Sweet Sanctuary (5 page)

Nic Pankin paced the foul-smelling alleyway. His soles echoed on the damp concrete, the sound reverberating from four-story-
high brick walls. The
drip-drip
from a leaky waterspout several yards ahead pierced his ears. His flesh prickled beneath his dirt-encrusted clothes, and he clawed at his chest with his remaining hand. No amount of scratching ever erased the endless itch and tingle of need, and when it ceased to bring relief, he spun and kicked a trash bin. He groaned at the clatter of tin colliding with the solid brick wall.

From behind one of the windows, a woman screeched, “Be quiet out there!”

Nic shouted a curse in reply. Pain shot through his gut. He wrapped his arm across his ribs, panic sending his pulse into galloping beats. He wouldn't last much longer before the writhing began. Where was that wretched Murphy and his magic dust?

A familiar
scuff-clop, scuff-clop
—the footsteps of someone who dragged his heels—intruded. Nic sucked in a breath and whirled toward the sound. Murphy's bulky form materialized from the deep shadows at the other end of the alley.

Nic bolted forward and grabbed the man by his coat lapel. “Where've you been? You said eleven o'clock, an' it's past midnight.”

Murphy jerked loose from Nic's hold. In the darkness, his scowl looked menacing. “You ain't my only customer, Pankin. An' truth be known, the others come before you 'cause they always have cash in hand.”

Nic jammed his hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew several crumpled bills. “I got cash, too. So gimme my stuff.”

Murphy snatched the bills from Nic's trembling grasp and held them to the weak glow of the corner streetlamp. He counted aloud, his scowl increasing with each number's announcement. “Six dollars?” He crushed them in his fist, then thrust the wadded bills at Nic. “You gotta be kiddin' me. I can't give you nothin' for six measly dollars.”

Nic pushed the money back at Murphy. “It's all I got right now. You don't hafta gimme a full packet—just a pinch. C'mon . . .” The desperation in his tone shamed him, but need overcame pride.

Murphy huffed but then flapped his jacket open and pulled out a folded square of paper from an inside pouch. “I must be nutty as a loon to keep meetin' you, Pankin. But I deserve somethin' for bein' out here instead o' in my warm bed. Gimme the money.”

Nic slapped the bills into Murphy's big paw and watched as he pocketed them. He sucked in shallow breaths as Murphy shook the little packet, distributing the tiny particles of white powder into opposite corners. Finally, while Nic nearly wriggled out of his skin in agony, he tore the packet in two and handed half to Nic.

Nic wrapped his fist around the precious packet and turned away, eagerness making him clumsy.

Murphy grabbed Nic's empty dangling coat sleeve and pulled. Nic stumbled in a circle. Murphy pointed at him. “This's my last time meetin' you. Ain't worth my time when you only spend a pittance. You understand me, Pankin?”

Fury roared through Nic's chest. He gritted his teeth. “You ain't the only dealer, Murphy. I can take my business to—”

“Nobody's gonna want your piddly business.” Murphy spat on the filthy pavement, then swiped the back of his hand across his lips. “Word's out on you. Next time you put out a call for the goods, you better be prepared to buy more'n a pinch or won't any of us bother with you again.” He spun and strode away, the
scuff-clop
of his heels echoing through the alley with the finality of nails being hammered into a coffin lid.

Nic pressed his fist to his chest. Sweat broke out across his back, making the prickle increase in intensity. What would he
do if all the dealers in town cut off his supply? He'd die. He
had
to have his magic dust. Heart pounding, he made a silent vow. Whatever it took, he'd get the midwife who'd taken care of Eleanor to tell him what she'd done with their whelp. The fancy man and woman in Weston with only a pony-sized poodle instead of kids—they'd pay. Pay big. And once he had their money in hand, he could satisfy the sellers, as well as his own deep need.

Holding the little packet securely in his fist, he turned eagerly toward home.

5

M
icah lay in the unfamiliar bed, his hands folded beneath his head, staring at the plaster ceiling. He was incredibly tired, but sleep eluded him. He couldn't stop thinking about Nicky and the story Lydia had shared. What a mess! A morphine-addicted father seeking to sell his child, a family claiming a child to whom they had no legal right, a little boy growing up in an entanglement of falsehoods and half-truths. But Micah well knew the world was not a perfect place, and far too often innocent children suffered. He might not be able to keep all the world's children from pain and anguish, but he desperately wanted to help this small, tousle-haired boy who worried about bugs being happy.

He wanted to help Lydia, too.

Strange how quickly they had lapsed into comfortable conversation. At Schofield, when they'd seen each other on a nearly daily basis, their conversations hadn't been as open as the one they'd shared this evening after a three-year separation. He'd always been on edge, fearful of giving the wrong impression, since he knew she held a fondness for him that he hadn't reciprocated. But tonight that hadn't been a concern.

