In The Arms of a Stranger (9 page)

He weighed using the waning cell phone battery against the discovery. Odds were that somewhere out there the mother and child had someone who was frantically searching for them. He didn't look forward to relaying the news of the mother's death, didn't like being the one to cause a husband or father grief. But that was part of his job. The other part was protecting the living.

His gaze fell to the baby. Was it his imagination or did the infant seem more discontent? Luke tamped down a growing feeling of helplessness where the baby was concerned. If there was something he needed that he wasn't getting, it was beyond Luke's control. Hopefully the weather would soon break and the little guy would be back where he belonged.

But where was that? He belonged in his mother's arms. And that was no longer an option.

Luke cleared his throat. “I'll call the number in,” he growled, his gaze lingering on the baby.

He had to admit that the infant seemed right at home in Dana's arms, a fact that was beginning to bother him. But why? He turned away, the odd suspicion lingering, and headed for the door. The frigid blast of air was almost welcome as Luke stepped out of the cabin, clearing his aching head. He walked a few yards into the snow and pressed the power button on the phone. He watched the illuminated face, hoping for a signal icon. It took several attempts, with Luke repositioning himself in the clearing, before it finally registered a weak signal.

He dialed the station's number and waited. “Sweetwater Police De—”

“Allen!” Luke interrupted.

“Chief—”

“I'm on a cell and losing battery. I need you to run a number.”

“Sure thing,” Ben Allen responded.

“It's 555-5309. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How are things at the station?” he asked.

There was a slight hesitation before Allen responded. “Chaos, sir. But we're handling it. We're doing out best to get you out of there, but we've already lost a dozer over a cliff and we can't risk sending another outside of the downtown area.”

“Was anyone hurt?” Luke had to know, though he felt the battery power slipping away as he waited for the answer.

“Milton Crump was driving. He bailed over the side when he realized what was happening. Broke his wrist but he's okay.”

“Damn,” Luke muttered. Milton Crump was in his seventies and had been driving heavy construction equipment
since he was a teenager. If he couldn't manage the road-clearing equipment in this mess, no one could. At least he hadn't been killed in the attempt. “Don't risk it again until the weather breaks,” he ordered. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Allen sounded slightly relieved.

The cell phone beeped, warning that the battery had reached a crucial stage. Luke ground his teeth. As if he didn't know. “I'm losing battery, Allen. Any word on Gonzalez?”

“He hasn't been accounted for but with the lines down and half the power out in Atlanta—”

“Okay. Keep checking.”

“Sir?”

“Yeah?”

“Your father and Miss Camille have phoned several times looking for you. I promised I would relay the message
if
I heard from you.”

Good boy, Luke thought. Ben Allen had been raised in Sweetwater and understood the subtleties of Luke's rocky relationship with his father and stepmother. His job, his life, was none of their business. They'd lost the privilege of knowing anything beyond the basics a long time ago.

“Just tell them I'm safe. Nothing more. I'm shutting off now. Check that number, and I'll call within twenty-four if the battery holds.”

Luke pressed the off button and wondered if there would be enough juice to power up next time. He walked back to the cabin's porch and stomped the snow from his boots. He found himself lingering outside the door, his thoughts still on his conversation with Ben Allen.

What were his father and stepmother up to? Camille Sutherlin only concerned herself with her stepson when it fit into some plan to manipulate her husband. And Lucas Sutherlin, Sr., only moved when his puppet strings were pulled. Luke
rolled his aching shoulder. Or if there was profit to be gained, he thought.

Luke opened the door to the cabin and stopped short, puzzled by the scene in front of him. Dana was sitting cross-legged in the den, digging at some electronic equipment with a butter knife. Sam lay nearby, watching hopefully as though Dana might be opening a can of dog food. She looked up, then went back to whatever she was doing without acknowledging his presence. He didn't doubt that she was angry.

It was entirely possible—probable, actually—that she was an innocent bystander, a victim in this mess. But he had the right to reserve judgment and to question her story. It was his job.

“What are you doing?” Luke asked.

She continued to work without meeting his eyes. “I found an old radio in the storage closet. It has a tape player but half the buttons are gone and the cassette door is jammed.”

Luke recalled the lullaby tape. “Is the baby still crying?”

She looked at him as though his IQ had bottomed out. “No, he's asleep. But it took a lot of work to get him to relax. I can use all the help I can get.”

The comment was pretty straightforward, and Luke understood that it included him. He knew the responsibility of caring for the infant had fallen to her. But what was he supposed to do? He knew zip about caring for a baby. He noticed that Dana's eyes were rimmed in red and slightly swollen, as though she'd been crying. Had he done that?

