Читать книгу Saving His Son - Rita Herron - Страница 13

Lindsey jerked upright, her heart hammering in her chest. The sun had set while she’d slept, and early evening shadows engulfed the musty room. Blinking furiously, she finally focused and realized Gavin stood beside her. Relief poured through her. But the silhouette of his handsome face did nothing to alleviate her anxiety over the nightmare. And over seeing him again.

“Bad dream?”

She nodded.

“About that night?”

She nodded again and brushed her hair away from her face. “I could hear our baby crying for me.”

He stood so still, studied her with such anguish that Lindsey ached to touch him. To feel some sort of stability in her rocky world. He had shaved and showered and smelled like soap and that minty aftershave she’d always loved. His damp ponytail was infuriatingly sexy and his bruised eye simply added to his dangerous appearance, the kind that twisted a woman’s insides with fear and want.

Irritated that he still made her ache for him, she drew back. “You should have made some noise or something.”

“I was afraid I’d startle you.”

“It’s been a long day.” She fingercombed her hair, then stood and brushed at her dress. “Are you ready?”

His dark eyebrows shot up. “Are you sure you’re ready? You look as if you need a good night’s sleep before driving.”

“What I need is to find my baby.” She moved toward the door. “And the quicker the better, so we can both get back to our own lives.” Separately.

He frowned, then grabbed his duffel bag and headed to the door. “All right. Let’s go.”

She nodded, wondering at her sanity for asking him to her home. At least now she had no memories of him in her rental house. But once he stepped inside, his image and scent would linger in every corner. Then how would she ever be able to forget him?

HOURS LATER they drove past a neighborhood that could have been lifted from the set of Andy Griffith, then veered onto a side street which curved slightly around the mountain. Lindsey stopped by the cemetery, but Gavin shook his head, not yet ready to face the tiny gravemarker which marked his son’s fleeting existence. When they’d stopped for coffee at a small diner, she’d bought fresh flowers from a stand outside the café. He watched in agony now as she lay the beautiful flowers on the small plot, her soft sobs wrenching in their sweetness.

He had to find out if the baby in the grave was his son—they could exhume the body. But he couldn’t justify disturbing the sanctity of the child’s grave without definite proof of foul play. Judging from Lindsey’s emotional state, he didn’t think she was ready for the suggestion either.

After what seemed like an eternity, she returned to her car and they drove down a dirt road, finally stopping at the end of the narrow drive where a tiny white house sat bordered by a picket fence, a whiskey barrel full of pansies and a front porch with a porch swing. Gavin instantly pictured a tricycle and kiddie pool in the front yard, Lindsey wearing a Little League Mom’s shirt holding a baby on her hip. A picnic table on the back deck, lazy Sunday afternoons, a bunch of rugrats running through the sprinkler. His son sporting a baseball hat.

His son.

Lindsey thought that night with her hadn’t meant anything to him. Hell, it had meant too much.

All the more reason he and Lindsey didn’t belong together.

He’d seen too much meanness in his life. He couldn’t take his kid fishing like Andy had Opie and pretend the world was a good place.

His gaze swept the property and he frowned. Situated off the main turnpike, the cabin was isolated and tucked into the woods with a thick bed of trees backing the property. He tried to remember the distance between her house and the last one they’d passed. At least a mile. Too far to yell for help if she were in trouble. And those woods would make an excellent hiding spot for someone who meant her harm. He kept his headlights on while she walked up the porch steps and opened the door. Thank God, she did use a key.

He killed his engine and followed her. When he went inside her house, he felt as if he’d suddenly come home. The scent of lilac and something that smelled faintly like baby powder drifted to him. Lindsey faltered beside a small bassinet, and she lay one hand on top of a baby blanket. A tiny white bunny rattler stood propped inside the baby bed, a miniature squeaky toy in the shape of a boat at the foot.

His gut tightened painfully, his feet refusing to move. He didn’t know what he’d expected—that she’d disposed of all the baby paraphernalia, maybe. But the sight of the empty baby bed and toys was almost more than he could bear. He couldn’t imagine the depth of Lindsey’s pain. His own immobilized him.

He lay his hand over the small train whistle in his pocket, the one momento he kept from childhood. His mother had given it to him on one of their trips. She’d told him to blow on it if he ever got lost and she’d know where to find him. He wished his son had a whistle now.

“I should move the bassinet to the nursery with the other stuff,” Lindsey said in a low voice, gesturing toward a closed doorway in the hall. “But I…I can’t. I feel like if I put the bassinet away, I’m totally giving up hope that our baby is alive.”

Gavin’s throat completely closed so he simply nodded that he understood.

Lindsey slowly faced him, obviously struggling for composure. “Are you hungry? I can fix us soup or a sandwich before you check into a hotel.”

He’d thought he might be staying at her house, but he understood her need for distance—her house seemed too small for both of them. The only spare bedroom was probably the one she’d converted into a nursery. He certainly couldn’t bring himself to sleep in there…not without his son.

“Gavin, do you want to eat?”

He hated to put her to work. Then again, she looked as if she needed something to do to take her mind off her sorrow. “Sure. Whatever you’ve got is fine.”

She drew in a deep breath, then slipped into the kitchen.

He surveyed the room. A blue ruffled sofa with mauve throw pillows faced a small TV and entertainment center. CDs were stacked haphazardly on a pine end table, her favorite Bonnie Raitt CD on top. Decorating and teaching magazines littered a Shaker-style coffee table, with two additions he’d never seen in her apartment in Raleigh—parenting magazines, and a book of baby names.

