Lisa Jackson's the Abandoned Box Set (33 page)

O'Rourke seemed satisfied; his gaze seemed less suspicious and his eyes turned a warmer shade of blue.

Bodine stood and hiked up his pants. “Well, even if you don't think the baby was delivered in a hospital, it won't hurt to check and find out if anyone's missing a boy.”

“Missing from a hospital?” Chandra asked.

O'Rourke lifted a dark eyebrow. “What better place to steal a newborn?”

“Steal?” she repeated.

Squaring his hat on his head, Deputy Bodine said, “The black-market baby business is booming these days.”

“You think someone
stole
this baby then left him in my barn? That's crazy—”

Bodine smiled his first genuine smile of the night. “Sounds a little farfetched, I admit, but we have to consider every angle. Could be that whoever took Baby Doe could have holed up in your barn for the night and something went wrong. Or they left him there while they went searching for food or more permanent shelter.”

“Or you could've scared 'em off,” Deputy White added.

Chandra shook her head. “There was no one in the barn. And I live nearly ten miles from the nearest store.”

“We'll check out all the possibilities in the morning,” Bodine assured her. Turning his gaze to O'Rourke, he said, “Thanks, Doctor. Ms. Hill.”

The deputies left, and Chandra, not even realizing how tense she'd become, felt her shoulders slowly relax.

“So how's he doing?” she asked, surprised at her own anxiety, as if she and that tiny baby were somehow connected, though they weren't, of course. The child belonged to someone else. And probably, within the next few hours, Bodine and White would discover the true identity of
Baby Doe and to whom he belonged. Chandra only hoped that the parents had one hell of an explanation for abandoning their child.

“The boy'll be fine,” O'Rourke predicted, stretching his long legs in front of him. He sipped from his cup, scowled at the bitter taste and set the cup on the table, content to let the steam rise to his face in a dissipating cloud. Chandra noticed the lines of strain around the edges of his mouth, the droop at the corners of his eyelids.

“Can I see him?” she asked.

“In the morning.”

“It
is
the morning.”

His gaze locked with hers and the warmth she'd noticed earlier suddenly fled. “Look, Ms. Hill, I think you and the kid both need some rest. I know
I
do.” As if to drive home his point, he rubbed a kink from his shoulders. “You can see him around ten.”

“But he
is
eating.” She'd heard him say so before, of course, but she couldn't stem the question or the concern she felt for the child.

A whisper of a smile crossed the doctor's thin lips. “Nurse Pratt can barely keep up with him.” O'Rourke took another swallow of his coffee, his unsettling eyes regarding Chandra over the rim of his cup. She felt nervous and flustered, though she forced herself to remain outwardly calm. “So who do you think left him in your barn?” he asked.

“I don't know.”

“No pregnant friends who needed help?”

Her lips twisted wryly. “I already told the deputies, if I had friends who needed help, I wouldn't suggest they use one of my stalls as a birthing room. They could've come into the house or I would've driven them to the hospital. I think, somehow, we would've found ‘room at the inn,' so to speak.”

O'Rourke arched a thick eyebrow, and his lips twitched, as if he were suppressing a smile. “Look, there's no reason to get defensive. I'm just looking for some answers.”

“I gave all of mine to the deputies,” she replied, tired of the unspoken innuendoes. She leaned forward, and her hair fell in front of her shoulders. “Now
you
look,
Doctor
O'Rourke, if I knew anything about that baby—anything at all—I'd pass that information along.”

He didn't speak, but his relentless stare continued to bother her. The man was so damn intimidating, used to getting his way—a handsome, arrogant son of a gun who was used to calling the shots. She could see he was tired, irritated, but a little amused at her quick temper. “You know,” she said, “I expected the third degree from the police, but not from you.”

He lifted a shoulder. “The more I know about the child, the better able I am to take care of him. I just don't want to make any mistakes.”

She was about to retort, but the words didn't pass her lips. Chandra knew far too well about making mistakes as a physician. Her throat closed at the sudden burst of memories, and it was all she could do to keep her hands from shaking. She took a quick drink of coffee, then licked her lips. When she looked up at O'Rourke again, she found him staring at her so intently that she was certain he could see past the web of lies she'd so carefully woven around her life here in Ranger, Colorado. Did he know? Could he guess that she, too, had once been a physician?

