Sweet Sanctuary (18 page)

“I hold all the winning cards. That kid is legally mine, an' you all want what I got. So if Miss Eldredge there wants to keep playin' mama, she's gonna hafta do it with my blessin'.” He winked. “Keep that in mind.” He scooted down, crossed his ankle over his knee, and closed his eyes.

Mother pressed her fist to her mouth, her eyes flooding with tears. She locked gazes with Lydia, her expression anguished, and Lydia nodded in silent agreement. There was no escape now. Nic Pankin was there to stay.

21

M
icah sent the mother and her sons out the door, each boy proudly sporting new bandages. Micah couldn't resist an indulgent chuckle. Children were the same everywhere—a bandage was a badge of courage. He closed the door behind them, the same prickle of awareness that had plagued him an hour ago bothering him again. He couldn't get Nicky out of his mind. The whole time he had cleaned and bandaged the skinned knees and elbows of the boys, who had rolled down a graveled alleyway after tumbling from a homemade scooter, his mind had been on Nicky. Why did a child miles away pull his attention from those at arm's length?

With no one in the clinic except a volunteer cleaning the examination room, he had time to spare. He crossed to the telephone and dialed Lydia's home number, which he now knew by heart. As it had on all previous occasions, the ringing went on and on without an answer.

His dread increased. He should have been able to reach her before now. Something must be wrong. Deep inside, awareness dawned. Nicky and Lydia needed him. Without another thought, he flipped open the small book he kept in his desk drawer and
located the number of Dr. Stanford, the Manhattan physician who offered the greatest amount of support to the clinic. He dialed, the
rat-a-tat-tat
of the finger plate keeping beat with his pounding pulse.

A receptionist answered on the first ring. Micah sucked in a deep breath and blurted, “This is Dr. Micah Hatcher of the Queens Clinic. I need Dr. Stanford to assign an intern to cover my clinic for several days, and I need it arranged as quickly as possible. Please have him return my call at his earliest convenience. Thank you.” He hung up as soon as the receptionist acknowledged the message, then hurried to the exam room to talk to his volunteer. “Mark, not sure when I'll be able to leave, but I'm going to put the clinic in the hands of an intern for a week or so. Will you help him settle in—show him where we keep supplies and so forth?”

“Sure, Micah.” The man gave Micah an intense look. “Is something wrong?”

Micah's stomach whirled. “I'm afraid so.”

“Can I help?”

“Yes.” Micah closed his eyes, steeling himself against the deep worry pinching his chest. “You can pray.”

A car pulled into the driveway behind the house—certainly Father and Nicky returning from their drive. Lydia's heart fired into her throat. She glanced in Nic's direction. His eyes were closed, as they had been for the past twenty minutes. Was he asleep? Maybe she could sneak to the back door and send Father away. She signaled a silent message to her mother—upraised, open palms gesturing
stay here.
Mother nodded, and Lydia tiptoed down the corridor. Before she could reach the back door, it swung open and Nicky bolted through, his dimpled cheeks sweaty and his hair standing on end.

“Mama, Poppy let me stick my head out the window!” His high-pitched voice, full of excitement, nearly pierced her ears. She hissed in fear, throwing a frantic look over her shoulder. Boots thudded on the floor—Nic up and moving. Without another thought, she scooped Nicky into her arms and ran toward the back door, nearly colliding with her father.

“Lydia, what on earth are you—” Father's eyes drifted beyond Lydia's shoulder. His jaw dropped, and he staggered backward two steps, inadvertently blocking her passage. Defeated, Lydia turned as Nic stepped into the kitchen doorway. The same knowing grin he'd worn when he pushed his way into the house half an hour ago still rested on his face. How could she have ever thought him charming and handsome?

In her arms, Nicky shifted to look at the tall stranger. His brow puckered, and he pointed at Nic's shoulder. “That man has a bad owie.”

Fearful of Nic's reaction, Lydia whispered a reprimand. “Shh, Nicky, be polite.”

