A Family for Christmas (12 page)

T
hat this particular infant lowly had turned out to be a
she
instead of a
he
was just one more surprise in a long evening of them. But Allison was too anxious to appreciate the irony of it. How could she when she needed to place a child only hours before Christmas Eve?

Inside that barred hospital crib that opened on the side like an animal's cage, the snoozing baby—whom the staff had already deemed “Joy” because of her holiday arrival—appeared even tinier. More pitiful, though the staff pediatrician had deemed her healthy.

A lump clogged Allison's throat, and her nose burned. To escape the moment's intensity, she stepped outside the room to the bank of pay phones she'd visited several times since their arrival two hours before. But the disinfectant smell and the child's image trailed after her, both clawing their way inside her mind and body.

Joy.
She tested the name on her tongue. The name
fit, and at least it was more personal than “Baby Doe.” The baby was alone in the world, like so many of the other children Allison helped in her work. Precious gifts from God, these little ones had been neglected, abandoned or abused by the very parents He'd entrusted with their care.

Joy's mother was as guilty as the rest. Allison wouldn't even have defended the woman if not for her instinctive need to shield her gender against that infuriating deputy's criticism. Clearly, the guy had issues with women.

Didn't the sheriff's department question job candidates about whether they had problems with people of different races, religions or genders? Someone had neglected to ask Brock Chandler. She wondered what would make a man like him—one who'd been blessed with dark brown, wavy hair and deep blue eyes—hate women when he'd probably always had his choice of them. Had the effortless successes made him feel disdain for the prizes?

She shook her head over that. Reclaiming her thoughts from their odd tangent, she dialed the phone, contacting her department director for an update. She didn't have time to worry about other people's problems when she had a sizable one of her own in the form of that tiny arrival.

“Clara, it's Allison again.” She spoke into the receiver. “Joy—I mean the infant—is fine. We're just waiting to hear on some blood work.”

“How's the search coming?” In the background, Clara Johnson's own children could be heard wreak
ing havoc. A deep male voice kept calling for them to settle down.

Knots multiplied inside Allison's stomach. “No luck yet. I've left messages with most of the foster parents on the list. Doesn't anyone stay home for Christmas anymore?”

“Except for you and me, I'm thinking no. Wait. Hold on.” Clara covered the phone, probably for some choice words with her family, before speaking again. “Did you contact Superior II yet?”

“No, I was waiting…just a little while…hoping—”

“Have you forgotten state law says you've only got forty-eight hours after taking a child into custody before a hearing to determine if she's a CHINS?”

She hadn't forgotten. But did it hurt to hope for a few hours that the mother would reappear with a family member who planned to take custody of the baby? Especially at Christmastime. She couldn't be wrong to hope that Joy could avoid becoming part of the system as a Child in Need of Services. Naive, maybe, but not wrong.

“Allison, are you still there?”

“I'm here.”

“It's getting hectic here. Call me when you know more. And contact the court.”

As she was hanging up, Allison heard footsteps stop behind her. She turned to see the one person who could make a difficult night worse. Still dressed in jeans, a chambray shirt, leather jacket and cowboy boots, he looked more appropriately dressed for a date than an investigation. Or a
GQ
cover shoot.

Judging by the outdoorsy cologne that drifted from him, she guessed it had been a date, probably with some lucky, thin twenty-year-old. A man like him—someone who turned heads when he walked through a door and, once inside a room, exuded masculinity to its four walls—never had to settle for any woman past her twenties or anyone, like her, who would have to have two surgical plates implanted to have buns of steel.

“Deputy Chandler, is it?”

Okay, she knew that was his name, but she couldn't think of anything better to say, and he wasn't exactly jumping at the chance to speak first.

He nodded, and if she wasn't sure she was mistaken, she would have thought he shifted uncomfortably. But he straightened again. “I didn't recognize you without your costume.”

