“Okay, baby girl, stay put. I need to make sure the coast is clear before toting you inside.”
It is still incredibly early, so things should be quiet. Zane is who I am worried about, though. If he catches me bringing Reece in, all my efforts were for naught.
Thankfully, when I sneak inside, Zane still appears to be passed out, so I rush back to the wagon, grab Reece and our bags, tiptoe through the saloon, and deposit her inside the foldable crib assembled inside the shower stall.
My hope is that by waking her up prematurely, she will take an early nap and, most importantly, I can get away with her going unnoticed. As an added precaution, I quickly scribble an “Out of Order” note to deter dancers from using that stall. Then, I rush outside, collect a couple plywood boards from along the side of the building, and secure them vertically on the crib railings to help prevent her from climbing out. Obnoxious setup, really, but innovative if I do say so myself.
After setting up the video monitor, downloading the app on my phone, and getting the two devices wirelessly connected, I toss several things inside her crib; for starters, the couple of toys Coty threw into her bag and a small cardboard box from the recycling container outside that is still cool and smells like fresh pizza dough.
I even add a couple makeup items, being sure to tighten the caps extra tight. After all, babies never want to play with what they should actually play with; the more teasingly tantalizing the object, the better. She should be good to go for a long while, I think to myself. Just in case, I also throw in a prepared bottle of formula.
My focus is so honed in on making sure Reece is settled, that as soon as the last item is in there and I close the shower curtain, my vision goes a little blurry. I plop down onto the stool at my vanity, my hands gripping each side until the dizzy spell passes.
Several dazed minutes go by before the black, dotted imprints floating in my vision from the Hollywood-style lights in front of me fade. Only then do I notice Zane sitting on the stool at the vanity beside mine.
My heart thrusts into my throat and hand flings up to press against my chest. “Holy shit.” Trying to rein in and mask my panic, I barely manage to keep the shake out of my voice as I ask, “How long have you been sitting there?”
If the lingering redness in his fawn-colored eyes and mussed curls are any indicator, likely not long. Hopefully.
“I was just on the other side of the entrance when you walked around the corner. You were swaying a bit, so I waited to make sure nothing bad happened before coming in and sitting down,” he answers.
My focus drifts past him to the distressed saloon-style double doors. Though appropriately Western-esque for the Tit for Tat theme, it is still pretty common knowledge that Stoney had them installed for reasons less having to do with theme and more to do with the ability to see inside from the hallway.
Happy with his answer and once recovered from the shock, I deliriously chuckle at the irony of how the soft, golden lighting makes the frizz from his curls appear as a circle around his head like a halo. I press my lips together to prevent myself from calling him, “Father” and asking if he does confession and, if so, abides by the same sacramental seal.
Zane leans forward, props his forearms on his knees, and dips his head down. Messy ringlets fall over his eyes as he nudges at the ground with the tips of his riding boots. I steal the moment to really study him. His breathing is even and his posture relaxed, hands cupped together and dangling between his thighs.
Even after what happened last night, Zane is still comfortable around me.
This realization results in a very odd mix of emotions inside myself. With any of the other Hell for Leather men, there would be serious consequences — consequences I took into consideration and was willing to accept. Not this consequence, though.
Forgiveness? I would rather be backhanded or taken advantage of — worst-case scenarios that flicked through my mind as I tapped the powder into his drink. This undeserving forgiveness is so much worse, and I instantly despise him for giving it away so freely. I hate myself for being the recipient, too, even while refusing to indulge.
As if he can sense this moral battle in me, his gaze lifts. Our eyes meet. He catches on. I mask whatever emotion leaked into my expression. A heartbeat too late. Zane straightens, takes a deep, steady breath, and his lips part. To preach? To help?
“I need to get dressed now.” I jump to my feet and strip off my shirt.
Zane propels up, too, averting his gaze. “Right. Yeah. Okay. I… I can wait in the main room.”
“Thanks,” I blurt out.
Cheeks and neck a rosy red, Zane spins around and makes a hasty exit, proving that his strength is also his weakness. One unfortunate day that will change, but for now it works in my favor.
As soon as he is gone, I sink back onto the stool, my shirt bundled in my lap, heavy as a bag of bricks. A small noise comes from Reece, and my anxiety flares even worse than when Zane was in here.
Reaching down to grab my phone from the top of my bag so I can check the baby monitor video feed, that orange pill bottle peeks out beside it, mocking me. I yank my hand away and grip my fingers, clasping them tightly. I close my eyes, dig my nails into my knuckles, while my chest heaves and nostrils flare with every rapid breath.
Lace, no.
No.
No.
No.
But I already know the mental insistence is no use. No matter how many times I tell myself no, the answer is yes — my fix is in that pill bottle.
Tears race down my cheeks, cutting through the stale mascara stains, rewetting them as though they had never dried to begin with.