by Laura Scott
Her three-year-old son was scurrying toward the gazebo on chubby legs. She caught a flash of something dark in the corner of her eye, but she didn’t dare take her gaze off her son. Running as if her life depended on it, because it did, she caught up with her son, scooping the boy into her arms and clutching him tightly.
“Where?” Her voice was little more than a hoarse croak. Hunching her shoulders, bracing for a possible physical attack, she looked around the backyard. “Where’s Daddy?”
“There.” Trey pointed a stubby finger toward the lake. Off in the distance she could see a sailboat, but nothing else. She turned in a full circle, searching the entire area.
But there was nothing. No sign of the ex-husband she’d driven over a hundred miles from Bloomington, Illinois, to McNally Bay, Michigan, to escape.
A hundred and twenty miles and two state lines that didn’t seem nearly far enough.
Feeling vulnerable out in the open, even late in the morning on a bright day, she whirled around and carried Trey inside the B&B, this time closing the French doors behind her. After setting Trey back on his feet, she made sure the doors were locked, willing her thundering heartbeat to return to normal.
There was no proof that Randal had been out there. She could have imagined seeing something out of the corner of her eye. And maybe Trey had mistaken the sailboat out on Lake Michigan for the old fishing boat her ex owned.
But fear gnawed at her. For a moment, she considered calling her twin. Jazz was working with Dalton on renovating his recent home purchase located right next door. She pulled out her phone but then realized it was better to go straight to the police. She had a current restraining order against Randal, and if by some freak chance he’d actually enticed her son to go outside in an effort to kidnap him, she needed to notify the authorities.
At least she knew the Clark County Sheriff’s Deputies weren’t on a first-name basis with her ex, the way half the Bloomington Police Department was.
Ignoring the sticky bits of dough clinging to her trembling fingers, she made the call. The dispatchers voice was calm and soothing. “Clark County Sheriff’s Department, what’s the nature of your emergency?”
“I have reason to believe my ex-husband has violated the restraining order I have against him. I’d like to file a formal complaint.”
“Are you safe?” the dispatcher asked.
Jemma grimly wondered if she’d ever feel safe, again. “I think so. I don’t see anyone lurking outside. I’m at the McNallys’ B and B.”
“I’ll send a deputy.”
“Thank you.” Jemma disconnected from the call, then made her way back into the kitchen to wash her hands and wipe down her phone. She placed a damp towel over the dough, then began to pace, wondering how long it would take the deputy to arrive.
She knew that Randal could find her here easily enough, considering McNally Bay had been named after her great-grandparents. She’d hoped and prayed that time and distance would work in her favor, but apparently not.
Silently ruing the day she’d met Randal Cunningham, much less married him, she pivoted and paced the opposite direction.
“Look, Mommy!” Trey held up his chubby hand. “A police car!”
She forced herself to smile at her son, hoping he wasn’t picking up on her distress. “It’s great, sweetie. Do you have a fire truck, too?”
He nodded and searched his miniature cars until he found the fire truck. “Here, Mommy.” He pushed it into her hand. “For you. Play wif me?”
“Sure.” She dropped to the floor beside him, crossing her legs into the lotus position. She hadn’t practiced any yoga since moving to McNally Bay, but maybe it was time to get back to it.
Heaven knew, she could use something to help her relax. This constant living in fear wasn’t healthy.
For her or for Trey.
Ten minutes later, she heard the sound of a car engine. She stood and pulled a knife from the large butcher block, before cautiously approaching the front door.
Doubtful that Randal would be so stupid as to boldly approach the house, but she wasn’t about to take any chances.
A brown sedan pulled to a stop in front of the B&B, the words Clark County Sheriff’s Department stenciled along the side. Breathing out a sigh of relief, she quickly opened the door.
She inwardly groaned when Deputy Garth Lewis slid out from behind the wheel. Oh, he was nice enough, but he was also tall, with short dark hair and bright blue eyes, an impressive sight in his dark brown uniform. Far too attractive for his own good. This wasn’t the first time she’d met him, he’d come to the house a few weeks ago when her sister had been almost killed by her ex-fiancé.
As a cop, he was the last man on the planet she’d be interested in. If she were open to entering into a relationship at all, which she wasn’t. Bad enough that her one monumental mistake had nearly cost her everything she held dear, she wasn’t going to even consider going down that path again.
Especially not with a cop.
