Ian stared at the blood staining his hands. Cameron’s blood. Their daughter’s blood. Tears stung his eyes. Already he’d lost one of them, now he feared he’d lose the other. In the two days since Wes had found Cameron unconscious in the middle of the burning jungle with gunshots to her abdomen and burns covering her back, she hadn’t stirred. Although Wes had sedated her to help manage her pain, he’d weaned her from the medication, hoping eventually she’d wake. Ian hadn’t left her side since, and yet . . . nothing.
Part of him welcomed the reprieve. What would he do when she awoke and he had to tell her their daughter, their precious baby whom she’d already loved with all her heart, was dead? Another sob lurched in his chest, fighting to break free. This wasn’t supposed to happen to them. Cameron, of all people, deserved to have her healthy baby. After all, she was here in this damn African jungle so other women could safely deliver their children. What kind of God would keep her from having the same outcome? As usual, the anger replaced his sadness. Of course, the sadness would return. It always did. The cycle was vicious and never-ending.
Movement in the doorway caught his attention. Mallory lurked on the threshold. His anger burned brighter. This time he didn’t direct that anger at God. No, this anger was all for him. He should’ve been with Cameron. If he’d been in camp instead of the fucking jungle with Mallory, his fiancée would never have ventured out alone. If he’d been with her, she wouldn’t be lying in this bed. He wouldn’t be wondering if he would bury her with their infant daughter.
“Get out,” he croaked. The words didn’t come naturally. In the past two days, he’d cried, he’d railed, he’d sat in silence. Now his throat was raw with salt tears and disuse.
Mallory’s dull eyes went wide. “I’m here to check—”
“Get out.” He didn’t give a damn about her reasons. He wanted her out of this room, off this continent.
“Ian, I’m here to check on Cameron. I’m an OB nurse—”
“And she’s not pregnant.” Not anymore. Not now that he and Wes hadn’t been able to save the child’s life. Not now that his and Cameron’s daughter lay in the makeshift morgue.
Pushing up from the chair, his back protesting from being forced from its bent position, he stalked toward the nurse. “She doesn’t need you. You’ve done enough. Get the hell out of here.”
Mallory’s nostrils flared as if she might cry. Let her. After everything that had happened in the past two days, hurting her feelings was the least of his concerns.
Turning his back, he stared at the woman he loved lying on her side in the bed. He blinked back his tears. So far, he’d only lost his composure when Wes had placed his child in his arms. He didn’t know how long he’d clutched the tiny baby to his chest and sobbed. But he did know he couldn’t let Cameron see him that way. He needed to hold himself together now. When Cameron did wake up—because she had to wake up—she would need him to be strong for her. And so he would. He’d be strong for her until she could be strong on her own. Then they’d be strong for each other. Wasn’t there some quote about the strongest weapons being forged in the hottest fire? That’s what they’d be. A weapon against their shared pain. Cameron had suffered the fire, but she would come out stronger. They would come out stronger.
He just wished he could make himself believe his own words.
* * *
Cameron’s lids fluttered open. Through a makeshift window high on the wall, sunlight shone in her eyes. When she tried to turn away, pain radiated through her abdomen and down her back. Unable to stop herself, she cried out, then quickly grit her teeth against the agony. Was she in labor? Was she—? Oh, God. She clasped her abdomen, but instead of the tight, drum-like swell she remembered, her stomach felt soft and tender. Her heart sprinted in her chest. Her breaths raced to catch up.
“The baby,” she whispered to herself, then louder, “the baby.”
“Cameron.” Ian rounded the bed. “Cam, baby.”
She ripped the sheet away. Underneath, her abdomen resembled a patchwork quilt of gauze and bare skin. Her stomach, once hard and swollen with life, was rounded and soft. Tears rushed to her eyes, flooding her vision. “My,” she choked on her tears. “My baby. Where’s my baby?” Despite the pain screaming through her body, she kicked away the sheet and shifted her legs to the side of the bed.
