Tommy's Mom. Linda Johnston O.
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you like to tell me about your dream?” Gabe asked, putting two fingers on Tommy’s damp cheek. “Sometimes it feels better if you talk about it.”
But Tommy didn’t move, except to close his eyes. Tears still streamed down his face. Holly rocked him gently.
“Okay, I’ve a better idea,” Gabe said. “How about if I read you a story?”
The small head rose, and Tommy smiled through his tears.
“That’s not necessary,” Holly said. “It’s late, and I’m sure you’re tired.”
“I’ll sleep better myself after a story,” Gabe said firmly. He wasn’t about to explain to Holly in front of Tommy, but he had begun his campaign to get the child to talk.
“Well…all right.”
Gabe got the message. She wanted him to leave. There could be a million reasons why, not the least of which was that he made her uncomfortable. He understood that. He’d felt uncomfortable, too, in those last minutes before Tommy appeared in the living room. Still did. Right down in his crotch. This woman was damn sexy without even trying.
She was also hands-off.
He intended to help her, whether she wanted help or not. He’d spend a little male quality time with her son, for starters. That was something she couldn’t do herself.
And if he got Tommy to reveal exactly what he’d seen the morning his daddy died, well, all the better.
HOLLY SAT on a small blue chair near the desk in Tommy’s room, watching her son’s enthralled expression as Chief Gabe McLaren read him a bedtime story.
Gabe had let Tommy choose the storybook. It was one of Tommy’s favorites, full of brightly colored pictures of wild animals, real and imaginary.
Gabe kept a muscular arm around the small boy in the pale yellow pajamas. Tommy’s head rested against Gabe’s broad chest. She saw it move up and down with the vibration when Gabe laughed at something in the story. Which was often.
It was a wonderfully moving sight—man and boy together in sweet companionship.
The problem was that the man was a virtual stranger.
Thomas had seldom read a bedtime story to Tommy. That was a mother’s role, he’d said. So was feeding the boy, bathing him and taking care of him when he was ill. Throwing a ball to him—well, that had been a father’s job, except that Thomas had gotten bored with it easily, particularly when Tommy hadn’t always been able to catch what he tossed.
Holly had been pleased and surprised that father and son had at least gotten into the habit of spending quality time together on the mornings she slept in. Or at least she assumed their time together went well. Thomas always shrugged at her questions, and Tommy had just beamed.
“Uh-oh,” Gabe was saying as Holly’s attention returned to the tableau on the bed. “You know what? I’ve forgotten what this animal says, and I’m too tired to read it. Do you know?” He looked at Tommy, who nodded.
“Good. That’ll help. The animal is a bird, isn’t it?”
Again, Tommy nodded.
“It’s a funny-looking one. I’ve never seen a big blue owl before, have you?”
This time, Tommy shook his head.
“Right here, it says the owl made a noise like owls do. But the letters are too fuzzy for my tired eyes. Can you read them?”
Tommy shook his head again.
“Well, do you suppose you could tell me what an owl says? If not, I’m afraid we won’t be able to finish the book. What do you think this owl said?”
Tommy looked distressed. Worried for him, Holly was about to join them and finish reading the darned book, when Tommy said, almost too softly for her to hear it, “Hooo.”
“That’s it!” Gabe gave Tommy a big hug. “That’s exactly what it says. I’m awake now. Let’s finish this book.” Over Tommy’s head, he caught Holly’s eye and gave her a big, conspiratorial wink.
It was all Holly could do to prevent herself from hurrying across the room to hug them both.
“I CAN’T THANK YOU ENOUGH,” Holly said at the front door awhile later. Tommy was tucked once more into bed, sound asleep.
Gabe had gotten him to talk!
And, very patiently, he hadn’t pressed Tommy to say any more, not that night. But at least that one, tiny “Hooo” had been a start.
“You’re very welcome, Holly.” He was grinning, a very masculine, proud smile. He obviously recognized the significance of his accomplishment.
“So you’re a police chief and a child psychologist. What else do you do?” Holly couldn’t help teasing despite her exhaustion…and the fact that she was aware that, once he left, she was going to be very much alone in this house, a widow by herself with a sleeping child.
“Try me,” he said, his grin growing even broader. Damn, but he was sexy.
And damn her, too, for even noticing. Widow, she reminded herself, grinding the word into her mind, as if her overactive emotions were a food processor. You’re a widow. As in no men, no sex, just loneliness.
For now, that was fine with her. Maybe forever.
And yet, as Gabe shook her hand and held on long enough to warn her to lock her door behind him, there was a lingering heat in her fingers. The sensation bothered her. A lot.
So did the way he looked at her—a disconcerting combo, in the depths of his eyes, of sympathy, amusement, distance…and lust.
Quickly, she shut the door behind him, trying not to slam it. She leaned on it, closing her eyes.
Gabe McLaren wasn’t just a man trying to be kind. He was aware of her as a woman.
She was aware of him as a man.
But that was simply because she was in mourning. Sure, she was lonely—a widow—but she wasn’t stupid.
Gabe McLaren was a cop. He might remain a part of her life until Thomas’s murderer was caught. After that, she’d merely need to convince him that neither Tommy nor she needed his help or any other cop’s to survive.
As she dutifully locked the door, though, she realized something: attempting to convince Gabe McLaren of anything he didn’t want to believe might be as futile as trying to get the wild waves of the Pacific to settle down for an afternoon nap.
HOLLY COULDN’T sleep that night. Big surprise. She hadn’t slept much at all since Thomas’s death.
Why? she wondered, lying in the dark with her eyes wide open. It wasn’t as if they had been so close that she missed him here, in her bed. Or even out of it.
Still…he had been her husband. He’d been a major part of her life, notwithstanding how distant they had become recently.
She groaned and sat up, flicking on the lamp on her bedside table. Glancing around, she recalled how she had so defiantly made this bedroom her own, decorating it with flowery Laura Ashley sheets and curtains.
One of the quilts she’d sewn was folded carefully at her feet. And a couple of her own favorite stitched creations hung on the walls.
What would Gabe McLaren think of her “silly little crafts,” as Thomas had dubbed them?
And why did she even wonder about it? Why hadn’t she shown him any when he’d expressed an interest in seeing her artwork?
Forget it. She had much weightier matters to think about. Like her husband. Thomas was gone forever now. He’d been buried today.
No, yesterday. This was a new day, no matter how early it was.
And no matter what