Angel Kisses
The tightly knitted strands of the blanket felt like velvet against Murdoch's roughened palm. How did it go? Right over left, or left over right? A flash of pain creased his brow. He'd never had the chance to do this with his first born.
"There's a way to do that, you know."
"Yes, but he's not telling me." Murdoch frowned at Maria then concentrated on the squirming bundle held against his thigh.
"Give him to me."
He managed a quick smile towards the bed. "No, I can do this. It's like riding a horse, right?" Maria leaned back against her pillow; her eyes pulled together in worry.
Snaking a hand under the impossibly small head, he cradled the rest of the baby along his forearm.
One balled-up fist escaped the swaddling and shot upwards. Grinning, Murdoch marveled at its smallness. Pressing open the fingers, he rubbed his own calloused thumb tip across the tiny palm, feeling the warmth hidden there.
"He's beautiful, isn't he? There's nothing wrong?" Maria's voice seemed a mile away.
The bundle fussed again and scrunched his face, a single cry escaping. The boy had lungs, Murdoch decided, then noticed, the intriguing pink marks across the baby's forehead.
"Murdoch?"
The baby slivered open pale eyes and latched onto his finger. Blinking hard, Murdoch paused and held his breath.
John—Johnny if Maria would have it. A good, strong name that held its own in Lancer lineage.
Two short, insistent tugs—then the boy let go. It was just enough to tell his father: I'm here!
Murdoch raised his hand and stroked the pale marks, frowning. The fault of some spirit. He tried hard to remember where he'd heard that from. A story from his childhood perhaps. He held the baby tighter, and John settled within the blanket.
Ghost stories, that's all they were. Made for old men to sit around the fire and warn the youngsters to behave themselves or they would be cursed with bad luck.
He heard the bed creak. Maria was up on one elbow.
"I asked you a question."
"What, darling?"
"Is everything all right?"
Her words were slurred with exhaustion. Then he remembered her blood staining the linens—the bed and floor. Too much of it. And the hushed voice of the doctor when he was pushed out to stand in the hallway.
He palmed the spot on John's forehead. The color seemed to darken, mimicking the puddles in the birthing room.
"These marks..."
"Is that all?" She smiled back against her pillow, her eyes closing in sleep. "They're just kisses…angel kisses."
He shrugged away a sense of foreboding. One child had already been taken from him. Nothing would happen to this one. John was healthy and Maria would recover quickly. In time, he would bring his eldest to the ranch where they could all live together. En Familia. As it should be.
The End