Luke sank to the floor beside Dana and took the radio from her lap before she finished murdering it with the butter knife. The piece of equipment belonged in a museum. It was ancient, covered in a layer of dust and, as Dana had said, was missing most of its buttons. It did have an elec
trical cord, though. Maybe if he could get it operational it would help on some level.

“Have you eaten anything?” he asked. Dana shook her head. “Then go do that. Keep your strength up.”

She rose and disappeared behind him into the kitchen. He could hear her rummaging around in the cabinet. Luke studied the radio, noticing that the plastic facing had warped, jamming the cassette door. He slid the butter knife beneath the facing and pried it off. It cracked and fell away, leaving the equipment uglier than ever. If that were possible. He plugged in the radio and hit the eject button, which was one of the few that remained. The cassette door slid open.

Shrill cries split the silence and Luke jumped, his hand automatically going to his holster. Just as quickly he recognized the baby's cries. He looked at Dana, who had just opened a can of yams and forked one out. She looked exhausted. Her fair complexion was waxy, her eyes devoid of spark.

“I'll take care of it. Of him,” Luke amended.

Dana looked surprised, then nodded.

So much for her denying him the pleasure, Luke thought. He found the baby intermittently punching invisible enemies and grasping the side of the bureau drawer. Luke grinned at his attempt to escape the makeshift crib.

“Hey, you. Where do you think you're going?”

He slid his hands beneath the baby's arms and lifted, surprised at how incredibly light he felt. Had he always been this tiny? Luke remembered holding him the day of the accident but couldn't recall. He'd been so pumped full of adrenaline at the time that the memory was sketchy. Or maybe that was the result of whacking his head on a boulder.

The baby momentarily stopped crying, then picked up
where he'd left off. “Don't do that,” Luke said, half in jest and half serious. “It makes me nuts.”

He grabbed the diaper bag and carried the baby to the bed, laying him on his back. He eyed the diaper area with suspicion. It wasn't brain surgery. If he could run a police force, surely he could change a diaper. Luke managed to undo the tiny snaps that lined the legs of the sleeper and peeled them back. He studied the adhesive tabs of the diaper so that he could reverse the process when the time came.

Luke breathed a sigh of relief when he found that the diaper was only wet. Wet he could do. He wasn't too sure about the other. He pulled the disposable diaper away and folded it into a triangle as he'd watched Dana do. After a ridiculous amount of fumbling, he replaced the diaper with a fresh one and looked for the adhesive tabs. They were missing. No, they were…on the front. The diaper was on backward. He corrected the mistake to the sound of fresh wailing and was annoyed to find he'd broken out in an honest-to-God sweat.

Finally he pressed down the adhesive tabs—in the right place this time—and lifted the baby without bothering with the snaps. Who in their right mind would put twenty-five tiny snaps on a baby's outfit? Snapping them would be like trying to put sandals on a centipede.

Luke wasn't ashamed to admit that he needed help. He scooped up the audiocassette of lullabies, shoving it into the back pocket of his jeans, and then hightailed it to the kitchen. There he found Dana wearily finishing the last bite of the yams.

Her entire demeanor changed when she saw the baby. Despite the fact that the little guy was screaming his lungs out, Dana was obviously delighted to see him. Her face transformed from bleak to warm as she rose from the chair to greet them. She leaned over the baby, whispering words
of comfort as she rubbed her knuckles against his cheek. The baby hesitated, hiccuped, then grew quiet, his eyes wide with curiosity as he looked up at Dana.

Guilt crept up on Luke like a thief.

With Dana standing so close he could see the wound at her hairline, and ached to brush her hair back and examine it. The truth was, he wanted to comfort her. Despite the strength she'd shown, she looked fragile. The hollows beneath her cheekbones seemed deeper, and her fingers trembled slightly. Regardless of her motivation, she'd given a lot of herself.

She deserved credit for that.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Her gaze slid upward to his. “For what?”

“For hauling my ass in out of the snow.” He risked a smile, and his heart clutched when she returned it.

“You're welcome.”

“You're right, you know,” Luke continued. “I would have frozen to death if you hadn't helped.”

“I know.” She wasn't being superior, just agreeing with the fact. The baby interrupted the awkward moment with a piercing cry, and Dana jumped into action. “I have a bottle ready.”

Luke watched as she pulled a ready-made bottle from the sink. He joined her there, amazed by what Dana had obviously done yesterday. She'd salvaged the disposable glass bottles they'd used and filled them with fresh formula. Clumps of snow floated in a thin layer of water in the bottom of the sink, keeping them fresh and cool.

