THE BACHELOR PARTY

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  "I never thought I'd be grateful to see a policeman come barreling through that door, but I have to admit that, in this case, I was."

  "Sounds like you're not too partial to lawmen."

  She shrugged. "I got a speeding ticket that wasn't my fault once."

  "Happens that way sometimes, even in Clover. Strange as it seems, I've had folks take one look at me and form an instant dislike."

  "Imagine that."

  "Amazin', isn't it?" he drawled, scanning his notes for holes that needed filling. He came up empty. She'd been concise and thorough, twin talents his deputies had yet to master completely.

  "You ever done any teaching?" he asked as he returned pad and pencil to his shirt pocket.

  Her gaze flickered, then fell away. "That's an odd question to ask, isn't it?" She toyed with the edge of the quilted place mat, and he filed away the fact that she'd deftly worked around the question without answering. He knew enough about himself and the way his mind worked to know that the need to find out why would stick to him like a burr to a mongrel's tail.

  "I reckon it does sound that way, yeah. But I asked because you have a knack for stating facts better than any of my deputies. Probably better than me, if you come right down to it. Might be you'd share some of your secrets."

  Her pale lips curved, but he sensed it was an effort. He nudged his estimation of her strength even higher. Soft velvet over a steel core, he thought.

  "Actually, I think this whole evening is just engraved on my brain." She shivered suddenly, as though remembering. "If he'd just waited a few more minutes, I would have finished closing up, and none of this would have happened."

  Ford shifted. "One thing I've learned in this job is the futility of second-guessin' yourself or anyone else."

  Her expression clouded. "How do you keep from doing it?"

  He shrugged. "I guess by doing the best you can with what you have, and letting the rest go."

  "That's a skill I've yet to perfect," she murmured, getting wearily to her feet.

  Rising, too, he thought about the years he'd spent beating up on himself for the things he'd done wrong. He hadn't even tried to forgive himself for the things he hadn't done right.

  "If you think of anything else in the next hour or so, I'll be down at the station typin' up my report."

  She nodded, and some of the stiffness eased out of her pale face. "It occurs to me that I've been so wrapped up in my own problems I haven't even thanked you for showing up in the nick of time. Please forgive the oversight, and know that I am very grateful."

  "All part of the service," he said, watching the play of the overhead light on her hair. He had a hunch it was just as soft as it looked and was tempted to find out for himself.

  She had freckles, he noticed, tiny flecks of pure gold meandering up and over the slight bump at the bridge of her nose. They made him think of Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher. He'd been a kid when he'd read that book. Ten maybe, or eleven, old enough to wonder when he would meet his "Becky" and feel the same breathless tightness in his chest that Tom had felt. He never had—until he'd walked into Peg's one morning and seen a scrawny little Yankee stranger with ageless eyes and the sexiest mouth he'd ever laid eyes on smiling at one of the customers.

  It had taken him by surprise, like a left hook delivered in a dense fog. It wasn't love at first sight because he didn't believe in love, but it had rocked him harder than a simple jolt of sexual desire.

  Far as he knew, Tom had never ended up with Becky. And he didn't expect anything permanent to happen between him and Sophie. But that didn't mean he didn't intend to make love to her. Still the timing wasn't right. He wasn't much of a horseman, but he knew enough not to rush his fences.

  "What will happen to him?" she asked, glancing up, then away, as though she had trouble meeting his gaze.

  "Like I told old Rans himself, he'll probably remain a guest of the state for a spell."

  "Will there be a trial?"

  "Most likely, unless the lawyer he's entitled to under state law convinces him to plead guilty."

  She very carefully slid her chair under the table. "Does that mean I'll be called to testify?"

  "Would that be a problem?" he asked so mildly she was tempted to believe he didn't care one way or the other what she thought. And perhaps he didn't. Perhaps she had only imagined that quick flash of something lethal in his eyes earlier, when he'd laid out Talley's future for him so succinctly.

  "I admit I'm not looking forward to it," she hedged, straightening suddenly tense shoulders.

