Firefly Glen: Winter Baby (Harlequin Signature Select) (11 page)

“Parker, I—”

“Look at him, Sarah. He's already adopted you.” Parker touched the limp, sleepy paws with his knuckle gently. “Tell you what. Why don't you just hang on to him for a little while, just as long you're here? Then, if you really don't want to keep him, I'll take over.”

Sarah looked down at the sweet, rounded head of the sleeping puppy. Wouldn't it be terribly difficult
to have him for a little while, then have to give him up? And what exactly was this all about, anyhow? Could something else be going on here? Were strings attached to this gift? Why would Parker Tremaine buy Sarah a dog, unless he hoped that she…that they…

Perhaps it was time to get it all out in the open.

“Parker,” she began uncertainly. “I feel as if there's something we need to get straight. I don't know if you're hoping—if you are thinking that maybe you and I…”

He looked politely curious, maybe a little amused, but nothing more. God, this was awkward. He hadn't ever even asked her out on a date, not really. There was just that one impulsive kiss in the jail cell. It might have meant nothing. She might be making a fool of herself.

“I mean. It's just that I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I don't think it's a good idea for us to…to see each other. Except as friends, of course.”

“You don't? Why?” Parker cast a smiling glance toward the lake, where Ward was still grandstanding. “Because of the insanity in your family? I'm prepared to overlook that.”

“I'm serious,” she said earnestly. “It wouldn't work, really it wouldn't. I'm here for such a short time. A month at the most. And I need, well, I need to keep my life as uncomplicated as possible right now. I have a lot of things I need to sort out.”

Slowly, as he watched her face, Parker's expression sobered. “Ward told me there used to be a guy back in Florida. Something that wasn't good for you, some
thing that wasn't working. He mentioned a broken engagement.” He watched her carefully. “Is that it? Is that what you have to sort out?”

“Kind of.” She looked away. “Among other things. I just really don't need any emotional complications right now.”

“Okay.” Parker smiled. “No emotional complications. Not from me, anyhow.” He glanced at the puppy, who was waking up, wriggling like a baby in her arms. “But I can't speak for Frosty here. I have an idea this little fellow is a real heartbreaker.”

A
FTER DINNER
, when the cook had gone home for the night and Frosty had finally tuckered himself out and fallen asleep in his crate, Sarah sat with Ward in his workroom while he put a new finish on an old English carved chair.

He had offered to play chess with her instead, or even watch TV. But she had been happy to forgo those pleasures. Newly sensitized to the dangers paint fumes might present to an unborn baby, she made sure the exhaust fan was on, and she sat a little distant from the action. She loved to watch him work.

The chair itself was exquisite—part of Winter House's original furnishings. But it was Ward himself she enjoyed watching most. His gnarled hands were still so deft, and the way he swirled the brush was so graceful, sliding slow across the broad planks, following the curve of a scroll, then dipping delicately into the ridges of a fleur-de-lis.

“It's beautiful.” She picked up an unused brush and feathered its bristles against the palm of her hand. “It's like being an artist, isn't it?”

Her uncle snorted. “
Hell,
no. I'm no artist. I'm just a drudge. Your aunt…” His hand paused. “Now
she
was an artist. She always knew what colors to pick,
what pieces to put where. I was just the hack who carried out her orders. And considered it a privilege, too.”

Sarah smiled. She remembered that. Roberta could fuss over the placement of one picture, making Ward hold it first here, then there, then another inch to the left. Sarah had thought it silly back then. What was one picture in a house that possessed hundreds? But now she understood what a work of art Winter House was, and she realized that Roberta's careful attention had kept it that way.

Ward chuckled as he resumed his work. “Me an
artist!
Your aunt would get a good laugh out of that one. She always said I had the decorating eye of a circus clown.”

“Aww.” Sarah tapped her brush against his forearm sympathetically. “Don't feel bad. You can always make a living as an ice-skating instructor.”

He glared at her. “You scoff, madam, but sometimes the problem isn't the teacher. It's the student.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I'm hopeless.” Her tailbone still ached from all those falls. “Did you know Parker Tremaine was there the whole time? It was pretty embarrassing to discover I had an audience.”

“Oh, come off it. You know perfectly well that Parker Tremaine thinks anything you do is adorable. Although I bet he's never seen that face you make when you eat asparagus.”

Sarah looked over at her uncle quickly. “Don't be silly,” she began. He was still working, his gaze con
centrated on the intricate carving on the arms of the chair, so she couldn't read his face.

“It's not silly. It's true. He's smitten.” Ward glanced up suddenly, his brush poised in the air. “But I take it the feeling isn't mutual.”