“He seems accustomed to taking a bottle cold,” she said, reaching for the baby. “Thank heavens he's never objected.”

Luke deposited the baby in her arms and watched as she juggled the slippery bottle and crying infant with ease.
“Maybe you should feed him in the bedroom where it's warmer,” he suggested.

Dana nodded, looking a little less angry and a lot less frazzled as she headed down the hall. He wasn't sure whether it was the truce they'd silently reached or that the food had worked its magic. At any rate he was glad.

Luke watched Dana disappear through the bedroom door and fished the audiocassette out of his pocket. He turned it over in his hand, doubting that a thousand lullabies would do as much good as Dana had done with a simple touch. But it never hurt to have a backup plan.

That was, if his handy work with the butter knife had done any good. Luke walked to the cassette player and popped the tape in the rickety door and pushed it closed, pleased that the cracked plastic didn't disintegrate beneath his fingers. The button cover for the play mode was missing but Luke pressed the amputated lever anyway. What was the risk of a little electrical shock when you'd been shot at and fallen off a cliff?

The cassette began to play without incident or bodily harm, and Luke raised the volume, filling the cabin with the sound of a lullaby. The sound was strange after having grown accustomed to no sound other than their voices, but pleasant. The artist sang in a hauntingly soft voice, the lyrics urging the baby to sleep. Luke recognized the tune but not the words, lyrics promising that the child would wake to an array of pretty horses.

He started to switch the music off but hesitated. They'd been a bit deprived of entertainment, and the sound was strangely comforting. Perhaps Dana and the baby would prefer that it stay on.

He rose and walked softly down the hall to the bedroom, peering around the corner. He smiled at the scene before him, then froze. Dana was sitting on the bed, humming
along to the music as she rocked the baby in her arms. Her eyes were closed, and though the expression on her face was serene, tears were streaming down her cheeks.

Something was wrong.

Yes, Dana had every right to be emotional. She was tired and hungry and probably scared. No doubt she wanted to be free of him and the confines of the cabin. But the emotion etched on her face went far deeper than any of that.

In all honesty Luke had never seen such pain before. Part of him wanted to hold her, to wipe away her tears.

Another part of him simply wanted to know what Dana Langston was hiding.

N
ight was falling. Dana gripped the windowsill and peered out into the darkness. She could no longer see the ongoing destruction, but she could hear it. Branches were cracking like gunshots in the night, succumbing to the weight of the ice and snow as a new, harsh wind hit the mountain face. She hugged her arms over her chest. Like the winding of a watch, she felt strained with the pressure of time. But instead of passing, each minute felt as if it were winding backward, threatening to break her.

The day had come and gone in a series of tasks, each one a judgment call. Every bottle that the baby consumed meant one less that was available. Even the necessity of simple things, such as changing his diaper, had to be weighed. She and Luke both knew their supplies were waning, though neither mentioned the fact.

Luke had taken on more responsibility with the baby, even changing another diaper at one point. They seemed to have silently agreed that caring for the little guy was neutral
ground, one that occupied their hands and minds. Dana noticed that the baby had begun to recognize Luke and seemed delighted when he held him. Watching the two of them together touched her in places her heart normally guarded, and she carefully busied herself with chores rather than watch.

Other than sharing in the baby's care, Luke steered clear of Dana. He'd spent the last hours of daylight searching for kindling and hauling firewood into the cabin, stacking the logs against the den wall. For some reason the sight of the firewood made Dana uneasy. It was a confirmation that they weren't going anywhere anytime soon.

And now night had fallen, dashing any hope for a rescue.

Dana was determined to stand watch this evening. She'd obviously erred in Luke's eyes for not doing so last night. Standing guard also eliminated the need to make sleeping arrangements, a problem they hadn't yet faced.

The first night Luke had guarded them as she slept. And the second night she'd slept in Luke's arms. A chill ran the length of her body as she remembered the feel of his long, muscled body pressed against hers.

Dana fought an illogical rush of desire. She was grateful to Luke, and grateful that he'd survived the fall. Anything beyond that was emotional suicide. With any luck they'd be out of here in another day or two, going their separate ways. And in all likelihood, they'd never see each other again.

“We're bound to lose power anytime now.”

Luke's deep voice was mere inches behind her, and she startled, whirling to face him. He frowned, his gaze intense as he examined her features then nodded toward the woods. He brushed particles of ice and snow from his jacket.

“The branches are snapping like glass. It's only a matter of time before one takes down the feeder line.”

