Toward hour four she collapsed back against the mound of pillows, the ring she wore on a chain glinting between her breasts.

“Why won’t she come out!”

“The book says the first one especially can take awhile.” At a loss, he brushed the sweat-dampened hair back from her face. “I remember my mom saying I took about twelve hours.”

He hadn’t appreciated his mother enough, not nearly enough.

“Twelve? Twelve?”

He understood he’d taken the wrong tack when she reared up, teeth bared, gripped the front of his shirt, hauling him closer, and snarled, “Do something!”

“You need to stay calm. We’re going to get through this.”

“We? We? Get me some pliers, get me some damn pliers so I can yank a couple of your teeth out without Novocain, then you can say we. Don’t tell me to stay calm, you fucking lunatic … Oh God. Oh God, here it comes!”

“Breathe, breathe. Come on, babe. I’m going to check. Keep breathing. Holy shit, I see her head! I see her head. She’s got hair.” For some reason that delighted him, and he grinned as he looked up while Lana blew out breaths.

“Then pull her out! Just pull her out!”

Then she collapsed again on a long moan. Her eyes shut.

“You really saw her head?”

“Yeah. Hair looks dark. It’s wet, but it looks dark.”

Shifting, he dumped some of the ice in a cloth to cool it, stroked it over her face. “Okay, listen up. You’re doing great. I know it hurts. I don’t know why the hell it has to hurt so much. It’s a crap system, but we’re getting closer to the payoff. You can do this.”

“I can do this. Sorry about the ‘fucking lunatic.’”

“It’s okay. I feel like one.”

“Well, you’re not, and in case I call you one again, or worse, I’m telling you now, you’re a hero. You are,” she said when he shook his head. “I know heroes. Oh, fuck!”

He’d been in combat. He’d led men, lost men, killed men. Nothing had prepared him for the rigors of helping a laboring woman as she fought to push a child into the world.

He knelt on the bed, bracing her feet against his hand, pressing his weight against them as she bore down, time after time.

That fierceness pulsed from her now, sharpening her eyes, glowing on her face—and her cries were those of war, not of pain. When sweat soaked through his shirt, he stripped it off, tossed it aside.

Like Lana, he wore a chain, and he carried a medal bearing the image of Michael the Archangel.

“Breathe it out, breathe it out.” He swiped his forearm over his brow as she lay back and gathered herself. “We’re really close.”

Lana curled up, gulped in air. Pushed while the first rumbles of thunder joined the howling wind.

“There’s her head. Jesus, Lana, look. There’s her head. No, pant, don’t push. Wait, pant, don’t push. Okay, yeah.” Carefully, he lifted the cord from around the baby’s neck. “Let’s get the rest of her out here. Ready?”

Tears mixed with sweat as she rode the birth pangs, watched Simon guide one shoulder, then the other.

The room, the night sky burst with light. On the mantel over the little gas fire, the candles flashed to flame.

On a mother’s fierce call, the baby slid into Simon’s hands. And with her first breath, loosed a cry like triumph.

“I’ve got her.” Stunned, awed, overwhelmed, Simon stared down at the wriggling infant. “I’ve got her. Wow.”

“She’s beautiful. Oh, isn’t she beautiful!”

As Lana reached out, Simon gave her the child. “Damn right she is. You gotta hold her head lower, the book said. Drains the fluids. I’m gonna clean her up some, okay? And we need to keep her warm.”

Laughing, weeping, Lana pressed her lips to the infant’s cheek. “It’s my baby. She’s here. She’s beautiful.” Lightning flashed again as she looked at Simon. “Out of me, into your hands, and into mine. She’s yours, too.”

Because he couldn’t speak, he nodded.

Dealing with the practicalities steadied him. Birth was a messy business, and by the time he’d cleaned up, the sun shimmered pink through the windows. And the baby nursed at her mother’s breast.

That was a picture he would carry in his head for the rest of his life.

“How about I scramble up some eggs, get you that tea we never got around to?”

“I could eat.” She stroked a finger over the baby’s hair. Max’s dark hair. “I don’t have the words, Simon. I just don’t have them.”

“What are you going to call her?”

“Fallon. She’s Fallon. Born in the Year One. Conceived and saved by one man, delivered into the hands of another. I know she’ll honor them both. I know it.”

He brought her food, made sure she was comfortable before going out to deal with the stock. The fields would wait.

* * *

He checked on them, found them sleeping, and took the time to grab a shower where he braced his hands against the tile while the water beat on him and tried to sort out his feelings.

Too many to sort.

He went out to the barn, brought back the project he’d worked on in the evenings for weeks.

The cradle stood waist high, built with pine he’d stained a deep, rich brown. It rocked gently at the push of his hand.

The baby opened her eyes. The dark, somehow magickal infant blue seemed to see straight into him.

“Man,” he murmured, using a fingertip to stroke her cheek. “You look like you know everything there is and more. I’m going to catch a couple hours of sack time myself. So…”

What if they needed him?

With a shrug, he stretched out on the bed beside Lana.

If they needed him, he thought as he drifted off, he’d be right there. The baby whimpered, had him blinking his eyes open again.

“Don’t wake her up, okay?” he whispered, gave the tiny rump a couple of awkward pats. “In her place, I’d sleep a month.”

When she whimpered again, stirring restlessly, he shifted.

“Okay, let’s try this.” He gathered her up, and when she curled against his chest, rubbed her back. “Yeah, that’s better. That’s better. That’s my girl.”

As he slept, Fallon watched him. Knew him.

EPILOGUE

On the last day of the first year Lana stood at the window watching a light, pretty fall of snow. She cuddled Fallon as she wondered what the New Year would bring.

A year before she’d been with Max at a party in SoHo, drinking wine, laughing, dancing while thousands gathered in Times Square to watch the ball drop.

She thought of Max often. She had only to look at Fallon, the already thick raven-dark hair, the eyes slowly turning from infant blue to smoky gray.

The pang had lessened, and the baby was part of the healing.

So, she knew, was Simon.

Just as she knew his feelings for her, as she knew his unquestionable love for the baby.

She’d end this year, this first year, with memories of the man she’d loved, memories she’d always hold precious. And she’d begin the next giving her heart to the man she’d come to love.

“You’re the link between us, my baby.” She brushed her lips over Fallon’s hair. She lifted the baby high, making her gurgle and kick her legs. “You’re the everything.”

She heard the dogs bark and, lowering the baby, saw a man on horseback riding down the lane toward the house.

Fear came first. Would it always?

She ran to get the sling she’d made, secured Fallon in it to free her hands before she retrieved the shotgun. Ready to protect, defend, she watched as Simon walked toward the horseman.

The man dismounted. He wore a long, dark coat, held the bay’s reins in one gloved hand. He wore no hat, and snow fell over his wavy mane of hair. His beard, trim and dark like his hair, carried a white streak.

They spoke. Simon glanced toward the house, then left the man standing in the snow with his horse.

“Who is he?” Lana demanded when Simon opened the front door. “What does he want?”

“He says his name is Mallick. He says he’s come to pay tribute to The One and her mother, and won’t come in without your invitation. He claims he has things to tell you. He’s not armed.”