Nic burst out laughing. “Hey, he's sharp, isn't he?” He stepped fully into the kitchen. Father moved beside Lydia, placing a protective hand on Nicky's back. Nic kept his eyes on Nicky as he slowly advanced. Nicky watched Nic, his wide eyes holding curiosity but no fear. Nic stopped a mere three feet from Lydia and stood silent, seemingly entranced by the sight of his son.

Frozen in the kitchen doorway, Mother held both hands to her mouth. Father's heavy breathing filled Lydia's ears. Nicky's warm weight filled her arms. Senses alive yet strangely dull, Lydia felt as though she were watching a drama unfold on a stage. She was a part of it, but she didn't know her lines. A scream built in her throat, but she held it inside, determined not to frighten her son.

“Hi, mister.” Nicky's innocent greeting of welcome brought tears to Lydia's eyes.

“H-hi.” Amazingly, Nic's voice sounded gentle despite the deep tone. He shook his head as if to clear it. He flicked a glance at Lydia. “Didn't expect him to look so much like Eleanor.”

Nicky tipped his head. “Who's Lellanor?”

Nic chuckled. “E-lea-nor,” he repeated slowly. Then he shrugged. “Somebody I knew a long time ago.”

“Oh.” Nicky cupped Lydia's cheeks with both hands, capturing her attention. “Mama, I'm thirsty. Can I have a drink?”

“May I—” she corrected automatically, but she carried Nicky to the sink and poured a glass of water. He guzzled it, making the slurping noises parched little boys are prone to make, and all the while Nic Pankin remained rooted in place, watching them.

When Nicky finished he let out an “Ahhh” of satisfaction and handed Lydia the glass. He beamed a smile. “Thank you. Can I get down?”

Lydia tightened her hold on him.

Nicky sighed. “
May
I get down?”

“Yeah.” Nic's sharp voice made Lydia jump. “Put him down. Lemme get a good look at him.”

Lydia, too frightened to do otherwise, stood Nicky on the floor, but she kept a hand on his shoulder to hold him near. As usual, Nicky's socks bunched around his ankles above his brown Oxfords. His bony knees below the hem of his blue shorts seemed much more fragile to Lydia than they ever had before—perhaps because she was comparing him against such a tall, broad-shouldered man.

Very slowly, Nic went down into a crouch and extended his hand to Nicky. “C'mere, boy. Let's pull them socks up.”

Nicky wriggled free of Lydia's hand and bounced forward, sticking out first one skinny leg, then the other. It took Nic a
little time to tug the socks back where they belonged, working with only one hand, but he got it done.

“That better, boy?”

“I'm Nicky.” Nicky stood in front of his father, hands behind his back. “Nicholas Allan Eldredge, the third, but Mama”—he gestured over his shoulder to Lydia—“calls me Nicky. You can, too.”

Nic chuckled, a rumbling sound. “Oh yeah? You like that better'n ‘boy,' huh?”

Lydia held her breath as Nicky worked his wiles on Nic. Her heart pounded erratically, and she inwardly prayed for strength to wrestle Nicky away when Nic tried to cart him off. Nic rose to his feet, his big hand reaching toward Nicky. Lydia's breath whooshed out, her muscles tensing, ready to leap forward. But Nic only ruffled Nicky's hair. “Okay, then, Nicky. How's that?”

Nicky nodded, his hair flopping across his forehead. He rocked in place. “What's your name?”

Nic glanced at Lydia, and for a moment she read confusion in his eyes. Then he dropped his gaze to the little boy who stood waiting, shifting from one foot to the other, and his expression changed. “My name's Nic. But you can call me Daddy.”

Nicky turned around and sent Lydia a puzzled look. “Mama?” He lifted his foot as if to walk toward her. Before anyone else could move, Nic's arm snaked out and caught Nicky around the middle. He scooped the child from the floor and held him backward against his hip. Nicky, a panicked look on his face, squirmed to get down.

Father stepped forward, fists clenched. “Put him down, Pankin.”

Mother reached for Nicky. “Yes, please put him down.”

