A powerful kick, however, set her mind at ease. It was almost as if the baby was saying, “Hey, knock off the rough stuff!” But as long as her child was unhurt, he or she could kick up a storm.
The sound of a door closing down the hall redirected her thoughts. She had to switch gears, figure out how to deal with Luke. After witnessing her meltdown, he wasn’t likely to walk out without asking questions she wasn’t ready to answer.
Too bad she hadn’t been alone when the call came in from Detective Layton.
“Everything all right?” He paused on his way to the refrigerator for ice and gave her an assessing scan.
“Yes. Thanks. Listen…you don’t have to hang around. I can take care of my knee.”
He ignored that. “Give me a minute and I’ll help you to the couch so you can put your leg up.”
In other words, he wasn’t going anywhere until he was certain she was okay.
The muscles flexed in his broad back as he opened the refrigerator, and her vision once more blurred. Since Gram died, only Dorothy had fussed over her, plying her with tea and scones at the shop. But at the cottage, she’d been on her own.
Until now.
Tears brimmed on her lower lashes, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand. Breaking down in front of this man was not an option. Nor would she succumb to the sudden temptation to tell him about her past. If she ever decided to do that, it would be at a time and place of her choosing, when her emotions weren’t on a roller coaster. It would be a controlled, clinical retelling. Just the facts, in a neutral location with bright sunlight.
The cozy haven of Gram’s cottage, burnished with the intimate, golden glow of the setting sun, was not that place.
So she’d let him help her over to the couch…feign tiredness…and hope he got the hint that she wanted him to leave.
Rejoining her, he set the ice pack on the table and held out his hand. “Let’s get you on your feet.”
In silence, she placed her hand in his. His lean fingers closed over hers and he pulled her to her feet in one smooth, effortless motion that bunched the impressive muscles below the sleeve of his T-shirt.
When a trill ran along her nerve endings, she forced air into her lungs. She had to stick with her plan, not be swayed by hormones that were out of control at this stage of her pregnancy.
Once she was on her feet, he moved beside her and put his arm around her waist—what there was of it.
“Just lean on me.”
The husky words loosened her tear ducts again.
Hang on, Kelsey! Just get to the couch. Once you’re settled, you can send him home.
As they traversed the small living room, she ended up leaning on him far more than she’d planned, favoring her throbbing knee. A tear spilled out, and she tried to surreptitiously wipe it away after he eased her onto the cushions.
“I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared down the hall. Who knew where? But at least the reprieve gave her a minute to regain control.
When he reappeared sixty seconds later, she had herself together—more or less. But he’d been busy too. Two pillows were tucked under one arm, a lap quilt was draped over the other, and he was holding a box of tissues and a bottle of Tylenol. He set the quilt by her feet, handed her the tissues, and gave the bottle a shake.
“Does your OB approve of these? They’re generally safe during pregnancy.”
“Yes. She said they were fine, in moderation.”
“Good. They’ll help with the discomfort in your knee.” He set the bottle on the arm of the couch and offered a hand. “I’ll pull you up so I can put these pillows behind you. Hang on tight.” She did as he instructed, and after gently lowering her back, he set the ice pack on her knee and draped the quilt over her. “I saw a chicken breast on the counter in the kitchen. Was that supposed to be your dinner?”
She bobbed her head, not trusting her voice.
“I’m not much into cooking, but if you have eggs, I can handle an omelet.”
He wanted to cook her dinner?
The faucet behind her eyes began to drip again.
“Y-you don’t have to bother with that. Besides, I’m not hungry anymore.”
“There are a lot of chores people don’t have to bother with—but sometimes you take them on because it’s the right thing to do.” After a few seconds, he lightened his tone. “Do you have eggs and cheese?”
“Yes.”
“Mushrooms?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m set. Give me five minutes.”
From her propped-up sitting position, she was able to observe him through the pass-through that divided the kitchen from the living room. He worked methodically, with a natural efficiency of motion. No surprise there. Luke was the kind of man who would make every moment count, no matter the task.
While her dinner cooked, he brought a kitchen chair in, set it beside her, and returned to the kitchen.
Uh-oh.
He must be planning to stay while she ate.
That could be dangerous.
Yet how could she tell him to get lost after all he’d done to help her tonight?
Less than five minutes later, he returned with a fluffy, golden-brown omelet, a glass of milk, and some Tylenol tablets. He set them on the chair beside her and took a step back.
So he wasn’t planning to sit there after all.
Good.
But if that was true, why the sudden surge of disappointment?
Mashing her lips together, she scrunched the quilt in her fists. She should be glad he was leaving. It was what she’d wanted.
“Do you need anything else?”
“No. Thank you. Sorry to put you to all this trouble.”
“It was no trouble.”
Before she realized his intent, he moved to the end of the small sofa, lifted her legs, edged under them, and sat. After readjusting the ice pack, he rested his hands lightly on her quilt-covered ankles.
“Go ahead and eat your omelet before it gets cold. Then we’ll talk.”
She gaped at him.
He expected her to eat while he held her legs? And with the specter of a serious discussion looming?
No way would she be able to choke down even one bite.
