Sweet Baby

by Sharon Sala

  Sweet Baby

  Sharon Sala

  Sweet Baby

  Copyright © 1998, 2015 by Sharon Sala

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Electronic edition published 2015 by RosettaBooks

  Cover design by Carly Schnur

  ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795345098

  www.RosettaBooks.com

  I wrote this book for all the children who needed a Sweet Baby, but didn’t have one.

  I will say a prayer each night for the children who cry and no one hears.

  I will say a prayer each night for the children who wake up hungry and go to bed the same way.

  I will say a prayer each night for the children who are missing, and for those who are lost.

  I will say a prayer each night for the children who suffer alone because they have no one who cares.

  I will say a prayer each night for the children that no one loves.

  I will say a prayer for the children.

  I will say a prayer each night, because when no one else is listening, God still hears.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Sharon Sala

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Rural Arkansas, 1973

  A rooster tail of dust billowed behind the bright yellow school bus as it rumbled down the Arkansas back roads, returning the children of Calico Rock to their homes.

  It was dry for September. The narrow, two-lane road on which the bus was traveling was bordered on both sides with an abundance of dust-covered greens. Old trees, tall and angular, struggled for space among new growth in the constant act of taking root. On the ground beneath, bushes and scrub brush flourished, hanging on to their place in the mountains with fierce persistence.

  The sky was pale, a blue so light it almost seemed white, and the sun beaming down on the roof of the bus sweltered the children inside like so many beans in a can. Sweat ran out of their hair and down their faces as they chattered away. They didn’t care that it was hot, because it was Friday, and they were going home.

  But though the noise level inside the bus was high, there was the occasional child, like six-year-old Victoria Lancaster, who sat alone in her seat, quietly contemplating the day’s events and longing for the first sight of home.

  Last night had been a first for young Tory in more ways than one. She and seven other little girls had spent the night at Mary Ellen Wiggins’ slumber party. For Tory, it was the first time in her life that she’d slept somewhere other than beneath her mother’s roof—and without her dolly, Sweet Baby. And she hadn’t cried. Not even once.

  As the bus began to brake, she looked up. The Broyles brothers were getting off. That meant she would be next. Her mouth pursed as she thought back to last night. She couldn’t wait to tell her mommy about Mary Ellen’s party. Roasting wieners and marshmallows and then telling ghost stories after the house was dark had been scary—but so much fun. Mommy would be so proud of her for not asking to go home.

  The bus hit a bump, and Tory clutched at the brown paper sack in her lap. It held yesterday’s dirty school clothes, as well as her nightgown. There was a ketchup stain on her dress and marshmallow on the front of her gown, but she wasn’t too worried. Mommy never yelled at her for things like that. In fact, Mommy hardly ever yelled at all, and when she did, she was usually yelling at Ollie.

  She sighed, remembering a time in their life when Ollie hadn’t lived with them and wishing it could be that way again. Ollie was always teasing her about being a momma’s baby. When she got home, she would show him. She’d spent the whole night away from home. Babies couldn’t do that!

  Right in the middle of planning what she would say to Ollie, a voice suddenly shrieked in her ear. “Tory’s got a boyfriend. Tory’s got a boyfriend.”

  Tory turned in her seat and stuck out her tongue, glaring angrily at the boy behind her. It was that stupid old Arthur Beckham. After less than six weeks of first grade, she’d already figured out that the older boys got, the dumber they became.

  When he laughed in her face, she spun back in her seat, red-faced and a little bit shocked by her own temerity. When she got to be a fourth-grader, she wouldn’t pick on little kids like Arthur did, of that she was certain.

  Once more the bus began to slow. Tory glanced out the window as the brakes locked, then squeaked. When she saw the familiar rooftop of her home, she grabbed hold of the seat in front of her for balance, then stood. Arthur Beckham made a face at her as she passed down the aisle, but she was too anxious to get home to give him another thought. As she stepped off the bus, an errant wind lifted the hem of her dress, but she didn’t care. The moment her feet hit the dirt, she began to run.

  An orange-and-black butterfly fluttered just ahead of her, riding the wind current with delicate ease, and it almost seemed as if they were racing. The fantasy caught in her mind, and she shifted into an all-out stride. The afternoon sun caught and then held in the tangles of her long, blond hair. Had anyone been around to notice, they might have imagined they’d seen a halo above her head. But it was the end of the day, and had one been inclined to consider her an angel, she would have been a grubby one at best.

  There was a skinned spot on her knee, a smudge from lunch on the front of her dress, and her shoes and anklets wore a light coating of dust as her little legs churned, making short work of the distance to the house. The brown paper bag she held clutched in one fist was torn at the top and about to give way, but it didn’t matter now. She was almost there.

  Just as Tory’s feet hit the front steps, the butterfly darted off to the left. She laughed aloud, calling out to her mother as she grabbed the screen door and yanked.

