Peek-a-boo Protector

She tensed at how close he was. She could see his beard stubble, smell his masculine scent, feel his breath on her cheek. Of course, he wouldn’t think she was delicate.

Or pretty, either.

She gestured toward the baby. “I was talking about Emmie.”

His eyes twinkled, then he pulled back and his frown returned. “Oh.”

“Thank you, John,” Sam said, banishing any fantasies she might harbor about John Wise, and shifting the baby to look into her big eyes. “I can’t stand to think that this woman might have been hurt because of me.”

“I’ll get to the bottom of it,” John said. “Meanwhile, what are you going to do with the baby? Put her in foster care?”

The little girl closed her fingers around Sam’s, and her heart twisted. “I don’t know. I’ll keep her tonight, and then decide. Maybe we’ll find her mother and I won’t have to place her in the system. At least, not yet.”

He averted his gaze as if he didn’t think she should count on that.

But Sam had to remain optimistic. This precious baby’s mother had not abandoned her, at least not willingly. And she didn’t want Emmie to end up without a mother as she had.

Or in the system where Sam knew firsthand that anything could happen to her…

THE NEXT TWO HOURS dragged by while forensics finished processing the scene.

“We’ll take the blood and prints to the lab,” John said. “Maybe they’ll help us ID the woman.” He glanced at Turner. “Let’s take a DNA sample from the baby, too. We might need it to identify the child.”

Turner nodded. “I’ll take palm and foot prints, too. That might help with identification.”

“Good idea.” John gestured toward Sam, who was still holding the baby, guarding her like a mother lion would her cub.

Sam’s look turned wary. “When you find the mother, she can identify the baby.”

“Sam, we don’t know for certain that this woman was the baby’s mother,” John said firmly. “And you know as well as I do that it may take days or even weeks to find this woman. Besides,” he continued, “if the mother is dead, we’ll need to look for other family members who can take in the child.”

A pained look crossed Sam’s face, but she complied. The baby fussed as Turner took a DNA swab from the inside of her mouth and took her palm and foot prints.

“Come on, sweetie,” Sam said, standing. “We’ll go wash off that nasty ink.”

She hurried up the steps, then returned a few minutes later with the baby wrapped snugly in the blanket. She’d also tucked one of those silly Butterbean dolls beside her.

“I didn’t figure you for a doll kind of girl,” John said with a grimace.

Anger glittered in her eyes as if he’d insulted her. “I’m not, but Bitsy doll is special.”

God, she’d even named the damn thing. “Bitsy?”

She jutted her chin up defiantly. “Honey gave me her doll the first night I went to live with Miss Mazie, but Miss Mazie stayed up half the night making me one of my own. This is her, Bitsy.”

His gut pinched at the slight warble to her voice. Of course, Miss Mazie had given her the doll; it was her trademark. The older woman had started making the handmade cloth dolls—with their faces in the shape of a butterbean—to give to her foster kids. He’d heard the story. The kids were scared, lonely, some traumatized, and she wanted them to have something special to comfort them at night. She’d fabricated a story about how the babies came from butterbeans that she picked especially off the vines, just the way she picked them to come and live with her and be her children.

Sam had only been seven years old when her parents were murdered. Just a child.

A disturbing image of a tiny, vulnerable Sam flashed in his head. Had Sam been afraid that night? Had she suffered nightmares of her parents’ murder?

Outside the wind shook a tree limb against the windowpane, and he saw the beam from a flashlight weaving back toward the house. His men were returning.

Sam noticed them at the same time, and fear clouded her eyes. They stepped out onto the back and met the two officers who’d been combing the woods, the bloodhounds leading the way into the backyard.

“Did you find anything?” John asked.

Officer Wilkins shook his head. “The trail went cold at the creek. The perp probably waded through the water to the road on the east side by River Ridge where he had a car waiting.”

Their boots were wet, so they’d obviously followed the trail until it ended. “You saw tire tracks on the road?”

“There were marks on the shoulder in the dirt,” Fritz said. “Course they could have been from someone else. You know that’s a popular make-out spot for the teens.”

John nodded. Still, he’d have the CSI take tire tracks just to be sure they covered all their bases. “You didn’t find anything in the woods? A purse or wallet maybe?”

“Not a thing, Chief,” Wilkins said, sounding frustrated. “But it’s dark as hell out there.”

“I know.” John gestured toward the panting dogs. “Come back in the morning when it’s light and look again. Maybe we’ll find something then.”

They agreed and went to their patrol car. Larry, the owner of the local tow truck service, arrived and hooked up the car to haul to the impound lot. The CSI team packed up to leave.

He walked Sam back inside, but the stark sight of the blood made him pause. There was nothing else he could do tonight, not until he heard from forensics.

“Put the baby to bed and I’ll clean up here,” he said.

“I can clean up,” Sam said, that hard look back in her eyes.

“Don’t argue,” he snapped, irritated that she was so stubborn. “You look exhausted.”

“I’m not sure I’ll sleep tonight,” she admitted.

He wanted to tell her he’d stay and protect her. But getting involved with Samantha Corley was the last thing he needed to do. Just the way she held that baby made him see her in a different light. Sam wanted a family, that was obvious. That was the reason she took care of everyone else.

And he had his own agenda—a career he wanted to build. A family wouldn’t be part of it. At least not with a woman whose father was rumored to be a dirty cop. That wouldn’t look good for him.

Still, she looked exhausted and had been through hell. “I can stay,” he said matter-of-factly.

Her gaze met his, something intense and hot passing between them. Anger?

Attraction?

“Thanks, John,” she said, “but I’ll be fine. As you pointed out, I’m not exactly delicate. I can take care of myself.”

Regret hit him. Had he hurt her by those words? He hadn’t meant them as an insult.

“But I will take you up on the offer to clean up the blood,” she said. “While you do that, I’ll put Emmie down. Then I’ll make sure my shotgun is loaded and by my bed.”

Leaving off on that note, she turned and strode up the steps, jiggling the baby in her arms. He stood for a second watching her, admiring her. Wishing he didn’t find her mixture of tenderness with the baby and her tomboy toughness and tenacity so damn sexy. Wishing he didn’t find the sway of those hips so seductive.