When she made no move to pick up the plate, he leaned over and retrieved it for her. “Come on. Try a few bites. You don’t want to insult the cook.”
He smiled, his manner relaxed and reassuring, as if to say, “You have nothing to fear from me. I’m on your side. You’re safe.”
And truth be told, she did feel safe. And protected. And cared for. More than she had even prior to that fateful December night.
Maybe it was an illusion. Maybe once Luke heard her story, he’d disappear.
But for this moment, why not take the comfort he was willing to offer? Pretend she wasn’t in this all by herself. Let go of the fear and uncertainty and loneliness, if only for a few minutes.
Decision made, she lifted her fork and took a bite of the tender omelet. It was bursting with cheese and mushrooms, and infused with a subtle tang.
“This is very tasty.” She cut off a second bite. “I’m picking up unusual flavors.”
He grinned. “I raided your spice cabinet. Onion flakes, a dash of tarragon, and a pinch of oregano. My mom is the omelet queen, and she loves to experiment. Most of her concoctions succeed, but none of us have ever let her live down the salmon, blue cheese, and capers omelet she made a few years ago when I came home on leave.”
“Bad?”
“Awful—and Hannah was vocal in her assessment. She said it stunk, and declared she couldn’t eat anything that smelled that bad. Mom cajoled her into taking one bite, after which she promptly threw up—all over the table. While she crawled off to bed, Dad and I went to IHOP.”
A laugh bubbled up inside Kelsey, and she took another bite of Luke’s offering. “Your effort is much more palatable.”
“Thanks. I’ve learned that a little risk-taking pay
s off with omelets—and with life. You just have to be careful not to push the limits so far you end up with a disaster on your hands.”
His serious demeanor confirmed he wasn’t talking about omelets anymore.
The final bite stuck in her throat, and she picked up her glass of milk to wash it down.
“We have to talk, Kelsey.”
She gripped her glass as the fluffy omelet turned to a rock in her stomach.
“I’ll start.”
At his unexpected comment, she gave him a wary once-over…and remained silent.
A few beats of silence passed—and at his conflicted expression, her nervousness morphed to curiosity.
“You know I came to Michigan to launch the youth center project.” His resonant baritone voice was calm, his tone carefully measured. “But I also wanted downtime and solitude after ten years in a pressure-cooker environment. I wanted to lie on a private beach and let the world go by without having to worry about watching my back every minute, or losing sleep over the lives I hadn’t been able to save that day.”
He stroked her leg absently through the quilt as he spoke, but his attention was on a wall hanging Gram had made, which had occupied the place of honor on the far wall for more than two decades. The sunburst motif featured the motto that had guided Bess Anderson’s life: “Live. Love. Rejoice.”
“My plan didn’t work out quite how I’d hoped, though. First, I discovered I didn’t have a private beach. Then Hannah needed a place to stay. The youth center project also took off—due in large part to your publicity efforts—and I didn’t have a spare minute in the day. Finally, most unsettling of all, I found myself worrying about my new neighbor.”
He looked at her, and at his tender expression her breath hitched.
“I didn’t want to worry about you, Kelsey. I fought it every step of the way. Yet the more we worked together, the more you intrigued—and attracted—me. Sparks began to fly. I wanted to know more about you, but you kept me at arm’s length. I’ve learned to recognize fear over these past ten years, and I saw it in you from the beginning. I don’t know why you’re afraid, but I do understand fear. And I know firsthand how it can paralyze a person—in all kinds of different ways.”
He clasped his hands together and stared at his fingers.
“Five years ago, I was steps away from the danger zone when a roadside bomb exploded. There was carnage everywhere. Three of the guys injured were my friends. They were all critical, and I was desperate to help. But I had limited supplies and only two hands. I knew backup wouldn’t get there fast enough to save any of them. So instead of helping someone else who may have had a chance of making it, I fell to my knees next to one of the guys who had a young wife and baby at home, held his hand, and cried while he died.” Luke’s voice choked.
Heart aching, Kelsey leaned forward and covered his clenched hands with one of hers. His fingers were ice-cold.
When Luke turned to her, his expression was bleak. “That was the worst day of my life. I was depressed for weeks. The only way I could survive was to shut down. Stop feeling. I learned to barricade my heart from everyone—including God. To do the job without thinking about personalities. To avoid making friends who could be killed.
“And it worked. It allowed me to cope. I also became the first choice for triage duty. My superiors knew I could make the tough calls, with complete emotional detachment, about who had the best odds of survival. Behind my back, my colleagues called me Doctor Deep Freeze. I was cold and detached and brutally objective in matters of life and death. And I didn’t socialize with my peers. I never again wanted to care about anyone enough to feel the way I did when my buddies died from that roadside bomb.”
As Luke’s mouth settled into a taut line, Kelsey squeezed his clasped hands. “The cold, clinical man you’re describing isn’t the man I know.”