  "No sense worrying about something that might not happen. Best thing for you to do now is get on up to bed and forget all about tonight."

  Her eyes softened, and she nearly smiled—before she seemed to think better of it. "That does sound tempting."

  Ford was a man of careful habits and meticulous ways. He never gave in to impulse or took action that hadn't been carefully considered. So the fact that he found himself wanting to gather that small, tired body into his arms and carry her upstairs to her bed had him backing down hard.

  "You'll need to read through your statement after it's typed and make any corrections before signing it."

  "Fine."

  "I work seven to four tomorrow if you want to stop by the office. If I'm out on patrol, the dispatcher can always reach me. Or I could bring it by here after you get off work. Whatever's easier for you.'

  "I'll stop by the office. I have errands to run after work, anyway."

  Ford accepted that without comment, and without repeating his offer to conduct their business less formally. If she wanted to take a chance on cooling her heels in the smelly, dusty basement of the city hall, that was up to her. He had other things to do than wait on her, he told himself as he took Katie at her word and filled the pocket of his jacket with Christmas cookies.

  They left the kitchen together and had just reached the foyer when he noticed Sophie stiffening and then heard a baby crying so faintly he first thought Myrtle Baughman's cat was stuck in a tree again.

  Sophie hurried toward the stairs just as Katie appeared at the top. "Sophie! I was just comin' to get you. Something's wrong with the baby."

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  In a panic, Sophie raced up the stairs as fast as her tired legs would take her. Behind her she heard the front door open, and the sound of Peg Jones calling her niece's name.

  "Don't worry, I'll fill her in on what happened," Katie said as Sophie passed her on the stairs.

  "Thanks," Sophie told her gratefully, slowing only slightly. As soon as she reached the third flight, she saw Miss Fanny and Miss Rose Ruth peering over the third-floor railing like pale ghosts in nightclothes and slippers. As soon as they spied her, they both began talking at once.

  "Poor little thing's teething," Miss Fanny asserted confidently.

  "Colicky," Miss Rose Ruth countered just as confidently. A former elementary teacher, Rose Ruth Adamson was the quintessential Southern maiden lady, always proper, always well-groomed and neat, and extremely generous to everyone who crossed her path. She was also the teeniest bit bossy and Fanny's lifelong friend, though a casual observer would be more than likely to conclude the opposite.

  Fanny drew herself up straighter. "Now, Rose Ruth, that's nonsense and you know it. Jessie's always been an excellent eater."

  "Until that old fool Hammond Gossely put her on vegetables way too soon, which she very rightly has been refusin' to eat."

  Reaching the top, Sophie paused to catch her breath. The ladies meant well, but she was in no shape to arbitrate, even if she'd known which of the two was right.

  "A nice warm hot-water bottle is all she needs," Miss Rose Ruth declared firmly, "and a bottle of weak sassafras tea for the tummy cramps."

  "Bourbon whiskey on those sore gums," Miss Fanny stated.

  Sophie left them still arguing and hurried into her room. Before she'd gone downstairs, she switched on the ceramic clown night-light she
'd bought for Jessie out of last week's tips. Even before she reached Jessie's crib, she realized that the baby's little cheeks were flushed.

  "Shh, sweetie, Mommy's here," she murmured, scooping the squirming, screaming baby into her arms. Jessie stiffened and, instead of calming, cried even harder. Frantic, Sophie laid her cheek against Jessie's and felt scalding heat.

  "She's burning up!" she cried anxiously to the ladies who were now hovering just inside the door.

  "I'll call Hammond," Miss Fanny decided before disappearing.

  "Now don't go telling him any nonsense about teethin'," Rose Ruth ordered as she, too, disappeared. Through the open door. Sophie could hear them arguing all the way down the stairs.

  "Miss Fanny says you're just teething, and Miss Rose Ruth swears it's those peas I tried to make you eat, and I'm scared it might be something a lot worse," she murmured, laying the baby on her back. "Let's just make sure it's not some nasty old bug, okay?"