Nicky's wide-eyed gaze swung from his poppy to his grammy
to Lydia. He kicked his feet and pushed at Nic's arm. “You're squeezing my stuffing!”

Nic gave Nicky a little shake. “Hold still.”

The gruff tone frightened Nicky into obedience, but the little boy's eyes welled with tears and he locked gazes with Lydia. He whimpered, “Mama?”

In her heart, a constant prayer repeated itself—
Help . . . Help . . . Please, help—
but she didn't know what she could do to stop Nic from taking Nicky.

“Mama-a-a-a?”

Nicky's cry prompted Lydia into action. She dashed forward and curled her hands over Nic's forearm. “Please, Nic, not like this. You're frightening him. Please put him down.”

Nic scowled. “If I put him down, are ya gonna do somethin' stupid?”

“I won't do anything to endanger Nicky.” Her breath came in little spurts through her nose as she locked eyes with Nic and waited for him to trust her. Nicky's arms stretched out to her, and after what seemed an eternity, Nic leaned forward slightly and deposited her son into her arms.

Nicky wrapped his arms and legs around her like a monkey clinging to a tree. He stuck out his lower lip and glowered over his shoulder at Nic. “You scared me.”

“Sorry, boy. Just wanted to hold you.”

“I'm Nicky.” Nicky buried his face against Lydia's neck.

“Can't you see what you're doing to him?” Father thundered the question. The veins in his temples stood out. “If you care about him at all, you'll leave.”

Nic clenched his teeth. “I can't do that. He's all I got, an' I want him.”

Lydia cradled Nicky's head in the crook of her neck and whispered, “You won't—you won't sell him?”

Nic rocked on the heels of his boots. His gaze lingered on Nicky's hair—the dark curls so reminiscent of Eleanor's tumbling, shiny locks. A tenderness flitted through his gaze. But then he wiped his face clean of all emotion and spun on Father. “I reckon that's up to your papa here. If I'm gonna keep him, I gotta be able to provide for him. I need a decent job. You got one for me?”

Father drew back his shoulders, straightening to his full height, which was at least six inches shorter than Nic. His cheeks bore bright banners of temper. “You know very well why I let you go the first time. Has anything changed?”

Lydia drew in a sharp breath.
Oh, Father, please—just tell him yes!

“Nope. An' it won't, either.”

Nic's abrupt answer seemed to anger Father even further. “I will not have someone with your
habit
working in my plant. You're a safety hazard.”

Lydia's knees went weak. She slumped against the kitchen table to keep from sagging to the floor. Why couldn't Father swallow his pride and give Nic the job? At least then they'd be able to keep track of him—and be able to keep track of Nicky.

“Then I can't make guarantees about what will happen with the boy.” Nic turned to Lydia. He jerked his thumb toward the front door. “You can carry him out or give him to me here.”

Tears rolled down Lydia's cheeks. “Please, Nic. Please don't do this to him.”
Or to me.

Father stepped forward, reaching into his pocket. Lydia gasped, preparing to shield Nicky if Father withdrew his pistol. But he held his money clip toward Nic. “Take it. Take all of it. But leave Nicky and don't ever come back.”

Nic's eyes narrowed. “You gotta be kidding! You'd have the cops after me in a heartbeat, claimin' I stole that from you. I'm no idiot.”

“I won't contact the police. All I'm asking for is your word that you won't ever come looking for Nicky again.”

Nic looked at the thick wad of bills. His hand clenched and unclenched again.

Take it—please, Lord, let him take it.
The prayer ran through Lydia's heart while several seconds ticked by, Mother's and Nicky's soft sobs the only sounds in the room.

Then a look of scorn crossed Nic's face, and he turned his hard gaze on Father. “That'd make it real easy on you, wouldn't it, old man? But the answer is no. You took my boy, you took my job, you took my dignity when you ran me out of your plant. You think you can buy anything with your money. Well, you can't buy me. I'm here to claim what's mine. So, Lydia”—he swung his gaze on her—“you can make this easier by carryin' him out to the truck, or I can take him here.”