Tension thrummed through him, her pleas all too real. He stepped in the kitchen doorway. “Lindsey?”

Lindsey’s soft voice penetrated the silence, “Yes.”

He slowly raised his gaze to hers, grimacing at the pain in her eyes. “Did you give our baby a name?”

“Cory,” she said in a shaky whisper. “I named him Cory Adam.” She paused and he sucked in a sharp breath. “My dad’s name was Adam. I hope you don’t mind.”

He shook his head. His last name was McCord—she’d taken part of his name and given it to their son even though he had sent her away.

Lindsey turned back to the stove and he sat at the table, hurt and anger rolling through him in waves. There was no way he could sleep tonight until he talked to the doctor who’d delivered his son. He’d stop at the hospital before he found a hotel. Could Lindsey be right? Could someone have lied about their baby? Could their son, Cory, still be alive?

THE SCENT of alcohol and antiseptics assaulted Gavin as he entered the small hospital, reminding him of the night he’d rushed Rodney Johnson to the ER. The boy had been in trouble and Gavin had thought he could help him. Instead, the teen had dogged him right into a bust and been shot in the crossfire.

“Dr. Cross isn’t here,” the red-haired receptionist said from behind a small window.

Damn, he should have called. “What time will he be in tomorrow?”

“Around nine. He has rounds over at County first.”

“What about Janet Quinn?”

“She’s not here either.” Impatience flared in her voice. “Is there anything I can do to help you? Is there an emergency?”

“No, I wanted to talk to them about Lindsey Payne.”

The woman’s eyes widened perceptibly. “Why are you asking questions about Miss Payne?”

He decided to use a personal angle. “I’m a friend, and I’ve been worried about her since she lost the baby.”

The woman’s expression immediately turned sympathetic. “I know what you mean. She took the news so hard, poor thing.”

“Were you here the night she delivered?”

“No, we had a terrible explosion that night at the plastic factory in town. Everybody but Janet and Doc Cross had to help at County. Must have been sixty injuries.”

“Lindsey was here several days. Did you treat her at all?”

“Oh, yes. I pulled late shift the next two nights. Wound up sitting with Ms. Payne until her sedatives took effect. She was so distraught.” She pursed her lips, shaking her head back and forth. “Poor thing, so alone. The baby’s daddy didn’t even show up.”

Gavin gritted his teeth, fresh guilt assaulting him. He considered telling her he was the father, but she saved him by continuing, “Frankly, I think the girl had a breakdown myself. Don’t blame her, bless her heart. She claimed some crazy things after she lost the baby. I think she ought to see a shrink.”

Gavin had heard enough. He glanced at the clock and the near-empty facility and realized there wasn’t much more he could do until morning. Tomorrow he’d return with Lindsey and ask for a tour of the place. He’d question the doctor and gauge his reactions. For now, though, he’d find the hotel, call Simon and tell him to run a check on this missing nurse, Janet Quinn.

A few minutes later, he pulled up to the local sheriff’s office, but discovered it was empty. He’d hit another dead end. Scrubbing his hand over his face, he cursed silently. Obviously the police department operated on a nine-to-five schedule. Didn’t they have crime after dark?

Frustrated, he drove toward the small hotel he’d seen when they’d driven into town. Seeing the white-haired little man who ran the place, he tried to imagine someone in Maple Hollow doing the things Lindsey had described. Faking an autopsy report, telling her her baby had died when it was alive, but the images didn’t fit.

The furnishings in the small room were sparse; a double bed with a faded orange flowered spread, a battered maple dresser, a bathroom with yellowed tile and a pea-green shower curtain hanging askew. He sank onto the double bed, not surprised when the shaky bed squeaked, the mattress bowing with his weight. Lying on his back, he crossed his ankles and folded his hands beneath his head and stared at a cobweb in the corner as the day’s revelations paraded across his mind. He had a son. He’d lost his son. Was he alive? Missing? Could the nurse be right? Could Lindsey be so emotionally distraught she simply couldn’t face the horrible truth? Did she need a counselor instead of a detective?

Had someone tried to kill her in the hospital?

He sprang off the bed. If someone had meant to harm Lindsey, they could come back any time. And once again he’d left her completely alone and unprotected.

LINDSEY FINALLY DRIFTED into a fitful sleep, the day’s tensions clawing at her body. But in her dreams, she heard her baby’s cry again. He was out there somewhere. He needed her. She had to keep searching. Had to believe he was alive.

She tossed and rolled, her throat aching, her mouth dry. A strange smell penetrated her nostrils, burning her wind-pipe, making her head throb. She opened her eyes, but the room spun. The air swirled around her, stifling. Hot. Perspiration beaded her face. She sniffed, suddenly alarmed at the strong pungent smell.

Gas.

She flung back the covers and rolled off the bed but her legs wobbled when she tried to stand and the room rocked back and forth. She screamed Gavin’s name, only the sound came out as a croak, and she remembered he’d gone away again. The smell grew stronger, the air choking her. Her body felt sluggish. Her head ached. The room swayed, then blurred again, and she dropped down onto the carpet. She had to crawl out, escape. But a wave of darkness engulfed her as she pitched forward, and she cried out, afraid she couldn’t make it to the door.