Close To Home (Westen Series)

by Ferrell, Suzanne

“Do you think so?”

  The Amish woman nodded slowly. “There is strength in his eyes. You can depend on him. But he is wary, just as you are.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. I’m sure the good doctor can be one tough customer.”

  Naomi turned onto her side, opened her gown and reached for her son, who was busily making a smacking sound on his fist. “Emma, you need to look beyond your own pain and you will see more clearly. He hungers for you and he hungers for a family. But someone hurt him almost as deeply as you have been hurt.”

  Emma watched as the little baby latched on to suckle at his mother’s breast. When no further assistance seemed needed, Emma walked to the window and stared into the star-filled sky. “How did you see all this in him, Naomi?”

  “I watched him rock Isaac. Pain does not cross a man’s face when he holds a child, unless he has lost a child of his own.”

  The weary mother’s words drifted off. When Emma turned she found her patient sleeping while the baby instinctively nursed. She sat in the rocking chair, waiting for the little boy to finish eating.

  Naomi’s words filled her mind. Had Clint been betrayed like she had? Did he hide his own pain?

  Chapter Twelve

  The autumn night sky blinked with the twinkling of a thousand stars. Emma gazed at them for a moment before pushing the front porch screen door open. After cleaning up both mother and child, she’d tucked Naomi and her son in for the night. Then she searched the downstairs of the clinic for Clint. She found him here, sitting on the porch swing.

  Not quite touching him, she eased herself onto the swing. Once she was settled, his foot rocked back and forth, keeping the swing moving in a slow, steady sway. The chirping crickets joined the low buzz of the cicadas. Occasionally, a bullfrog’s big bass voice bellowed, punctuating the idle chatter of the insects. Soon frost would cover the ground then stillness would settle over the farmland.

  Emma relaxed. Clint’s nearness no longer frightened her. How comfortable she’d become in such a tranquil setting amazed her. This was one of the reasons she’d returned to Weston—the peacefulness of the country. She wondered if Clint missed the city’s hustle. Or did he feel the restful calm here, too? Did the magic draw him in as it had her?

  “Clint, why did you come back to Weston?” she asked as they rocked on the swing.

  “I wasn’t enjoying life much. Burned out at work. No longer caring what tragedy rolled through my door, because it was always one tragedy after another.” She laid her hand on his arm. His hand settled on top of hers, and he let out a weary sigh. “I watched one more child than necessary die. And I wanted to come to a place and a time when I believed that nothing bad could happen to a child. I don’t want to watch another child die.”

  “Who was he?”

  Her perceptive question startled him.

  “Johnny Wilson.” It felt odd to say his name out loud to someone else. “A boy who lived near the hospital.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Clint rubbed the back of his neck and took a deep breath. “He started showing up about a year ago. We’d look out into the waiting room on a Friday night, and there’d be Johnny, watching TV. He was all of six or seven. The nurses started giving him graham crackers and milk. Then we seemed to always order pizza or subs on Fridays, just so we could share it with the kid.”

  “Didn’t you report it to the authorities?”

  “We tried the police. But he somehow always seemed to disappear before they arrived. If we had them waiting for him, he didn’t show up that night. The little kid had a sixth sense about the cops.”

  Emma shook her head. “He was much too young to be so leery of them.”

  Clint ran his hand over his face.

  “About six months ago, he came in during a snowstorm, no jacket, soaked clear through his T-shirt and jeans. The nurses went to put him in a dry gown. Suddenly, they called me in.”

  Clint closed his eyes as the memories flooded over him. “There were old and new bruises on his body, across his ribs and his back. Some healed lash marks. The coroner later told us they were consistent with an electrical cord. And he had a few open sores. Probably due to his malnutrition.”

  “Oh, no,” Emma gasped.

  He took another deep breath, fighting the anger once more. “We reported it to the police and the child welfare agencies.”

  “Certainly they did something about it?” In her eyes he read both anguish and concern.

