Sheriff’s Runaway Witness

Hanging on to him, she managed to get halfway through the fence before she lost her balance. Then he had to let go of the top wire in order to grab her and keep her from falling, so of course then one of the barbs got caught in her hair. By the time he’d got her extricated from the fence and standing on her own two feet, he was sweaty and flustered and so was she. And somehow or other, she’d wound up pretty much in his arms.

For a long moment, neither of them seemed inclined to do anything about that, even though J.J. knew he ought to. That he had to. Because one thing he could not do was go on standing there with his arms around her and her body warm and damp and soft against him. Things would happen, then, he knew, that would make it next to impossible for him to ever put her on the other side of that law and order divide. So he mustered all his willpower and eased up his hold on her.

For a moment she stayed where she was, not moving away from him, just looking up at him, cheeks pink and lips parted, as if there was something urgent she had to say. Instead, suddenly she sucked in breath in a sharp gasp and pushed away, one hand on her blouse, right over her breasts. She glanced down at herself, then back at him, and backed away, looking like she wished she could be anyplace else but where she was.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, feeling like the world’s biggest jerk. “I didn’t mean-hey, it won’t happen again. Okay? I don’t want you to think-”

“Funny,” she said, her voice soft and breathless, “I was just thinking how sweet you were to keep me from making a complete fool of myself.”

She turned and walked quickly away from him, head down and ponytail slapping against her collar, leaving him as confused as he’d ever felt in his life.

One thing for sure. Before this gets any more complicated, I’m gonna have to find a way to ask her those questions.

Like, were you with your husband the night he was killed? Did you see who shot him?

And most importantly, what else did you see?

The baby was fussing.

Again?

Rachel groaned and peered at the clock radio on the nightstand. Big glowing digits proclaimed the time: Four o’clock. In the morning.

She rolled onto her side, and every part of her body felt as though it were made of lead. Even her hair felt heavy. Using all her willpower, she managed to sit up and swing her legs over the side of the bed, then stand upright. She shuffled the few short steps to the bassinet and stood for a moment looking down at her son. In the soft glow of the nightlight, she could see him squirming and waving his fists, his face scrunched up with eyes shut tight and mouth wide open, the very picture of infant displeasure.

“Hey, sweet boy,” she crooned, and even though her throat ached, her voice was musical and soothing as a lullaby. “How can you be hungry again already? I just fed you an hour ago.”

Inside, she was screaming, I can’t do this! I can’t do it alone. Dammit, I wasn’t supposed to have to do this alone.

“What am I going to do with you, huh? I don’t have any more milk, and I’m so sore-” Her voice broke. Whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…shh…” she scooped up her now-wailing son and cuddled him, joggling him and patting him, to no effect whatsoever.

She began to pace in utter despair, and then from somewhere in her sleep-fogged brain a memory surfaced: a nurse, at the hospital, giving her some bottles of formula…telling her she might need to supplement feedings until her milk came in, if the baby didn’t seem to be getting enough.

Yes!

Okay, she thought, almost crying with relief, this would definitely seem to qualify as one of those times. The bottles-where were they? The kitchen, probably-Josie had helped her unpack, she’d most likely put them in the refrigerator.

She tucked the frantic baby into the crook of one arm, opened her bedroom door, peered out, then hurried down the empty corridor to the kitchen. The Mexican paving tiles were cold on her bare feet, but she didn’t think about that, or the fact that she was only wearing underpants and the sweatshirt J.J. had given her to wear to bed her first night out of the hospital, the night she’d spent in his trailer.

In the kitchen, whimpering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…shh…” she opened the huge custom-built refrigerator and took out the six-pack of formula bottles. She set it on the tiled top of the large island in the middle of the kitchen that served as both work space and casual eating area. Now what? How was she supposed to get one bottle out using only one hand, while juggling a crying baby? She was trying her best to do that, trying not to succumb to sobs of exhaustion and frustration, when she felt a rush of warmth against her back, and hands heavy on her shoulders.

Chapter 10

“Here, here-let me have him.”

J.J.’s voice sounded husky and cracked and rough as sandpaper, and oh-so-beautiful to her ears.

She uttered a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob as she half turned toward him, and his hands slipped down her arms, so deft and sure she surrendered her baby to them without a moment’s hesitation.

“Shh…” he murmured, crooning to the baby as he rocked him, with a rasping sound like a tiger’s purr. And miraculously, her son stopped crying and opened his eyes and turned his face toward the sound.

Then, for a moment, she simply stood still, utterly captivated by the vision of her tiny newborn baby nestled against Sheriff Jethro J. Fox’s broad chest. His bare chest, adorned only by a modest furring of golden brown hair that arrowed down the middle of his torso to disappear beneath the drawstring waistband of the sweatpants he wore, riding dangerously low on narrow hips.

“I’d hurry up with that,” he drawled, glancing up at her and nodding toward the package of formula bottles now forgotten on the island top. “I’ve got his attention, but I don’t know for how long.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” she muttered as she fumbled with the package, at the same time trying to brush the tears from her cheeks without him noticing. “You didn’t,” he said dryly, and his eyes were once more on the baby in his arms.

Which gave her a chance to look at him again, and she did-a longer look that took in the sheet-wrinkle across one cheekbone and the dark beard-shadow on the lower half of his face. Her heart did a curious flip-flop, and she had to look away.

She sniffed. “I’m sorry, I guess I don’t have enough…um, to feed him. I’ve nursed him three times…” Tears threatened again, and she gazed blindly through them at the bottle in her hand.

“You gonna heat that up, or what?”

She cleared her throat…swiped at her cheek. “Um…it says you’re not supposed to microwave it.”

“How ’bout if you just run some hot water in a pan and set the bottle in it. That’s what-couple ounces? Shouldn’t take but a minute.”

Rachel found a pan behind the second cupboard door she tried. She ran water in the sink until it was hot, filled the pan with it and set the formula bottle in the water, then turned and leaned her backside against the edge of the sink.

To her continued amazement, Sean was still staring intently at J.J.’s face, evidently entranced by the sight. So, she discovered, was she. Too much so.

She turned quickly back to the sink, picked up the bottle and swirled it. Silence thickened in the room while she tested the heat of the formula on her arm, swirled some more, tested again. Satisfied at last with the temperature-or unnerved by the silence-she carried the bottle over to where J.J. now sat, comfortably half reclining in a chair at the island, Sean tucked neatly in the curve of his arm.

“Okay-” breathless, she held out her arms “-I think it’s okay now.”

Instead of turning over her baby, J.J. made a hand gesture. Give it to me. So, she