The Sheriff's Christmas Surprise Part 11

It looked like a home that had seen its share of happiness. Olivia felt it the moment she saw it. She didn't have to be told that this was Rick's house. She just knew.

Single story with a white stucco exterior, the house had a paint job old enough to have witnessed several winters, but not so old that it showed signs of suffering from the effects of a merciless summer sun.

When Rick pulled his car up in the driveway and turned off the ignition, Olivia hesitated about getting out. There were lights on in the house.

"Maybe you should have called ahead and checked if it was all right to bring home houseguests." She glanced into the back of the car at her nephew. Lulled by the drive, he was sound asleep. A condition subject to change at the drop of a hat. "Especially one who cries."

"You'll just have to work on that," he quipped, humor curving his mouth. And then he saw that she was serious. "And called ahead to check with who?" he asked.

A girlfriend? A wife? A friend? She shrugged, at a loss as to specifics. "With whoever's in the house."

Rick watched her. "There's no one in the house," he told her.

His sister was away at college-her last year-so there was no one to greet him when he came home at night, a fact he was acutely aware of. He was seriously thinking of getting a dog, except it wouldn't be fair to the dog to leave him alone all day. Conditions at the sheriff's office were fairly relaxed, but not enough to accommodate a dog.

Olivia got out and began to remove the infant seat restraints holding Bobby in place. Bobby continued sleeping.

She nodded toward the house. "The lights are on," she pointed out.

Was that it? He laughed, shaking his head. "Automatic timer. Makes it seem less empty when I come home."

"That bothers you? The emptiness," she added when he didn't answer. He didn't strike her as the lonely type.

"Sometimes," he allowed. He took out the cooler filled with baby bottles and formula that she'd transferred into his vehicle, as well as her suitcase. "My sister lives here when she's not away at college. After an entire summer of Mona's chatter, the house feels unnaturally quiet when she's gone."

"You get along with your sister?" she asked, following him to the front door.

"Better now that she's outgrown her bratty stage," he quipped.

He paused to unlock the front door, then picked up the cooler and suitcase again, only to park both just inside the door. Rick waited as she looked around, wondering what she thought of his home. He a.s.sumed that she was accustomed to fancier digs, but this suited him. Even though he would most likely take that job in Dallas, this would always be home to him.

"Let me show you to your room," he offered.

He led Olivia and the baby down a very short hall. He opened the door to the first room on the left. It was a very feminine bedroom. The double bed had a canopy overhead. The canopy matched the white eyelet bedspread which, in turn, matched the shams on the pillows.

Bobby began to stir. She automatically started to sway, attempting to lull him back to sleep. "Let me guess, this is your sister's room?" Olivia didn't exactly like the idea of invading someone else's s.p.a.ce, even if they weren't there to witness it.

"No, my grandmother's." He looked at her, amused. So far, both guesses she'd made about the house had been wrong. "You're not very good at this game, are you, Olivia?"

Because he was putting them up, she bit back the first retort that rose to her lips. Instead, she looked around again. He'd said that no one was home. That didn't mean that someone wasn't due back. "Your grandmother, where is she?"

A fond look came into his eyes. "Probably bossing the angels around, telling them how to play their harps if I know her."

"Then she's-?"

"Yes," Rick answered quickly, cutting her short before she could say the word he really didn't care to hear.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, so was I." His grandmother had been gruff and strict, but both he and his sister knew she loved them. That was never in question. "This is her house. She left it to me and to Mona. Abuelita said it was all she could give us." There was irony in his smile. "She didn't realize that she'd given us so much more than just a building. She gave us a home."

Aware that his voice had become softer when he spoke about the old woman, Rick cleared his throat, as if that could erase outward signs of sentiment. He became all business.

"Listen, I might be able to find Mona's old playpen in the attic. It would give you someplace to put your nephew when he's sleeping." He nodded over toward the bed. "That way you don't have to worry about him rolling off and hurting himself."

He really was more thoughtful than she'd given him credit for, she thought, impressed.

"Thank you," she murmured. If there was a playpen in the attic, they had to have lived in the house a long time. "How long have you and your sister lived here?"

"Mona was six when my grandmother took us in. I was eleven, but she took care of us off and on-mostly on-right from the beginning." His eyes met hers. "Why?"

"Just curious," she answered evasively. It occurred to her that she was asking too many personal questions.

Olivia had a feeling he felt the same way when he replied, "Uh-huh."