He regarded her hand resting on his…then pulled one of his free and twined his fingers with hers. “Carlos can take credit for that. Everyone else steered a wide berth around me, but he sought me out. He’d show up with his tray at mealtimes and try to start a conversation. I’d brush him off, but he’d keep talking. Telling me about his childhood here and his grandmother and his ideas for the youth center. His passion and zest for life eventually won me over. He helped me reconnect with my faith and restored my compassion. But unlocking my heart is still a struggle. I’m afraid if I care too much, I could be hurt again—and find myself back in a dark tunnel without an exit.”
He paused. Swallowed. Locked gazes with her. “I want you to know I’ve never shared any of this with anyone.”
Her heart stuttered. “But…why me? We’re not much more than acquaintances.”
“Because I’d like us to be more than that. And because I trust you. Absolutely.”
She stared at him, trying to process all he’d said.
“I do have one other confession.” Luke stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. “Before she left, Hannah gave me a stern lecture on romance. One of her key points was that if I wanted you to share with me, I should take the lead—and make the leap first. It’s taken me a while to admit my kid sister is right. Longer still to find the courage to follow her advice. But you know what? I’m glad I did.”
She picked at a loose thread on the quilt. “What if I don’t want to reciprocate?”
“I’ll be happy with any positive outcomes.” He lifted their entwined hands. “I consider this progress. And for the record, I didn’t come over tonight planning to spill my guts. But after your phone call, I couldn’t walk away. I had to let you know in some concrete way that I cared—and try to convince you that you can trust me with whatever worries are wrinkling your brow.” He reached over and smoothed her forehead with his fingertips, his touch gentle and caring. “Can you at least tell me why the phone call was so upsetting?”
Could she?
Kelsey continued to pluck at the thread. What if she did? And what if, once he knew her story…once she confided her ambivalence on the key question she faced…he walked away—leaving her feeling lonelier than before?
He would be compassionate about it, of course. He’d already made it clear he cared for her. But caring might not cut it. Her situation would be difficult to deal with even if love was involved—and they weren’t anywhere close to that deeper emotion.
Yet if she didn’t tell him, if she shut him out and let him walk away, wouldn’t she always wonder what his response might have been?
Besides, in light of his honesty and openness with her, didn’t she owe him the same?
Yes to both.
But could she find the courage to risk a rejection that would deal yet another blow to her battered heart?
12
Kelsey’s face flexed, as if she was in pain—and for an instant Luke was tempted to tell her to let it go, to forget he’d asked about the call. Whatever her problems, she’d done more than her share of suffering already. Wasn’t it wrong to add to her distress?
But if she couldn’t trust him after he’d laid his heart bare to her, what future did they have?
So he waited.
At last, she sucked in a breath, removed her hand from his, and bunched the quilt fabric in her fists.
“The call was from a police d-detective in St. Louis. Beyond that, it’s a long story.”
Was she telling him that was all she intended to reveal—or waiting for encouragement to continue?
Only one way to find out.
He reached over and gently touched her collarbone. “Is this scar part of that story?”
“Yes—and so is the baby.”
“I’ve wondered if you were involved in an abusive relationship. Or if job stress triggered other problems—like drugs or alcohol—that led you to…do something you later regretted.”
“Neither.”
He did the math. No abuse. No drugs. A traumatized woman easily spooked by a powerful, strong man. A recent scar. A pregnancy that produced ambivalent feelings. A call from the po
lice.
The sum of the parts was like a kick in the stomach.
“You were raped.” It wasn’t a question.
She gave a jerky nod.
“And the baby is the result of the attack.”
“Yes.”
“You decided to carry it to term rather than abort it.” That wasn’t a question, either—but it bought him a few seconds to try and wrap his mind around her choice.
A tear spilled onto her cheek. “How could I kill an innocent child?”
He filled his lungs. Exhaled. “That’s the most unselfish thing I’ve ever heard.”
“No.” She gave a vehement shake of her head. “Don’t paint me as a saint. I did think about taking the easier way out. And there are days when I wish I’d wake up and all of it would be nothing more than a bad dream. But I’ve always believed life begins at conception—that God knows his children before he forms them in the womb, like it says in Jeremiah. I’ve marched in Washington at the pro-life rally with a group from my church. I’ve prayed for unborn babies who’ve been aborted. It would be hypocritical of me to kill a child because carrying him or her to term is inconvenient—or hard.”
Wow.
Just…wow.
The advice he’d passed on to Hannah years ago—that being brave wasn’t about doing dangerous things, but doing the right thing…even when it was hard—replayed in Luke’s mind.
Kelsey had lived that advice. Just as she’d lived the values of her faith, not simply paid lip service to them.
Much as he’d admired Carlos for his great faith and courage under fire, this woman was no less brave.
Shocking as her decision was in some ways, it was impossible not to admire her convictions.
He lifted her legs, slid out from under them, and moved beside the couch, dropping to one knee beside her.
At close range, it was easy to see the remembered trauma pooled in the depths of her eyes. Hear the catch in her uneven respiration. Feel the tremors coursing through her.
And all at once, his shock gave way to anger. As he caught and held her fragile fingers, it swelled like a tsunami and crashed over him with a power that swept aside every ounce of charity in his soul. “Did they catch the guy?” The hard edge in his question didn’t come close to capturing the depth of his outrage and fury.
Child of Grace Page 12