Then it was her turn to be uncomfortable as she glanced down at her oversize sweats and wished she hadn't changed. The robe would have masked her many figure flaws.

She folded her arms over her chest, wishing the action would shield the rest of her body from view. “My friend David—you know, Joseph—brought me some clothes to change into.”

His only response was an affirmative grunt followed by silence that stretched too long.

Her chest tight, Allison resisted the temptation to fuss with her ponytail, which by now had to have morphed into a rat's-nest style. There wasn't a thing she could do about her stark complexion since she'd
scrubbed off that orange stage makeup in the hospital rest room an hour before.

She waited for disgust to appear in his eyes at the dumpy picture she must have presented, but his focus was on her notebook with its half-crossed-off list of names. He didn't seem to notice her at all. Which was worse. Shame filled her that it mattered what he thought.

He shifted his gaze back to her. “Oh, I'm here to check on the infant's status. Were there signs of abuse?”

At the same time, a nurse, one of Allison's high school classmates, passed by them. “How's our little Joy? Is she sleeping?”

“Yes, finally. It's been a tough night for her.”

Brock was staring at her, his eyebrows drawn together, when Allison turned back to him. “Joy? She?”

She nodded. “The baby's a girl. She's about four weeks old, according to the pediatrician. Healthy, too. She eats like a horse.” Allison grinned at the memory of holding the baby while she inhaled an eight-ounce bottle. “Some of the staff have started calling her ‘Joy.”'

“So they think abandonment is a cause for celebration?”

She resisted the temptation to snap back at him. “The doctor also said she shows no signs of physical abuse.”

“The woman's Mother of the Year, right?”

Holding her breath seemed to be the only way to keep from hollering, “What's your problem?” Why
was he baiting her? Did he expect her to be the defender of women everywhere? It was as bad as an unbeliever expecting her to speak on behalf of and defend the not always Christ-like actions of all Christians.

When she could trust herself to speak civilly again, she answered, “I doubt she'd win any trophies.”

You wouldn't win, either, if we're talking about compassionate police work,
she was tempted to add. She changed the subject instead. “How is the investigation going so far? Are
you
closer to locating her?” She couldn't resist putting extra emphasis on
you
though she felt guilty for her inability to turn the other cheek.

“We have half a dozen witnesses.”

When Allison jerked her head to meet his gaze, he wore a gloating expression. Again she held back, refusing to let the arrogant deputy get to her. Nor would she allow herself to see how blue his eyes were, like an ocean at night and just as mysterious. She couldn't remember anyone who'd ever agitated—or intrigued—her more. Neither of her reactions to him was acceptable.

“That's good. What did they have to say?”

Brock seemed to ponder for a minute, as if deciding whether she could be trusted with investigative information. “They all described a short, lumpy-looking woman hanging around the stable,” he said finally. “She wore a long hooded coat that easily could have hidden a baby. The witnesses said she wasn't a local.”

“You can trust them on that one. Destiny only has a population of seven hundred, you know.”

“I work here, remember?”

“For only two months or so.” It was
exactly
eight weeks since Brock had started at the sheriff's department, and she knew it. How could she not know with as much noise as the local busybodies had made over the new bachelor's arrival? But she wasn't about to let him know that. Her cheeks burned, so she studied her notebook, hoping he wouldn't notice her blushing.

“Long enough,” he said.

She had to smile at that. He would never be in Destiny long enough to truly be a part of the place. Only coming into and exiting the world within a ten-mile radius of town made that possible. “Did anyone see her later?”

Brock shook his head. “Apparently, she didn't stick around for the stage show.”

Rather than remind him that he'd assumed the mother would have enjoyed watching the chaos on stage, Allison made an affirmative sound in her throat and pushed on the door to the E.R. patient room. “Want to go in?”

Reluctant
couldn't begin to describe his expression or rigid stance with hands jammed into his jeans pockets. Still, she sensed him following behind her as she stepped into the room, his nearness disturbing.

