The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek (18 page)

After their mother stopped the engine, the boys pushed out of the backseat and ran to his door to pull it open.

“Sir, we’re here, sir,” Nick and Leo said in unison.

As were a lot of other parents, all headed toward the building with their children. People might think they were a family, too. He’d never been a part of this kind of a family, not with the general always away or busy. Not that the four of them were family. Fantasy. When would he learn fantasy was not his friend?

He turned in the car, picked up his leg, and placed it on the ground before pushing himself to his feet and picking up his cane.

“Sir, take my hand.” Nick stretched his arm out.

“No, lean on me, sir.” Leo shoved his younger brother aside.

“Thanks, guys, I can make it. However, I think your mother is closer in height to me. If she could just give me a hand to get over the curb.”

An expression of doom flashed across Willow’s face, but, like a professional, she reached out, took his hand, and placed it on her arm. Although she attempted to hide it, she shivered, only a bit. Fortunately, he knew exactly what that meant.

He grinned. She kept her gaze at the ground as if it were filled with craters that presented insurmountable obstacles for an amputee, as if there were an IED buried nearby that she needed to guide him around.

It wouldn’t hurt to allow himself this fantasy for an hour or two. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to feel nearly normal, pretend he was like those dads with kids running ahead of them and with a pretty woman by his side, even if only for a short time.

T
he fantasy collapsed an hour later, as soon as Sam got home. Once inside, the solitude hit him like the thick humidity of the Texas coast on an August afternoon.

He was alone. No family, no redheaded sons, no wife. Alone.

What irony. For months he’d wanted to be alone. He must be doing better if he’d started wanting people near, but it didn’t
feel
better.

He took a step toward the kitchen. If he couldn’t find vodka, he’d call the liquor store. They were always happy to deliver. But he stopped himself. He didn’t want liquor and numbness. At least, not complete oblivion, not like he used to.

He wanted someone with him. He wanted to hear the boys in the backyard, but that wouldn’t happen, not with school starting. And as skittishly as she behaved, their mother didn’t seem likely to drop by for a visit just because he was such a nice guy.

He took a few steps toward the phone, picked it up, and hit the quick dial. “Hey,” he said when the general picked up. “When will you get here?”

He’d become really desperate if he wanted to talk to his father and actually looked forward to the general’s arrival.

Willow breathed a sigh of relief when the captain got out of the car. She hadn’t thought he could leverage himself up, not from this low car. He’d refused to allow her to give him a hand up or a shove in the back but struggled to get out on his own.
Men!
she thought, then changed her generalization to
Marines
. Stubborn and independent but admirable and inspirational—and the boys adored him.

Not that she wanted to consider those positive qualities because she didn’t want to care about the captain as a person, as the man who’d pretty much adopted her children or, at least, had provided day care. That couldn’t be fun for a single man like him.

Then she realized she’d spent the last few minutes watching him move up the walk and take the steps one at a time. She’d noticed again how fine he looked from every direction, front, back, and sides. What an idiot. She put the car in gear, checked behind her, and pulled out. Unfortunately, she had never become accustomed to the power of the engine. It sounded like a race car:
vroom
.

Was he dating? Surely, having grown up here, he knew people, probably families with women his age unless, of course, they’d all moved to the big city. The fact that he wasn’t driving yet would cut down on that. The places to take a date in Butternut Creek were limited.

She shouldn’t be considering either the captain’s love life or his body. With a glance at the clock, she turned her mind back to her schedule for the day. Nearly eight thirty. She’d arrive early for her first appointment. After that, she’d go onto the floors to evaluate several patients.

But no matter how hard she attempted to concentrate on work, a corner of her brain kept bringing her back to that moment in the hallway at school, when Sam had put a hand on the shoulder of each son and smiled down at them. Leo and Nick looked up at him in such awe and, well, yes, love that the air around them seemed to sparkle.

No matter what he said or did, Captain Peterson was a good man, a man who cared about her sons. That scared her a lot, because she could fall for a man who spent time with the boys. Grant seldom did. She could care for a man who—oh, who was she kidding. She was already incredibly attracted to this man for reasons that had nothing to do with his relationship to her sons. She was attracted because, despite his attitude, he was smart and handsome and sexy. She’d begun to think no man could make her catch her breath, make her peek out the window of her office just to see him exercising.

For heaven’s sake, she sounded like a lovesick schoolgirl. No, not true. He made her feel like a desirable woman. She hadn’t felt that way since she’d found out about Tiffany.

“Reverend Jordan,” Maggie shouted from her office. “Phone.”

He picked up the receiver. “Adam Jordan.”

“This is Detective Somerville calling. Want to fill you in on the investigation about the child’s family.”

He grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper. “Go ahead.”

“We identified her mother through fingerprints as Deanne Smith, lives in San Saba.”

“Melissa Smith. So we know her last name. Have they located any relatives? Friends?”

