27
Texas Hill Country, 1953
As Ruby sat in bed and smoothed her hand over her tiny baby’s fine, light brown hair, her heart ached with love. And when her little one opened her eyes, Niccolò’s vivid blue orbs stared back at Ruby. Their child. Inquisitive, needy, and sweetly demanding. Their baby had insisted on emerging early into the world, ready to take on nearly insurmountable challenges.
“Mariangela, my angel,” Ruby murmured, thinking of Niccolò and his words on their first evening out at the opera.
Doc had stopped by to examine them both. It had been four weeks since the delivery.
“She’ll need a lot of care,” Doc said, removing his stethoscope and returning it to his bag. “Fortunately, she’s a real fighter. Like her mother.”
“We owe so much to Patricia, too.” Ruby wasn’t merely a
