When You Knew (The Cabots Book 3)

by Jamie Beck

  “Why’s he at a motel?” Gentry wondered aloud. She recalled thinking him handsome, which said a lot considering the Freddy Krueger–caliber labor pains stabbing her belly when they’d met. Not that it mattered. Handsome men weren’t a priority. The last time she’d dived into that pool—her one-night stand in Napa with a gorgeous man she knew only as “Smith”—she’d ended up with Colt. Now she hadn’t the interest in or time for men or, sadly, sex.

  “Gloria said something about his fiancée breaking things off, and him coming home to get his things.” Sara had met Ian’s mother, Gloria, because that woman ran the Angel House, a homeless shelter for women and children where Sara volunteered. “It’s possible he hasn’t got the security deposit to rent someplace new.”

  “Why’d he bother with that when he could’ve had his things boxed and shipped?” Gentry conjured his unforgettable green eyes, wavy umber hair, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. A “boy next door” type with a dash of sexy.

  “Maybe he hoped to save his relationship.” Sara kissed Colt and stroked his silky hair, clearly less interested in Ian’s story than Gentry was. “Let’s see if he’ll come take a listen.”

  Gentry shot Hunter a look. He shrugged, which meant he knew that Sara wouldn’t let up, and he wasn’t going to argue.

  “You’re totally overreacting.” Gentry placed the back of her hand on Colt’s forehead, which did feel a little warm. Not scary hot or anything. She rummaged through the kitchen drawer stuffed with 1,001 infant gizmos. When she located the baby thermometer, she held it up and almost cried, “Eureka!” Instead, she stuck it in Colt’s ear until it beeped. “Ninety-nine point six. Nothing a little baby Tylenol can’t handle.”

  “That won’t help his lungs. Wouldn’t you rather be safe than sorry?” Sara shrugged a shoulder.

  A quiet stare-down ensued for four seconds, maybe five. Fiddle-flippin’-sticks.

  “Fine. Call Ian.” Hopefully, the guy would laugh, and Sara would back down. Gentry reached for her son. Once she had him in her arms, she said, “Excuse me.”

  While Sara called Ian and conferred with Hunter, Gentry took Colt to the bathroom and dabbed a cool washcloth across his forehead. She checked his writhing body for a rash but found none. Clearish fluid—not green gunk—ran from his nose.

  Sara’s concern niggled, even though Gentry seriously doubted the need to call in reinforcements. While she changed Colt’s diaper, she was struck by his absolute dependence on her judgment. His utter trust. In her.

  Her poor son.

  If he could speak, she’d know what he needed. Instead, she remained stymied, trying to decipher one cry from another. Trying to determine if his head, ears, or belly caused the ache that kept him crying. What? What? What?

  She lifted him and swayed, humming softly in a fruitless attempt to comfort them both. In all honesty, at any second she could fall apart or asleep—a real toss-up. In the privacy of the bathroom, she closed her eyes while clinging to her child. It’s us against the world, baby.

  Either God took pity on her or Colt had finally worn himself out, because his crying subsided to a dull kind of whine. Gentry inhaled deeply and rolled her shoulders back. By the time she returned to the living room, Ian was knocking on the door.

  An inadvertent glance in the mirror set off a new shock wave of horror. Who was that anxious, depleted soul staring back at her? No wonder Hunter and Sara had been stunned into silence when they’d first arrived.

  Gentry closed her eyes again, momentarily imagining herself in her normal clothes: Gaultier, perhaps? Trendy, high-heeled shoes that drew attention to her long legs and ankle tattoo. A multitude of bracelets on her arm. Her auburn hair artfully woven in a waterfall braid. The image of her old self enabled her to tip up her chin and pretend spit-up didn’t coat her robe.

  She opened her eyes just as Sara escorted Ian inside. At least her messy apartment would still look like a palace compared with the disaster zones he’d navigated.

  Ian hadn’t known what to make of Sara’s call. They’d spoken only on a few brief occasions, but his mother held her in high regard. He remembered their first encounter, when she’d been hurt by a resident’s abusive husband, who’d barged into the Angel House in search of his wife. Once Ian had made sure neither woman was hurt, Sara had shifted to the role of matchmaker, pimping the very sister-in-law who now needed help. The same one he’d met months ago, when she’d unexpectedly gone into labor.

  He suspected part of Sara’s current agenda once again involved playing Cupid, otherwise they could’ve taken the infant to an urgent care facility. Whether or not Gentry was a coconspirator had yet to be determined.