Her face, pinched with worry, appeared in his memory, and a rush of protectiveness rolled through him. Lydia had always been beautiful. He reflected on her shiny black hair that fell in silky layers around her heart-shaped face; her velvety brown eyes surrounded by thick, curling lashes; her full lips, which today wore a pale coral rather than the bright lipstick she'd preferred when at Schofield. Her physical beauty would capture anyone's attention, and he was amazed men weren't lining up to offer marriage proposals.

Although it had seemed finding a husband was her main focus three years ago, her focus was now on Nicky, rather than on herself. Which only served to increase her beauty in Micah's eyes. When he'd brought the idea of prayer into their conversation, he'd expected her to rebuff him, but instead she'd welcomed the idea. She'd even appeared shame-faced for not having mentioned it herself. Her response spoke of another change in Lydia's heart and gave Micah hope this whole situation could be ironed out in time. He felt honored that Lydia trusted him enough to open up to him—much the same way he had felt honored by Nicky's immediate trust.

A smile tugged at his lips as he remembered his walk with the boy. Nicky had held tight to his hand, pointing out flowers and telling him who lived in which houses, jabbering incessantly the entire trek through the neighborhood. When they'd returned to the house, Nicky had thrown his arms around Micah in an exuberant hug, proclaiming with a full-fledged Texas accent, “I lahke you, pardner!” It was the best compliment Micah had ever received.

If Micah stuck around for any length of time, he suspected he'd grow attached to Nicky, but Micah didn't have time for attachments. He needed to get back to Queens as soon as possible. But before he went, he wanted to offer assistance. How could he ignore the fact that a ruthless, desperate man might
hurt the innocent little boy? The world Lydia had built for Nicky was about to collapse. He'd told Lydia to look to God for guidance—to pray, and to listen. So Micah prayed fervently, his eyes closed tight, his hands clasped against his chest. Then he listened, waiting. And in time, an answer came.

“Thank You, God. Thank You,” Micah breathed, his soul rejoicing. And finally, blessed sleep followed.

Lydia turned from the icebox, milk pitcher in hand to fill a glass for Nicky, when the door chime sounded. Since her parents and son were seated at the breakfast table, she said, “I'll get it.” She plunked the pitcher on the table next to her mother and made her way through the corridor to the front door. Swinging the door open, she found Micah Hatcher, dressed casually in a blue plaid shirt and twill dungarees, standing on the tiny porch. Her pulse leaped into double-beats at the sight of his handsome face, and she froze, stupidly staring for a few silent moments, willing her pulse to settle into a normal rhythm.

“May I come in?” Micah asked, just as he'd done yesterday.

Lydia's face flooded with heat at her breach of etiquette. “I'm so sorry.” She gestured for him to enter. “I didn't expect to see you so early. We're breakfasting. Would you care to join us?”

Micah smiled, the familiar Micah-smile she remembered, with the left side of his lips tugged slightly higher than the right. “A cup of coffee would be good, if you have it.”

“I'm sorry. No coffee, but we have Postum.”

Micah lifted his shoulders in a shrug, his grin intact. “That'll do.”

Lydia smirked. “With extra cream?”

Micah laughed, his white teeth flashing. “Now how could you possibly remember I like a little coffee with my cream?”

Lydia remembered quite a lot about Micah Hatcher, but she kept most of it to herself as she led him toward the kitchen at the back of the house. The moment they entered the room, Nicky's face lit.

“Micah-my-friend!” The little boy raised his arms for a hug.

Micah took the two steps needed to reach Nicky and wrapped his arms around the child, seemingly unconcerned by the sticky fingers and jelly-smeared face. Then he straightened and turned his attention to Lydia's parents with his hand resting on Nicky's head. “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Eldredge. I apologize for intruding on your breakfast.” While he spoke, Lydia crossed to the stove and poured Micah a cup of the grain substitute for coffee they'd learned to drink in place of the real beverage.

Father put down his fork and gave Micah his full attention. “You aren't intruding. Please have a seat.”

Micah took the only open chair, which happened to be Lydia's. She placed the coffee cup in front of him, pulled the cream pitcher close to his elbow, then leaned against the counter as he took up the cream and poured a healthy serving into his cup.

Mother offered, “Dr. Hatcher, would you care for some toast and eggs? I can make a fresh batch for you.”

Micah shook his head. “No, thank you, ma'am. I had a sweet roll at the hotel this morning. Some Postum'll do.” He took a sip, smiled, and nodded. “Mmm . . . perfect.”

Nicky waved a piece of toast in the air, ignoring the clump of jelly that fell onto the table. “Are we going for another walk, Micah-my-friend?”

“Not today, I'm afraid, partner.” Micah guided Nicky's toast-holding hand over his plate. “This morning I need to talk to your mama and grandparents. An' then I'm going to head for home.”

Two plump tears appeared in Nicky's eyes. He rubbed a fist
across his eyes, smearing jelly from one port to another. “Why do you have to go?”

