“That’s what tonight’s call was about. They have a s-suspect in custody. He was a serial rapist. His latest victim inflicted damage on his face that led to his ID and arrest.”
She was shaking now. Badly. Luke stroked her cheek, tucked her hair behind her ear, lifted her hand and brushed his lips across her fingers—all the while fighting the rage surging through him. Kelsey didn’t need to see that. What she needed was compassion and support and…love.
“I’m so sorry.” His voice hoarsened. “I never imagined anything like this. Have you had counseling?”
“Yes. I still see someone on occasion. It took me a long while to get past the shame…and the guilt.”
He frowned. “There’s no shame in being a victim. And why would you feel guilty?”
“Because I should have been more careful. I’d heard the news stories about the previous attacks. But I was very disciplined about my exercise routine. So I went jogging that December night after I got home from work, about nine-thirty. It was my usual route. A public sidewalk that passed a small park. That’s where it happened. He always attacked in areas where people were close by. The police said it was a p-power trip for him. That pulling it off in locations where he could be detected gave him a thrill.”
She squeezed his hand, and when she continued, her voice was broken, her face shattered. “It all happened s-so fast. He grabbed me from behind as I passed a clump of bushes. Before I could react, he covered my mouth with his hand, pulled a ski headband over my eyes, and stuck a k-knife against my throat. He threatened to kill me if I resisted, but I struggled anyway. That’s how I got this.” She touched her collarbone. “While I was trying to recover from the shock of the cut, he slapped duct tape over my mouth and put plastic restraints around my wrists. It was all over in less than f-five minutes.”
A tear rolled down her cheek, and Luke brushed it away with an unsteady finger. Then he wrapped her in his arms, in a hug that offered comfort and caring and shelter. Much like the one Hannah had given him not long ago.
Tucking her against his chest, he stroked her back and pressed a kiss to her hair as silent tears coursed down her cheeks, dampening his shirt while she clung to him with a fierceness that revealed the depth of her trauma and her desperate need for a shoulder to cry on.
He continued to hold her close, absorbing as much of her pain as he could—but after a minute or two she eased back. His gut twisted at her tear-ravaged face, and when she tried to disengage he held firm, keeping her within the circle of his arms as he scrutinized her.
At the odd—and disconcerting—nuance in her expression, a red alert went off in his mind. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s more, Luke.”
More? What more could there be? He searched her face. Fear contorted her features, and a frantic pulse beat in the hollow of her throat.
Keeping his arms around her, he braced. “Tell me.”
Her breath hitched. “I’m not sure yet what I’m…what I’m going to do with the baby.”
At her response, he furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand. You already made that decision.”
“No.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I mean I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with the baby after he or she is born.”
Ah. Logistics. Those could be handled.
He stroked her cheek. “There are people who can help you with that. Thousands of childless couples are waiting for babies. I’m sure Reverend Howard has connections with adoption agencies. Have you talked with him?”
“Yes.” Twin creases appeared on her forehead. “But that’s not what I mean.”
He was definitely missing something here.
“What do you mean?”
She moistened her lips. “I mean I’m not certain I want to give up the baby.”
Her words were clear—but they wouldn’t compute. Surely she couldn’t mean what he thought she meant.
Could she?
His pulse picked up. “Are you telling me you’re thinking about keeping this baby?”
“Yes.” Her response was a mere whisper.
An expletive he never said flashed through his mind as she uttered the single word that changed everything.
A ready-made family was one thing.
But raising as his own a child conceived in violence?
Impossible.
How could Kelsey even consider this?
Hard as he tried to mask his reaction, Kelsey’s irises began to shimmer like deep, green pools…and a fragile quality in their depths died. Hope, perhaps. Her features also underwent a subtle shift, and she withdrew a bit—as if she was pulling in on herself.
Leaving her more alone and vulnerable than ever.
He loosened his grip but didn’t let her go. Their relationship couldn’t end like this, almost before it had begun. It wasn’t over yet. She hadn’t said she’d made a definite decision, just that she was considering keeping the baby. Once she thought through all the ramifications, she could choose adoption after all.
“Kelsey…I’m trying to understand why you’d make that choice. Help me do that.”
Her slender shoulders drooped, as if the weight of all that had happened had suddenly become too much to bear. “I don’t know if I can. Maybe you’d have to be inside my skin to understand.” She dipped her chin, and he had to lean close to hear her response.
“Would you try? Please?”
She expelled a shuddering breath. “In the beginning, I wanted nothing to do with this baby. I wanted to get rid of him or her as fast as I could, once I delivered. But over the months, as I felt this new life stirring inside me, I realized this baby is as much a part of me as it is of him. And I’m not sure I can give up part of myself.”
“But won’t this child always be a source of bad memories?” He spoke slowly, trying to be empathetic while pointing out the obvious problems. “Won’t you relive the violence that gave him or her life every time you look at the child? Can you offer the kind of love a mother is supposed to give, under the circumstances?”