A glance back at him halted her step and muted her negative thoughts about members of the county's finest. The man who had appeared stingy with his empathy, was frozen near the doorway, unable to take
his eyes off the sleeping child. In the same way, Allison couldn't stop watching him.

Finally, he inched toward the cagelike crib, his gaze never leaving its occupant until he gripped its vertical bars. This vulnerability, so incongruent with his all-male swagger, was strangely appealing. Even with his jaw tightened, Brock's face still appeared more boyish than chiseled, more Dennis Quaid than Arnold Schwarzenegger. She doubted he would appreciate the observation.

Whatever battle he waged ended as he slipped a hand between the bars and traced his fingers over Joy's cap of light brown hair. He touched her gently, as if she were formed of blown glass and he couldn't risk crushing her.

The image stole Allison's breath. It made her wish for things she ought not to wish for. To daydream when it was too late for such nonsense. At this moment it didn't seem such a stretch to think of her own child resting comfortably in his daddy's arms or to imagine someone she loved touching her own hair with such reverence.

The baby startled in her sleep but settled back to her dreams. Still, Brock pulled back his hand just as Allison reclaimed control of her thoughts. Who was she to question God's will? She was certain God planned for her to remain single so she could be the most help to forgotten children. For many of those lost in the system, she was all they had. And right now, she was tiny Joy's only hope.

“You know,” she whispered, “I need to get back to these calls before she wakes up.” Allison indicated
her notebook that held only a few remaining possibilities.

Brock turned to face her and nodded, moving toward the door, his tight posture relaxing with each step away from the child. “I've got work to do, too.” He lifted the diaper bag from the chair and carried it into the hallway.

With a glance at the still-sleeping baby, she followed him out. “I'm going to need that.”

“I keep thinking there's something that we've missed—something that will lead us to her.” He set the bag on the ground and kneeled next to it, digging inside.

“We've already gone through it. The only things in it are diapers, formula and stuff—the necessities.”

Brock only shook his head and kept digging, piling the contents on the chair. “There's got to be something.”

But there wasn't. He reached the bottom and searched the pockets, finding only baby products and clothing. The sleepers and blankets were new and clean, but they were common items, probably available at any discount department store.

He grunted his frustration and stuffed everything back in the bag. “I'd better get back to the department. I have to check on the report from all the area hospitals and follow up on other leads.”

Allison nodded. Of course, the sheriff's department would be checking up on women who had delivered recently at area hospitals. She did him the favor of not asking him about his leads when they both knew he didn't have many.

“Good night, then.” He jutted out his hand in what appeared to have been an automatic gesture, and just as instinctively, Allison grasped it.

The moment he closed his fingers over hers, his grip strong, his hand massive enough to make even hers seem small, she recognized her mistake. She should never have touched him. Her arm positively thrummed from elbow to wrist, and he'd only touched her hand.

Maybe because he'd felt it, too, or more likely because she'd clutched too long, he yanked his hand away. With an awkward wave, he turned and left. The click of his booted heels echoed down the corridor until he disappeared through the elevator door.

A disturbing emptiness settled over Allison, and she felt alone, despite the occasional nurse or medical technician passing by.
No, I'm not going to do this.
She was happy being alone. She was content. No way would she allow some stranger to pass through her field of vision and make her question God's plans. She couldn't afford to let herself wish for more or to wonder if she'd been wrong about what she believed He wanted.

But the questions overwhelmed her best efforts to avoid them. If God intended for her to marry, wouldn't He have given her some sign? If He had, would she have been watching closely enough to recognize it? And the biggest question of all—were the night's events the sign she was looking for?

Get a grip, will you?
She shook her head, trying to do just that. A bunch of people had gone to a lot of trouble to be a part of this alleged sign of hers. The
live nativity's cast and crew, representing all four of Destiny's churches. The crowd. Young Joy and her misguided mother. Brock Chandler.