The Lawman's Secret Son

“What do I do now?”

“Just comfort him, Brady. Hold him closer. Don’t be afraid.”

He pulled Nathan against his chest, one hand all but covering the small boy’s back. He tried making soft noises and bouncing a little. One or the other of these tactics apparently worked because the baby settled down. Brady tipped him away from his chest for a moment, anxious to really look at these few pounds of humanity that had instantly redefined his life.

His throat tightened as he took in every amazing inch of his son’s face. The dark orbs as he opened one eye, then the other. The very small nose, the tip of a tiny tongue. What struck him was the baby’s total dependence. Was he ready for this?

He was still trying to work out his complicated relationship with his own father. What did he know about being a father to an innocent child? How could he teach what he’d never learned?

“Did you hear that?” Lara said, and he opened his eyes abruptly, yanked back from his thoughts.

“Did I hear what?”

“A noise downstairs. Maybe it was Myra.”

“I’ll go take a look,” Brady said.

The door flew open at that moment. The housekeeper, dressed in a voluminous green robe, took one look at them standing by the crib and crossed the room in a half-dozen sturdy steps. “Give me the little lamb,” she crooned. Brady looked at Lara, who nodded. Reluctantly, he handed the child over, amazed at how empty his hands and arms suddenly felt.

“I was downstairs in my room,” Myra said, expertly wrapping Nathan in a blanket. “I heard breaking glass. When I went to look, I found the window in the sitting room with a hole—”

Brady left without hearing the rest, taking the stairs two at a time. Armstrong had known Lara was back in town—did he also know about Nathan? He’d talked about an eye for an eye…

“The sitting room is to the right,” Lara said. She’d followed him down the stairs. There was no color in her face and her eyes were wide. He moved into the formal Victorian sitting room lit only by a glass-shaded table lamp. Shards of glass lay on the table and carpet and a rock with a paper tied around it had tumbled to a stop on the floor in front of the table.

Myra, still holding Nathan, arrived in the doorway as Lara leaned down to pick up the rock. Brady grabbed her hand. He looked around the room until he spied a small lace doily draped over the armrest of a floral love seat. Using a corner of the doily, he picked up the rock and slipped the paper from beneath the rubber band.

“What does it say?” Lara asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

He angled the paper toward the light. A few words had been cut from a magazine and glued in place. “‘Go home before it’s too late,’” he read.

“Mrs. Kirk will have a fit when she hears someone broke her window,” Myra fumed. She held Nathan against her polyester-covered bosom as though protecting him from the hounds of hell. “What is the world coming to? And that note can’t be directed at Lara. It must mean you, Mr. Skye. What trouble have you brought—”

“Get a paper bag big enough for the rock and the note, will you please?” Brady interrupted.

Myra looked from him to Lara. “That’s a good idea,” Lara said, holding out her good arm. Myra very gently placed Nathan in Lara’s embrace before leaving the room. Lara’s eyes glistened in the dim light as she rested her cheek atop Nathan’s fuzzy head.

Brady looked down at his shoes, not trusting his voice. What a sight the two of them made. His wife and his baby son. Her beauty, his innocence, elicited a cavalcade of emotions.

How had things gotten to this point? How had he so thoroughly screwed up?

How had he lost them?

He finally managed to say, “Someone wants you to leave Riverport,” and looked at Lara again. She’d closed her eyes as though she couldn’t stand to face another moment of this interminable night. She surprised him as she often did. Opening her eyes and pinning him with her gaze, she said, “That’s too bad. I’m not going anywhere until I’m damn good and ready.”

“Listen to me, Lara. This isn’t just about you and me anymore, it’s about Nathan now, too. Let me stay the night. Let me—”

“Okay.”

“No argument?” he asked, surprised she was agreeing so readily.

“No argument. I’m not a complete idiot. But who would do something like this?” She moved a few inches closer to him and he took comfort that she still found his presence reassuring. “You said Bill Armstrong would try to get back at you. Do you think it was him?”