But no one knew about her past, and that's the way she intended to keep it.

The silence stretched between them, and she shuffled her feet as if to rise. It was late, and she wanted to get some sleep before she returned later in the morning, and yet there was something mesmerizing about Dr. O'Rourke that kept her glued to her chair. He was good-looking in a
sensual way that unnerved her, but she'd been around lots of good-looking men, none of whom had gotten under her skin the way O'Rourke had. Maybe it was because he was a doctor, or maybe it was because she was anxious about the baby, or maybe he was just so damned irresistible that even she, a woman who'd sworn off men, and most specifically men with medical degrees, was fascinated. She nearly choked on her coffee.

As if sensing she was about to flee, he finished his coffee and cleared his throat. “You know,” he said, tenting his hands under his chin, “you'd better get used to answering questions, because the minute the press gets wind of this story, you're going to be asked to explain a helluva lot more than you have tonight.”

The press.
Her heart dropped like a stone and memories rushed over her—painful memories of dealing with reporters, photographers, cameramen. Oh, God, she couldn't face them again. She wasn't ready for the press. What if some hotshot reporter saw fit to dig into her background, through her personal life? Her hands grew suddenly damp. She slid her arms through the sleeves of the jacket she'd tossed over the back of her chair. “I think I can handle a few reporters,” she lied, hoping she sounded far more confident than she felt.

“It'll be more than a few. Think about it. This could be the story of the year. Christmas is only a few months away, and the press just loves this kind of gut-wrenching drama.”

“You could be wrong.”

O'Rourke shook his head and stifled a yawn. “Nope. An abandoned baby, a complicated, unexplained birth, perhaps a missing mother, the mystery child swaddled only in an old army jacket—could it be the father's?—it all makes interesting copy.” Rubbing a hand around his neck, he added, “You'll have a couple of reporters from
the
Banner,
maybe someone from Denver. Not to mention the local television stations. My guess is that this story will go regional at least.” He lifted his eyebrows speculatively, as if he believed he were far more informed than she. Typical. “And once the story hits the news services, I'll bet that neither one of us is gonna get a moment's rest.” He crossed one battered running shoe over the other and rested his heels on the seat of the chair Deputy White had recently vacated.

“Are you trying to scare me?” Chandra asked.

“Just preparing you for the inevitable.”

“I can handle it,” she assured him, while wondering what it was about this man that made her bristle. One minute she wanted to argue with him, the next she wanted to trust him with her very life. Good Lord, she must be more tired than she'd guessed. She'd instinctively come to depend on him because he was a doctor—the one man who could keep her in contact with the baby. After all, he could stop her from seeing the child.

Deep down, though, she knew her anger wasn't really directed at Dr. O'Rourke specifically. In fact, her wrath wasn't really aimed at doctors in general; just at a few doctors she'd known in her past, especially a particularly egotistical plastic surgeon to whom she'd once been married: Douglas Patrick Pendleton, M.D., P.C., and all-around jerk.

Now she couldn't afford to have Dr. O'Rourke against her. Not only was he her link to the child, there was a chance he might help her with the press and the Sheriff's Department—not that she needed any help, she reminded herself. But Dr. O'Rourke did seem fair and was probably sometimes kind, even though he appeared ragged and cynical around the edges.

“I guess I am tired,” she finally said, as half an apology. Dr. O'Rourke wasn't the least bit like Doug. No, this
man with his rugged good looks, beat-up running shoes and worn jacket looked more like a mountain climber than an emergency-room physician. She couldn't imagine him reading medical journals or prescribing blood-pressure medicine or attending medical conferences in Chicago or New York.

And yet it did seem possible that he could care for an abandoned infant. On that score, Chandra was comfortable. O'Rourke, she sensed, was a good doctor, the kind of man who had dedicated himself to people in need rather than to the almighty dollar. Unless the unshaven jaw, worn clothes and fatigue were all part of an act.

She didn't think so. His gaze was too honest. Cutting, yes. Intense, certainly. But honest.

Scraping back her chair, she stood and thrust her hand across the table. “Thanks for all the help.”