  He stepped inside the swanky, newly constructed unit, with its picture-perfect views framed by massive plate glass windows. This joint probably cost upwards of a million bucks. Like a reflex, his mind immediately calculated other uses for that kind of money: medicine, water, clothes . . . food. Or a donation to the EMT training facility he was founding in Haiti, in his father’s name, with the help of his dad’s old friend Dr. Archer Cooke.

  “Thank you for coming out of your way tonight.” Sara led him into the living room. She gestured to the imposing man on her left. “This is my husband, Hunter, and his sister Gentry, whom you might remember. And that little bundle is Colt.”

  Ian shook Hunter’s hand, reminding himself not to nitpick. Sara volunteered at the shelter, and the Cabot family had started a foundation that supported a number of community-outreach programs. If they also thought monogrammed dress shirts and gold watches were important, who was he to judge? “Nice to meet you.”

  He then turned to Gentry, who didn’t look particularly grateful to see him despite the polite smile on her face. She sure hadn’t primped for his arrival, he thought, holding back a wry smile. Clearly, she was no more interested in Sara’s matchmaking than he was. Good.

  Ian had zero interest in being fixed up with any woman so soon after his breakup with Farrah. His disinterest went doubly so with respect to an heiress to the Cabot Tea fortune, who’d likely drive him up the wall with her oblivious privileged complaints.

  “Sorry. I asked Sara not to bother you.” Despite the circles under her eyes, the ratty ponytail, and bathrobe in need of a serious washing, Gentry Cabot was tall and proud, with striking green eyes and a naturally flirtatious smile. Even her grimy robe didn’t hamper a sudden tug of attraction—an untimely and unwelcome response—leaving him strangely thunderstruck.

  “It’s fine. I wasn’t busy.”

  “Well, now that you’re here, these two can go home with a clear conscience.” Gentry’s pointed look and quick nod toward the door left no doubt about her dismissal. In less than five minutes and twenty-five words, she seemed like a modern-day Scarlett O’Hara, but hopefully not that manipulative. She patted her brother’s cheek. “Thanks for bringing me dinner, but I think we’ve got this little situation under control.”

  “But—” Sara began.

  “I promise I’ll call you with a full report. I’ll even type it up and highlight the bullet points if that makes you feel better.” Gentry affected a playful smirk.

  Oh yeah. Her sarcasm confirmed his quick assessment.

  “Smart-ass.” Hunter kissed his sister’s forehead. With a final scan of her unkempt apartment and Ian’s emergency bag, he said, “Come on, Sara. Let’s go before we get cooties and end up getting Ty sick.”

  Sara stroked Colt’s head and drew a deep inhalation of his baby scent before kissing his face. “Okay. Thanks again, Ian.” She glanced around the disaster area that was Gentry’s living room, her nose wrinkling with empathy. “Gentry, I’ll check in tomorrow.”

  Hunter spun her toward the door before she’d find an excuse to stay. As they left, he waved at Ian. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Same.” Ian nodded, curious about the whiff of tension between Gentry and the others.

  Gentry closed the door and faced him, shrugging a bit too nonchalantly. “Well, what ne
xt?”

  Some might admire her tough-girl routine, but he’d seen genuine mettle up close often enough to know the difference. Natalia, in Macao, Colombia, who’d lost a child in a massive mudslide but soldiered on to care for her others. Children like Makenly, Lise, and Richo, who were students at Marie Ormont’s school in Haiti and remained curious despite a lack of adequate food, resources, or water. Those traits proved real strength.

  Lucky for her, Gentry Cabot’s strength would probably never be tested.

  Ian reached for the child. “Why don’t I take a listen? Sara mentioned a concern about wheezing.”

  Gentry carefully handed her son to him. For a moment, her guarded expression softened—eyes shining with a mother’s devotion. “I’m sure this isn’t necessary, but if I didn’t let Sara call you, she wouldn’t have slept all night from worry.”

  That might be true, but he suspected Gentry wouldn’t mind reassurance, either.

  “It’s not an inconvenience.” Taking fifteen minutes out of his life to do a stranger a favor took about as much thought as breathing.

  “We took his temperature ten minutes ago. Ninety-nine point six.” Gentry hovered over his shoulder as he laid the baby on the suede sofa and pulled out a stethoscope.

  Gentry’s pinched brow and drawn mouth didn’t look all that different from that of other young mothers he’d witnessed in fieldwork. He supposed a mother’s worry transcended race and socioeconomic status.

