His Woman, His Child (5 page)

Four

He'd been living in the garage apartment two weeks now and had begun to settle into a routine at work. He stopped by every morning and every night to check on Susan, and they'd eaten a couple of meals together. Other than that, he kept his distance. Everyone in town expected him to step into Lowell's shoes, both personally and professionally. God knew he wanted to apprehend Lowell's murderer. And he was willing to complete his old friend's term as sheriff. But taking care of Lowell's wife was a complicated matter. If he didn't want her so damn bad … But he did. And that was the problem.

Tracking down Lowell's killer was the number one priority of the sheriff's department. Carl Bates seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth, but Hank knew it was only a matter of time until one of their leads would uncover the white-trash drug pusher's whereabouts. Once they had the bastard in custody, the matter would be pretty much cut-and-dried. Two deputies had witnessed Lowell's murder. No jury on earth would render anything other than a guilty verdict. Yeah, once Bates was behind bars, his final fate would be the death penalty.

Where his professional duties were clear, Hank's personal obligations were not. His responsibility was to look after Susan. To protect her, not to bed her. But being around her on a daily basis, no matter how briefly, was playing hell with his libido.

As he gathered up his hunting gear and loaded it into the back of the old Jeep he'd bought at a local used car dealership, he thought seriously about leaving without checking on Susan this morning. After all, it was Sunday and awfully early. She might not even be up yet. One glance at the house and he knew she had to be awake. Lights were on in the kitchen. Maybe just a quick cup of coffee with her— although he hated the decaf stuff she was drinking these days—and he could meet Caleb for their hunting trip without feeling guilty that he hadn't made his daily morning call.

He knocked on the back door. No response. He knocked again. Nothing. Then he heard a sudden, loud yapping, the sound obviously coming from Fred and Ricky. Peering through the glass in the door, he surveyed the room. Empty, except for the two sniffing mutts eyeing the back door suspiciously. Maybe she'd gone back to bed and forgotten to turn off the light. If the dogs hadn't wakened her, then he wouldn't bother her. He'd stop back tonight, when he got home.

He turned and headed down the driveway, feeling as if he'd been given a reprieve. If he didn't see her this morning, maybe he wouldn't think about her during the day. Maybe thoughts of her wouldn't wreak havoc on his concentration. He didn't like this damn obsession he had with Lowell's widow. He had never allowed anyone or anything to influence the way he lived his life. Nobody snapped their fingers and told him to jump. Nobody!

Hell! Who was he kidding? Susan wasn't being demanding. The exact opposite was true. She seemed to sense his reluctance, his reserve, and hadn't asked him for anything.

He was the one with the problem. Not Susan.

"Hank?"

At the sound of her voice, he snapped his head around and looked at the open kitchen door. Wearing nothing but a gown, Susan stood just inside the doorway, her face pale, her hair disheveled. Ricky and Fred scurried past her and out onto the back porch. Guarding her. Issuing him a warning with their funny, ferocious little snarls.

"Morning. Sorry if I woke you." He didn't move. Barely breathed. He couldn't go inside and have a pleasant cup of coffee with a woman in her nightgown—not this woman.

"I've been awake for quite some time." Grasping the door frame, she closed her eyes. "I'm suffering a really severe bout of morning sickness. I was in the bathroom when you knocked."

Morning sickness? Yeah, sure, pregnant women upchucked fairly often in the first few months, didn't they? Although his knowledge of pregnancy was fairly limited, he thought he remembered something about eating crackers to ease the nausea.

"Have you tried crackers?" he asked.

"Crackers didn't help." She opened her eyes slowly and tried to smile.

"Why don't you call your doctor and have him prescribe something?"

"I may have to do that if it gets any worse."

"Anything I can do?" he asked, hoping she'd say no.

"No. Thanks." She glanced at the rifle and gear in the back of the Jeep. "Going hunting?"

"Yeah. Caleb and I thought it might be a good way to spend some time together. I'll be back tonight. If it's not too late, I'll drop by."

