Rope the Moon (Runaway Ranch, #2)(27)

“What’re you doing back in town?” Winfrey shakes her head, her silver locks curling over her shoulders. “Haven’t seen you in ages.”

“New move,” I say, trying for breezy when all I want to do is melt into a puddle. “Back home.”

Winfrey makes a snippy little noise of consternation and snaps on a glove. “You know, I left Resurrection once. To get my degree. And then I came back. I swear this town has some kind of alien-beam hold on you.”

I stare at the cracked ceiling with fluffy white clouds painted on a blue surface. The cheery scene does little to reassure me. So much for keeping a low profile. Within an hour, everyone will know I’m back home.

“Haven’t seen a doctor yet?”

“No,” I tell her, ignoring the way her gaze bounces to my cast and back to my face. “I haven’t.”

A lie. I didn’t try to find a doctor.

Aiden finding out was one risk I couldn’t take. This baby was my little secret.

Silence lapses for a second and Winfrey clears her throat. “Okay. Let’s get down to business, then take a look at this baby.”

Winfrey completes her internal exam, snaps off her gloves, and discusses the results of my labs. She informs me I have low blood sugar, but I can fix it by eating frequent small meals and healthy snacks.

“Scoot,” she says, slipping on a clean pair of gloves. “Time for that Kodak moment.”

I recline on a table and lift the upper portion of the two-piece gown.

Winfrey glances at the door, then pins me with a curious look. “Would the father like to come in?”

“He’s not here,” I say quickly and leave it at that.

Inhaling a steeling breath, I glance down at my belly. I’ve avoided looking at myself in the mirror. Like looking makes this real. And it is. Suddenly, there’s my belly. My breasts are full, spilling out of my bra.

An overwhelming sort of hopelessness coasts over me.

I need bras.

I need books.

I need prenatal vitamins.

I need so many things.

A job. A home. A life. The heavy weight of responsibility, of happiness.

I squeeze my eyes shut as she squirts a cold gel on my stomach. While the wand coasts over my bump, blood roars in my ears and my heart pumps double time. To calm myself, I grip the cool metal of Davis’s dog tag and rub my thumb over the bumpy, raised lettering I’ve memorized like a prayer.

I wish Davis and his rumbling voice were here to fill the space inside my head. But he’s not. I have to handle this myself.

“There.” Winfrey’s gentle voice breaks the silence. “There’s your baby, Dakota.”

Breathe, Dakota. Rope that moon.

I open my eyes and incline my head to the monitor.

A spine, the curve of the skull, a protruding leg. And a heart. Tiny and furiously beating.

A sad smile curves across my lips. “That’s it?”

“That’s it. Now, let’s see…” She does some calculations on the screen. “Based on measurements, you’re about eighteen weeks along, which puts you at a due date of approximately June twenty-ninth.”

Panic grabs me by the throat. I’m further along than I thought.

All of this is too soon. Too fast.

Winfrey nudges her glasses up on her nose. “Have you felt the baby move yet?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. The roar of blood pounds in my ears. “I don’t think so. Is that bad?”

“Not at all. Your little one’s tucked in there tight. They’ll make themselves known when they’re ready.”

I swallow, staring at the little baby on the screen.

“Would you like to know the gender?”

“No,” I blurt.

Winfrey arches a brow. “Excuse me?”

“No.” I shake my head vigorously. “I don’t want to know.” Guilt heats my cheeks.

I’m not ready. Because if it’s a boy, then I have to worry that he’ll be like his father. If it’s a girl, I’ll worry about warning her away from men like Aiden.

All my life, I will hate myself for not being a better example.

Winfrey sets down the wand, her eyes narrowing in a wise way I don’t like. “Are you sure, Dakota?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

The little flickering heart up on the screen terrifies me. Another life I’m responsible for when I can’t even manage my own. It’s like that little beat is an SOS signal, a reminder of how badly I’m about to fail.

Tears cloud my vision.

I just want to begin again.

I want to love my baby without sorrow. I want to bake without pain, and I want to learn to love again without flinching or fear.

I just want me back.

A sob bursts out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“Oh god.” I sniffle, sitting up on my elbows. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, honey,” Winfrey says, handing over a clump of tissues, and I’m reminded why I liked her so much as a babysitter. “It’s normal. Hormones.”

“Right.” I dab at my eyes, tears still blurring my vision.

“Here. I’ll print you a photo of that beautiful little blur.”

The wand’s hung up, the jelly’s cleaned off my stomach, and the machine’s silenced.