“Of course not.” She beat the paintbrush nervously against her palm. “No, that didn't sound right. Parker is a very nice man. And I like him a lot. But he's just a friend. I don't think of him like
that.
”

“Oh, yeah? Well, you'd be the first woman in Firefly Glen history who didn't.” He went back to work. “That's how you'll go down in the record books, then. They'll say
She couldn't skate worth a damn, and apparently she was blind as a bat, too.
”

“Not blind,” Sarah complained, half-laughing even though the subject made her a little uncomfortable. “I'm well aware he's handsome.”

“Crazy, then? He's a fine man, Short Stuff. You could do worse.” He grinned. “In fact, you
have
done worse. Don't forget the erstwhile Ed.”

“I haven't forgotten him. In fact, that's why I'm not interested in Parker Tremaine, or anyone, right now.”

“Nonsense. You fell off the horse, you get back on.” He pointed the paintbrush at her, and a couple of dots of mahogany finish fell on her forearm for emphasis.

“Life's short,” he said. He tilted his hand to look at his wedding ring, a simple, time-scratched gold band that she'd never seen him take off. “There are
few enough years as it is. Ed's had three of yours already. How many are you going to let him steal?”

She squeezed the paintbrush in both hands, struggling with the decision about what to tell him. It didn't seem right to hide the truth any longer, not when he was obviously hoping that she might develop a romantic interest in his good friend Parker.

Besides, she would have to tell him about the baby sooner or later. Wouldn't it be more honest to do it sooner?

But she was a coward. She had never looked into her uncle's eyes and seen disappointment. She dreaded the day when she would. She hated the thought of losing his respect.

On the other hand, if she didn't speak up now, she was going to lose respect for
herself.

“It's not just Ed,” she said, drawing a deep breath. She sat straighter, taking her courage by the reins. “There's something else, something important I've been wanting to tell you.”

He obviously heard the serious note in her voice. He put his paintbrush down slowly, resting it across the lid of the finish can. “Okay,” he said, giving her his full attention. “Let's hear it, then.”

She didn't sugarcoat it, or lead into it with a meandering preamble. Ward was a blunt man who believed in meeting trouble head-on. And this was trouble with a capital
T.
He wouldn't admire her for trying to dress it up in a fancy hat and pass it off as anything else.

“I'm pregnant,” she said simply. “I'm going to
have Ed's baby later this year. He knows. He knew before we broke up. He would prefer that I get rid of it. He doesn't want me, and he doesn't want the baby.”

Ward looked grim. “Man, this Ed guy just gets better and better.”

She lifted her chin. “Well, that's the whole sad story, really. I'm pregnant, and I'm not going to be getting married. I'm going to have this baby, and I'm going to do it alone.”

Her uncle narrowed his eyes. “That's it?”

She nodded. “I'm sorry. I know what you must think.” She swallowed. “I know you're disappointed in me. But at least now you can see why I'm not in a position to date the sheriff or anyone else at the moment.”

“I can?”

She looked at him, confused. “Well, of course. I'm pregnant—”

“I got that.” To her surprise, her uncle was smiling. “You're pregnant, and you're not going to marry the jerk. I think that's wonderful. Absolutely
terrific!
Now if you'd told me you were pregnant and you
were
going to marry the jerk, well, that would be bad news.”

“But I certainly can't be out dating—”

He shook his head woefully. “God, child, you're about as Victorian as this chair. This is the twenty-first century, isn't it? What, you think you're damaged goods? Not fit company for any decent man? I think I read a line like that in
Jane Eyre,
or some equally
hysterical piece of antediluvian blather. But I've never heard a real human being say anything that ridiculous.”

She could hardly believe his attitude. Where were the questions, the recriminations, the lectures? Where was the dreaded disappointment?

“But what about Parker? Surely if he knew about the baby, he—”

“I just said he had a crush on you, Short Stuff. I didn't say he wanted to marry you.”

She couldn't speak. She had imagined a thousand reactions to her news. But never this…this uncomplicated pleasure. It still hadn't fully penetrated her anxiety. But there, on the edges of the guilt that had been smothering her, she glimpsed a thin border of sunshine.

Ward was already back at work on the chair, smiling down at the scrolled arms and dabbing his brush with new enthusiasm.

“Poor Parker,” he said, chuckling. “Oh, give the guy a break, why don't you? He thinks you're cute. He wants to take you to dinner.” Ward tossed her a grin. “And I hate to rain on your hair-shirt parade, Short Stuff. But even fallen women have to eat.”

 

H
ARRY HAD BEEN STOMPING
around the department like a snake-bit elephant all day, and Parker had just about had enough of it. He didn't care if Harry was Emma's husband. If the damn fool didn't start acting civilized, Parker was going to take him out back and introduce him to Miss Manners the hard way.