“Deputy,” she greeted him politely as he stepped into the great room. Next to the kitchen, she loved her grandparents’ great room, with its cathedral ceiling, massive stone fireplace, lighthouse oil painting above the mantel, and the dark cherry antique furniture. She hadn’t made it to the attic yet to find the silver candlesticks she was certain were packed away up there. “Thanks for coming.”
“That’s my job.” He eyed the knife she still held in her hand warily. “What happened? The dispatcher said no one was hurt.”
She flushed, feeling foolish for grabbing the knife. Turning on her heel, she headed back into the kitchen to put it away, then wiped the damp palms of her hands against her soft denim jeans.
“It’s probably nothing—” she began, but was interrupted by her son.
“Policeman!” Trey’s young voice held excitement, and she was upset to find her son approaching the deputy without an ounce of fear. “You’re a policeman!”
Deputy Lewis grinned and dropped to one knee so he wasn’t looming over her son. “I sure am. I see you have a police car in your hand there, too.”
“Vroom.” Trey waved the car around in the air. “Do you got one like this?”
“Not exactly. Mine is brown, matches my uniform, see?”
Trey nodded curiously, then reached out to touch his badge. “Mine,” he said.
“No, it’s not yours, honey,” Jemma quickly came to her senses and crossed over to pull Trey’s hand away from the deputy’s badge. Despite what she’d gone through with Randal, it appeared Trey still idolized the police.
It wasn’t his fault, she’d worked hard to make sure her son wasn’t afraid of the authorities. Still, the possibility of Randal showing up in his uniform to secretly snatch Trey away haunted her.
Trey’s lower lip trembled. “But I wanna badge . . .”
“How about this one?”
Jemma was surprised when Deputy Lewis pulled a shiny plastic badge out of his pocket. Her son’s eyes lit up with delight.
“Thanks, policeman!”
Crisis averted for the moment, Jemma watched as Deputy Lewis clipped the toy badge to Trey’s T-shirt. Her son began to strut around the living room with his chest thrust out. “I’m the police,” he announced with glee.
“You sure are,” Deputy Lewis agreed as he stood. He glanced at Jemma with a rueful smile. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” Her voice sounded strained, even to her own ears. She tried to shake it off. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“That would be great, thanks.”
She poured him a mug from the pot she’d recently brewed, her twin sister adored coffee while she preferred tea, and tried to get her rioting emotions under control. She didn’t want to break down in front of the deputy, but the small act of kindness he’d shown her son had only highlighted the lack of a father figure in Trey’s life.
All because she’d made the wrong choice in choosing Randal as a husband. Because she’d fallen for hi
s lies. Because she hadn’t escaped, sooner.
And now she lived in fear of losing Trey, forever.
Garth followed Jemma into the kitchen, the scent of yeast making his stomach rumble.
“Cream and sugar?” She glanced at him over her shoulder.
“Black is fine.”
She handed him the mug, and he did his best to ignore the tingle of awareness he felt as her fingers brushed his. Idiot. He gave himself a mental head-slap. She was a woman in trouble, not a potential date.
“Thanks.” He took a sip, eyeing her over the rim. She looked too young to have a son, with her deep brown eyes and blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. He knew she was Jazz’s twin sister, but they were complete opposites. Jazz had dark hair and green eyes, compared to Jemma’s blond hair and deep brown eyes. Jemma also had a streak of flour along her cheek, and he had to restrain himself from reaching up to wipe it away. He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you take a seat and start at the beginning?”
Suddenly exhausted, she dropped into the closest chair. “It’s probably nothing . . .”
“You brought a knife to the front door,” he reminded her, wryly. That and the look of panic in her eyes had gotten to him in a big way. “It’s not nothing. Go on.”
She blew out a breath, a steely resolve in her gaze. “I have a restraining order against my ex-husband, Randal Cunningham. He lives and works in Bloomington, Illinois, as a cop.”
A cop? What were the odds? He winced. “I see.”
“I was awarded sole custody because of a domestic dispute that turned violent.” She dropped her gaze, as if unable to bear looking at him. “At the time, Randal didn’t put up a fuss, no doubt because he wanted to keep his job. But that was nine months ago, and recently, he’s made it clear he wants to go back to court to sue for joint custody of Trey.”
Garth jotted down her ex-husband’s name so he could pull up the court order. “What happened this morning?”
