Great advice, he told himself, but hard to follow when the woman in his arms was twisting the buttons off his shirt and soaking his collar with her tears and sweat.
“One more,” he told her grimly.
She screamed at him in desperate fury, “You said that the last ten times!”
Then, when he thought neither of them had enough left in them for one more time…
“That’s it—I see the head! Come on, baby, just a little bit more…keep pushing…almost there…”
“J.J.,” Katie’s voice squawked from his shoulder, “Ridgecrest wants to know…” And he didn’t even hear the rest.
He was yelling, laughing and…who knows what else, but he didn’t give a damn who heard him. “How ’bout that, honey, we have a head!”
“A head? Really?” She was laughing and crying, too, weakly, and breathless with relief. “Is it…is he…?”
But J.J. was too busy to answer her, using his hands and whatever else happened to be within reach, wiping off the scrunched-up face, remembering the bulb-thing to clear stuff out of the flattened lump of a nose and the puffy purple mouth. Then she was pushing again, and he gently held the head while first one shoulder appeared…then the other, and suddenly there he was, with his hands full of slippery, squirmy, brand-new living human being.
He couldn’t believe it. He’d never felt such exhilaration in his whole life. Or such awe. And when, after a strangled-sounding gurgle, he heard the first mewing cry, such sheer overwhelming relief.
“My baby…” She was struggling to sit up, sobbing, hands frantically reaching.
J.J. shoved all the habit material out of the way and placed the baby right on her stomach. “Well, Rachel,” he said gruffly, as he guided her hands to cradle her newborn, “looks like you have a son.”
Chapter 4
Time passed in a haze for Rachel. Fearful and trembling, she watched her unlikely Western movie hero tie and cut her baby’s umbilical cord, then wrap him in a blanket and place him in her arms. She had a sense that she might be crying; she didn’t know why, she wasn’t sad, except that maybe there was just too much emotion inside her, too much joy and relief and awe, and it had to find its own way out.
She could hear the woman’s voice on the radio giving her hero—J.J., she called him—instructions from the hospital in Ridgecrest, telling him how to help her to get the baby to nurse, which was important because that would help stop the bleeding. And it didn’t seem strange to her at all that this big man with whiskers and long hair and a gun on his belt should be touching her in intimate ways; she barely registered the fact that it was the stranger’s rough hand on her breast, gently guiding the nipple to her son’s seeking mouth…another hand cradling and dwarfing his tiny, still-wet head. All she could see was her baby’s face…his beautiful, perfect round little face, with black hair, wavy like Nicky’s. And Nicky’s eyes, dark slate-gray now, like all newborns’ eyes, but wide open and looking straight back at her.
Nicky…you—we—have a son.
She thought of Carlos then, and began to shiver.
“Here,” J.J.’s raspy John Wayne voice said, and he unwrapped the blanket he’d wrapped the baby up in and brought it around both of them, so that her baby was nestled against her skin to skin, naked against her nakedness, the two of them cocooned together inside the warmth of the blanket.
And suddenly, for the first time in a very long time, she felt not only free, but safe.
There was a lot more that needed to be done before J.J. was ready to transport his “patient” and her newborn son to the hospital in Ridgecrest, but thankfully, enough of the initial euphoria hung around long enough to get him through it. There was a bad moment or two concerning the placenta—he’d forgotten about that little detail—but they’d gotten through that, and then it was just a matter of wrapping her up, keeping both her and her baby warm and getting them to the hospital as quickly as he possibly could.
For him, it was a strange, tense ride. Even Moonshine kept looking at him and whining, as if she knew something about him was a little bit off. The truth was, he didn’t feel like himself. He wasn’t normally a worrier, but he kept glancing up at his rearview mirror just to make sure Rachel and the baby were okay. They were both sleeping, exhausted after what they’d been through. He could hardly blame them, even though he’d rather have her awake and talking, just to reassure him.
He still couldn’t believe it, the thing she’d done, even though he’d seen it with his own eyes.