  Jessie wasn't about to be placated, making it an exercise in patience just to get her out of her diaper long enough to take her temperature. By the time Sophie finished, she was nearly in tears. Discovering that the baby had a fever of a hundred and two didn't help. Knowing she had to do something fast, she got to her feet and carried Jessie to the dresser she'd converted to a changing table.

  "Don't cry, sweetie," she crooned, pulling open the top drawer with one hand while awkwardly cradling the screaming, kicking baby who was now pulling at her right ear with frantic little fingers. As far as she knew Jessie had never suffered from ear problems before, but then she knew almost nothing about the first six months of her daughter's life.

  Guilt nearly swamped her as she thought about the upheaval she herself had brought about in Jessie's short life. Only the certainty that it had been necessary had enabled her to live with the guilt, and even then she'd sometimes lain awake at night in a cold sweat, worrying that she might be causing Jessie more harm than good. Every one of the dozens of books she'd read on child care in the past year had stressed the need for stability and security during a child's first few years.

  No, she thought fiercely. It can't be wrong for a mother to want her own child. No one could love Jessie as much as she did. Or fight any harder to keep her happy and safe.

  "Sophie?"

  Glancing up, she saw Ford standing just outside the open door, watching her. For the first time she realized that he was by nature an observer, with the air of someone who wouldn't tolerate interference or invite intimacy.

  "Miss Fanny sent me up to let you know Doc Gossely's goin' to meet us at his office."

  It took a moment for his words to sink in. "Us?" she asked, staring at him.

  He shrugged. "You need transportation. My car's still outside, remember?"

  Sophie fought down a quick flutter of panic. Somehow she'd kept her nerves under control, even when he'd turned those thoughtful gray eyes her way. But now, with Jessie's frantic cries pounding in her head, she knew she was close to snapping.

  "Thank you, but I've imposed enough. Besides, you said you had a report to write, and I don't want to take up any more of your time," she hedged.

  "Why don't you let me worry about that?" The steel was back in his voice, and she realized that arguing with him would be a waste of energy.

  "I'll just be a few minutes more," she said instead, reaching for a warmer outfit for the baby.

  Jessie squirmed and fussed, making it difficult to hold her still and dress her at the same time. Sophie's fingers were suddenly all thumbs, and she took twice as long as she should to get the baby zipped into a one-piece sleeper.

  Wells had always accused her of being too disorganized and scatterbrained to be entrusted with a baby. He'd also told her that all pregnant women were grotesquely ugly and he didn't intend to share his bed or his life with ugliness. She'd stopped listening to the words after a while, but the hurt had remained.

  "All done," she assured Jessie with a bright smile that only seemed to upset her daughter even more.

  "I'll take her while you get your things," Ford said, lifting Jessie into his arms.

  "No!" she exclaimed before she could calm herself.

  "Don't worry, I won't drop her." He tucked the baby against his shoulder with the skill of a practiced father, his big, brutal-looking hand surprisingly gentle as it made soothing circles against Jessie's tiny back.

  "It's not that," Sophie explained quickly. "It's just that she's shy around strangers."

  Not as shy as her mama, Ford thought, wondering about the flare of panic in Sophie's eyes. Instinct told it was more than a first-time mother's worry over her sick child. And Jessie was her child. The resemblance was obvious, especially around the mouth. Give baby Jessie a few years and she'd have a trail of lovesick, brokenhearted boys behind her, he thought with a cynical smile he kept to himself.

  "You just hang in there, sugar, you hear?" he drawled. "Doc's treated a lot of sick little ones in his time. He's even patched me up a time or two."

  Jessie blinked and then stopped crying as though the sound of a man's voice had startled her into a sudden silence. Still pulling at her ear, she stared into his face intently. Tentatively, she touched his mouth, and he felt his heart tumble into those tiny little hands.

  "I know we haven't been formally introduced, but I know your mama so don't you be getting worried that some strange man's got his arms around you, okay, sugar?"

  "Her name is Jessamine," Sophie told him with the tiniest hint of a smile surfacing briefly in her worried eyes.

  "Pleased to meet you, Miss Jessamine," he drawled solemnly, giving her tiny hand a little tweak. "I'm called Ford—when folks are thinkin' kindly of me. No need to tell you what they call me when they're not."