“The local cops went by the house, but no one’s home. Looks as if someone lived there until a few days ago. Newspapers in the front yard and mail in the box, but only junk mail. Nothing personal.” He paused to clear his throat. “Mrs. Smith teaches third grade at the elementary school. She didn’t show up for teacher training last week. The police checked at the school board office, but the emergency contact in Virginia doesn’t answer.”

“Missy said
Virginia
when we asked about her grandmother,” Adam interjected, though the detective knew that from when they spoke earlier.

Somerville continued, “We ran down the references but none of the people listed have talked to her recently. That’s about it.”

“A dead end, huh?” Disappointed, he sat back in the chair.

“Sir, we’ll keep investigating. Hard to believe she could just disappear without a trace.”

“What about Missy’s father?”

“No information and not a trace of men’s possessions in the house. Also not listed on Mrs. Smith’s job or rent applications.” He paused. “The police have Mrs. Smith’s fingerprints from her background investigation, which is how they were able to match the ones the lab found on the child’s shoes. They’ll put the prints in the system to see if anything shows up.”

“You mean like a body?”

“Yes, but also could be a Jane Doe in a hospital. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

Bree’d be home in an hour from volleyball practice and Mac was studying upstairs. As she cuddled the child who’d fallen asleep in her lap, Birdie enjoyed the soft, sweetly scented warmth of a little girl. At the same time, she realized her shoulder ached and she was simply too old for this.

The preacher had called her earlier about Missy but had no helpful information. “Dear Lord,” she whispered, “You need to have Missy’s mother turn up soon. I’m worn out.”

Too tired to carry the child upstairs to the blow-up mattress they’d put in Birdie’s bedroom, Birdie carefully placed her on the sofa and made sure the blanket covered her. Then she headed into the kitchen to see what she could thaw and heat up for dinner.

The previous night, Missy’d fallen asleep at ten thirty after Mac had spent nearly an hour rocking and calming the child. Birdie’d been asleep for only a few minutes when Missy’s sobs awakened her. She stumbled across her bedroom to the corner where Missy slept and picked the girl up.

“Mommy. I want my mommy.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” She sat on the edge of her bed and rocked Missy until she quieted.

When she got back in bed, Birdie pulled the sheet over her shoulders and attempted to fall back to sleep but two questions haunted her:

When was Missy’s mother going to show up?

And why had she, an old lady feeling older each day, taken the child in?

Sam had gone off the wagon last night. Not that he’d been securely on it. At least, not completely, but the pain and the isolation and the longing…

What kind of a wimp had he become? Why had he turned to alcohol again when he knew it didn’t help? He knew the emptiness and the ache would still be there long after the fleeting surcease of tequila… well… ceased.

He was supposed to be at the hospital in an hour. The van would be here in forty-five minutes. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, knowing no amount of counting backward would make him feel better. Even the idea of walking up and down between the railings in PT intensified the pain.

And he’d have to see her again. Willow Thomas, who’d been avoiding him for nearly a week. The boys had come over after school a couple of afternoons. Like he wanted that or needed them.

Yeah, he did. He might try but couldn’t lie to himself how much he enjoyed the kids. With the start of school, Willow had given them permission to visit him but they had to leave here at five, walk home for dinner, and do their homework. Because he’d taught them discipline, expected them to honor women, they didn’t dare leave a second late.

He thought karma meant if he did good, he’d get good back. In his case, karma should mean if he followed the rules and got the boys ready to go home on time, he’d see Willow once in a while. Obviously it didn’t work that way for him. Sometimes life came back to bite you. No good deed goes unpunished.

What other clichés could he think of to put off getting up?

He now had thirty-five minutes to get dressed and eat and be ready for the van.

The short period of preparation explained—mostly—why he looked scruffy. Not enough time to shave made his beard show dark. With only a few minutes to take a shower and no time to blow-dry his hair, it still dripped when he ambled into the therapy room on his cane. Clean, of course. Dirty wasn’t an option. Sadly, arriving hungover with a pounding headache and queasy stomach seemed to be.

While several clients pulled on bands attached to hooks or lay on treatment beds lifting canes over their heads, he stood alone by the parallel bars.

“You don’t look well, Captain.”

Willow had appeared in front of him looking bright, smiling in her best professional manner. Her perkiness made his head hurt even more.

“Tough night?” she asked.

He’d shake his head if the movement didn’t cause pain to shoot up his neck and scramble his brain. “I’m fine.”

“I need to observe you today.” She picked up a clipboard. “After that, I have to make some notes and do a few measurements for the prosthetist. I’ll send him a report today because he’s coming here to see you next week.”

Sam pulled himself between the rails and attempted to walk as well as possible. Dumb. Not as if he needed to impress her with how little he limped.

“Captain,” she said. “You’re slouching.” She placed her hand on the small of his back and pressed. “Straighten here.” Keeping the pressure on, she watched him take several steps. “Does that feel better?”

It did. Took some strain off his leg, but he wondered how long he could maintain that position. He’d been surprised how much strength and muscle he’d lost over the months before he started rehab.