  “Mommy! Mommy! I’m home! You should have seen me! I was racing a butterfly and—”

  She froze as the echo of her own voice moved from room to empty room, drifting like a bad memory that wouldn’t go away. A draft of hot air came from somewhere before her, shifting the hem of her dress and pushing the fabric against her bare legs. Tory took a step farther, then another, and another, unaware when the brown paper bag she’d been holding fell from her fingers and onto the floor.

  Everything was gone, from the faded blue curtains on the windows to the furniture that had been sitting on the floors. Her heart skipped a beat. Even though her eyes were seeing the truth, her heart would not accept it.

  “Mommy?”

  She cocked her head, listening for the familiar sound of her mother’s voice, but all she heard was the faint grinding of gears as the school bus climbed the hill on the road beyond.

  She called out again, her voice trembling. “Mommy? Mommy? I’m home.”

  The silence beyond the sound of her voice was insidious, amplifying the call of a bird in the tree outside the kitchen window. Somewhere within the house she heard a cricket chirp, and her heart leaped. Mommy hated crickets in the house. Any minute she would come racing into the room to get rid of it. She turned toward the doorway, her big blue eyes tear-filled and horror-stricken. But nothing moved, and no one came.

  She called again. “Mommy… where are you?”

  All she could hear was the thunder of her heartbeat, drowning out the sound of her own voice. She r
an toward her bedroom, the only sanctuary she knew. If she crawled onto her bed and cuddled Sweet Baby, Mommy would surely come home.

  But it was as vacant as the rest of the house. And as she stood in the doorway, she started to shake. Sweat broke out across her forehead, beading on her upper lip. Her little bed—the one with the pale pink spread—was missing. Even worse, Sweet Baby was nowhere to be found.

  Near hysteria, she began turning in a circle, her fingers knotting into tiny fists as she began to chant, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” as if saying the word enough times would make her mother appear.

  Frantic, her gaze moved to the open closet door. Everything, including her new Sunday school shoes, was missing. Gone! Everything and everyone was gone!

  She began to circle the four small rooms in the clapboard house, racing in and then out again as her hysteria grew, shouting her mother’s name over and over until there was nothing left of Tory Lancaster but a scream.

  The sound of a car going by on the road beyond sent her running to the doorway, but when it went past without a sign of slowing down, she backed up in sudden fear. Alone! She was alone! It was only after she’d backed herself into a corner of the room that she stopped, her eyes wide and staring, her expression blank. Tears were drying on her cheeks as she slowly sank into a squatting position, her gaze fixed on the door.

  The afternoon turned into dusk, dusk into night, but Tory Lancaster never moved. She was waiting—waiting for Mommy to come home.

  One

  It was the faint but distinct sound of a closing door that yanked Brett Hooker out of a restless sleep and sent him reaching for the gun in the bedside table. In the few moments between sleepy confusion and the return of complete cognizance, he slid the gun back into the drawer, then pushed it shut.

  She was back!

  The wild thump of his heart began to slow down, returning to a regular rhythm. He rose up on one elbow, staring at the open doorway and accepting the weakness within him for putting up with a woman who was more gypsy than lover, wondering what it was about her that made it all worthwhile.

  Something clunked on the living room floor, followed by a softly muttered curse. A few seconds later, another less distinct sound drifted down the hallway and into the bedroom. He tensed. She was moving through the apartment, toward the bedroom—toward him.

  He lay back and closed his eyes, willing her to hurry. It had been so damned long since he’d held her that it hurt.

  ***

  The heaviest of Tory Lancaster’s camera bags had threatened to slide off her shoulder as she thrust the key in the lock. Without wasted motion, she’d hitched it higher and turned the key.

  Silently, the door swung back as she stepped inside. She paused on the threshold, unaware she was holding her breath. Had she been looking in a mirror, she would have been surprised to know there was a faint look of fear on her face. Only after she heard the familiar night sounds of Brett Hooker’s apartment did she shut the door behind her and relax. She slipped the camera bags off her shoulders and then eased her duffel bag to the floor beside them, breathing a sigh of relief.

  Then she stood in the quiet, listening to a clock ticking on the kitchen wall, measuring the inconsistent drip of the faucet at the kitchen sink, savoring the hum of the refrigerator motor, feeling Brett’s presence, although she had yet to see his face.

  Unaware of the game her subconscious mind always played with her heart, the fear faded from her eyes and she began to calm. He was home. Just as he’d promised he would be. But there was always that doubt within Victoria Lancaster’s heart that even time hadn’t been able to erase. Although her intermittent absences from this man and his home were part of her life-style—part of her job as a freelance photojournalist—it was the manner in which she took leave of him each time that was the telling factor in Tory’s inability to commit. He’d promised he would always be waiting, but subconsciously, she kept testing his word, testing his faith.

  Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes, savoring the texture of the air. It was warm and welcoming, and she shivered with sudden longing, opening her arms wide, then enfolding herself within the safety of these walls like rolling up within the folds of an old, familiar blanket. Down the hallway to her left, a bedspring squeaked, and a sudden urgency made her reach for the buttons on her shirt.

  Brett!