“I don’t know.” At the raw anguish in her eyes, his stomach clenched. “Reverend Howard asked me the same questions. I’ve been praying for guidance, but so far it hasn’t come. All I know is that for years my priorities were messed up. Nothing mattered to me except my job. My attitude was that if marriage and a family had to be sacrificed on the altar of corporate success, so be it.”
She focused on the wall hanging, with its live…love…rejoice message.
“The attack changed everything. As horrible as it was, it helped me understand what was important. So I stopped clawing my way up the corporate ladder. I opened a quilt shop, which had always been my secret dream. I hoped that maybe—after I healed—I might meet a man who would want to share my life. But I’m thirty-five, Luke. The biological clock is ticking. The dream of a family seemed remote. After the initial shock of my pregnancy passed, I wondered if God was giving me the gift of a family after all.”
That was a stretch.
But how could he censure her for taking a horrible trauma and finding a positive side to it?
“That’s an amazing takeaway. Most people in your situation would be bitter.”
Her attempt at a smile flashed and faded as quickly as fireworks in the night sky. “I made a choice to be better, not bitter. I have a long way to go, but that’s my goal.” She laced her fingers together in her lap. “So where does this leave us?”
Good question.
“I don’t have a clue. I’m still trying to absorb everything you’ve told me. But I do know this. Whatever feelings I had for you when this conversation began are even stronger now.” He stroked his fingers down the gentle curve of her cheek. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we both sleep on this? Regroup tomorrow? Maybe the way forward will be clearer in the morning.”
Truth be told, the chances either of them would get much shuteye tonight were minuscule.
“That seems reasonable.”
“Let me
take another look at your knee before I leave.”
As he flipped back the quilt and stood to remove the ice pack, the shift into doctor mode helped restore a bit of his equilibrium. And a quick inspection reassured him. The swelling was minimal, but the bruise had darkened. “This is going to hurt for a few days.”
“I can handle it. I’ve been through worse.”
The scar near her collarbone attested to that. And who knew what other injuries she’d suffered during the attack?
Once more his anger swelled. Despite all his years in the line of fire, violence, brutality, and bloodshed turned his stomach. But if Kelsey’s attacker were standing here now, he’d punch the guy out. And he wouldn’t suffer one nanosecond of regret.
Wrestling his anger into submission, he resettled the ice pack on her knee, pulled the quilt back into position, and picked up her glass and plate.
“Leave those, Luke. I’ll take care of them later.”
“I’d rather you keep that ice pack in place. Besides, I always clean up after myself.”
Within minutes, he’d done the dishes, wiped down the counter, and rejoined her. “Can I do anything else for you tonight?”
Her expression spoke volumes, but she shook her head.
“Call me if anything comes up.”
She acknowledged his comment with a slight nod.
It was his signal to go—but he hesitated.
Why did it feel as if he was running out on her?
She solved the problem for him. “Go home, Luke. I think we both need space to digest everything.”
“Yeah.” He shoved his hands into his pockets—but didn’t move. A shaft of light from the setting sun was gilding her blond hair and turning her pale skin golden. Her lips were slightly parted, her jaw firm—and resolute. She was both strong and vulnerable, and despite his uncertainty about what lay ahead, the appeal of that juxtaposition was impossible to ignore.
He returned to her side, bent down, and brushed a kiss over the satiny skin of her forehead. “Good night.”
“’Night.” Her strangled response caught on a sob.
The temptation to stay—to tell her everything was fine, that what she’d told him tonight hadn’t changed anything—was strong.
But that would be a lie.
With a final squeeze of her hand, he strode from the room, collected the artist’s renderings from the screened porch, and crossed the lawn toward his house as he tried to sort through his muddled thoughts.
Before he’d visited Kelsey tonight, he’d made his peace—to some degree—with the notion of a ready-made family.
A child born of violence, however, was a whole different story.
He paused, watching the setting sun edge the ominous black clouds in the distance with gold, infusing them with beauty. That’s what Kelsey was trying to do—make something beautiful out of a storm. And perhaps she’d succeed. Perhaps she’d eventually find it in her heart to accept this child on his or her own merits. Maybe a mother’s love would be strong enough to overcome her memories of the baby’s traumatic conception.
From what he’d seen of Kelsey’s kind heart, loving spirit, and positive attitude, she just might be able to pull it off.
But as a distant rumble of thunder prodded him toward his own house, he wasn’t certain he could do the same.
* * *
Long after Luke left, Kelsey remained on the couch. The sun had set, taking with it the glow that had illuminated the room earlier, when Luke had been with her. Now it was dark.
She ought to get up. Put on a few lights. Try to chase away the gloom.
Besides, she’d promised Detective Layton she’d check her email.
But the thought of coming face-to-face—even virtually—with the man who’d upended her life turned her stomach.
Nevertheless, it had to be done. And putting it off wasn’t going to make it any easier.
After flipping the quilt back, Kelsey removed the ice pack from her knee and swung her feet to the floor. The move was less than graceful, given her girth, and her knee protested when she bent it.
