A Mother's Love by Ruth Wind Read Free Book Online Page A

what it would be like to kiss him if both of their chests were bare, if he was naked, if he—
    Kyra realized she was leaning forward, the ring finger of her right hand against her lips so her tongue could rub over it, since it couldn’t rub over whatever parts of Dylan she was thinking about. With a jerk, she pulled her hand down andfolded it tightly together with the other one, trying not to be aware of his body—or her own, which felt distinctly as if she really had been standing there with her breasts and bare belly pressed into the skin of his torso.
    Good grief. What was wrong with her? This was just not her style at all!
    It was probably the shock, she told herself, a need to make love and affirm life after a sudden and untimely death.
    â€œDo you like her name?” Kyra asked. “Is Amanda the right name for her?”
    â€œIt’s pretty,” he said and gave her a little smile. “But maybe Thomasina is even prettier. Thomasina Amanda?”
    Kyra scowled. “No. There is no flow to it.”
    â€œTrue enough.”
    â€œWhat would Thomas have wanted her to be called?”
    â€œNow there I have no clue. Tommie?”
    The baby giggled. Kyra laughed. “Say it again.”
    â€œAre you Tommie, little girl? Tommie?”
    As if she were trying to speak, the baby said, “Ack, agi, ag, ag.”
    Dylan looked at her. “Tommie it is, I think. But maybe it should be Amanda Thomasina formally.”
    Kyra stood and kissed the baby’s cheek. “Tommie, girl, you’re going to be full of surprises, aren’t you?”
    As if answering, she turned her head and gurgled.
    â€œWow,” Kyra said, a hand over her heart. “Who knew they could snare you like this?”
    Dylan nodded. “Who knew?”

CHAPTER SIX
    B ACK IN HER ROOM AT the bed-and-breakfast, Kyra stripped down to her bra and panties, tugged on a pair of loose yoga pants and a shirt and unrolled her mat.
    Her emotions were all over the place—high and low, veering between anger and gratitude and sorrow and love. And lust. Don’t forget lust.
    Yes, there was that, too. She needed grounding in her practice. Standing in mountain pose, the beginning of many standing poses, she settled her feet on the mat and centered her ribs and breathed in, then out. She brought herself to this moment, this practice. Breathe down to the low belly, back through the crown of the head. Center. Breathe.
    Move.
    With slow, methodical movements, she progressed through her practice—bending and twisting, balancing and standing. She let the turmoil of the past few days simply move through her, unleashed and unjudged. Blips of memory moved over her vision—Dylan’s phone call, Emma’s disapproval, the baby looking up at her.
    Forward fold, downward dog, plank, cobra.
    More blips: Dylan looking so stricken by the tree in the village; coming down to the beach; the baby cradled so comfortably in his arms as he sang to her.
    It was only after she’d been practicing for nearly an hour that she realized she was weeping. Tears streamed down her face in a wash, rising from her belly and chest, leaking out of her eyes. Thoughts trickled through.
    I am a mother.
    Africa, I cannot even think of you yet, she thought.
    And: I am afraid I might fall in love if I stay here very long.
    Still she did not pause, simply continued her practice, breath and movement setting free the buried emotions. When it was done, she crawled up on the bed without even changing her clothes, tugged the duvet over her body and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
    When she awoke, her single thought was very clear: she needed to get home soon. Take the baby and go before she got lost in the blue eyes of a dedicated charmer.
    Â 
    D YLAN TUNED HIS FIDDLE in the ancient old pub. Overhead, beams darkened by smoke and years and cooking held up the stucco ceiling. An equally dark bar was populated by locals, young and old, male and