He couldn’t believe what he’d done, either. What if he hadn’t found her? It occurred to him that he might even have saved her life, and her baby’s life, too. He thought he could be forgiven for feeling a little bit full of himself about that, but the funny thing was, he didn’t. What he felt was humble. Because he knew that nothing he’d done with his life up to now, and nothing he might hope to do with the rest of it, was ever going to compare with what this little fragile-looking woman had done today.
He felt something else, too, something he couldn’t put his finger on, but it was what made him keep looking in that rearview mirror, tense and alert as if lives were on the line.
It wasn’t until they were at the hospital, and he was watching Rachel being strapped onto a gurney, that he realized what it was he was feeling. He watched her hold out her arms for her baby, and the EMT give her son to her and then walk along beside the gurney, kind of touching her, for security’s sake. And he realized the stab of pain underneath his ribs was something akin to jealousy. Truth was, he didn’t like turning her over to someone else’s care. He wanted to be the one walking alongside her, protecting her. He’d delivered that baby, he’d saved that mother’s life, probably. Dammit, they were his responsibility.
And there it was. Whether or not he really was, the truth was he felt responsible—for both of them, mother and child. He knew himself, and knew he wasn’t going to be able to just let them be whisked away into the E.R. and never see them again. The questions he had…those bruises on her face…
He wasn’t going to be able to let this go.
He was chewing on all that in his mind when Rachel looked back over her shoulder and saw him standing there. She said something to the EMT walking beside the gurney, and they all stopped there just before the automatic doors while Rachel turned and held out her hand to J.J. He went over to the gurney and took her hand, marveling all over again at how small and fragile it seemed when he knew she was anything but.
She squeezed his hand and said, “Thank you,” with a catch in her voice. Then she looked him straight in the eyes and said, “You’re Jethro, right?”
“J.J.,” he said, wondering how in the hell she knew his given name. He sure couldn’t remember telling her. “Just…J.J.”
She studied him for a moment, smiling a crooked little bit of a smile. “No…not just J.J. It’s got to be J.J. something.”
“Okay, you got me. It’s Fox. Deputy Sheriff J. J. Fox—at your service, ma’am.” He dipped his head, since he wasn’t wearing a hat to tip, and grinned. “Not thinking of naming your baby after me, I hope.”
Her smile came and went, and she said softly, seriously, “His name is Sean Nicholas, after his father—and mine.”
“Ah. Of course. Good name.” But he felt oddly let down—not about the name, but because somehow the fact that the baby had a father had slipped his mind. Well, hell, of course the kid had a father. And presumably she had a husband, somewhere; now that he thought about it, he realized she was wearing a wedding ring. Which maybe should have seemed wrong, to go along with the nun’s habit, except…weren’t they supposed to be married to Christ or something? Only, of course, she wasn’t really a nun, was she? Which left…the husband.
He wondered if the husband was the one who’d put those bruises on her face. Seemed odd, though, that she’d name her son after him, if he was.
Still, women did some unexplainable things, especially when it came to the men they loved.
“They’r
e both dead,” Rachel said.
“I’m sorry.” But it was an automatic response, and given the way his heart had jumped when he said that, he wondered if he meant it.
There was an awkward pause, and then J.J. said, “Well—” at the same time she started to say something, so he stopped and said politely, “Go ahead.”
“There’s no way I’ll ever be able to thank you. I can’t imagine what—” She looked down at the bundled baby in her arms and kind of shook her head.
“No need to thank me. Just doin’ my job,” J.J. muttered, again knowing that wasn’t the way he felt. What he was really feeling was gruff and uncomfortable and heroic and utterly fraudulent.
He reached out and touched her arm, then the baby bundle. “You just have a good life—keep this little guy safe, okay?” She nodded. He nodded to the EMT, and the gurney started to roll. “You can call me if you need anything, now, you hear?” he heard himself say. She didn’t respond; all her attention was focused now on her baby.
Which was as it should be, he thought morosely. He watched as the gurney was wheeled away into the E.R., and the automatic door whisked shut, closing him out.
Yeah, why in the hell would she need you? He gave a snort of self-mockery and went to clean out his patrol vehicle, which he imagined would be getting pretty ripe by now, warming up in the heat of the day.
