Saving His Son. Rita Herron
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ready? You look as if you need a good night’s sleep before driving.”
“What I need is to find my baby.” She moved toward the door. “And the quicker the better, so we can both get back to our own lives.” Separately.
He frowned, then grabbed his duffel bag and headed to the door. “All right. Let’s go.”
She nodded, wondering at her sanity for asking him to her home. At least now she had no memories of him in her rental house. But once he stepped inside, his image and scent would linger in every corner. Then how would she ever be able to forget him?
HOURS LATER they drove past a neighborhood that could have been lifted from the set of Andy Griffith, then veered onto a side street which curved slightly around the mountain. Lindsey stopped by the cemetery, but Gavin shook his head, not yet ready to face the tiny gravemarker which marked his son’s fleeting existence. When they’d stopped for coffee at a small diner, she’d bought fresh flowers from a stand outside the café. He watched in agony now as she lay the beautiful flowers on the small plot, her soft sobs wrenching in their sweetness.
He had to find out if the baby in the grave was his son—they could exhume the body. But he couldn’t justify disturbing the sanctity of the child’s grave without definite proof of foul play. Judging from Lindsey’s emotional state, he didn’t think she was ready for the suggestion either.
After what seemed like an eternity, she returned to her car and they drove down a dirt road, finally stopping at the end of the narrow drive where a tiny white house sat bordered by a picket fence, a whiskey barrel full of pansies and a front porch with a porch swing. Gavin instantly pictured a tricycle and kiddie pool in the front yard, Lindsey wearing a Little League Mom’s shirt holding a baby on her hip. A picnic table on the back deck, lazy Sunday afternoons, a bunch of rugrats running through the sprinkler. His son sporting a baseball hat.
His son.
Lindsey thought that night with her hadn’t meant anything to him. Hell, it had meant too much.
All the more reason he and Lindsey didn’t belong together.
He’d seen too much meanness in his life. He couldn’t take his kid fishing like Andy had Opie and pretend the world was a good place.
His gaze swept the property and he frowned. Situated off the main turnpike, the cabin was isolated and tucked into the woods with a thick bed of trees backing the property. He tried to remember the distance between her house and the last one they’d passed. At least a mile. Too far to yell for help if she were in trouble. And those woods would make an excellent hiding spot for someone who meant her harm. He kept his headlights on while she walked up the porch steps and opened the door. Thank God, she did use a key.
He killed his engine and followed her. When he went inside her house, he felt as if he’d suddenly come home. The scent of lilac and something that smelled faintly like baby powder drifted to him. Lindsey faltered beside a small bassinet, and she lay one hand on top of a baby blanket. A tiny white bunny rattler stood propped inside the baby bed, a miniature squeaky toy in the shape of a boat at the foot.
His gut tightened painfully, his feet refusing to move. He didn’t know what he’d expected—that she’d disposed of all the baby paraphernalia, maybe. But the sight of the empty baby bed and toys was almost more than he could bear. He couldn’t imagine the depth of Lindsey’s pain. His own immobilized him.
He lay his hand over the small train whistle in his pocket, the one momento he kept from childhood. His mother had given it to him on one of their trips. She’d told him to blow on it if he ever got lost and she’d know where to find him. He wished his son had a whistle now.
“I should move the bassinet to the nursery with the other stuff,” Lindsey said in a low voice, gesturing toward a closed doorway in the hall. “But I…I can’t. I feel like if I put the bassinet away, I’m totally giving up hope that our baby is alive.”
Gavin’s throat completely closed so he simply nodded that he understood.
Lindsey slowly faced him, obviously struggling for composure. “Are you hungry? I can fix us soup or a sandwich before you check into a hotel.”
He’d thought he might be staying at her house, but he understood her need for distance—her house seemed too small for both of them. The only spare bedroom was probably the one she’d converted into a nursery. He certainly couldn’t bring himself to sleep in there…not without his son.
“Gavin, do you want to eat?”
He hated to put her to work. Then again, she looked as if she needed something to do to take her mind off her sorrow. “Sure. Whatever you’ve got is fine.”
She drew in a deep breath, then slipped into the kitchen.
He surveyed the room. A blue ruffled sofa with mauve throw pillows faced a small TV and entertainment center. CDs were stacked haphazardly on a pine end table, her favorite Bonnie Raitt CD on top. Decorating and teaching magazines littered a Shaker-style coffee table, with two additions he’d never seen in her apartment in Raleigh—parenting magazines, and a book of baby names.
Tension thrummed through him, her pleas all too real. He stepped in the kitchen doorway. “Lindsey?”
Lindsey’s soft voice penetrated the silence, “Yes.”
He slowly raised his gaze to hers, grimacing at the pain in her eyes. “Did you give our baby a name?”
“Cory,” she said in a shaky whisper. “I named him Cory Adam.” She paused and he sucked in a sharp breath. “My dad’s name was Adam. I hope you don’t mind.”
He shook his head. His last name was McCord—she’d taken part of his name and given it to their son even though he had sent her away.
Lindsey turned back to the stove and he sat at the table, hurt and anger rolling through him in waves. There was no way he could sleep tonight until he talked to the doctor who’d delivered his son. He’d stop at the hospital before he found a hotel. Could Lindsey be right? Could someone have lied about their baby? Could their son, Cory, still be alive?
THE SCENT of alcohol and antiseptics assaulted Gavin as he entered the small hospital, reminding him of the night he’d rushed Rodney Johnson to the ER. The boy had been in trouble and Gavin had thought he could help him. Instead, the teen had dogged him right into a bust and been shot in the crossfire.
“Dr. Cross isn’t here,” the red-haired receptionist said from behind a small window.
Damn, he should have called. “What time will he be in tomorrow?”
“Around nine. He has rounds over at County first.”
“What about Janet Quinn?”
“She’s not here either.” Impatience flared in her voice. “Is there anything I can do to help you? Is there an emergency?”
“No, I wanted to talk to them about Lindsey Payne.”
The woman’s eyes widened perceptibly. “Why are you asking questions about Miss Payne?”
He decided to use a personal angle. “I’m a friend, and I’ve been worried about her since she lost the baby.”
The woman’s expression immediately turned sympathetic. “I know what you mean. She took the news so hard, poor thing.”
“Were you here the night she delivered?”
“No, we had a terrible explosion that night at the plastic factory in town. Everybody but Janet and Doc Cross had to help at County. Must have been sixty injuries.”
“Lindsey was here several days. Did you treat her at all?”
“Oh, yes. I pulled late shift the next two nights. Wound up sitting with Ms. Payne until her sedatives took effect. She was so distraught.” She pursed her lips, shaking her head back and forth. “Poor thing, so alone. The baby’s daddy didn’t even show up.”