Dana hugged her arms a little tighter. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes. Search the cabinets for anything that will hold water and fill it up.” He met her puzzled gaze. “The ranger's station is served by a well. No power means no water pump. We'll need water for ourselves and the baby, and I'd rather not haul in snow and have to sterilize it.”

Dana nodded, feeling a fresh tremor of fear. She'd thought things couldn't get worse, that they were surely nearing the end of this ordeal, but she'd been wrong.

“Is the baby sleeping?” Luke asked.

“Yes.” A smile touched her lips. “That evening bottle is like a sedative. He didn't take it all, but if his pattern holds, he should sleep through the night.”

Luke scowled and Dana wondered if she'd said something wrong.

“We need to fill the sink with water. I'm afraid we'll have to have to disrupt what you've done,” Luke commented as he removed the prepared bottles out of the sink and drained the icy water. “But you get points for ingenuity.” He hesitated as if weighing his next words. “You must have done your share of baby-sitting when you were growing up.”

Dana considered the comment. It was innocent enough, but something in his tone put her on guard. In fact, it wasn't a comment but a question—and a pointed one at that. She, of all people, could recognize an interview. “No, baby-sitting wasn't something I did.”

Take that, she thought, and turn it into another question.

“Oh? I thought all girls did that, a kind of prep course.” Luke replaced the stopper in the drain and began filling the sink with water without looking up.

Dana didn't comment right away but began searching the cabinets, pulling out pots and buckets. She held each under the running water, filling it to the brim and placing them on the kitchen counter. Yes, she had been offered baby-sitting
jobs as a teenager and had ached to accept. She'd viewed it as an opportunity to see how other families—real families—lived, a peek into a world that had been snatched away. But her aunt had only laughed at the absurdity of the idea and given Dana extra spending money.

“I guess I missed my prep course, then.”

“It sure doesn't seem like it. In fact, you seem better equipped to deal with the baby's needs than most new mothers.”

Dana's hands froze midtask. The words pierced her emotional armor like a knife. She wasn't and never would be a mother. She'd first thought it a cruel twist of fate, but the more she thought of Michael's death, the more justified it seemed.

A loud crash followed the strained silence, and Dana stilled. Though she recognized the sound as falling trees, it seemed to go on forever, no doubt a chain reaction. This time the noise came frighteningly near the cabin. Luke had allowed them the luxury of switching on a single lightbulb in the kitchen's overhead fixture, and it suddenly dimmed, then went out.

Just as quickly Luke switched on the flashlight. Though Dana noticed the bulb was waning to an amber yellow, she was grateful for the light, grateful that the batteries were still functioning at all. Despite her anger, she took a step closer to Luke.

He pressed his hand against her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, emotion clogging her throat.

“Help me get a fire started,” he commanded, urging her toward the old stone fireplace.

Dana followed. She found that she didn't want to leave his side and just as desperately wanted the fire lit. Her mind
spun. There were a million things to do and the responsibility of them all made her chest ache with panic.

Dana mentally covered all that needed to be done: though the baby was thoroughly bundled, the space heater was no longer working so she would need to bring him nearer to the fireplace. But not so close that a spark might harm him. Luke had removed the bottles from the sink, so they would need to keep them chilled, away from the heat of the fire until she needed one…

Panic clutched at her. She failed Michael but she wouldn't fail this child.

“Dana!” She looked up to find Luke frowning at her, his expression a mixture of anger and concern. “Take this firewood and stack it on the grate.”

Dana blinked, realizing that he'd called her name more than once. She wondered at the armload of firewood Luke held and realized he must have retrieved it from the stack in the den while she'd been lost in panic. She pulled the logs one by one from his arms and began stacking them atop the old iron grate.

“Open the fireplace flue,” he commanded. “It's overhead. You'll need to feel with your hand until you reach a handle. Push it up.”

She did as he commanded and was met with a handful of soot and ash that fell into the fireplace and scattered around them. Dana coughed, meeting Luke's eyes with an accusing glare.

He grinned. “Don't look at me like that. You need to know how to do this.”

“No, I don't,” she countered, taking in his meaning. “You're not going anywhere.”

“I may have to, Dana.” His voice was deep and smooth and Dana shivered, not knowing whether it was the tone of Luke's voice or his words that stirred her. “If worse comes
to worst, you need to be prepared.” He nudged her arm. “Here. Take the kindling and force it beneath the grate.”

She did as Luke instructed, and Luke disappeared into the shadows of the room, returning with a few yellowed magazines that the rangers had, undoubtedly, left behind. He tore the pages into strips and then reached around her, stuffing the dry paper around the kindling.