  “For a time, he was safe. The authorities placed him in a home. The mother’s boyfriend did three months in jail, since it was a first offense. Then a sympathetic judge heard the mother’s pleas of innocence and he gave Johnny back to her.”

  “Good God. Why?”

  He took a steadying breath to calm his raging emotions. “Because she swore she’d never let it happen again.”

  “Did the boyfriend return?”

  “No. She got a new one. Apparently, she locked Johnny out of the house the night he died. In his usual fashion, he headed to the ER for the evening. Only...”

  “Only?”

  Clint swallowed hard, staring out into the darkness. “Only the driver of the car that hit him didn’t see him in the dark street. He was less than two blocks from us when it happened.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She squeezed his arm.

  “Less than two blocks from safety. We worked for more than an hour, but there wasn’t anything we could do. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t save him. I let the boy die.”

  “You can’t save everyone, Clint. It’s a part of life. People die.”

  “Johnny was on his way to us, to let us help protect him, to care for him and we let him down.”

  “No, his mother let him down. Now I know why you were so angry with me that first day. You thought my boys were two more Johnny Wilsons, didn’t you?”

  He curled his hand over hers, threading his fingers with hers. “I know you’re nothing like Johnny’s mother, Emma. Can you ever forgive me for accusing you of neglecting them?”

  “I already have, Clint.”

  They rocked on the swing quietly for a moment. Emma shivered and he drew her flush against his side. This simple and complex man drew her heart closer with each passing day. It wasn’t just how he took care of his patients, or how he helped her with the remodeling. He searched for ways to make her life easier. He treated the boys as if they were his own—or he wished they were.

  Emma softly stroked his face. “I’m sorry about Johnny.”

  His arms tightened around her and once again his lips pressed against her hair. Emma ached for him.

  “You’re lucky, Emma. You have two lively and loving sons to raise. Your ex was insane to throw that all away.”

  Emma swallowed hard. “Sometimes...sometimes I’m so afraid...”

  “Yes, Little Red?”

  She tried to laugh at the nickname, but the tears were too close to the surface. This need to share one of her darkest fears with him was too raw. A sob escaped her instead.

  Clint pulled back to look at her. He brought one finger to catch a soft tear from her cheek. “Please don’t cry. And don’t ever be afraid.”

  “But I am. At night when I let myself think about it, I’m so afraid that Dwayne will change his mind and come take Ben and Brian away from me.”

  “Sh, sh.” Clint drew her into his arms. “I won’t tell you not to worry. Anything is possible, but you aren’t alone this time. I promise you that.”

  * * *

  Dressed for a night of waitressing, Emma wove her way through the packed café, carrying a tray laden with the night’s Blue Plate Special–the best pot roast in the Midwest, mashed potatoes and sweet carrots. She dodged legs, feet and small children that littered her path.

  “Four Blue Plate Specials,” she announced as she set the tray on the edge of the table then slid the full plates out in front of the four truckers. “Now you guys take your time, and I’ll be back with coffee refills in a second.”

  �
��Can I get a thermos for the road, sweetheart?” Jack asked before he dug into his food.

  “Sure thing, Jack. Just remind me before you leave so it’ll be fresh. You guys planning on dessert tonight?”

  Clarence simply nodded, not interrupting his eating for words. The other three men followed suit. Emma chuckled as she returned the tray to the kitchen. She did love the old truckers.

  The bell on the door rang, announcing another customer. Emma wiped her hands on a towel then grabbed a laminated menu on her way to seat the new arrival, a middle-aged businessman in a slightly rumpled suit and tie.

  With hopes for a good tip, Emma plastered on her most welcoming smile. “Good evening. Welcome to the Peaches ’N Cream Café. Would you like to sit in a booth, at a table, or one of the open counter seats?”

  “A booth would be fine, thanks.” The weariness in his voice touched Emma. Obviously he’d been on a long trip, and just wanted to be out of the car. She knew the feeling well.

