The Sheriff's Doorstep Baby. Teresa Carpenter
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Dad had never understood, never accepted how important music was to her, that songwriting wasn’t just a dream but what drove her.
“Shallow. I guess you’re right after all. River Run has character, people with heart and integrity who care about their neighbors, where life is more important than entertainment and meeting strangers in the street.”
No surprise, Sheriff Nate Connor didn’t understand, either. Why that hurt she couldn’t say.
She ran the back of her finger over baby Jack’s powder-soft cheek, wishing him a better life in River Run than she’d had. “He’s asleep again.”
“Good. Hypothermia is hard on the system.”
“Is the storm going to get better or worse tomorrow?”
“Why? You have somewhere you gotta be?” he mocked her.
“Just answer the question.”
“Worse. This was only supposed to be a light snow flurry, but a massive cold front pushed down from Alaska causing blizzard conditions. It’s supposed to get worse before it gets better. We’ve battened down the town and advised people to stay inside except for emergencies.”
Nodding, she tucked the fleece-wrapped baby in the crook of the couch and set his bottle on the oak coffee table.
“Then I should get at least one of my other suitcases tonight.” She reached for her shoes.
Nate didn’t move. “You’re not going out in the storm. Didn’t you hear me say I advised the townspeople to stay inside?”
“This is an emergency.”
“You’re safe and sound inside a warm house. There’s food and water, and a flushing toilet. How is this an emergency?”
His long-suffering expression made her grit her teeth.
“I need clothes. I have a change of underwear in my overnight case, but not clothes.” She tugged at her ripped T-shirt. “And the ones I have on came into contact with a Neanderthal.”
“You can borrow something of mine.” He shrugged off her sarcasm. “Nobody is going back out into the storm.”
Shooting daggers at him, because she’d hoped he’d offer to get the cases for her, she made her way around the table to the middle of the room. Her ankle throbbed but held her weight.
“Ten minutes ago you were ready to send me on my way.”
“That was before I’d been back outside. The storm has worsened.”
“All the more reason to go now. I’m going to get my suitcase and you can’t stop me.”
He laughed. And pushed to his feet with a lithe grace that spoke of muscle and discipline and the easy strength to make her do anything he wanted her to.
Aggravating man.
“You don’t scare me.” Still she couldn’t prevent taking an instinctive step back. And immediately felt her ankle turn. Pain streaked through her foot and she started to fall.
She screamed.
The baby cried.
And the lights went out.
CHAPTER THREE
“I’VE got you.” Nate caught a bundle of soft female curves in his arms. She smelled of something fruity, clean and tart … and good enough to eat.
Too bad she was prickly as a porcupine. Because it looked as if he was stuck with her for a couple of days.
“I’m fine.” She twisted against him, seeking release. “You’ve made your point. I’m not going outside.”
“Stay still.” He shifted his hold from her arms to her waist, practically spanning the narrow width with his hands. She was tinier than he’d thought. “You’re going to hurt yourself worse than you already have.”
“The baby is crying.”
“We’ll get to Jack in a minute.” For some reason Nate couldn’t let Michelle go. She’d untucked her shirt when she stuck the baby under the hem and the thumb of his right hand rested on the silky warmth of her skin. It wasn’t personal, he assured himself. It wasn’t Michelle he wanted.
It just felt so good to hold a woman in his arms.
But he had enough common sense to know the landlord who wanted to sell his house out from under him was not the place to kick-start his libido.
He had no choice but to let her stay for a couple of days, but after that she’d be gone. Either to a place in town or preferably back to the city to stay until his lease ended and she could return to do her thing without his bumping into her.
She stopped struggling, going totally still. The lights were out but the fire gave off enough light for him to realize the dark shook her.
He could handle a woman’s tears. When your mother cried at the drop of a hat, you learned to cope or became an emotional wreck yourself. Still the long day—days—and the baby must have him off his game, because he really didn’t want to see the tears sparkling in Michelle’s emerald-bright eyes fall. Already he knew enough about her to know she’d hate putting on a tearful display for him.
“What’s wrong, Michelle? Are you afraid of the dark?”
Anger instantly sparked, wiping the distress from her face, replacing it with haughty distain.
“Of course not.” Her chin lifted and instead of pulling away from him she stepped forward until her pink flannel shirt brushed against the khaki of his uniform. “I’m at my best in the dark.”
His body reacted with a rush. Holy sh—Moly.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Round one to Michelle.
A warrior knew the advantages of a timely retreat. He quickly released her and took two steps back, narrowly missing the coffee table and a fall of his own.
She flipped her hair and flashed him a glance of triumph as she moved to pick up the baby and coo at him. Not a tear in sight, and she seemed to have forgotten her missing suitcases.
Mission accomplished. So it hadn’t been a total defeat.
“Good. Then keep an eye on Jack. I’m going to go get some flashlights and candles. Plus I have to make some calls. I may be a few minutes.”
“Okay.” But she couldn’t prevent a flinch of uncertainty.
“Don’t let the fire go out.”
“Don’t worry.”
“I’ll be as fast as I can and we’ll get some light in here.”
“Thanks. I think the dark upsets Jack.”
Nate stared down at Jack held snuggly in her arms and an unexpected rush of emotion swelled up in him. The baby had Nate’s uncle’s eyes, the resemblance especially strong with Jack scowling like he was doing now.
How Nate had loved that old man.
Funny, he’d always thought of Uncle Stan as old, but hell, at forty-two his uncle had only been ten years older than Nate was now when he took in a wild fourteen-year-old.
He’d been in a bad place but Uncle Stan took no guff from him. There’d been no bluff in the man, but he’d cared. He’d been as free with his affections as he’d been with his disciplines. Nate had needed both.
He’d learned how a real man acted.
How proud Uncle Stan would be of baby Jack. Though it hurt Nate to admit it, he was glad his uncle hadn’t seen Jack Sr.’s spiral into drunken obscureness. He wouldn’t have blamed Nate—Stan believed a man was responsible for his own choices—but it would have killed him to see Jack’s pain, and the weakness that took him over.
The