In Protective Custody. Beth Cornelison
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statement called her attention back to the problem at hand. His tone said he knew she needed convincing.
“Where’s your wife?”
The muscle in his cheek jumped again. “The baby’s mother is still in the hospital. She…she’s not doing well and—” His voice grew quiet, and his dark expression reflected too much emotion to be faked.
His obvious grief grabbed her and rattled the cage where she’d locked her own grim memories of loss. “I’m sorry.”
He acknowledged her sympathy with another lingering gaze and quick nod before turning his attention back to the road.
Laura swallowed hard, shoving down the painful specter of grief that had shadowed her throughout her childhood, followed her from one foster home to the next.
The car bounced over a large pothole, and she turned her gaze to the scenery out her window. She didn’t recognize anything about the cypress-dotted flatlands and the isolated road they traveled.
Apprehension prickled her neck again. “Where are we?”
“Near my house.”
“Could you be more specific?”
He started to answer but then seemed to reconsider. “Once you drop me off, you’ll just get back on this road and follow it out the way we came, until you reach the highway into town. It’s simple.”
Laura gaped at him. “You mean you’re letting me go?”
“Of course I am.” He scowled at her. “I hadn’t wanted to involve you at all, hadn’t wanted to come back to my house. But with my Jeep trapped at the accident, I didn’t have a choice.” He exhaled sharply. “I have an old truck at home I can use. Once you drop me off, you’ll be free to go. With my gratitude.”
The news should have elated her. Instead, she puzzled over his strange behavior. If the baby wasn’t really sick, then why the hurry? “You know that leaving the scene of an accident is against the law, don’t you?”
He winced. “Yeah, I know. But I couldn’t hang out until—” Again he snapped his mouth closed and frowned.
“Until?”
“Never mind.”
“You’ve already admitted the baby’s not sick. So what had you spooked? You said, ‘He’s here.’ Who is he?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I think considering that you dragged me into—”
“Hey! Do you hear that?”
Laura paused and listened. For what, she wasn’t sure. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Exactly. He quit crying.” The man craned his neck to see the baby better.
Glancing down, she found the infant in her arms sleeping with his thumb in his mouth. Her heart squeezed then expanded. Tears puddled in her eyes. Maternal yearnings clambered over dark memories and defensive walls.
“He’s so sweet,” she whispered. Her fierce protective instinct reared its head again with a vengeance, plucking at her conscience and warming her soul. The little babe in her arms couldn’t do a thing for himself, couldn’t be more precious if he were her own child. Painful longing twisted inside her.
Drawing a deep breath, she shook off the bout of sentimentalism. Don’t get attached. In a minute, you’ll hand him to his father and be on your way. No looking back. As always.
“Thank you.” The deep male voice roused her from her tangential thoughts.
“Hmm?”
“For your help with the baby. For lending me your car—”
“Lending my car? Is that what I did? Seems to me you gave me no choice.”
A sheepish grin tugged the corner of his mouth as he slowed to turn in at a gravel driveway. “Sorry if I bullied you. I really do appreciate your help.”
Laura took in the ranch-style house nestled in a copse of cypress trees. The red brick and white siding structure had a hominess about it that appealed to her.
He pulled to the back of the house next to a battered pickup truck loaded with split firewood. Though neatly kept, the lawn lacked much landscaping other than live oak and cypress trees which littered the ground with needles. Rusted wrought-iron lawn chairs sat on his back porch next to a well-used grill.
Certainly the home didn’t have the appearance of a criminal hideaway. Was that what she’d been expecting?
“Well, this is home. Thanks again for your help.” He gave her another grin, this one more rakish, and her pulse stumbled.
While he climbed out and circled the car to the passenger door, she gazed down at the baby. What would happen to him?
The boy’s father opened the door beside her, and she dropped a soft kiss on the baby’s head. His sweet baby scent, talcum powder and milk, filled her nose and tangled around her heart. The man reached for the child, and a knot of doubt lodged in her chest.
The day care center where she worked maintained a rigid screening process, assuring a child was never released into the care of the wrong person. But she had no assurance this man had any real claim to the baby.
Panic streaked through her. Her thoughts tumbled over each other. She needed some confirmation the man was who he said he was, that she wasn’t negligently turning this poor baby over to a kidnapper, before she could drive away in good conscience.
Asking him for that assurance wouldn’t help. His word alone wouldn’t convince her he had a right to the child. Perhaps something inside his house? Another person to verify his story, an arrangement of blue flowers congratulating him on his son’s birth, a wedding picture of him with the mother?
Something. Anything.
She had a responsibility as a childcare worker to protect this baby’s interests. But her own history, her experience as the child needing protection, needing someone to care, made her professional responsibility a personal mandate.
Protect the baby.
“Ma’am, I’m really in a hurry. Can I have the baby now?”
He motioned toward the infant impatiently.
“I, uh—”
Without waiting for her to finish, he scooped the boy out of her arms and stepped back. Laura scrambled for a plan. She had to get inside his house, just for a minute, just to reassure herself the baby would be all right. As the man moved quickly toward his carport door, she climbed from her car and called to him. “Hey, may I…use your bathroom before I go?”
He hesitated as if looking for an excuse to tell her no. “Well, okay…but make it quick. I gotta get going.”
Get going? He’d just gotten home. Her anxiety cranked another notch. She followed him into the carport where a firefighter’s sooty turnout gear hung on a peg by the back door with black boots sitting below. He fished in his jeans pocket for his keys, unlocked the door, then stood back to let her enter first. “Around the corner. First door on the right.”
“Thanks.” She scanned the interior with curious scrutiny as she made her way to the bathroom. The decor could be summed up with one word. Masculine.
Dark colors, wood paneling, hunting trophies. Not a ruffle or frill to be seen. Likewise, she saw no evidence in the bathroom that a woman shared his home. No hairspray or makeup or stockings drying over the shower curtain rod. Laura recalled the way he’d answered her query about his wife.
The baby’s mother is still in the hospital.
The baby’s mother, not my wife.
Did that mean he didn’t live with his son’s mother, that they weren’t married? She knew his private life was not her business, but the