’s the best decisionI’ve ever made, and I can’t wait to be her mom. I close my eyes as the dysregulated hormones in my system try to make me into a tearful mess. It’s tough to do, but I’ve had months of learning to hold in my emotions. To keep it together, even when I’ve wanted to fall apart.
“Want me to hold her for a while so you can sleep?” Ada asks, taking up residency in the big armchair beside the bed. Just like all hospital furniture, I’m sure it isn’t as comfortable as it looks, but Ada hasn’t complained the entire time we’ve been here. If she’s slept, it was when I was too delirious to notice or during the only halfway decent nap I was able to manage when they adjusted my epidural. She hasn’t complained once, not even when I was likely crushing her hand during the pre-pain-medication contractions, or when I threw up a little on her shirt. Giving birth is messy.
“No, I like holding her here,” I answer, reaching my arms out for the swaddled, milk-drunk infant. Ada easily hands her back, practice and finesse momentarily making me focus to keep from being a bumbling idiot. Winona’s mouth mimics suckling as she sleeps, and I can’t resist running a finger along her chubby cheeks and little button nose. I think she takes after me, but I can see Wilder in her, too. I bite the inside of my cheek at the thought of him, and like she’s been able to do since the beginning of our friendship, Ada reads my mind.
“Are you going to call him?” she asks kindly.
“He hasn’t answered any of the times I’ve tried before,” I reply, the feeble and bruised approximation of my heart trying in vain to flare to life in defense of the man I love. I sigh, hitching Winona up against my chest, like her very existence can be a balm to the pain. It helps, but I shake my head. “The depth of his grief twisted into something else, Ada. I just reminded him of it so much that he didn’t try to stop me when I left. Maybe it’s time I let him go, too.”
1
WILDER
COEUR D’ALENE, IDAHO — MARCH,PRESENT
It’s easy to ignore the sound of tires coming down the gravel road. I’m shoulders deep under the hood of this vintage Ford pickup, and the damn alternator belt won't slip into place. I’m not expecting anyone—I never am—so whoever has decided to venture onto my property can wait until I’m done.
This truck is a labor of love. Today’s the first day warm enough to come out to the shed and work on the engine without my fingers going numb. While the air is still cool, the nights are downright cold, but spring is on its way.
There’s the distinct slam of a vehicle door closing, then the crunch of footsteps as they approach. I wiggle my fingers once more, internally cheering when the belt finally engages where it belongs. Only after I extract myself from the belly of the engine and use a discarded rag next to me to wipe the grease from my fingers, do I look to see who’s on my property.
The visitor leans casually against the passenger side of my truck. Boots hooked at the ankles, and a worn pair of faded denim lead to arms crossed over a chest. The salt-and-pepper mustache has more salt in it than last time I saw him, but thefrowning slant of his mouth is still the same. Curtis Stanton looks like he owns the place, and that bothers me as much as his unannounced arrival does.
“What are you doing here?”
“Good to see you, too, Wild.” Curtis skips my question, pushing off the side of the truck and heading toward the wooden steps of the front porch. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
I follow, hitching my step to catch up just as Curtis crosses the porch to the front screen door. He pulls at the handle, and I reach past him to slam the door closed. No one goes inside the house but me. I can hear how my breathing spikes with anxiety at the thought of having him go inside. It makes me press my hand more firmly in place, before I slide around my old mentor and block his entry. We hold each other’s gaze, a silent but intense staring contest until, finally, Curtis relents and looks down. His step back has me inhaling more steadily, and I extend an arm, offering him one of the chairs I have out here. I don’t abandon my spot until the man has sat his ass completely down, the Adirondack style making a quick escape difficult when he has to slide back and sink to hit the back rest.
“I’ll ask one more time, Curt: what are you doing here?” I cross to the rail, leaning against it before folding my arms over my chest. I have a long list of things to do today, and a heartfelt reunion isn’t on it.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Curtis Stanton. My former riding coach. Teacher and mentor. The man who stood on this very piece of land the New Year’s Day after Travis died when I told him I didn’t want his help, even as my world was falling spectacularly apart.
Two weeks ago, Charlotte Stryker, the love of my life, left me. I couldn’t even blame her for doing it, and I hadn’t tried to convinceher I was worth fighting for. I didn’t even thinkIwas worth fighting for back then.
Curtis arrived as early as dawn, pounding on my trailer door while standing in the snow, little flurries winding their way around him. I knew why he was there. I might have wanted to run away from the world, but that didn’t mean the world was going to let me leave.