He got a large-sized evidence bag out of the back of the SUV and started gathering up the clothing and shoes he’d shucked off Rachel and tossed out of the way during the chaos of delivering her baby. And—oops—there was the envelope that had come off with the clothing, the one that had apparently been taped to her stomach. Damned if he hadn’t forgotten about it in all the excitement. Now, sitting behind the wheel of his patrol vehicle, he examined the envelope more closely. The name—Rachel Malone Delacorte. Delacorte. Why did that name ring a bell? Where had he heard it before?
Holding the envelope and pondering whether or not he could justify opening it, he thumbed his radio on. “Katie, do you copy?”
“Yeah, J.J.” Katie’s voice was higher than normal and breathless with poorly suppressed excitement. “How is—”
“Everybody’s fine. Including me,” he added wryly, and got a chuckle in response. “Mother and son are fine—just dropped ’em off at Ridgecrest E.R. Ah…Katie, I want you to run a name for me. Put a rush on it.” He gave her the name. “You copy?”
“Copy that,” Katie said. “When you gonna be back in the office?”
“On my way,” J.J. drawled.
What he really wanted to do was go find a quiet spot and a nice cold beer and take an hour or two to ponder the events of the morning. After all, wasn’t every day he got to rescue a pregnant woman masquerading as a nun out in the middle of the desert and deliver her baby in the backseat of his patrol vehicle. But since his work day was barely half over, he stuffed the envelope—unopened—into the bag containing Rachel’s clothes and took everything inside to the E.R. reception desk. Back outside in the midday sun, he called to Moonshine—no dummy, she’d found a shady spot under a parked ambulance—got in his patrol vehicle and, making mental note to look for a car wash on the way, headed back to his own jurisdiction.
Once again, Rachel drifted. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew there were things she should be thinking about, planning for. But for the moment, she felt no more capable of controlling the course of her life than a leaf caught in a river’s current. And for now, that current was benign, a placid and peaceful stretch after what had been a turbulent, hazardous, sometimes terrifying, sometimes exhilarating ride. For the time being, for the first time in more than two years, she was free of the Delacorte family. For the first time in six months, she was free from fear. Tomorrow, she would think about what to do next. For today, she could allow herself to drift.
I’m in a hospital. My baby and I are safe here.
Lying on her side with her cheek propped on one curled fist, she gazed at her newborn son, now sleeping peacefully, swaddled in a soft white blanket with blue and pink stripes around the edges, a blue stocking cap covering his head and most of his freshly washed silky black hair. A fine, strong, healthy boy, the doctor had told her. Seven pounds, five ounces. A beautiful baby boy. Which Rachel didn’t need a doctor to tell her; she could see her son was absolutely perfect.
Nicky, you have a son. You always said…
But her mind, drifting, sailed quickly, almost guiltily past images of Nicholas and settled instead, like a leaf caught in a skein of half-submerged grasses, on the fierce and whiskery face of Deputy Sheriff Jethro—J.J.—Fox.
Who could have imagined our baby would be helped into this world by a lawman? A sheriff straight out of the Old West, one who sounds a little like John Wayne?
She laughed without sound, and was disconcerted when the laughter made everything in her middle quiver like unmolded gelatin. She winced and rested her hand on her disappointingly still-swollen belly, trying to remember what the nurse had assured her: Everything would go back to its normal place soon. And nursing, the nurse had told her firmly, would help that happen faster.
With that memory, Rachel’s drifting mind bumped gently against another image: Sheriff Jethro Fox’s hands, one cradling her baby’s head, the other holding her breast, guiding the nipple to an eagerly seeking mouth. The backs of his hands had been tanned, she remembered, the hair on the wrists bleached golden by the sun, the nails clean and clipped short but not manicured, not like Nicky’s. Nicky had cared for his hands as meticulously as any woman.
She wondered why it wasn’t more unsettling, remembering the way a strange man had touched her breasts. Instead, she found it a comforting image, and it stayed with her until she dozed.
Katie aimed an accusing stare at J.J. across the tops of her glasses when he walked through the door. “What happened, Grizzly? I thought you were going to shave all that stuff off your face.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been kind of busy.” He took off his hat and sailed it across to his own desk.
