Sheriff’s Runaway Witness

He got up, pulled on the same pair of sweatpants he’d worn the night before, raked back his hair with his fingers and opened the door.

She glared up at him, the tears in her eyes shining golden in the light from the hall sconces. “You said I shouldn’t have to do this alone. I’m sorry to wake you, but I tried, and I can’t.”

“Shh,” he said, only because he was pretty sure his voice would be too growly for real words. Then, because the need to take her in his arms and comfort her was too great to ignore, he took the baby from her and cuddled him instead.

She gave him a fierce, almost accusing look, muttered, “Thanks…” and turned and marched off toward the kitchen, head down, every step, every line of her body proclaiming wounded pride.

Watching her as he followed, J.J. would have smiled, except the knot of emotions in his chest didn’t make him feel much like smiling. What they did make him feel was light-headed and a little scared.

In the kitchen, he made himself comfortable in a chair beside the island as he had the previous night, with Sean in the crook of one elbow, and watched Rachel while she got out the formula bottle and warmed it. Evidently though, for Sean the novelty of staring at J.J.’s face had worn off, because after staring at it for a couple of seconds, the kid went back to snorting and squirming and making unhappy faces. So, J.J. gave him the tip of his little finger to suck on.

“What?” he said when he saw Rachel looking at him openmouthed-with alarm, maybe, or horror. “Never hurt my sister’s kids any.” He looked down at Sean, now sucking greedily on the finger. “Maybe you ought to get him a pacifier.”

“I’ll put it on the list,” she said absently, apparently unable to take her eyes off the awful sight of her child sucking away on his pinky finger. But after a moment she gave herself a little shake and turned back to the sink, picked up the bottle, tested it on her arm then brought it over and handed it to him.

Sean wasn’t any too happy about losing the “pacifier” he’d been sucking on, and for a moment or two didn’t seem to know what to do with the nipple it was being replaced with. Which prompted J.J. to growl at him in what probably qualified as baby talk. “Yeah…you kinda liked ol’ Jethro’s finger, didn’t you, little guy?”

Rachel gave a liquid-sounding laugh. She pulled out the chair next to him and hitched herself onto it, somewhat gingerly, he noticed.

“Sore?” he asked, without thinking. Then, having bitten down on his tongue in remorse, muttered, “Sorry.”

How is this possible? Rachel thought. Shouldn’t there be hormones of some kind that would block feelings like these? It can’t be normal, can it, to be so attracted to a man, when my body is still battered and bleeding from giving birth? When at this point, I’m not even sure I could stand to have a man touch me?

A moot question, she reminded herself, considering in her present shape she couldn’t imagine any man wanting to touch her.

She cleared her throat. “It’s okay. I don’t think my body has any secrets from you, anyway.”

His gaze was sleepy, heavy-lidded. And for some reason her heart responded by beating faster. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said, in a voice like a tiger’s purr. “I think there are all sorts of secrets that body of yours has…”

Her cheeks burned. Did she imagine it, the unspoken finish: …I’d like to explore…?

She stared back at him, unable to speak or move, the silence in the kitchen broken only by the squeaky sounds Sean made, nursing greedily at the bottle. J.J.’s gray-green eyes seemed almost smoky, and she kept looking into them, desperately afraid if she stopped, her eyes might just travel anywhere they pleased…to his lips, maybe, and then on down to his neck…his throat…his chest. And she would think about…wonder about what it would feel like, touching him.

She leaned her elbow on the island top and propped her cheek in her hand. Feigning a yawn, she murmured, “Jethro, are you ever going to tell me what the other J stands for?”

He dropped his gaze to the baby in his lap, and she saw a smile-a small one-touch his lips. “No big secret,” he drawled. After a pause, he came out with it, elongating it into a kind of growl. “Jefferson.”

“Jefferson. Huh. Well, that’s not so bad. You had me thinking it was something awful.”

He gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, well, Jethro Jefferson-that’s bad enough when you’re a little kid.”

“Why didn’t you go by Jeff?”

“Seems my dad had that one spoken for.”

“Ah. So you’re a junior?”

“Worse than that. I’m a third.” He set the formula bottle on the island top, shifted Sean to his shoulder and began to pat his back.

Lord help me, she thought. I could easily fall in love with this guy.

“Wow,” she said faintly, “Jethro Jefferson Fox, the Third.”

“They do things like that in the South.” His grin was wry. “So, my mom called me Jethro when I was a kid. Then for a while I got nicknamed Jet-that was when I was playing football in high school. I was a running back, and had some speed in those days, so…I guess it seemed kind of appropriate.”

“Jet’s kind of cool. So why didn’t you keep that nickname?”

He hitched a shoulder, the one not supporting Sean’s lolling head. “I don’t know, when I got to L.A. it seemed a little bit too…you know, Southern. Too…Tennessee Williams.”

Rachel raised her eyebrows at the literary reference, but didn’t comment. After a moment, she shook her head and murmured, “James Dean.”

“What?”

“Not Tennessee Williams-James Dean. He was Jett Rink in the movie, Giant. You know-Texas? Oil millionaire? Rock Hudson…Elizabeth Taylor…”

“That’s an old one.” His eyes twinkled with teasing lights.

She found herself smiling back at him. “What can I say? I saw it with my grandmother.”

“But that wasn’t a John Wayne movie.”

“We didn’t just watch John Wayne movies.” The kitchen was warm and quiet and filled with soft golden light and the smells that lingered from dinner the evening before. She felt secure and comfortable in a way she hadn’t felt since she was a child, and the anxieties of her adult life seemed far, far away, only a distant murmur like the sounds of surf outside the windows of a well-built house. She stifled a yawn and mumbled, “Anyway, you don’t remind me of him anymore, now that I met someone who really does-”

A loud burp interrupted her. J.J. came bolt upright in his chair, one hand going to support Sean’s head. He was swearing under his breath.

Rachel lurched to her feet. “Oh, no. Did he-”

“Yeah, he did. Get a towel. Something.”

She was already at the sink, running warm water over a dish towel. She squeezed most of the water out and thrust the towel at J.J., who shrugged it off with a jerk of his head as he balanced a now-somnolent and very satisfied-looking infant in both hands.

“It’s all down my back. See if you can-”

“Oh, God-I’m so sorry. Let me see-”

“What are you sorry for? You didn’t upchuck all over me.”

She made an ambiguous sound, part laugh and part moan. He shifted in the chair and dipped one shoulder obligingly, and she stepped closer so she could see where the splotch of curdled formula had splattered down his back. His well-muscled, nicely sculpted, lightly tanned back. She reached awkwardly to dab at the spit-up with the wet towel, and her breast bumped against his arm. His well-muscled, nicely sculpted…

She gasped and whispered, “Sorry.”

He turned his head and from inches away his eyes burned into hers. “What for?”

“I, um…didn’t mean to bump you.”

His lips moved. At such close quarters she couldn’t be sure, since they were just beyond her field of vision, but she thought they formed a smile. “I don’t think you did any permanent damage.”