The SEAL's Baby. Laura Altom Marie

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      “Was?” Libby asked.

      “Poor girl died of cancer. For a while there we all thought Heath might go with her. It’s been nearly fourteen months, but nobody seems able to reach him.”

      “I—I’m sorry.” What Libby went through in having Liam leave her was bad enough; she couldn’t even imagine the pain of losing a spouse.

      Gretta shrugged. “By the time you get to be my age, you realize death’s an inevitable side effect of life. But it’s never easy seeing a young person go. Feels unnatural.”

      Not sure what else to do or say, Libby nodded.

      “Anyway...” Gretta took a deep breath, only to let the air rush out. “Since my rooms are all full, you shouldn’t have to do a thing, other than grab a few towels or ring up snacks, but I always like someone to be up here—just in case. If you run into any trouble, here’s my cell.” She jotted the number on a Post-it, then stuck it on a computer screen. She did a quick run-through on the register, then showed Libby what was available in terms of food and sundries in the lobby’s small gift section. “Think you can manage?”

      “Easy peasy,” Libby said, despite this being her first real job in a while, outside of selling her art.

      “Good.” Heath’s mom took her purse from beneath the front desk and headed for the door. “Oh—and thanks again for filling in. I’m not sure my son could handle losing his wife and his dog.”

      * * *

      HEATH CUPPED HIS HANDS to his mouth. “Sam! Come on, boy!”

      Where the hell could he be?

      The deeper Heath trudged into the forest, the madder he got—not just at his mutt, who knew better than to run off, but at the world in general.

      As relieved as he’d been to escape Libby’s perma-smile and adorably huge belly, he was also resentful of the man who’d turned his back on her. Since losing his wife, Heath had no tolerance for men who willingly shirked their responsibilities in regard to their women. He hadn’t noticed a ring on Libby’s left hand, which led him to assume the baby’s father hadn’t even married her to give his future child a name. Who did that?

      “Sam!” he bellowed. “Get your ass home!”

      A good half mile off, car headlights shone in the direction of Heath’s cabin.

      His mom, arriving to save the day?

      He loved her. He honestly didn’t mean for them to always be at odds, but for as long as he could remember, she’d had the need to save every broken animal and person in her world. What she couldn’t seem to grasp was the fact that he was beyond saving. He had, for all practical purposes, died with Patricia—even his CO had said as much when he’d sent him packing. Being put on indefinite leave for failure to perform his duties had been one of Heath’s greatest shames, but what was done was done.

      No going back now.

      “Heath?” His mom’s voice carried through the ever-darkening gloom. “Where are you, hon?”

      He groaned. Why couldn’t she just go away?

      If, God forbid, the worst had happened to Sam, the last thing Heath wanted was an audience when he broke down.

      “Heath?” She sounded closer—a lot closer, when she rounded the trail’s nearest bend. “There you are.”

      “God, Mom, I told you I’ve got this handled.”

      She shined a high-beam flashlight in his eyes. “Have you found him yet?”

      “No.”

      “Then you obviously haven’t handled squat.”

      * * *

      “YOU LOOK LIKE you’re about to pop,” said one of the inn’s fishermen to Libby after placing a bag of pretzels and a Snickers bar on the chest-high counter. The guy’s thick, red curls stuck out the bottom of a hat covered in fishing lures. “When’re you due?”

      “Third week in July.” Libby knew she should have looked forward to her child’s entry into the world, but with her life so uncertain, the only thing the date brought was dread.

      He whistled. “My wife just had our fifth, and I thought you look awfully close to the big day. Know what you’re having?”

      “A girl.” Libby forced her usual smile. “I’m excited to finally meet her, but also a little scared.”

      “You’ll be fine,” the kindly man said with a wink. “Although, my wife would smack me if I went so far as calling labor easy.”

      Laughing, Libby said, “Honestly? That’s the least of my worries. It’s what happens once I take my baby home that has me spooked.”

      Even thirty minutes after the man left, Libby couldn’t resume her interest in the romantic comedy she’d borrowed from Gretta’s extensive library.

      Libby’s perch on the desk stool unfortunately afforded an excellent view of the landline phone.

      It stared at her, taunted her, made her feel like a fool for not having long since dialed her parents’ familiar number.

      She’d always heard about the evils of pride, but lately, she felt at constant war with the emotion. Was it pride keeping her from crawling back to her folks in her current defeated state? Or self-preservation? With a baby on the way, did she even have the right to put her own desires ahead of her child’s basic needs and protection?

      Pressing the heels of her hands to her forehead, she willed an answer to come, when clearly this wasn’t a simple black-and-white decision, but one shaded with a myriad of grays.

      At her high school graduation dinner, when her parents told her that to pursue a career in art was ridiculous, that after college she was destined to spend a few years in a low-profile advertising position, then settle into a life as a society wife and mom—just like her own mother—Libby had initially rebelled by running with a bad crowd.

      That summer, a protest rally gone horribly wrong had landed her in jail for vandalism. Her father had bailed her out, but basically handed her the edict that from here on out, it was either his way or she needed to hit the highway. She’d chosen the highway, and with him calling her a disappointment and loser on her way out his front door, she’d never looked back.

      In the five years since leaving her prestigious Seattle address, she’d spoken only to her mother, and only on Christmas. Each time, her mother had begged her to come home. When Libby asked if her father’s opinion of her lifestyle had changed, and her mother reported it had not, Libby politely ended their conversations and prayed that by the next year, her father would come around.

      The fact that she was now broke, knocked up by a man who’d left her and she didn’t even own a running car proved that everything her father had said about her being a loser was true. Was she destined to become a bad mom, as well?

      * * *

      “I DON’T FEEL comfortable leaving you.”

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