Micah leaned on an elbow, bringing his face close to Nicky's. “Know how we talked yesterday about Buggy bein' happy to get home to his mama?” The little boy nodded. “Well, I reckon Buggy's mama was pretty happy to have him home 'cause she depends on Buggy. I have people at my home who depend on me. So I need to go back.”

“Oh.” Nicky looked at Micah, his expression somber, the tears still quivering on his lashes. “What's ‘depend'?”

Lydia was accustomed to such questions, but Micah reared back slightly as if startled. He rubbed a finger under his nose, then pooched out his lips in thought. Nicky waited patiently, his eyes never leaving Micah's face. After several seconds had ticked by, with Micah crunching his face in silence, Lydia came to his rescue.

“‘Depend' means people are trusting Micah to come back and help them. Micah is a doctor, Nicky, so lots of people come to him to get help when they feel sick or hurt.”

“That's right,” Micah chimed in, sending Lydia a brief, grateful look. “We didn't want Buggy to be sad, did we? And I can't let my patients be sad, either, so I have to go home.”

Nicky considered this, his elfin face puckered. Finally he sighed. “I reckon you better go, then.” He placed a sticky hand on Micah's forearm. “But it makes me sad for you to go away. I lahke you, Micah.”

“I like you, too, Nicky.”

At Micah's sincere words, Father and Mother exchanged a meaningful glance, and Lydia's heart rose to lodge in her throat. To cover her unsettled feelings, Lydia stepped forward and touched Nicky's back. “Nicky, hop down, and let's get you cleaned up. Then you may go to your room and play for a bit. Mama needs to talk to Micah.”

Mother rose. “I'll take him.”

Lydia appreciated her mother's offer—Nicky would probably be up and down the stairs, interrupting their talk, without someone to entertain him. The pair left the kitchen hand-in-hand. Lydia quickly cleaned the area where Nicky had been sitting, then joined her father and Micah at the round table.

Micah drained his coffee cup, plunked it down with a smile of thanks, and linked his fingers on the edge of the table. “Mr. Eldredge, Lydia, I did some thinking and praying last night. I think I might have found a way to solve your problem.”

Father leaned forward, his brows coming together in a serious expression. Lydia's ear perked up, as well, ready to hear Micah's idea.

Micah turned a pensive look in Lydia's direction. “You said Nicky's father—this Nicolai Pankin—wants Nicky because he wants the money he can gain. The man isn't interested in parenting Nicky, so his custody will be short-lived, no matter what. He'll be handing Nicky off to someone. So why not arrange to have him handed off to you?”

Father frowned. “I'm not sure I follow.”

Micah worked his thumbs back and forth, his forehead wrinkling. “What if you two, with the midwife, visited an attorney. The midwife can verify Nicky has been in your care since his birth at his mother's request. The attorney could draw up adoption papers for Nicky.” Micah grimaced, flicking an apologetic glance at Lydia before facing her father. “It's likely they would prefer for you and your wife to be recorded as the adoptive parents—”

Lydia's heart jumped. “But I'm Nicky's mother!”

Micah touched her arm in understanding. “I know, but you're also unmarried. If you want the court to work in your favor, you will probably need to bend on this issue. It would only be
on paper—it wouldn't change your relationship with Nicky. He could continue calling you the familiar names.”

Lydia opened her mouth to argue, but Father's stern expression silenced her protests. When she dropped her chin, Father nodded at Micah.

“Continue with what you were saying, Dr. Hatcher.”

“Your next step would be to locate Pankin and find out what his other connection has offered in the way of purchasing”—he made a sour face as he spoke the reprehensible word—“Nicky. Let him convince you to pay him instead, but insist he sign papers relinquishing Nicky to your custody before you actually give him the payment.”

Lydia stared at Micah in shock. “You want
us
to buy him?”

“Truthfully, Lydia, in the eyes of the law, what you've done up to this point is kidnap him.” The words were harsh, but Micah's gentle tone softened the reprimand.

“But to give that man money . . .”

Micah held up his hand. “Let me finish, please? Your attorney will be notified of your intentions and the reason you're doing it. Once Pankin has taken the money from you, you can go to the authorities and alert them to what has transpired. They can pursue the legalities of the whole situation. If you have forewarned a legal authority of your intentions, as well as Nic's reason for wanting his son, I'm certain they will work in your favor. Plus you will have a legally binding document saying that Nicky is yours. You won't have to fear Pankin anymore.”

Lydia silently digested Micah's words. Father stood, poured himself another cup of Postum, then returned to his seat and bracketed the cup between his palms without drinking. Releasing a heavy sigh, he said, “Don't think I haven't considered offering that lunatic money. What's kept me from doing it is the fear that he'll just come back for more, like a leech, until he's drained me dry.”

Micah nodded. “If you do it on your own, it's very likely Pankin will see you as an unlimited source of income to feed his habit. That's why you can't do it on your own. You've got to involve the proper authorities.”