When the fireplace was loaded to capacity, he lit the paper with his lighter. The flames spread rapidly from the paper to the kindling and were soon licking at the underside of the firewood, filling the room with light and heat, surrounding them with a welcome glow.

Dana felt the knot of tension in her chest loosen. She breathed deep and slow, the way Luke had instructed, inhaling the comforting scent of the wood and fire.

“That was a compliment back there, you know.” Luke's words came from beside her.

She opened her eyes to find Luke sitting near her, his left knee bent and his right leg stretched behind her. His handsome face was lit by the firelight and she could see the soft crinkles of laugh lines at the edge of his eyes. She suddenly longed to see Luke Sutherlin laugh, to see something other than the burden of responsibility in his face.

Dana tried but couldn't find words to answer him. The dam of emotion that held her tears was crumbling and she knew it.

Don't… she mentally begged. Please don't say anything else, Luke.

“When I said you were more prepared than most new mothers,” he continued, “that was meant as a compliment.”

Dana closed her eyes. Not only did the words threaten her balance, she doubted they were true. There had been some strange tone of suspicion in his voice when he said it.
He was fishing again, she realized, a tactic she'd used countless times in interviews. But for what? What confession did he want her to make?

Then it hit her.

She opened her eyes and met Luke's gaze. Anger sizzled within her and she felt the burn of it in the form of tears. “You think I had something to do with—” She drew in a ragged breath, disbelieving the acceptance she saw in Luke's eyes. “That I
took
the baby?”

“It's not like that Dana—”

“No,” she interrupted, standing. “That's exactly what you were thinking. You think I kidnapped him, that I had something to do with the accident—”

Luke stood, towering over her, and she began walking backward. She felt the trail of tears cooling on her cheeks, belying the consuming anger she felt within.

Luke grasped her arm, held it when she tried to pull away. “I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm asking you questions. It's my job, Dana.”

“I see.” An odd strength filled her and she straightened, staring up at Luke. “Then by all means let me help you out. I didn't baby-sit because my aunt is a snob without a maternal bone in her body who thought it was beneath me.”

“Dana—”

She held up her hand. “No, let me finish. As for my competence with infants, you can credit chapters…let's see—” she tapped her temple “—one through five of my favorite baby-care book. Of course, if you don't like that one, I have a lot more books on infant care in my apartment to chose from.”

A dark look crossed his face. “Why?”

Dana stood at the threshold of the truth, hating that the moment had come. For the past two days she hadn't been a barren fertility patient. She'd been a mother. For the last
two days, she hadn't been the woman who caused an innocent child's death. She'd been a child's rescuer.

A steady stream of tears flowed down her cheeks. “Because I once thought I'd have a child of my own.” She wiped the tears away, hating her weakness. “But that was before Prince Charming left me for someone less barren and I learned to stop believing in fairy tales.”

Luke pulled her forward, grasping both shoulders in his large hands. “I'm sorry. I never thought you capable—”

“Of what?” she interrupted. “Of killing someone?” She laughed, the sound hollow and dead. “I did that, too.”

His eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Dana was silent. She couldn't tell him about Michael. Not Luke. Surely he, of all people, didn't have to know.

Luke shook her shoulders. “Tell me what you mean.”

What difference did it really make? Luke was nothing more to her than a fantasy created by her imagination. But one thing was certain: as soon as he learned who she really was, she would be nothing to him. Her knees began to shake, and Luke supported her weight, easing her against him as she sank to the floor.

“He was nothing but sweetness and innocence…” Dana cradled her head in her hands. “And it was my fault he died.”

“Who?”

“Michael,” she whispered. “Michael Gonzalez.”

Luke stroked the back of her head. “Paul Gonzalez's son?”

She nodded.

“Tell me,” Luke urged.

Tell me. Tell me what your father did to you, Michael…

Dana cupped her hand over her mouth to contain a scream. “I knew it was wrong, knew he was too young to be asked a question like that during an interview.” Dana
shook her head. “But I asked him, anyway.” Her eyes met Luke's, imploring him to understand. “I asked Michael to tell me what his father had done to him.”

“And he did?”

“Yes. I was elated at first. He confessed that his father had hit him. Repeatedly. I thought the recorded testimony was all the proof we'd need that Paul Gonzalez had hurt his son. But the whole thing backfired.”

Luke smoothed her hair, tracing the outline of her face until his fingers rested beneath her chin. He gently tilted her to face him. “How?”

“I'd been working with the deputy director of foster care—of the Department of Child and Family Services. We'd been trying to locate Paul Gonzalez.” Dana drew her legs against her body, hugging them with her arms. “We had hoped he'd sign away guardianship rather than face prosecution.”

“That sounds logical.”