  “You study the menu while I get you a cup of coffee.” She waited for him to slide into the booth before setting the two-sided menu in front of him. “Black or with cream or sugar?”

  “Don’t suppose you have espresso?” he asked with a smile.

  Emma returned it. “Nope, just old fashioned caffeinated.”

  “Then I’ll take cream and sugar.”

  “Light and sweet coming up.”

  When she returned with his coffee, he’d laid aside the menu and was studying the other patrons. “Lots of regulars come in here?”

  “Thursdays are particularly good days.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  She settled her finger on the Blue Plate Special list. “Lorna’s pot roast is to die for.”

  “Well, then, I’ll have some of that.”

  “Apple pie for desert?” Emma added with a bit of a wink.

  “Is it as good as the pot roast?” he asked, not looking quite as weary.

  “Better.”

  “Then make it one large slice.”

  Emma wrote down his order, tore off the ticket, and taking the menu headed to the kitchen.

  The door opened again.

  “Mom!” The boys chimed in unison as they barreled through the door.

  Emma knelt just in time to receive two enthusiastic hugs. A pair of work boots and jeans appeared in front of her. Her gaze slowly took in the owner. When she got to his face, her breathing quickened with the desire she saw in Clint’s eyes. Would she ever get used to seeing it there? For her? Somehow, she doubted it.

  With great effort, she broke the silent connection and focused on her sons. “Hey guys, how was school today?”

  “Great, Joey brought his pet mouse,” Ben informed her.

  “And it got out at lunch. We spent the whole afternoon looking for him.” Brian grinned.

  Emma lifted one eyebrow. “How did Joey’s mouse get out of his cage?”

  Immediately, both boys hung their heads.

  “Boys?”

  “We just wanted to look at it.” Ben, as always, was the first to give her an explanation.

  Brian nodded along with him.

  “How many times have I told you not to touch things that belong to other people?”

  Both boys shrugged.

  Emma shook her head at them. “Well, I guess there will be no dessert for either of you.”

  Their heads hung lower. Emma glanced at Clint. His lips twisted in such a fashion that she knew he was fighting the battle not to grin. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from doing the same, and grabbed three menus. “Come on, I saved a booth for you guys tonight.”

  “Are you going to eat with us?” Clint asked as he slid into the seat with Brian, opposite Ben. The hopeful expressions on all three male faces made Emma’s heart swell.

  “If the crowd thins out by the time your dinners are ready, I’ll be able to take my break then. Okay?”

  “Yippee!” Both boys bounced in their seats.

  “Harriett picked your mother up about half an hour ago,” Clint said before looking at his menu.

  “She had a bad morning. She couldn’t remember my name until almost noon. I was wondering if she’d make it to the quilting meeting tonight.”

  “You know Harriett. No one says no to her.”

  Emma inhaled slowly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Harriett and all of Mama’s friends lately.”

  “Finish your tables then come eat with us.” Clint reached out to squeeze her hand. The simple contact spoke volumes.

  The crowd did thin out by the time Lorna had four Blue Plate Specials ready for Emma. She gave Rachel a heads up on who was left in the café and what they had on their tickets then she served Clint and the boys, taking her seat next to Ben. For anyone watching, they looked like a real family.

  * * *

  The rumpled businessman finished the best meal he’d had in months, then sat sipping his coffee, watching the family in the corner share their meal.

  The young waitress stopped by to top off his coffee. “Care for anything else?”

  “No, thanks. Have to be on my way home.” He nodded to the foursome in the corner. “Nice family.”

  The girl nodded at the quartet in the corner, then gave him a mischievous smile. “Oh, they’re not a family. At least not yet. But most of the town’s keeping their fingers crossed for it to change soon.”

  He thanked her, paid his bill and left a good tip. He glanced at the two adults and twin boys then headed out to his car. Once inside the nondescript brown sedan, he pulled out his cell phone. As much as he liked milking his client for this particular case, it was time to let him know he’d fulfilled his part of the contract. He chose a number and focused on keeping his voice steady. He really hated talking to this guy.