“Cameron, baby stop.” Ian stood, keeping her from climbing out.
“Where is she?” She looked into his dark eyes. Days ago, those eyes had been her safe place, the calm in the middle of all her storms, but now . . . A sudden rush of memory washed over her. She shook her head against the images and sounds threatening to drag her under: Ian kissing Mallory, his declaration that he didn’t want a child, the dirty boy standing in the edge of the woods with the haunted look in his eyes and a gun in his hand, and fire—fire engulfing the trees around her and racing up her spine. As if back on that dirt path, her side screamed with the pain of the bullet piercing her skin before she dropped to the ground, rolling to protect her daughter.
She swallowed the memories. “Where’s my daughter?”
Ian inhaled, his chest rising and falling with the movement. “Cameron, she—”
“Where is she?” Her voice broke. She already knew. What mother wouldn’t? Her baby, her daughter—A sob stole her breath.
“Baby, I’m so sorry.” Ian’s arms came around her.
Pain streaked through not just her body, but her heart at his touch. Using what strength she could muster, she shoved him away. “Don’t. . . don’t touch me.” He wasn’t sorry. Hadn’t he told Mallory he didn’t want a child? Looked like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.
And she could never forgive him.
* * *
Six Months Later- Chicago
Cameron closed the lid on her keepsake box and slipped it into her bag. Scanning the apartment she and Ian had shared for the past eighteen months, she took stock of everything she’d accumulated in their time together and everything she’d leave behind. Nothing here mattered anymore. None of their possessions could bring back the child she’d lost or the love they’d once shared.
Since Ian had only left a couple of hours ago to work a double shift, she had all day to decide what to leave and what to take with her. He wouldn’t come back to the apartment until his shift ended for the night. But she didn’t need time to decide what to take and what to leave, because she didn’t want any of it. Everything within these walls reminded her of the life Ian had promised her, the life they were supposed to build together, the life that had been a lie. When she’d turned her back on him and Mallory that day in Africa, she’d already known that dream was dead. He’d fooled her into thinking he loved her and only wanted her, but now that she knew differently, she couldn’t pretend. Over the past six months, he’d played the part of the dutiful caretaker, but he wasn’t her partner, not her lover—not anymore.
For all she knew, he wasn’t even really working a double tonight, or any of the others that he’d claimed to be at the hospital. Maybe he just told her that so she wouldn’t question his late hours away from the apartment. Not that she was brave enough to ask. And not asking killed her.
Every day, a little piece of her confidence flaked away until she feared if she didn’t leave now, she’d never leave at all. She still loved Ian, and she hated herself for loving him. He hadn’t wanted their daughter. What kind of mother was she, even to her deceased child, if she stayed with a man who hadn’t wanted her?
Stopping in front of the nursery, she pushed the door open. Although they’d been back home for six months, neither of them had touched the space they’d created for their daughter before going to Africa. As she scanned the room, her mind conjured pictures of her rocking her child in the antique rocker Ian had bought her for their anniversary and putting her to sleep in the crib he’d put together for her. Tears filled her eyes. How had she been so blind? How hadn’t she realized Ian didn’t want the life they’d created? And how did she ease the aching emptiness left within her at the loss of both her unborn daughter and his love? She didn’t know. But she knew she couldn’t heal here.
Her gaze landed on a picture lying on the changing table. Slowly, she tiptoed over and picked it up. She’d never seen this photo before, but she remembered the moment. In the picture, she and Ian stood in the clinic’s doorway in Africa. The sunlight shining behind them allowed the camera to only capture their silhouettes as they both touched her swollen belly. Her chest tightened and her breaths shallowed. The love she’d felt for him that day threatened to swallow her whole now, and if it did, she’d never walk away—never heal. Taking the picture from the table, she slipped it into her bag and left the room. She’d take this as a reminder. Ian’s love may have been an illusion, but it had been a beautiful one.
* * *