Katie held the stare for another beat, then broke out in a grin. “Well, congratulations, anyway.” She pulled a cigar out of where she’d been hiding it behind her computer screen and lobbed it at him.
He snagged it and grunted his thanks, as Daryl Fisher, another one of his deputies, pushed off from his desk and tipped his chair back.
“First baby, J.J.?”
J.J. snorted. “Yeah, it was. How many have you brought into the world?” Daryl was fresh out of police academy and liked to think he knew everything. And maybe he did—everything that could be learned out of a book, anyway, which in J.J.’s opinion wasn’t much.
Daryl made a scoffing noise and went back to his computer.
“He’s just jealous,” Katie said comfortingly.
“Yeah, right.” J.J. was wondering why he felt so damn crabby. Shouldn’t a little euphoria be in order? He nodded toward the computer monitor on Katie’s desk. “Anything on that name I gave you?”
Katie gave a little gasp. “Oh—my gosh. Sorry—kind of got caught up in the celebration.” She bit her lower lip to hold back what appeared to be sheer glee. “Hold on to that cigar, J.J., because you’re not going to believe this. Rachel Malone Delacorte—I’m guessing that’s the new mom?”
“That’s what I’m guessing.”
“Well, if it’s the same one, she’s married to Nicholas Delacorte—or was.” She waited a beat, and when J.J. just looked at her, gave an impatient huff. “Only son of Carlos Delacorte? Head of the biggest crime family in the entire southwest, if not the country? Plus Central America?”
J.J. swore under his breath. No wonder the name had seemed familiar to him.
“The reason I said was,” Katie went on, still full of herself. “Remember that shootout in the alley behind the Hollywood Bistro last year? The one where those two feds got killed? Well, you might remember, there was another casualty that night—none other than Carlos Delacorte’s little boy, Nicky. At the time, it was thought h
e might have just gotten caught in the crossfire, since no weapons were found on him. Meanwhile, the shooters, whoever they were, got clean away.”
“That case is still open,” J.J. said, frowning. It was coming back to him, now. “Didn’t witnesses say Delacorte was in the Bistro that night, with a woman?”
Katie nodded. “Presumably his wife, Rachel Delacorte. Supposedly she left the Bistro with her husband, but after the shootout she was nowhere to be found.” She turned the monitor so J.J. could see the screen. “So…is this her? Is this your new baby-mama?”
J.J. stared at the screen, and felt his vision field shrink and the world fall away. All sound seemed to be muffled, even his own voice. “That’s her,” he said.
The photo had been taken at some formal event, maybe a charity ball or premier, the couple posed the way celebrities do for the photographers on the red carpet. And they were as beautiful a couple as any J.J. had ever seen on any red carpet, he dashing in his tux, dark hair wavy to his collar and slicked back on the top and sides, she slender and elegant in a gown made of something shimmery that clung to every curve and left her shoulders, the tops of her breasts and most of her back bare. Her head barely topped her husband’s shoulder, even with her hair piled high on her head. Jewels—diamonds, most likely real ones—twinkled in the coils of her shiny black hair and at her ears and throat.
A far cry, he thought, from the woman in the borrowed nun’s habit, nine months pregnant and her hair wet and stringy with sweat. But there was no mistaking that heart-shaped face. Those eyes.
Katie was saying something. With an effort, he pulled his gaze away from the image of the woman on the computer screen and focused on her. “What?”
Her eyes were grave as they met his. “J.J., if that woman is Rachel Delacorte, then that means…”
“I just delivered Carlos Delacorte’s grandson.” He let his breath out in a gust.
Even before he said the words, their implications had rumbled over him like a landslide. Everything—Rachel, missing from the scene after the shootout that killed her husband, now turning up pregnant, alone in the desert in a borrowed car and nun’s habit, her face wearing the evidence of a brutal beating, afraid to trust anyone, even an officer of the law—it all made sense now. It was pretty obvious the woman had been held prisoner—virtual if not actual—by her father-in-law, notorious crime family kingpin, and had just made a desperate attempt to escape.
Sheriff's Runaway Witness (Scandals 0f Sierra Malone Book 1) Page 6