  “It’s me. I’ve found her. You were right. She came back to her hometown. What would you like me to do now?”

  As his client gave him instructions, the private investigator watched a biker, complete in leather jacket, boots and torn jeans, park his Harley outside the café. Not a man he’d want to meet in a dark alley.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll find out her address then meet with your lawyer tomorrow.”

  The man on the other end of the line clicked off without a thank you. The detective scowled at his phone. “Bastard.”

  This particular client irritated him and he wasn’t sure why. What the hell did he care if his client thought his shit didn’t stink? He paid good money for discreet and efficient work. He always had.

  The man pulled his car around the corner, then sat back to read the local paper, keeping one eye on the café. Another few weeks of following Emma Lewis would be easy money his client wouldn’t miss. He’d need to drum up another client before this case ended anyway. Until then, there were worse things to do for a living.

  * * *

  The acrid scent of something hot tickled Emma’s nose. She turned the handheld sander off and sat back on her heels for a moment. With one hand she shifted her safety goggles off her eyes then wiped the sweat off her nose and forehead with her shirtsleeve.

  Lifting the sander, she studied it closer. There didn’t appear to be any smoke coming from it, but the thing had already shorted out once halfway through sanding the great room floor. By sheer willpower she’d managed to coax it along. A big industrial sander would’ve gone faster, but it was one expense she’d decided she didn’t need right now. If she’d complained to Clint about using the handheld sander she knew he’d have insisted on renting her the big one, and she didn’t want him spending any more money on her home. Besides, a little elbow grease and physical labor never hurt.

  She touched her hand to the sander’s motor. It didn’t feel hot like it had last time. The smell of smoke must be from all the dust the sander kicked up. Maybe, if she was lucky, she could get the last two square feet of the floor sanded before it died completely.

  Slipping the goggles back on her face, she bent over the sander once more and flipped the on button. Dust fle
w off the sander, tickling her nose as she ran it over the oak planks once more. Ignoring the smoky scent, she covered half the remaining floor area before the smell nearly overpowered her.

  She stopped the sander once more and sniffed. This was ridiculous. Something was definitely burning.

  Her heart leapt in fear.

  What had the boys done now?

  As soon as the thought popped into her head, she dismissed it. Thankfully they were in school for the day. That left…Mama, who’d walked into the kitchen earlier.

  Quickly, she shoved herself from the floor, and turned toward the kitchen. Through the newly created pass-through island, she saw flames shooting off the stove.

  Oh my God.

  “Mama!”

  She ran into the kitchen, grabbed the baking soda out of the cupboard and turned the gas beneath the pan off. She pulled the skillet off the stove into the sink with her bare hand. The flames ignited the curtains hanging next to the stove just as she doused the pan with the baking soda, smothering the fire in the pan.

  Thinking quickly she slid a lid over the cast iron skillet, to keep the grease from igniting again. Snatching a towel from the drawer, she soaked it with water then started beating at the curtains.

  “Emma?” Clint’s voice carried from the front door, followed by, “Oh shit!”

  Before she knew what happened, he’d thrust her out of the way, grabbed her curtains off the window, and stomped them beneath his feet on the freshly laid tile floor.

  “Not the tiles.” She tried to move him away.

  “Emma. Stop.” He gripped her arm and shoved her behind him, holding her in place and effectively blocking her from the smoldering material as he stomped out the last of the embers with his boot. “We can replace the damn tiles.”

  Using her tongs, he picked up the charred remains of her café curtains and carried them out the back door to the yard. There he turned on the garden hose and soaked them thoroughly.

  The stinging in her hand started as she surveyed the damage to the kitchen window frame and wall. She glanced down at her arm. The sting turned to throbbing. Tears suddenly blinding her, she reached into the refrigerator out of habit and pulled out the butter, slathering it over the beet-red skin of her palm.