Baby Dreams

He leaned back in his chair and looked at her as though she’d brought up speaking ancient Greek as a recreational activity. “Fun isn’t what life is all about,” he reminded her.

She nodded. “You’re right. But it sure does help you get over the rough spots.” She glanced around the room. “What do you do around here for fun? Or is arresting innocent people the way you get your kicks?”

“No. I work. I sleep. I read.”

She stared at him. Suddenly she was really concerned. “That’s it?” she said incredulously. So that was the answer, that was what made him so mean. He was a grouch because he was badly socialized. Hope surged again. Cami was a can-do woman, and she liked nothing better than finding potential solutions to problems. She’d been struggling with this problem, this man, for about an hour now. And finally she saw light at the end of the tunnel.

Nothing could be simpler. All she had to do was make friends with him, like you would a snarling dog, bit by bit, offering a snack, extending a hand…

“Listen, you need to break out of your routine,” she told him kindly. “You need something new in your life.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

He didn’t look grateful for her sensitive suggestions. Still, these things took time.

He typed another line in the form and she frowned, trying to think of something to offer him. “You know, I’m probably a faster typist than you are,” she said. “Would you like me to fill it out?”

She could have sworn he was rolling his eyes, but he didn’t turn back to face her, so she couldn’t tell for sure.

“No,” he said simply.

“Could I get you a fresh cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

Her mouth tightened. If he wasn’t going to cooperate, this experiment in the building of an understanding between them was going to be harder than she’d thought at first. A tiny doubt tugged at her. What if he were incapable of unbending? What if he were just born mean, and that was that? But she couldn’t accept anything so hopeless. She was made of sterner stuff. She pressed on, thinking hard.

Suddenly she sat up straighter, struck with an idea. “How about this? How long has it been since you’ve had your fortune read?”

That got to him. He turned and stared at her. “My what?”

She stuck out her slim fingers. “Give me your hand,” she ordered.

“What?”

“Your hand,” she said impatiently. “Let me see it.”

He shook his head. No way. Was she crazy? The prisoner did not act like this. Prisoners were scared and hesitant, or they were brash and unruly, in which case they had to be cuffed. One or the other. Prisoners did not offer to make you cups of coffee. Prisoners did not ask to see your hand.

So why was it that he was extending that very same hand, palm up, and letting her hold it? He didn’t know. Forces beyond his understanding seemed to be at work here. They weren’t following the rules. Things were very close to spinning out of control.

Her touch was cool and smooth and light. He felt a strange buzzing in his ears as she held his hand, like the fleeting high from a quick drink taken on an empty stomach. He was crazy to let this go on. But it sure did feel nice.

His hand was in hers and she was studying it closely, noting its clean, hard lines, its strength. He had nice hands with straight nails and hard yet uncallused palms. She liked them. But she wasn’t going to let things go in that direction again, so she sealed off that side of her emotions and got on with it.

“You’ve got a long life line,” she told him, gazing down thoughtfully. “Look.” She traced it with her finger. “Look how far it goes. I’ve never seen one this long before.”

“And you probably never will again,” he noted dryly. “That’s an old scar from breaking up a bar fight.” His mouth quirked at the corners. “I didn’t know at the time it would add years to my life, or I would have done it more often.”

“Oh.” Her gaze met his and they almost laughed together.

Almost, but not quite. They caught themselves in time. Rafe pulled back his hand.

“Some fortune-teller. You’d better keep your day job,” he advised her.

“Wait,” she protested quickly. “I haven’t got to the part about the tall, dark stranger in your future yet.”

His mouth twisted in a way that might have been a smile, but she wasn’t really sure. “I think a short, ditzy blonde in my present is more like it,” he said gruffly, turning back to the desk. “We’ve got to finish this paperwork if you ever want to get to the call to Santa Fe.”

She made a face at him, knowing he wouldn’t see it. “I’m not short,” she said softly, but he ignored it.

She sighed. So it did no good to get friendly with him. Back to square one, and the original plan. When in doubt, tough it out. That was what her father always used to tell her. Funny but she’d never realized his words to live by would come in handy someday. She had to curb her natural inclination to be reasonable and give everyone the benefit of the doubt. She knew what her rights were. Maybe it was about time to see that they were upheld by this country sheriff.

“When do I get to make my phone call?” she demanded, prepared to fight about it.

“When I’m good and ready to let you make it.”

“I have rights,” she reminded him, raising one eyebrow. “Does it usually take this long? Or am I just special?”

He met her gaze and held it, as though evaluating his options. Finally he picked up the phone and plunked it down in front of her. “Go ahead. Just keep it short.” But as she picked up the receiver and began to dial, he reached out to stop her, adding, “Who are you calling?”

She held the receiver away from him and frowned at him furiously, sure he was still trying to thwart her. “Do I have to tell you? Is that in the rules?”

He looked pained. “I’m not trying to figure out your strategy. I just wanted to advise you to be careful who you call and how you do it. By law, you get one call. Once it’s gone, it’s gone.”

She frowned suspiciously, not ready to accept that at face value. “But if the first phone call doesn’t work out, surely there’s another one allowed.”

Squaring his shoulders, he couldn’t keep the gleam of satisfaction out of his voice. “Nope.”

Her eyes sparked. “The deck is really stacked in your favor, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” he said simply. Then he almost grinned. “I’m the good guy.”

“In your dreams.” She shook her head, exasperated. He was enjoying this a little too much. Sadistic beast. She turned away so that her back was to him and began to dial again. But something wasn’t right. Holding the receiver to her ear, she frowned. “There’s no dial tone,” she said, turning back to him. “Listen.” She held it out to him.

He listened, then tapped down the buttons a few times and gave up. “It’s dead,” he said shortly.

She stared at him, hoping he didn’t mean what he obviously did mean. This telephone was her only hope, her only lifeline to the outside world that would surely prove, quickly enough once contacted, that she wasn’t any more Billie Joe Calloway than she was Billy the Kid. “Dead? What do you mean, it’s dead?”

He glanced at her, his eyes as dark as coal. He knew what she was thinking, and he knew more than that. This meant the die was cast. The two of them were going to spend the night together in this room. There was no longer any way out. “It’s dead. The storm’s probably knocked out the lines.”

The look of horror on her face mirrored her distress. She was feeling more and more isolated here, more and more helpless. Was there no escape from this situation? “But… what about my phone call?”

He raised that dark eyebrow again, and the look on his face was a cynical one. “Got a cellular phone?”

Her eyes lit up. “Back in my car.”

He gestured toward the snowstorm raging outside the window. “Then I guess you’re out of luck.”