  Sophie felt tears press her throat. No matter what name he answered to, Ford Maguire wasn't nearly as cynical and hard-nosed as he wanted people to think. Under that rough, less-than-handsome exterior was a very softhearted man who'd clearly adored her daughter at first sight. In spite of the malady making her fretful, Jessie, too, seemed smitten with the dark-haired man speaking to her in a husky drawl. She couldn't ever imagine him ordering the woman who'd conceived his child to have an abortion. Or threatening to kill her and the baby if she didn't. "Sophie, what's wrong? If you're afraid I'll drop her—"

  "No, I…" She blinked back the tears and with them the horrible images in her head. Ford wasn't Wells, but neither was he Jessie's father. And he never would be. "I just wanted to tell you I'm ready to go."

  Hammond Gossely was a sturdy, rotund man with pink cheeks and a tonsure of frizzled white hair. She'd been right to suspect an ear infection, he'd told Sophie after examining Jessie with all the thoroughness of any big-city clinic. Fortunately, she'd caught it at a stage where it could be easily and swiftly treated, he'd told her with a benign Santa Claus smile that only partially relieved her fears. So after he'd prescribed a liquid antibiotic and baby aspirin, he'd patiently answered Sophie's anxious questions for the next twenty minutes or so until she finally allowed herself to be reassured.

  It was almost 1:00 a.m. when he escorted her from the examining room. Nestled against Sophie's shoulder, Jessie was still restless, but the sharp cries of pain were now muted to an occasional whimper.

  In the neat but dated waiting room Ford was sacked out on a narrow Naugahyde sofa, his arms folded over his chest and his feet, shod in very large, very scuffed boots, propped on the arm. His jaw was shadowed by a day's growth of thick black whiskers, and his ebony hair was mussed, as though rearranged by an impatient hand. All in all he was the picture of a nineteenth-century Wild-West outlaw snatching a quick nap between stage robberies. The moment they entered, he opened his eyes and sat up, instantly alert and ready to move.

  "Everything under control?" he asked, his voice graveled from sleep.

  Sophie nodded. Even though she knew the concern he'd showed her was strictly impersonal and prompted by his strong sense of duty, there was something reliable and solid about his
calm eyes and resolute mouth that tempted her to walk into his arms and lay her head on his shoulder. Instinctively, she knew he wasn't the kind to welcome a woman readily or without thought, but once he'd taken her into his arms, he would risk even life itself to keep her safe.

  Fighting a sharp pang of loneliness, she turned to the doctor and smiled. "Thank you again for seeing us so late."

  "You are quite welcome, my dear, and I meant what I said about calling me at any hour if you feel the need."

  "I will, I promise."

  Sophie was suddenly close to tears. With the exception of Ransom Talley, every single soul she'd met since arriving in Clover had been unstintingly kind to her and Jessie. The contrast between the past few months here and the year that had gone before was so marked she sometimes marveled that she'd actually survived those hellish months with her sanity intact.

  "Thanks, Doc," Ford said, shaking the older man's hand. "If we're done here, I'd best get these two tired ladies home."

  "Give me a minute to call a couple of prescriptions into Cliff Phelps before you head out," the doctor said before disappearing into his office. Finding herself suddenly alone with Ford, Sophie felt her heart start to race.

  "She looks better already," he said, smoothing Jessie's soft curls with a long forefinger. There was an awkward gentleness about him that drew Sophie in, even as she fought to maintain an emotional distance.

  "The doctor said ear infections are common in babies this time of year and not to worry." Even as she repeated Dr. Gossely's words, she knew that she would be awake and watchful for the remaining hours of the night.

  His lived-in gray eyes crinkled, adding unexpected charm to his dark bandit's face. "Easy to say, hard to do, I reckon."

  "You reckon right, Sheriff," she murmured, wanting desperately to be back in her tower room, just Jessie and her.

  "Hmm, Miss Sophie, you wouldn't be making fun of this ole boy's accent, now would you?"