"You don't have to do that. I'll be perfectly—" She gasped, covered her mouth with her hand and ran. Shadowing her every move, Ricky and Fred hightailed it after her.

Hell! She was sick again. She'll be okay, he told himself. She said so herself. Get a move on. She doesn't need you to hang around and play nursemaid.

Hank jumped into the Jeep, inserted the key and revved the motor. He sat there for a couple of minutes, the motor idling, while the morning sun shed its dawn cloak and exposed a new day to its naked brilliance.

What are you waiting for? Leave, dammit, man. Leave!

He killed the motor, shoved the keys into the pocket of his camouflage pants and jumped out of the Jeep. He stomped up the driveway and onto the back porch.

You're an idiot, Bishop.

After entering the kitchen, he closed the door behind him and went out into the hallway. "Susan?"

She didn't reply, but she moaned.

He would rather face a pack of wolves than go into that bathroom. It wasn't as if he could actually do anything for her. If the situation was reversed, the last thing he'd want would be for her to try to soothe him. But she was a woman, dammit, and women were different. They wanted and expected to be soothed and pampered when they were sick. Especially pregnant women. Right?

When he saw her on her knees in front of the commode, he stopped abruptly in the doorway. Damn, she looked vulnerable. Small. Helpless. And pitifully sick.

"Susan?"

Ricky and Fred sniffed at his legs. He gently eased past them.

Susan glanced up at him with teary eyes. A tight knot formed in the pit of his belly. She opened her mouth to speak, but turned suddenly and threw up again.

"Honey, what can I do?" he asked.

She rolled tissue from the holder and used it to wipe her mouth, then tossed it into the bowl and flushed the commode. "Could you get me a wet washcloth?"

"Sure thing." Reluctantly he stepped farther inside the spacious bathroom and looked around, searching for the linen closet. Finding it to his right, he opened the door, reached inside to the neatly arranged shelves and retrieved a cloth. While he dampened the cloth, he glanced over at her. Sweat coated her pale face and moistened her cotton gown. There was a soft, pleading look in her eyes.

He knelt beside her, handed her the washcloth and resisted the urge to wipe her face himself.

"Thank you." She washed her face, tossed the cloth into the sink and then wrapped her arms around her stomach.

"Still sick?"

She nodded. "I'm cramping."

"Is that normal? I mean, is cramping a part of morning sickness?"

"No, not that I know of." She held out her hand to him. "Help me stand up, please. I'd better get in touch with Dr. Fair."

"Do you think something's wrong, more than morning sickness, I mean?"

"I'm cramping and spotting a little and … Oh, Hank, I'm really worried."

He lifted her into his arms. She gasped. "It's all right, honey. You're going to bed and I'm calling Dr. Farr myself."

"His number is by the phone on my nightstand," she said. "You'll get his service when you call, so you'll have to leave a message."

Hank laid her on the unmade bed, sat on the edge and picked up the telephone. He opened the pad on the nightstand and found the obstetrician's number. While the phone rang, he glanced back over his shoulder at Susan.

"You've got cramps, you're spotting, and you've been vomiting. Anything else?"

"No, that about covers it."

The minute the service responded, Hank explained the situation and asked for the doctor to return his call immediately.

Susan lifted her hand and placed it on Hank's arm. He jumped. "Thank you. I'll be okay, if you want to go on and meet Caleb. I'm sure Dr. Farr will call back very soon."

"Oh, hell, I forgot all about Caleb. I need to call him to let him know … Do you have call waiting?"

"Yes."

He pulled Susan's hand off his arm and clasped it tightly in his. He gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I'm not going anywhere until I know you're okay." Hank dialed his brother's number.

"Hello?" Caleb answered.

"It's me," Hank said. "I can't make it this morning. Susan's sick. We're waiting for the doctor to return our call."

"What's wrong?"

"Cramping. Spotting. And severe vomiting."

"Do you want Sheila and me to come over?" Caleb asked.

