The Sheriff's Doorstep Baby. Teresa Carpenter
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to shame them by turning away baby Jack.
Which meant for the time being he needed Michelle. At least for tonight; beyond that, he’d see.
“Right.” He mocked her claim that Jack was the one afraid of the dark.
She hit him with a scorching glare, but all she said, was “Food would be good, too.”
Her bravado and the underlying vulnerability got to him. He called himself a chump but once he’d gathered the flashlights, candles and a battery lantern he returned to the living room.
He lit candles and placed them on the mantel, handed her a flashlight and set the blazing lantern on the coffee table. But it was her smile that lit up the room.
“Double chump,” he muttered as he escaped to the kitchen. The phones were out, too, so he used his cell to call the county supervisor’s office to get the status of the utilities. He learned the storm had taken out several major hubs. And then the line went dead as his phone beeped and informed him he was out of service.
“Great.”
The need to fix the problems pressed at him, but there was literally nothing he could do except prepare for the cold night ahead. The loss of electricity meant they’d have no working heater.
He grabbed a box from the utility room and piled in his stash from the refrigerator and cupboard, tossed in utensils and topped it with plates, mugs, a pan and napkins. Next he used the flashlight he’d kept to find two sleeping bags in the attached garage.
Why he bothered to go to so much trouble for a woman so self-absorbed she rarely contacted the father who obviously adored her, Nate didn’t know. And sure she was watching the baby, but she hadn’t even offered to help. No doubt she expected to be waited on hand and foot. Well, that wouldn’t wash here. He expected people to pull their own weight and since her temporary stay was on his dime, she’d just have to meet his expectations.
He frowned, remembering what he’d overheard her telling Jack. That kids of sheriffs had to live with high expectations and little freedom. It made him recall the early days with his uncle Stan. That’s exactly how he’d felt. The restrictions had chafed badly, but it had also felt good to know someone cared about where he was and what he was doing. To have someone who checked up on him and made sure he had something to eat.
It took two trips to get everything to the living room and Michelle was sitting on the hearth pawing through the food box when he came back with the sleeping bags.
“Big boy, you are my hero.” The sultry look of anticipation on her face made him wish she were gazing at him instead of the stew she was transferring from plastic container to cast-iron pot. “I’m starved, and this smells really good.”
When she put her finger in her mouth to clean off a smudge of gravy, he had to disguise a groan with a cough.
That brought her attention up from the food.
“You’re not catching a cold, are you?”
Was that real concern in her voice?
“Because you’re a parent now, you have to take better care of yourself.”
Nate rolled his eyes. He should have known better.
“Thanks for your concern.” The sarcasm slid off his tongue before he could rein it in. Damn, now he’d have to put up with the sulks for an hour while she pouted around. He moderated his tone. “But I’m fine.”
Unoffended, she flashed him a dimpled grin. “I’m just saying. No more wandering around in the cold without a jacket.”
Surprised by her easy response, Nate felt some of the tension in his shoulders lessen. Maybe the woman had a few redeeming qualities.
“Yes, Mother.”
“Oh.” Her green eyes widened and then narrowed dangerously. “You didn’t go there.”
He had. And her huff made him add, “You want a cap and slippers to go with that advice?”
“You’re going to pay for that, buster.” She promised retribution. “Now you get to play chef.”
She pushed the heavy pot into the flames of the fire. And to punctuate her point she stood, dusted off her curvy butt and hobbled back to the couch, where she claimed her seat in the corner. Arms crossed over her chest plumped up her breasts, pushing pink lace and considerable cleavage into view.
“I like it steaming hot,” she said with a slow lick of her lips.
Oh, devious, devious woman. The wanton knew exactly how to make a man pay. And it had nothing to do with cooking supper.
Determined to keep his composure, he put his back to the tempting sight of the contrary female.
“You’re fickle, Ms. Ross. First I’m your hero, then I’m a sorry fellow tasked with heating your stew.”
He glanced over his shoulder, taking in the cozy scene backlit by the encompassing darkness. Baby sleeping, a tiny blanket-wrapped bundle; smug woman, pretty in pink flannel. As she caught his gaze, she flipped her hair in a gesture no doubt learned in the cradle. The long tresses looked like flowing gold in the firelight.
“Cooked steaming hot,” he emphasized.
She lifted a brow. “I wasn’t talking about the stew.”
Michelle bit back a laugh. She swore the man almost swallowed his tongue.
Served him right. Calling her mother. The nerve.
Stew was good, though. As if on cue, her stomach growled. Not loud enough to be heard, thank goodness, but a definite reminder it had been close to nine hours since she last ate.
“But it’ll do for now,” she purred, taking satisfaction in seeing his shoulders brace as if ready for a fight. Better prepare, big boy, she was here to fight for her inheritance, and she wouldn’t let a massive he-man stand in her way.
Flirting came as natural to her as breathing. And if a little harmless seduction threw him off his stride, good. It might get her what she wanted and no way would she fall for River Run’s newest lawman.
“You’ll mind your manners if you want a serving,” he calmly responded.
Ah. A challenge.
“You’d really deny an injured woman a simple meal?” she chastised in a wounded voice, soft and just a little accusatory.
He just shook his head without turning and dished up two bowls of the savory stew. Then he opened a foil-wrapped loaf of bread and cut two big slices, putting one in each of the bowls. Walking over, he handed one of the bowls to her.
“Thank you.” She reached eagerly for the meal, too hungry to pretend otherwise. The first bite tasted divine and she moaned in pleasure. “Excellent. Did you make this?”
“No,” he said from the brown corduroy recliner next to her. “A friend cooked it for me.” He eyed her over his steaming bowl. “You’re going to be trouble.”
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded. She didn’t usually reveal her weaknesses, especially to strong competitors, but weariness and desperation drove her to the point of honesty.
“I need to stay here,” she said bravely.
“And if I say no?”
She chewed carefully, the yummy stew suddenly sitting heavy in her stomach. “You can’t.”
“We both know I should.”
“I don’t know that,” she denied. “I think we can help each other out here.”
That stopped him midbite. He lifted one dark eyebrow. “How’s that?”
“I need a place to stay.” She choked out the words, then cleared her throat and put determination in the rest. “And you need help with little Jack.”
“Hmm.