Bayou Moon - Andrews, Ilona [86]
She felt tears swelling up and held them back. She had almost lost him. Just like that, he would’ve been gone, ripped away from her.
For a space of a breath she closed her eyes and dared to imagine what it would be like if he were no longer there. His smile, his strength, his voice, all gone. Her throat hurt. She tried to swallow and couldn’t, struggling with a hard lump until it finally burst from her mouth in a small sob. Nothing would ever be the same. Gods, how do people survive that?
She opened her eyes. He was still breathing.
My Urow.
She blinked the tears from her eyes and looked away to keep from crying, looked to the walls of the room, which bore bundles of dried herbs and small wooden shelves. An assortment of knickknacks filled the shelves: a ceramic cow, painted deep red; a tiny teapot with bright red stars of bog flowers painted on the pale green; a small doll in a cheery yellow and blue dress. She had always wanted a girl, ever since she gave birth to Ry nineteen years ago, and so she had bought the doll, determined that one day she would give it to her daughter. Her gaze traveled to the crib. She finally had her wish. Took three boys, but she had her little girlie. Everything seemed to be going so well . . .
Why? Why did the feud have to flare now? Was it because they were happy?
Urow’s fingers moved under the blanket, and she bent forward, afraid she woke him up. His lips moved a little, but his eyes remained closed, his breathing even. Still asleep.
She could sit like this till he awoke, watching his chest rise and fall. For a moment it was almost too tempting, but then she had three boys to feed and the dinner wouldn’t make itself. Clara let her fingers graze his cheek one last time and rose.
On her way to the kitchen, she paused by the shelf and picked up the doll. The painted blue eyes looked at her. A single line made a happy smile on the doll’s face. Five months ago, when she gave birth, she had decided that she was going to wait until Sydney grew big enough to play with the doll before she would give it to her.
Life was too short and ended too suddenly. If you didn’t take advantage of what you had today, tomorrow it might be ripped from you.
Clara tugged the doll skirt straighter and took a step to the crib. Sydney lay curled; her blanket kicked free, the dark fuzz of baby hair sticking straight up from her head. Clara tucked the doll in the fold of her daughter’s little arm and put the blanket over them.
In the kitchen she fired up the stove and checked the fish stock she’d made in the morning. She’d clarified it a good two hours ago by stirring a beaten egg and crumpled eggshell into the pot and carefully simmering it at a near boil to separate the grease.
It needed more pepper. She checked the glass jar, but there was none left. She could send Gaston out for some water-bright. It wasn’t as good as real pepper but would do in a pinch.
But then, one of the boys had to stand guard. With Mart and Ry gone, only Gaston remained to keep watch. Those were Urow’s rules, and she would follow them to the letter. Especially now. The soup would survive without the pepper. Besides, when the two oldest returned from herding the rolpies into the shelter, she could ask one of them to fetch some.
You’d think we are at war. She dropped the sieve into the sink, irritated, stirred up the fire to warm up the stock, and reached into the cold box for the widemouth fish caught by the boys the night before.
The odd thing was, she liked Gustave Mar. She never cared for Genevieve that much—too smart and too . . . not prissy exactly, but too . . . too something. Like she was just born better than they were,