The telephone rang. Suzie was working this afternoon, and she answered it with her usual singsongy, fake upper-crust accent. “Good Ahfahnoooon. Fiahhfly Glen Sheriff's Depahhhtment.” Parker tried not to cringe. She'd been doing this schtick ever since he had dared to tell her that “Hey, this is the cop shop” wouldn't quite cut it as a greeting.

She listened a moment, then she punched the hold button. “Harry,” she said, pushing her glasses up on her nose wearily. “It's for you. Again. It's Emma. Again.”

Harry shook his head without looking up from his paperwork. “I'm not here.”

Parker felt his fingers making a fist without even consulting his brain. “That's odd, Harry. Because I could swear I'm looking right at your ugly mug right now.” When Harry didn't respond, Parker jammed the button for the incoming line and picked up the telephone himself. “Hey, Em. I'm sorry. Harry's here, but he's sucking a lemon right now. Maybe you'd better call back later.”

She didn't like that, but, as he had known she would, she accepted it rather than give Parker a chance to say anything further about Harry.

Parker put the telephone down and looked across the room, where his brother-in-law was glowering at him.

“Why don't you just stay the hell out of this, Tremaine?” The deputy's voice was crisp with bitterness. “This is not your problem.”

Parker didn't blink. “I think it is,” he said levelly.

“Yeah, well it's
not.
” Harry was getting red. “And if you'd like me to prove it, I can—”

Suzie stepped between them, holding her hands out dramatically, like the referee in a prizefight.

“Gentlemen.” She rolled her eyes. “And I'm using that term loosely. Gentlemen, in exactly thirty seconds, Troop 637 of the Firefly Girls is going to walk through that door. They are on a field trip. They're working on a law enforcement badge. So unless you think they'd enjoy watching two grown men brawl on the floor like hoodlums, maybe you'd better chill out.”

“Hell, Suzie.” Parker took a deep breath. “Why didn't you tell me they were coming?”

“I told you last Tuesday, last Thursday, yesterday, and again two hours ago.” She tossed her dark hair in wounded hauteur. “But no one listens to me. I'm just the clerk, what do I know?”

Oh, great.
Parker could hear Harry taking the same deep breath he had needed himself. The two men carefully avoided making eye contact as the front door opened and a blue stream of beanie-topped little girls poured in.

Parker summoned a smile. He had better overcome his frustration quick, or else when they went to bed tonight these kids would be having nightmares about the mean policemen.

He was steeling himself to handle Madeline Alexander's compulsive cheeriness, but to his surprise the last person through the door was Sarah Lennox. And
then he remembered. Madeline had recruited Sarah as a backup troop leader.

Sarah hadn't noticed him. She was talking to Eileen O'Malley, tilting slightly toward the little girl, listening to her conversation as earnestly as if they were discussing quantum physics.

And Eileen was glowing under the attention. Parker could picture Sarah in her classroom, offering that same easy affirmation to any child who needed it. What lucky kids her students were though they probably didn't know it. They were too young to recognize how rare true emotional generosity was. When they got a little older and had been knocked around by fair-weather friends, selfish lovers, vain bosses and narrow-minded neighbors, then they'd appreciate Ms. Lennox, who had always made them feel good about themselves.

Parker felt his sour mood lifting. He turned to the children and said, “Okay. Who wants to see where we put the criminals?”

A dozen hands waved in front of his face like little pink flags.

“Well, let's see. Who can I trust with the keys?” He scratched his chin, surveying the eager faces, looking for the one who needed it most. If Sarah could do this, so could he.

He saw C.J. Porterfield standing toward the back. She had her hand up, but halfheartedly, as if she already knew she wouldn't be chosen. C.J. was the daughter of an Internet millionaire, and she was just as brilliant and hopelessly geeky as her old man.

Parker crooked his finger at her. “C.J., you look reliable. You come be the keeper of the keys. Deputy Dunbar is going to take you on a tour of the department, and when you get to the holding cell, you can unlock it for him.”

C.J. took the keys solemnly, as if she had been handed a stick of dynamite. One of the keys was an antique, a big brass monstrosity that was more or less just for show. It had unlocked the jail cell Firefly Glen had used a hundred years ago, a cell long since torn down. Today, in this updated facility, the real cell key was small and silver and looked as if it might operate your mother's Honda.

You'd think a beady-eyed killer lurked in that cell right now, the way the other girls gathered around, eager for a chance to touch the brass key. And if Harry did his spiel correctly, they would get plenty of hair-raising stories about former inmates. Parker remembered from his own youth that field trips were considered a pathetic bust if they didn't include some blood and gore.

Luckily Harry had managed to rise above his mood, too. He took the kids away to show them the emergency radio. Parker had to smile, listening to him talk about mountain rescues at midnight, brushfires at dawn, coyotes caught snarling in the kitchen and fugitives caught streaking for the Canadian border.