I forbid her from any heavy lifting.

I took over her job of collecting firewood.

I fished.

I cleaned.

I even helped her soak more flax until the softest strands were available for a baby blanket.

She barely tolerated me, but I never felt excluded if she needed some alone time. She went out of her way to make sure I felt valued and adored, and when she kissed me, she held my entire world in her palm.

We’d found balance.

We’d become a team rather than enemies.

By day, I worked on building an extension to our home, creating a lean-to that was accessible from our bedroom where the newly built crib would rest.

I just hope my skills design a better crib than a raft.

I still cringed, thinking how quickly and disastrously the bamboo platform had broken apart. Turned out, I should stick to land architecture, not boats.

By night, I massaged her back, combed her hair, and rubbed her aching feet.

I didn’t let her out of my sight, and even permitted Conner and Pippa to spend the night on the other side of the island as an adventure and non-traditional sleepover, just so I could make tender love to her in front of the fire without having to traipse to our grove.

She ate what I told her to, ensuring she had her ration and most of mine to feed both mother and growing child. As she grew bigger, I grew skinnier as I refused to fish too often so I wasn’t far from her.

Conner picked up a lot of my slack, taking on more duties, and restocking our pile of coconuts and water reservoirs without me asking him to.

Not once did he give me grief, and I never caught him gawking at Estelle in inappropriate ways.

Perhaps, he’d only been joking. Not that it mattered; I’d keep an eye on him just in case.

Once again, we chose not to celebrate Christmas.

The birthdays were enough to remind us of quickly passing time. However, we did plan a big meal and bonfire when the turtles returned.

We spent the night watching the massive beasts haul their bulk from the tide and repeat the same process from a year ago, laying countless eggs, doing their best for their offspring’s chance, before slinking back into the sea in silence.

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JANUARY

Pippa had another birthday.

It felt like only yesterday she’d turned eight. The little girl, resembling a washed-up princess, slowly turned into a young woman complete with long legs, beseeching eyes, and a wicked intelligence that thought outside the box and allowed us to experiment with different materials, find plants that provided pain relief for mosquito bites, and flowers that helped with swelling and sprains.

We weren’t often hurt but everyday scrapes and injuries were common. She somehow morphed into the pharmacist of our island-world, constantly murmuring with Estelle about what to try next and the risks versus reward of the red and yellow flowers decorating our beach.

Our larder slowly housed a small apothecary, too. Growing with herbs and supplies as analysis turned to verification.

I had no doubt if she were back in a city with schooling and teachers, she would’ve been top of her class and already on her way to deciding her career.

I’d asked her a week ago what she wanted to be when she grew up.

And despite the caustic reply that she doubted we’d get off the island, she wanted to be a doctor.

She certainly had an affinity for healing and health.

Unlike the murderer I killed.

I just hoped we wouldn’t need her adolescent skills when it came time for Estelle to give birth.

Chapter Fifty-One

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E S T E L L E

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FEBRUARY

IT STARTED SLOW.

Painful and slow.

But with an urgency that terrified.

The skin around my distended belly rippled with pain as the contraction wrenched me from sleep.

Gasping, I jerked in Galloway’s arms.

No, I’m not ready.

I’ll never be ready to face this.

Another ripple tore a louder gasp from me, rousing G.

Damn, I didn’t want to wake him.

He’d only fuss, and he’d hardly slept at all this past week, worrying about me, constantly looking at the calendar to pinpoint when I was due. I hated that he gave me his food, willingly hurting himself to ensure I had more than I needed. He was far too kind. Too generous. I didn’t deserve it after the way I’d acted.

I twirled my flax wedding ring. Already, it was almost non-existent with wear but the weight of our marriage and bond of love seared into my flesh like a tattoo.

I adored him.

And I was so sorry this had happened when we were so unprepared.

The contraction tightened again, stealing my breath.

He roused, his eyes opened, hazy with sleep but sharp with protectiveness. “What is it?”

I shook my head, holding up my hand to signal I couldn’t talk.

He shot to his knees, his eyes wild.

He acted more panicked than I did. But that was because I’d got better at hiding my fear.

Ever since our fight, I’d been very conscious of how I came across to him. My thoughts had remained locked on my baby. He was now (as awful as it might seem) second best. I couldn’t help it. It was my body making me pick the most important.

And for now, the soon-to-be-born baby was more important.

Not that I could ever tell him that because I loved him. With all my heart.

My heart had just expanded to encompass more.

The contraction faded.

I relaxed.

It could just be another false alarm.

I’d had a few of those the past week. Sometimes, it was hard to tell what was preparation and what was the rowdy baby in my belly.