He clasped her palm with his big hand, and she forced a smile, though Dr. O'Rourke didn't return the favor. As his fingers surrounded hers, the doctor stared at her with those electric blue eyes that could look straight into her soul, and her face suddenly felt hot.

Quickly, Chandra yanked back her hand and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans. Her voice nearly failed her. “I'll be back later,” she assured him as she turned and marched out of the cafeteria, hoping he didn't guess that she'd reacted to his touch. She was tired, that was all. Tired and nervous about the infant. God, what a night!

* * *

D
ALLAS WATCHED
C
HANDRA
H
ILL
retreat. A fascinating woman, he thought grudgingly as he swirled the dregs of coffee in his cup. There was something about her that didn't quite click, an attitude that didn't fit with the rest of her.

Still, she intrigued him. The feel of her hand in his had caused his heart to race a second, and she'd reacted, too—
he'd seen the startled look in her eyes as she'd drawn back. He laughed inwardly. If she only knew how safe she was with him. He'd sworn off beautiful women long ago, and despite her uncombed hair, hastily donned clothes and face devoid of makeup, Chandra Hill was gorgeous.

And trouble. One hundred fifteen pounds of trouble packed onto a lithe frame. She obviously bucked authority: Nurse Lindquist would testify to that. At the thought of Alma Lindquist's agitated expression, Dallas grinned. Yes, he imagined Chandra with her sharp tongue and high-handed attitude could get under anyone's skin.

Fortunately, Dallas didn't have time for a woman in his profession. Not any woman. And especially not a firecracker like Ms. Hill. He rubbed his eyes and blinked several times, trying to dispel her image.

He was off duty. One last look at the Baby John Doe and then he'd go home and sleep for twelve hours. Maybe longer. But first, he might stop by the sheriff's office and listen to the recording of Chandra Hill's call to the emergency dispatcher. If he heard the tape, perhaps he'd get a better perspective on what condition the child was in when she found him. Oh, hell, it probably wouldn't do any good. In fact, he decided, he was just curious about the lady. And he hadn't been curious about a woman in a long, long time.

Squashing his cup with one hand, he shoved himself upright and glanced at the corridor down which Chandra had disappeared.

Who was this tiny woman with her unlikely knowledge of medicine? Jaundice was one thing, the layman could spot that. And a lay person might notice the swelling on the baby's head. But to come up with the medical term after a few first aid courses? Unlikely.

Nope. For some reason, Chandra Hill was deliberately holding back. His eyes narrowed at the thought.

Obviously the child wasn't hers. He'd checked out her trim figure and quick step. No, she wasn't the least bit postpartum, and she was far too young to have a daughter who'd gotten pregnant. But a sister? Or a friend?

Could the baby be stolen? Could Chandra have taken the child from its home, then realized it needed medical attention, concocted this story and brought him in? Dallas didn't think so. A dozen questions about Chandra Hill swam through his tired mind, but he couldn't come up with an answer.

Drawing in a long breath, he was surprised that the scent of her—a clean soapy scent unaffected by perfume—lingered in the stale air of the cafeteria, a fresh breeze in this desert of white walls, polished chrome, chipped Formica and the ever-present smell of antiseptic.

She was definitely a mystery, he decided as he shoved back his chair, but a mystery he was too damned tired to unravel.

S
AM WAS WAITING
for Chandra. As she opened the door, he jumped up, yipping excitedly, his tail wagging with unbridled enthusiasm. “Oh, come off it,” Chandra said, smiling despite the yawn that crept up on her. “I wasn't gone that long.”

But the big dog couldn't get enough attention. He bounded back and forth from his empty dish to her as she started for the stairs. “Don't get too anxious, Sam. Breakfast isn't for another three hours.” In the loft, she nudged off one boot with the toe of the other. “What a night! Do you believe it? The police and even the doctor seem to think I had something to do with stealing the baby or kidnapping the kid or God only knows what! And that Dr. O'Rourke, you should meet him…” She shook her head, as if she could physically shake out her own thoughts of the doctor. Handsome, arrogant and sexy, he was a man to steer well clear of. But she couldn't. Not if she wanted to see the baby again. “Believe me, this is one mess,” she told the dog, who was still pacing in the kitchen.