"No, thanks. I think we can handle things. I'll talk to you later."

"Sure thing."

Susan slid over to the edge of the bed and tried to stand. Hank replaced the telephone receiver quickly, then grabbed her by the arm.

"I'm sick again," she told him.

"Hold on, honey."

He swept her up into his arms and ran toward the bathroom. The minute he put her on her feet, she leaned over the commode and emptied her stomach.

"Oh, Lord, Hank!" She gasped for air. "I'm so sick."

Supporting her around the waist with one arm, he reached over and turned on the sink faucets so he could dampen the washcloth. He wiped her mouth and chin, then dumped the cloth into the sink.

"I'm not waiting for the doctor to call back," he told her. "I'm taking you to the emergency room right now."

She nodded, but only slightly, as if the movement caused her pain. "I think that's a good idea." She grabbed the front of his shirt. "I'm scared. I'm afraid something's wrong with the baby. What—" she swallowed her tears "—what if I'm miscarrying?"

"We're going to the hospital. I'll call Dr. Fair's service again and tell them to have him meet us. Everything's going to be okay." He walked her over to the vanity stool, sat her down and clasped her chin. "Stay right here, in case you get sick again. I'll be right back with your coat and shoes. Don't move. I'll carry you to the car."

All the way to the hospital, he kept thinking about the possibility that Susan might miscarry. Maybe it would be better if she did. Lowell had wanted to be a father. He didn't. But Lowell wasn't around anymore to see his wife through her pregnancy and to be a dad to the child she was carrying. If Susan lost the baby, then he wouldn't have to be responsible for her or the child. Once he finished Lowell's term as sheriff, he could leave Crooked Oak and Susan behind him. Without the child, there was nothing to bind him to her.

The endless minutes of waiting in the emergency room seemed like hours. What the hell was taking them so long?

"Sheriff Bishop, you can come back in now," the gray-haired nurse informed him. "Dr. Farr has finished examining Mrs. Redman and she's asking for you."

He hesitated momentarily. What if she'd lost the baby? What if he was going to have to comfort her and try to convince her that it had been for the best?

Hank opened the door to the examining room, took a deep breath and looked inside to find Susan sitting on the edge of a padded table. She glanced up at him and smiled. That could only mean one thing. He felt as if he'd been punched in the belly with an iron fist.

Thank God, she hasn't lost the baby!
Where had that thought come from? he wondered. Surely not from the same logical mind that had, only moments before, rationalized the benefits of a miscarriage. On some elemental, totally primitive level, he must want the child.

"The baby's fine," Susan said.

"What about you?" Hank asked.

"Susan's going to be all right," Dr. Farr said. "She's picked up a stomach virus somewhere and that is what's causing the cramping and severe vomiting."

"What about the spotting?" Hank looked directly at the doctor.

"It's perfectly normal for a woman to spot a little during the first trimester. It's nothing to worry about. We've given her an injection that should help ease the symptoms of the virus. She needs to drink clear fluids and get some rest." Dr. Farr turned to Susan. "Now, little mother, you can stop worrying. I want you to go home, rest and relax. If you aren't feeling a lot better by this afternoon, call me and I'll make a house call."

"To make a promise like that, you must be certain that I'm going to be okay." Susan laughed.

Dr. Farr patted Hank on the shoulder as he paused beside him on his way out of the examining room. "I'm glad you're around to look after Susan. She's going to need a good man to take care of her for the next seven months."

Forcing a smile, Hank nodded.

"Is it too late for you and Caleb to go hunting?" Susan asked. "I feel terrible that I kept you from enjoying a day out in the cold, damp woods with your brother."

Hank narrowed his gaze. "I'd forgotten that you aren't an advocate of hunting."

"I'm not a rabble-rouser," Susan said. "Anyone who wants to kill poor, defenseless animals has every right to do so. I just can't understand the reasoning that enables people to get pleasure out of it."

Hank lifted her coat off the rack and draped it around her shoulders. "Come on, little mother. Let's go home."