The Baby Quilt. Christine Flynn
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the man. About people in general, he suspected, though he found the aspiration more dangerous than admirable.
“There are a lot of ‘nice’ crooks out there,” he countered, wondering if the woman had ever set foot off the farm. “I take it you’ve never been conned before?”
“Conned?”
“Swindled, cheated, deceived? No one’s ever taken advantage of you or your husband?”
Her glance darted from his, something like guilt shadowing the delicate lines of her face. “He took nothing that I didn’t give him from my own hand.”
The flatness of her quiet voice could have been recrimination for her own actions. It could just as easily have been defense for those of the man who’d quite probably absconded with her funds. Justin was far more interested in the part of his question she’d chosen to ignore. The part about her husband.
She tended to speak in the singular. And she’d made no reference at all to her husband having anything to do with the handyman. But what struck him as truly odd, now that he thought about it, was that she’d exhibited no concern at all for a husband during or after the storm. The only person she’d expressed concern about needing shelter was him.
All things considered, he strongly suspected that Mr. Miller wasn’t even around anymore.
That she felt it necessary to keep up the pretense tugged hard at his conscience.
“Look,” he murmured, disturbed to know he made her that uncomfortable. He was accustomed to people with better defenses. Harder edges. Even when she was trying to protect herself, she was totally without artifice. “We all make bad judgments sometimes. Don’t let that stop you from turning the guy in. He’s just going to rip off someone else.”
“Even if what you say were true…which I don’t believe it is,” she hurriedly clarified, “I wouldn’t know what to do. I know nothing about your…about the law.”
“I do. I’m a lawyer. This isn’t my area of expertise,” he admitted, more concerned with her tolerance than her correction. “Criminal law, I mean. I handle corporate matters. But I’d be glad to tell the local sheriff what you’ve told me and ask him to come talk to you.”
She gave him a smile as soft as the sunshine breaking through the clouds. “I thank you for your offer. It’s very kind. But it’s possible that he could come back. If he does—when he does,” she corrected, turning her glance back to the horizon, “then I would have unjustly accused him. He will come back.” Her quiet voice grew quieter still. “I need to believe that.”
For a moment Justin said nothing. There was an odd anxiety in the way she spoke, a quiet sort of desperation. It was almost as if she didn’t want him to challenge her nebulous hope because hope was about all she had.
He had no idea why the thought struck him as it did. But he rarely questioned his instincts, and now those instincts were telling him he was right on the mark about this woman’s circumstances. He couldn’t fault her argument, though. He didn’t even want to. He could explain how brilliantly her handyman had duped her. He could point out how the guy had set her up to believe that if he was gone awhile it was because he was trying to help her save money—which would give him plenty of time to disappear. But the chances of recovering her cash at this point were somewhere between zip and nil—and there wasn’t any point in badgering her about something it was too late to do anything about.
“How long has your husband been gone?” he finally asked, gingerly rotating his aching arm.
Emily glanced at the man openly watching her, then promptly looked at the ground. “I didn’t say that he was.”
She didn’t like the suspicions Justin raised, even though she, too, had been wondering what was taking the handyman so long. She didn’t like the feeling either, that he sensed how ignorant she was of the ways she was trying to assimilate. There was so much she didn’t know. So much she didn’t understand. And she had no idea at all how he’d known Daniel was no longer there.
“No, you didn’t,” he agreed, his tone surprisingly mild. “And I can understand why you wouldn’t want a stranger to know you’re out here alone. But with this storm, if you had a husband around, you’d be wondering if he was all right. The only people you’ve mentioned are your neighbors.”
He’d moved closer when the road had become cluttered with the torn vegetation. She just hadn’t realized how close until she caught his clean, faintly spicy scent. The instant she breathed it in, she was hit with the memory of standing in his arms with her head buried against his rock-hard chest.
He wasn’t anything like the handyman who’d shown up looking for work a couple of weeks ago. The man who’d called himself Johnny Smith had seemed too shy to even make eye contact, much less make personal observations. And there was no way on God’s green earth he would have caused the odd heat that had just pooled in her stomach.
She ducked her head, disconcerted by that heat, determined to ignore it. “Are you always so good at drawing conclusions?”
“My record’s pretty decent.”
His lack of modesty came as no surprise.
“I suppose all lawyers must be good at such things. I’ve never met one before, but I’ve seen one. On Mrs. Clancy’s soap opera,” she explained, thinking of the commanding, demanding and powerful man who, according to Mrs. Clancy, had stolen the heart of every female character in the cast. “You have much of the same manner about you.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s neither. It just is. But you’re right about Daniel,” she continued, assuming he was frowning because she’d yet to answer his question. “He is no longer here.”
His expression relaxed as it shifted from her to her child. “Has he been gone long?”
“Since last spring. He worked for Mr. Clancy,” she told him, her voice growing hushed. “Daniel was raised on a farm, but he didn’t know anything about the big machinery they use here. He was killed trying to repair a piece of equipment while Mr. Clancy wasn’t around.”
The movement of her hand over Anna’s little back was automatic, a soothing motion that gave her as much comfort as it did the baby snuggled against her. “I didn’t understand the talk of gears and tilling blades. But he had forgotten to set some sort of brake.”
There were times when it felt as if it had been only yesterday that she’d received that awful, numbing news. There were other times when she could hardly picture her husband’s boyish face. When she thought of Daniel, she tried to recall how happy they’d once been. But that had been almost too long ago to remember.
“I’m sorry,” she heard Justin say, his voice subdued.
“Me, too. Daniel was a good man.”
“How old is your baby?”
A small smile relieved the strain around her mouth. “Eight weeks yesterday.”
It was now mid-July, Justin thought. That meant she’d been alone when the baby had been born.
He didn’t like the way that bothered him. He didn’t much care for the way she confused him, either. He’d still been trying to figure out the soap-opera reference when she’d hit him with the reason her husband wasn’t around.
He’d figured the guy had simply taken a hike. He hadn’t expected her to be widowed. But that little jolt had just been replaced with a decidedly skeptical curiosity over how someone who’d farmed all of his life would know so little about farm equipment.
It wasn’t like him not to seek an answer when one was readily available. But he had no desire to chip any deeper at the brave front she wore. With her slender frame, her translucent skin, and that pale-as-cornsilk hair, she looked as delicate as spun glass. When he thought about how desperately she’d been trying to save her plants, and the work she had waiting for