“I heard Trey call, ‘Daddy,’ and when I rushed in, he was outside walking toward the gazebo. I ran out to pick him up and asked him where he saw Daddy, and he pointed to the sailboat on the lake.”
“A sailboat?” he echoed in confusion.
She nodded, staring down at her lap, where her fingers were twisted together. “My ex owns a fishing boat. I know Trey is only three and a half and could be confused about what he saw, but I want this incident on record, just in case Randal was here.” She finally lifted her gaze to his. “I can’t risk my ex-husband taking Trey away from me.”
Garth understood her concern but also knew there wasn’t much to work with. A three-and-a-half-year-old pointing at a sailboat on the lake and saying the word “Daddy” wasn’t exactly a compelling argument that her ex had shown up here, violating the restraining order. “Have you noticed anything else?”
“I thought I saw something dark out of the corner of my eye, but when I picked up Trey and looked around, I didn’t see anyone.” Her gaze held dull resignation. “I told you it was probably nothing.”
Yet that nothing had caused her to pick up a butcher knife before coming to the door. The idea of her ex-husband physically abusing her made him feel sick to his stomach. He’d been involved in several domestic incidents. In his opinion, they were the most dangerous call a cop could respond to. Emotions always ran high, and spouses or partners often acted out irrationally.
“Hey, it’s a good thing to have this complaint on record,” he said, even though he knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. “When’s the last time you’ve seen Randal?”
She shook her head. “Months. He used to call from a blocked number, so I had my cell number changed.” She hesitated, then shrugged. “There was an incident at Trey’s preschool a few weeks ago in April, where a man showed up claiming to be his father to pick him up for a doctor’s appointment. Thankfully, the teacher said she had to verify with me first, so the guy left.”
The close call made the back of his neck tingle. “Was she able to identify him as Cunningham?”
“No. She described a thin man with dirty-blond hair.” Her tortured gaze locked on his. “Randal is big, built like a defensive lineman, not as much fat as muscle. He has black hair and used to have a black goatee. He may have shaved his face, but it still wouldn’t change the rest of his appearance, much.”
“That’s odd,” he muttered. “Unless Randal hired the guy?”
“That’s what I suggested, but the police claimed there was no proof.” Jemma sighed. “You need to know that a lot of the Bloomington cops believe the lies Randal tells them about me. They think I’m making all this up in an attempt to hurt Randal because of the divorce, as if he was the one who’d filed.” There was a hint of bitterness in her tone.
“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling helpless.
“Thanks, but it doesn’t matter. That incident was the impetus I needed to send me packing up my stuff and making the move here to McNally Bay.” Her attempt to smile was a bit pathetic, but he gave her points for trying.
Garth stared at the guy’s name on his notepad realizing that it wouldn’t be difficult to find Jemma McNally here at her grandparents’ mansion. The whole town was named after them.
He didn’t like thinking about her ex-husband showing up here, trying to get to his son. The boy was innocent in all this and was clearly a friendly kid.
One who didn’t seem to be afraid of his father.
Was Cunningham right? Was Jemma stretching the truth to keep her son?
She didn’t seem like the type to do that. And she had picked up a butcher knife. He scowled and tightened his grip on his stubby pencil, not liking the situation one bit.
“Please.” Jemma’s soft voice pulled him from his thoughts. “I need you to believe me. I need you to believe that Randal is capable of kidnapping his own son, and worse.”
“I’ll make the report,” he said, not ready to admit whether or not he believed her. “I’ll also ensure that all the deputies have a picture of your ex-husband in their vehicles. If he shows his face, we’ll find him.”
“Thank you.” Jemma’s tentative smile transformed her sweet features into stunning beauty. When she reached over to rest her hand on his arm, every muscle in his body went tense.
She quickly pulled her hand away, as if she’d surprised herself with the gesture. He hastily swallowed the last of his coffee and stood, anxious to get out of there. He couldn’t afford to let his attraction for Jemma get in the way of doing his job.
That had happened once before with disastrous results. Kate’s face and that of her four-year-old daughter, Sophie, flashed in his mind for a moment, before he ruthlessly shoved it away.
No way. Uh-uh. Wasn’t happening.
He couldn’t, wouldn’t go down that painful path again.
Jemma and her adorable son were better off remaining distant acquaintances that he needed to protect.
He absolutely refused to open himself up to more heartache.
Also by Laura Scott
Healing Her Heart
A Soldier’s Promise
Coming Home
Worth The Wait
Christmas Reunion
Second Chance
