A Father For Her Baby. B.J. Daniels
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Before he reached the door, it flew open and a matronly woman wearing an apron took the baby from Luke’s arms and ushered them quickly inside.
Kit stepped into the warmth, surprised to find the place homey. A fire crackled in a woodstove in one corner, surrounded by an odd collection of comfortable-looking chairs. The opposite was lined with built-in bunk beds, with each covered with a worn handmade-looking quilt. Beside the bottom bunk was a white crib.
The kitchen took another corner of the room, where a delightfully spicy scent bubbled up from a huge pot on the stove. At the center of it all, a muchused high chair sat pushed up to a table set for three. Kit remembered seeing Luke on the car phone as they were leaving Galveston. They’d obviously been expected.
“I was getting worried about you,” the woman said as she looked down at the baby. “Oh, what an adorable child.”
Kit reached for Andy, surprised he wasn’t howling his head off. He usually didn’t like strangers, but he seemed to be intrigued by the woman’s wide, open face and her deep southern accent.
Before Kit could take Andy from the woman’s arms, Luke reached for Kit’s wet raincoat. She shrugged out of it, and he hung it on one of the hooks by the front door. “Aunt Lucille loves babies. Aunt Lou, meet Kit Kil—”
“Bannack,” Kit said quickly, surprising herself at the vehemence she heard in her tone.
Luke’s gaze flipped up to hers. “Kit Bannack,” he corrected, studying her. “And her son, Andy.”
“Well, come on in,” Lucille said, eyeing her nephew curiously. “I hope you’re hungry.”
Luke said nothing, but Kit felt her stomach growl. When was the last time she’d eaten? She started to relax just a little. Derrick hadn’t jumped out of any closets, and she was beginning to believe he wasn’t going to. The only question that remained was what Luke St. John hoped to accomplish by scuttling her and Andy off to this place.
“The gumbo is ready,” Lucille said, stealing another look at her nephew, worry on her face.
Andy began to whimper. “He probably needs to be changed,” Kit said.
“Oh, please, let me,” Lucille said. “If you don’t mind.”
Kit looked into the woman’s face and found herself nodding. Andy had taken to her right away. But Kit didn’t miss the look the woman gave her nephew—almost a warning look—before her gaze settled on Kit.
“Why, look at her, this woman is soaked to the skin,” Lucille exclaimed. “Go warm up next to the fire,” she told Kit. “Luke, get her a change of clothing,” she ordered as she headed for the crib with Andy.
Luke obeyed, going to a built-in drawer and pulling out a pair of sweats. He held them up for Kit to inspect. They looked soft and comfortable, warm and way too large.
She went to take the clothes from him, knowing they would swallow her small frame. Which made them perfect. They would hide her figure, which was just fine with her. She’d always been thin. Since the baby, she felt too rounded, too full in places she’d never been full-figured before. She felt at odds with this new body, as if she hadn’t yet grown into it—and might never do so.
Luke pointed her to the back of the house. She stepped through a doorway into what appeared to be a combination artist’s studio and bedroom. Watercolors lined the walls, along with photos of weddings, baptisms and newborn babies. She stopped before a photograph, recognizing the man in the picture as the one now in the next room.
The photo had been taken on the beach—and not that long ago. And what made it so unusual was how different the smiling Luke St. John looked in the photo. The eyes weren’t hard-as-steel gray, but soft, almost seductive. His rugged features weren’t etched in unforgiving granite. He was handsome in a strong, very masculine way that had a strange effect on her. But it was the look on his face that drew her in, in a way she would never have expected. Luke looked happy. And that expression on Luke St. John was the most alluring of all.
Is this what he’d been like before his brother’s death?
Then she saw the photograph next to it, and her heart thudded in her chest. It was of Jason at about age sixteen, squinting at the camera as he held up the huge fish he’d caught. He looked too serious for his age.
* * *
“SHE SAW HER HUSBAND kill Jason,” Luke said the moment Kit had left the room.
Lucille covered her mouth with one hand, and her eyes swam with tears. “Dear God. You’re sure?”
He nodded and reached over to take his aunt’s hand. He squeezed it, then pulled back, as unable to give comfort right now as he was to receive it. “Jason’s dead. Murdered.” His jaw tightened. “And she saw the whole thing.”
Lucille wagged her head, her gaze settling on him like an arm around his shoulders. “Oh, Luke, this must be killing you.”
He looked away. “I have to see that this man gets what he deserves.”
She brushed at her tears. “I know how angry you must be.”
He doubted that. He’d never felt this kind of rage before. It thrummed through his body, vibrating inside him, causing a constant hum inside his head. He’d banked all but his frustration during the months he’d searched for Kit, waiting with infinite patience to find out exactly what had happened to his brother, not letting his suspicion that Derrick Killhorn was behind his brother’s disappearance become any more than that: a strong suspicion.
Although he’d never met him, Luke knew who Derrick Killhorn was, had known people who’d worked with him in construction who’d found him pompous and often ruthless. Luke had seen Killhorn’s photo in the Lone Peak Lookout a few times, where the man was always referred to as a prominent citizen and businessman from an old Montana family.
But Luke had only seen him once in person, outside a motel in West Yellowstone with a woman who was not his wife. Luke didn’t like the man, nor did he like Jason working for him.
But when Luke heard Kit tell Sanders what she’d witnessed, he’d felt something explode inside his head, a time bomb that had been ticking for seven months.
Almost instantly, his rage had splintered, encompassing not only Derrick Killhorn but his wife, the woman who’d run and hid for months instead of going to the authorities. It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to remain in the trees when he’d heard her admit what she’d seen. He’d felt such wrath that he’d wanted to burst from his hiding place and—
And what? He balled his hands into tight fists. “I heard her tell her husband that she has evidence that can convict him.”
“Dear heaven,” Lucille said.
Luke nodded as he turned to look again at his aunt. “The woman had evidence and still she didn’t come forward.”
“She must be horribly afraid of her husband,” Lucille said.
“Or still in love with him,” Luke added, finding it almost impossible to hold back the contempt he felt for Kit Killhorn. Fear or love, it really didn’t make a difference to him. Either way, he damned Kit Killhorn for what she’d done, adding her to his dark thoughts and, ultimately, to his plan.
“Luke, I know how upset you are, but do you realize what you’ve done? You’ve kidnapped this woman and her baby. What are you planning to do with them?”
“Whatever I have to.” He could feel her gaze boring into him.
“I know you want justice for this terrible crime, but surely not at the cost of that woman and child.” She sounded uncertain, as if she didn’t know him anymore.
He didn’t know himself anymore. “She’s all that stands between Derrick Killhorn being punished or getting away with murder.”
“Is that how you see her?” Lucille asked in shocked