The Man Who Would Be Daddy

Her eyes slanted toward the gas station. Malcolm Evans, if that was his name, was bending over the car he’d begun working on when she walked away. Its yawning hood was hanging open over him like the mouth of a shark that was getting ready to deliver a final bite.

“Yeah,” she answered, “I am.”

A deep, cleansing breath that helped her push aside the entire harrowing experience. She pulled open the door on the driver’s side of the van and climbed in. Robin sat dozing in her seat. Poor thing, she was exhausted.

That makes two of us.

Tyler shut the door behind her. “Buckle up or I’ll have to issue you a ticket.”

“Bully.” She slid the metal tongue into the clip. It clicked into place. “I’ll be by later this afternoon, all right?”

“Whenever you’re ready. Ask for Detective Harold. He’ll ease you through this.”

“Thanks.”

As she pulled out of the parking lot, she saw her brother in her rearview mirror. He was walking over to the gas station. She wondered if he was going to have any better luck with the solemn-eyed Good Samaritan than she had had.

The police station had grown a great deal since she’d wandered the small, narrow halls as a child. Those times, she had been ushered in by her mother to visit her father at work.

A sense of pride had always shimmied through her here, even though she’d been very young. The pride had multiplied as her brothers joined the force. Christa liked the idea of them being part of what made things right in the world, part of what kept the peace.

The halls weren’t narrow anymore. Renovated, the station seemed like something that belonged on the ground floor of a corporate building, not a police station. But it was a station nonetheless. A place where perpetrators were fingerprinted, where victims told their stories. It was a place where people came after bad things had happened to them.

People like her.

Christa shivered and wished she didn’t have to go through this.

It could have been a lot worse, she reminded herself as she squared her shoulders.

Detective Harold was a new name to her. She’d known many of the old-timers. Her father had always brpught his work home with him, cleaning up some of the coarser, uglier details as he went along. The men he worked with became a phantom part of the family.

The redheaded policewoman at the long reception desk looked up and waited expectantly as she asked, “May I help you?”

“I’m Christa Winslow. I’m here to see Detective Harold.”

The policewoman rose, nodding as if she’d been expecting her. “Wait right here.” She disappeared behind a wall that separated the long front reception area from the rest of the station.

Christa heard the automatic doors in the rear of the lobby open and close. Curious, she turned to see who had entered the precinct.

It was her reluctant Good Samaritan. He walked across the gleaming tiled floor, the heels of his scarred boots beating out a steady cadence, marking his approach. Even if the foyer had been crowded, she still would have singled him out. There was an aura about him.

A hundred or so years ago, people would have stopped to gawk at the stranger who rode into Dodge. He had an air of quiet power about him, power that wasn’t to be challenged. He was tall and straight like a doublebarreled shotgun and looked to be twice as lethal when crossed.

Something made her doubt that the appearance was deceiving.

Their eyes met at exactly the same moment, and she nodded at him. He slowly acknowledged the greeting.

She looked out of place here, Malcolm thought. She reminded him of a daisy pushing her way through a crack in the pavement.

When he reached her, she spoke first. It didn’t surprise him. He wouldn’t have spoken at all. The nod was enough for him.

Apparently, it wasn’t enough for her.

“Hi.”

Her greeting was bright, cheery, as if they were old friends rather than people who didn’t even know each other’s names. What was her name? Christine? Kristin? No, the policeman had called her…Christa. That was it. Christa.

He didn’t have trouble recalling that the baby’s name was Robin.

“Are you here to give a statement?”

Malcolm only nodded in reply. He didn’t want to be here, but he couldn’t very well tell that to the police. So he had worked through lunch and gotten Mahoney’s car in running order, then left when the part-timer had shown up to help Jock. Though he had hoped only to have the gas station cover meager expenses, business was picking up steadily. If it continued, he was going to have to hire more help. The thought didn’t please him. The fewer people he had to interact with, the better.

Christa remembered what he’d said to her earlier. “I guess this is really interfering with your schedule.” Again, he nodded. Why couldn’t he say something? Nerves sharply cut through the veneer of politeness she was attempting to maintain. “You know, they’re going to ask you to talk.”

The way annoyance appeared and then disappeared across her brow amused him. His mouth curved just the slightest bit.

“I’ll talk,” he answered quietly.

He could smile. The sight of it softened her. “I’m sorry about all this.”

It hadn’t occurred to him to hold her accountable for the inconvenience. He’d chosen to pursue the fleeing van; she hadn’t forced him to do it.

“Not your fault.”

She blew out a breath. “I know, but if you hadn’t come to my rescue, to Robin’s rescue—”

“Then things would be a lot more serious than they are now.” He saw another apology or exclamation of everlasting gratitude hovering on her lips. He wanted neither. “Forget it.”

It was a curt command, but she wasn’t about to obey. “I can’t,” she insisted, vehemently enough to catch his attention. “I can’t forget it. What happened today could have changed my life forever. It could have changed Robin’s life forever. Or ended it. You prevented that. It’s not something I can just push out of my mind.” She paused only for a moment, searching his face. “Why won’t you let me thank you?”

Malcolm didn’t want to get into it with her. He looked past the blond head, searching for someone to give his name to and get this all over with. But there was no one behind the long ebony-and-chrome desk.

“Let’s just say that this was a small payment on a debt I owe.”

His answer baffled her. She found herself wanting to make sense out of it. “I don’t understand.”

He shook his head, dismissing her part in it. “That’s all right. You weren’t involved.”

There were no landmarks to help her pick her way through the maze. She didn’t like being lost. It was clear to her that he was carrying on some inner conversation with himself that she was only accidentally privy to. It was a subject that obviously caused him pain. Because of what he’d done for her, for Robin, she was determined to learn more.

The policewoman chose that moment to return. “If you follow me, I’ll take you to Detective Harold.” She raised her eyes to Malcolm’s face.

“I’m Malcolm Evans. Officer McGuire told me to come in to give my statement regarding—”

She nodded. “Detective Simms is waiting to see you. Why don’t you both come around the desk and follow me inside?”

Malcolm stepped back and gestured for Christa to go first.