When she turned to ask him what he meant by that, Rick had already left the room. A couple of minutes later, she could hear the sheriff walking around in the attic, just above her head.

That was when Bobby woke up fully and began to fuss. Like any three-month-old who hadn't eaten in a couple of hours, he was hungry. He let her know the only way he knew how. He cried.

"Message delivered, loud and clear," she a.s.sured him. The next moment, she began to sing softly, hoping to distract him. She made her way back to the front of the house and the cooler. Bending down carefully, still singing, she extracted a bottle. "Now all I need to do is find a microwave," she told her nephew. Bobby cried again. "You don't want to know the logistics, you just want your bottle, right?"

She shifted the baby to her other side, took the bottle and went in search of the kitchen.

It wasn't much of a search. By the time Rick came back downstairs, carrying the slightly scarred playpen-folded in fourths-in his hands, she had just finished warming Bobby's bottle and was testing its warmth on the inside of her wrist.

"I see you found the kitchen," he noted.

"Wasn't hard. It was the only room with a stove," she cracked. Sitting down with the baby, she began feeding him. "And you found the playpen."

He leaned the playpen against a wall and went to the sink to retrieve a dish towel. After running water over it, he crossed back to the playpen.

"It's a bit dusty," he told her, "but nothing a little water won't fix. There's even a mattress for it." That, too, was folded in fourths inside the playpen. "It's kind of thin," he admitted, "but I can fold up a couple of blankets and put them on top of it. That should keep him comfortable."

Bobby made greedy sucking noises as he ate. She smiled at him. She'd never thought about having children-taking care of Tina had filled that void, or so she thought. But Bobby had stirred things up, made longings emerge. Longings that probably didn't have a chance in h.e.l.l of being fulfilled. That didn't make them any less intense.

"Why are you going to all this trouble?" she asked Rick suddenly. After all, they were nothing to him.

"Because he needs a place to sleep. And so do you," he added. "And Miss Joan was right, that motel is too vermin infested. You'd probably catch something, sleeping there."

It wasn't that she wasn't grateful, she was just trying to understand. "But we're perfect strangers."

One side of his mouth rose a little higher than the other, giving him an oddly endearing appearance that instantly shot a salvo through her gut. She tried not to notice, but it was too late.

"I don't know about perfect," Rick said, "but as for being a stranger, my grandmother always said that a stranger was just a friend you haven't made yet." And then he laughed quietly. "Of course, she said it in Spanish, but I think the translation might be lost on you."

Olivia vaguely recalled taking Spanish in high school, but right now, that seemed like another lifetime. Her sense of compet.i.tion goaded her to answer him in Spanish, some small, trite phrase she could fit her tongue around. But with her luck, he'd think that she was fluent and start rattling off at a mile a minute. If that happened, she'd only be able to marginally follow maybe a few key words. And maybe not even that. She didn't want to amuse him, she wanted to impress him.

Why? In a couple of days, you're never going to see him again. Why does impressing him matter?

She didn't know why, it just did.

"You're right," she agreed, "it would be. I only remember a few words in Spanish, none of which would work their way into a regular conversation."

She had him wondering what those words were.

Olivia focused her attention on her nephew. The greediness had abated and his pace had slowed. He'd only consumed half his bottle. Thinking it best not to force him to drink any more, Olivia placed the bottle on the table and then lifted Bobby up, placing the infant against her shoulder. In a routine that had become second nature to her, especially in the middle of the night, she began patting the baby's back, coaxing a burp from him.

For once, the burp didn't come with a soggy deposit of formula on her shoulder. The small eyes drifted shut and he dozed off again. With any luck, she would be able to put him down for a few hours.

Very softly, she tiptoed back into the bedroom where Rick had put the playpen. She laid her nephew down very carefully, afraid of waking him up. She needn't have worried. Tonight, he slept like a rock. She thanked G.o.d for small favors.

She paused over the playpen for a moment longer, looking down at this small, perfect human being. For the most part, Bobby led an uneventful life and right now, she had to admit she envied him for it. Her own life seemed to be going at ninety miles an hour with no signs of slowing down.

As she turned away from the playpen she almost walked right into Rick, who was standing in the doorway observing her. He stepped back at the last minute, preventing a collision.

How was it, she wondered, that she could feel the heat radiating from his body? Feel it against her own skin.

"I'm going to warm up a little of what Miss Joan sent over. You interested?" he asked.

