Rachel wasn't a hand-wringer. She was a doer. She was a get-your-stuff-together-and-do-what-needs-to-be-done woman. That had served her well all her life ... well except that time when she'd been pregnant and bed-ridden. It figures that the next time she is at a loss, it would have to do with one of her children.
Abigail had been hurt, nearly killed, on a night when she should have been flying with her family. But she couldn't fly, could she? She was pregnant, with a human, of all things. Not that she had a problem with that. She could have had a human child herself, if God had so wanted it. She always thought she'd lucked out. Rachel obviously had nothing against humans. She was very much in love with a human, but they were such fragile beings. One scratch, and it was over for them. And now she had at least one human grandchild. There was so much more to fear when your loved ones were so breakable.
It did not escape her that she, a were-raven, considered other beings breakable. Still, that's what they were.
Of course, so was her daughter, and here she lay, a bit broken, but alive. Alive and a soon-to-be mother.
Alive.
And here was Rachel ... helpless.
It was clear the child was not Jake's. She was pregnant with Gabe's child, whom she had broken her engagement to. Perhaps this was the push necessary to get her thinking rationally again. Maybe some good could come from this.
Rachel watched Abigail and wrung her hands.
When Abigail awoke, Rachel was still watching her closely. She didn't know what to say to her daughter. There was so much she wanted to say, but where did she start?
Rachel did not expect Abigail to be the first to talk, or that her first word would be an apology. She moved her chair closer and reached out a hand to brush at Abigail's hair. "I'm just glad you're all right."