  It had been six weeks since she’d last seen him, but it felt like six months. The need to feel the tautness of his muscles and the strength of his body hammering between her legs made her weak with longing. She spun, and in the dark she stubbed her toe on the small table near the entryway. A soft curse slipped from her lips as she reached to steady the vase rocking on its surface.

  Once it was settled, Tory’s hands went back to the shirt buttons, then her belt, then the button fly of her jeans. Within the familiar darkness of Brett Hooker’s home, she began to undress, leaving a trail of her clothing to mark her passing. When she stepped through the doorway to his bedroom, she was naked. The last thing she did was take down her hair. It spilled from her hands, sliding against her neck and then across her shoulders like a rich satin curtain, the ash-blond color a pale contrast to her smooth, white skin.

  Shivering with a longing she would never have named, she stared at the sleeping man upon the bed, struggling with the ache of loneliness within her chest. Why? Why, if she loved him so much, did she keep leaving him behind? Tory closed her eyes and said a small, quiet prayer.

  God, please don’t let me mess this up.

  And then she looked, and he was coming toward her through the shadows, his steps slow but measured, the tilt of his head a warning to the intent of his actions. When he opened his arms, she fell into them. And when he wrapped his hands in the long length of her hair and pulled, tilting her head back to meet his descending mouth, she sensed an unvoiced anger.

  “Tory, Tory. My God, but I missed you.”

  His whisper shattered the silence in which they stood. Tears spiked beneath her eyelids as she gave herself up to his need. Her name on his lips was both a prayer and a joy. And then Brett picked her up and carried her back to his bed.

  “I missed you, too,” she said softly.

  His voice was harsh as he pinned her beneath his hard, aching body. “Prove it.”

  She sighed, feeling the needy surge of him against her thigh. Now she was on familiar ground. She pushed at his shoulders, urging him to let her control the action. He complied with a reluctant groan. But when she straddled his legs and took him into her hands, she heard him groan again, then felt him relax. Only then did she know it would be all right.

  Stroke after sensuous stroke, she stoked his passion until his control suddenly snapped. He rose up on one elbow, whispering promises to her, that, even after the three years they’d been together, made her blush. Before she could react, he had her flat on her back, his hand between her legs. After that, what was left of the night became a series of gut-wrenching climaxes that left her weak and shaking, then begging for more.

  Somewhere among them, Brett shared one, taking her fast and hard, his control shattering along with what was left of her mind.

  ***

  It was almost daybreak. Brett looked down at the sleeping woman in his arms and then back up at the ceiling, willing himself not to move. Just for the moment, the paradise of having her safe in his bed, of knowing that she was still alive and whole, was too precious to ruin.

  And time passed.

  Morning light was spilling into the room as Tory opened her eyes. For the moment, a smattering of chest hair and one hard brown nipple were all she could see, but it was enough for her to remember where she was. With Brett.

  Stretching slowly like a waking cat, she closed her eyes and inhaled the essence of the man beside her, savoring the masculine smell that was uniquely his, as well as the lingering scent of their lovemaking that was still on their bodies. She snuggled against him as his deep, sleep-heavy voice broke the silence between them.

  “It�
�s about damned time.”

  By way of apology, Tory kissed his chin as she looked up. “It was a long drive, and you didn’t let me get much sleep. I couldn’t seem to wake up.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the fact that we overslept. I was talking about the fact that you finally decided to come back.”

  Tory stiffened. This wasn’t the way their morning-afters normally went. Then she remembered the anger she’d sensed in him last night. Old fear suddenly coiled in her belly, but she thrust it aside. With an easy smile, she reached up to cup his cheek, admiring with an artist’s eye the shapely cut of his nose, the strength of his cheeks and jaw-line, as well as the near perfect conformity of black-winged eyebrows and lashes shading a shattering blue gaze. She traced the lower edge of his lip, testing the sensuous cut of it with the edge of her nail, then kissed the spot she’d teased.

  “But I always come back.”

  Brett grabbed her hands and then rolled, pinning her beneath him.

  “So far,” he said harshly, hating himself for putting that fear in her eyes, yet needing to push, wanting her to say something that would take away the knot in his gut. The one that came from his own fear that one day she would leave him and never return.

  Tory stifled a gasp, trying unsuccessfully to free her wrists from his grasp.

  “Brett, don’t!” she begged.

  It was useless. He was too strong, and at that moment, too angry to hear anything but the sound of his own voice.

  “You know, Tory, I’m curious.”

  She shifted nervously beneath him. “About what?”

  “How long this is going to go on.”

  A quick shaft of unnamed terror moved through her mind. Her heart kicked out of rhythm as the blood began to drain from her face, but Tory didn’t know how she looked, and if she had, she wouldn’t have cared. Her entire focus was on the man above her and the subject of their conversation.

  “How long is what going to go on?”

  He almost sneered. “You know. This business of Tory calling all the shots and Brett taking the blows.” His fingers tightened as his voice rose. “Goddamn it, Victoria, you assume a lot.”