She turned on the lamp beside the couch, grimacing as she examined her injury. The whole kneecap was purple. At least the ice had kept the swelling down.
With one hand on the arm of the couch and the other on the seat, Kelsey managed to maneuver herself to her feet. She tested her knee, wincing when she put weight on it, but by holding on to the walls and furniture she managed to limp into the quilt room.
Instead of sitting in front of the computer, she bent over the keyboard, clicked on her desktop email icon, and typed in her password. A quick scan of unopened mail confirmed that Detective Layton had followed through. A JPEG was attached.
She moved the mouse to the file.
Froze.
Just do it, Kelsey!
Steeling herself, she double clicked. Two seconds later, a headshot filled the screen.
Her attacker.
Her baby’s father.
The air jammed in her lungs, and as her world tilted she gripped the back of the desk chair to steady herself.
Summoning up every ounce of her willpower, she forced herself to examine the photo long enough to note the man’s brown eyes and stringy, dark-brown hair. To trace the long scar that started on his cheek and disappeared into his hairline. To examine a chin that was too pointed and thin lips that curled into a smirk.
And to know she’d never seen him before.
Fingers trembling, she closed the window and typed her reply to Detective Layton.
“I don’t know him.”
She hit send. Selected his email. Hit delete.
The message and the photo disappeared from her in-box.
If only she could delete the trauma as easily from her memory.
Body vibrating, she limped back down the hall toward the kitchen to get a glass of water and another Tylenol. Then she’d go to bed—and pray sleep would come, bringing peace…and clarity.
As she filled a glass with water, she surveyed the familiar kitchen where she and Gram had spent so many happy hours. After her mother died, this little cottage had always been a symbol of comfort and love.
Tonight, that symbolism had been reinforced.
Because of Luke.
But after his reaction to her story, his offer of comfort—and perhaps love—could be short-lived.
And who could blame him if he backtracked? If she was on the fence about whether to keep the baby after carrying her child close to her heart all these months, how could she expect Luke to embrace that prospect?
Setting the empty glass on the counter, she looked out the window. Through the branches of the trees, the light burning on Luke’s deck was visible. He must be out there. Thinking about what had transpired tonight. Wondering how—or if—their futures were destined to entwine.
Heart aching, she turned away and crossed the room. On the threshold, she paused and gave the pristine kitchen one more inspection. Luke had done a first-rate job cleaning up the mess he’d made.
In her kitchen, if not in her heart.
13
Kelsey peered bleary-eyed at the digital clock on her nightstand. Three-fourteen in the morning—and her knee was still throbbing.
But that wasn’t what had awakened her.
She had a cramp in her stomach.
Flinching, she turned on her side, seeking a more comfortable position. Not that she’d been able to find one for the past six hours. Luke’s visit last night had further frayed her already tattered emotions and left her stressed and edgy.
No wonder she was having stomach pains.
Just as she began to drift off to sleep, another cramp pulled her back to wakefulness. Only it didn’t exactly feel like a cramp. It felt more like…a contraction?
Kelsey clenched the sheet, every vestige of sleep vanishing. From what she’d learned after researching labor, Braxton Hicks contractions could be expected at this stage of her pregnancy. That last twinge had felt like the sensation describ
ed in the material she’d read.
She struggled into a sitting position and propped her back against the headboard. Too bad she and Dorothy hadn’t signed up for an earlier childbirth class. Braxton Hicks contractions were no doubt covered in great detail. But they’d only completed the first session of the three-week class that met on Tuesday evenings. Session two wasn’t until next week.
As the minutes ticked by with no further pain, the soft light from the lamp on her dresser lulled her back toward sleep. Everything appeared to be fine. She’d just overreacted because she was on edge.
Her eyelids grew heavy, and she yawned. When the real moment came, she’d—
Wham!
She gasped as another contraction tightened her abdominal muscles.
This wasn’t stress-related.
It must be Braxton Hicks, after all.
Kelsey eased her legs over the edge of the bed and stood, searching her memory for a few more nuggets from her research. Let’s see… Those contractions were irregular—and unpredictable. Changing position was supposed to make them stop or slow down.
So she’d walk around a little. Get a drink of water. Once they stopped, she’d go back to bed and try to salvage what was left of this night.
A prudent plan.
Except halfway down the hall, another contraction seized her.
Panic nibbling at her composure, she continued toward the kitchen, flipped on a light, and groped through a drawer for a pad of paper and pen. If she timed a few contractions, that could help prove she didn’t need to worry.
She settled on a stool to wait, trying to ignore the tremble in her fingers as she noted the hour, minute, and second on the pad of paper.
Six minutes and forty seconds later, she gripped the edge of the counter as another contraction hit. According to the second hand on her watch, it lasted thirty-five seconds. But it wasn’t all that painful. Surely not strong enough to be real labor. It felt more like a bad case of indigestion. Besides, she wasn’t due for another four-plus weeks.
Child of Grace Page 13