Yes, she was interested. Definitely interested. But not in anything that could be warmed up on a plate. The thought had come at her from left field, startling her. She shook her head, trying to extinguish the thought.

"No?" he questioned when she simply shook her head.

That hadn't been to answer him, that was to clear her head. "No-yes. A little," she qualified.

"That wasn't a multiple-choice question." He studied her for a minute. "You okay?"

"Yes," she answered a tad too quickly. "Just punchy, I think. I'm going to stay here a few minutes longer, just to make sure he stays asleep."

"Okay."

As he walked out of the room, heading for the kitchen, he could hear her singing softly under her breath. Some sort of lullaby, he guessed.

She had a nice voice.

RICK HAD JUST FINISHED heating up the food and putting it on the table when Olivia walked into the kitchen. "He still asleep?" he asked.

Just for a moment, she'd debated using Bobby as an excuse, as a shield to hide behind. But she refused to behave like a coward. What was she afraid of? Eating? Sitting opposite a good-looking man and talking? It sounded very silly, putting it that way.

"Still asleep," she echoed. "For now." She took a deep breath and smiled. "Smells good."

"I added a few things," he confessed. That was when she noticed a collection of small jars of herbs and spices scattered along the counter like partying soldiers. "We can eat in the kitchen, or on the patio. It's fairly warm tonight."

And there was a blanket of stars out tonight. She'd noticed that when she'd gotten out of the car. The thought of sitting with him in such a blatantly romantic setting made her feel uneasy.

She seized the first excuse she could think of. "I think we should stay in the kitchen. I won't be able to hear Bobby if he cries if we're outside."

"Good point. Kitchen it is." He gestured toward the table. "Have a seat."

She sank down in the closest chair. Picking up a fork, she took a tentative bite of what he'd prepared. And then another, and another. The food tasted progressively better with each bite she took.

Olivia glanced over to the counter beside the stove. More than a few containers had been left out. She recalled Rick telling her that his grandmother had taught him how to cook.

Good-looking, sensitive and he knew how to cook. As far as she could see, that made him a triple threat and d.a.m.n near perfect.

There had to be something wrong with Rick. What was the deal breaker here? Was the man a closet serial killer? As she slanted a look at him, she had a pretty good feeling that wasn't it.

Rick could feel her eyes on him. Was she trying to find a polite way to tell him that she didn't like his augmentations to the meal?

Rather than speculate, he asked. "What?"

"Why aren't you married?"

He didn't know what he expected her to say, or ask, but this didn't even remotely come close. But two could play at this game. "Why aren't you?"

A fair question, she supposed. She told him what she told herself. "I've been too busy."

Rick laughed shortly. "Right. The weight-of-the-world-on-your-shoulders thing."

Just what was he implying? That she was using her busy schedule as an excuse not to get into any serious relationships?

Well, aren't you?

Lots of people had thriving careers and still had the wherewithal and time to find love. She didn't have a relationship because she was afraid. Afraid of losing someone else the way she'd lost her parents. Without any warning. In the blink of an eye. To lose a spouse like that, someone you loved with your whole being, would be completely devastating. She honestly didn't know if she could survive that. The only solution was not to put herself in that position in the first place. If she kept out of the minefield, she wouldn't run the risk of blowing up.

"Well, you certainly can't use that excuse," she retorted defensively. Then she suggested, with a trace of sarcasm, "How about the other tried and true one? The one that goes 'I never met the right girl'?"

Rick pulled his shoulders back. She'd struck a nerve without realizing it. If he flippantly agreed just to terminate this line of dialogue, it would be dishonoring Alycia's memory. Dishonoring it because she had been the right girl. And he would have been happy spending the rest of his life loving her.

Taking a deep breath, his eyes met hers. "Oh, I met her all right."

"And? What happened?"

When he spoke, his voice was completely devoid of emotion. Because he couldn't allow himself to feel anything. It hurt too much.

"She died."

For a moment, Olivia thought he was pulling her leg. But then she looked into his eyes and knew that he wasn't. He was serious, and she felt terrible. The man had voluntarily acted as her chauffeur, driving her to the hospital when he didn't have to. He'd literally taken her and Bobby in and she was repaying him by callously digging up memories best left untouched. Not once but twice.

What was the matter with her?

She knew she should be apologizing, backing away from the painful subject as quickly as she could. That was the way she normally handled an uncomfortable situation.

That wasn't the way she handled it now.