  Ian’s thoughts then flitted to the acceptance he’d seen in other parents’ eyes when illness and food shortages wreaked havoc on their lives. Those memories made it tough to consider “everyday problems” as being grave. But life experience shaped perspective, and Gentry’s sheltered existence didn’t make her motherhood worries less troubling to her than anyone else’s were to them.

  “Has he thrown up or had excessive diarrhea?” Ian asked. He listened to Colt’s rapid heartbeat, which he could barely hear, thanks to the baby’s fussing.

  “No.”

  “Any rashes?” He cast a quick look at her.

  “No.” Gentry brushed her hand across her scalp and stroked her ponytail. “Honestly, he’s been colicky since that first week. He gets all fired up, and nothing calms him down. Even those ‘drops’ I read about don’t do shit—squat. Sorry.”

  She flicked her hand in a way that suggested she wasn’t very sorry.

  “Curse away—it’s your place.” He offered a smile meant to comfort, but she started chewing on her thumbnail.

  From the looks of things, Gentry had no help around the house. She didn’t wear a ring on her left hand, either, so her baby’s dad might not be overly involved.

  He knew a little something about the hardship faced by a single mom. Although his parents had been married, his father had traveled the world, saving others, leaving Ian’s mother alone to raise him for long stretches of time. “Does he have reflux?”

  “Not that I know of.” She frowned. “The doctor never tested for it or anything. Is that even something an eight-week-old can get?”

  “It’s possible.”

  She continued biting her nails.

  Ian examined Colt’s chest and watched him breathe, seeing no overt signs of respiratory distress—no sucking in under the ribs, no blue-tinted skin. Still, Sara had mentioned Colt’s preemie status, and Ian knew enough to know that, with infants, things could change quickly.

  The other thing he knew—Gentry wasn’t as calm and collected as she wanted to appear. Few new mothers were, and this one looked like she’d barely survived a zombie apocalypse. Dealing with any infant, let alone a colicky one, was challenging.

  An unexpected swell of empathy arose, softening the edges of his harsh opinions.

  “Nothing’s setting off alarms, but there’s a slight chest rattle you should monitor tonight.”

  She closed her eyes and tucked her chin. “So Sara was right?”

  He watched her defeated expression pinch with worry even as she stifled a yawn. Without rest, she’d end up sick, too. “You look like you could use a little break. Go lie down for a bit. I’ll keep an eye on Colt.”

  “Why would you do that?” Just like that, her guard went back up.

  “Because that’s what I do.” From the time he could walk, his mom and dad had taught him how to read a situation and offer assistance. And anytime he thought of his dad, who’d died trying to save others, his heart washed in a mix of pride and sorrow.

  “Sara says that about you. She thinks you’re a superhero.” Gentry narrowed her eyes a tad, hip already cocked. “I don’t believe in superheroes.”

  The hint of coyness in her husky voice affected him in a primal way he couldn’t escape. “I’m no superhero. Perhaps Prince Charming, though.”

  Her lips quirked; her eyes glittered with humor. Tickling her funny bone made him feel . . . something. Something better than he’d been feeling these past couple of days while he’d been trying to regroup. Something he didn’t quite understand.

  “Since Sara vouches for you, I guess I can trust you.”

  “An Eagle Scout at your service.” When he lifted Colt up to his chest, Gentry’s cocky expression slipped. “You can trust me.”

  She came close enough that he could feel her warmth. She kissed Colt’s head and then looked Ian in the eye. “I’ll take a quick shower and maybe rest for fifteen minutes.”

  “Take your time.”

  She wandered toward the hallway. Before she disappeared around the corner, she stopped, hand on the wall, and turned toward him. Despite her dirty robe and unwashed hair, her posture and bearing rivaled any princess. “Thank you.”

  He nodded.

  Thirty minutes later, with Gentry’s catnap having turned into a deep slumber, Ian had found the formula and bottles—which hadn’t been difficult because they were sitting out on the counter along with almost everything else. He fed the boy, burped him, and changed his diaper. When the kid wouldn’t keep still against his chest, Ian strolled onto the deck, hoping a change of temperature and scenery might do some good.

  Even in June, nighttime temperatures around Lake Sandy often dipped into the fifties. Tonight was no exception. A gentle breeze seemed to catch Colt by surprise, causing him to go still and stop whining. Surrounded by the music of a thousand crickets, Ian swayed back and forth like a human cradle as he looked down the hill toward the lake.

  The murky-blue light from the half moon cast the forested slope in animated shadows. Leafy trees murmured in the summer wind, calming the infant, who seemed to be burrowing into Ian’s soft chambray shirt. The million-dollar view had to be beautiful in daylight, but Ian preferred the peacefulness of nighttime. He didn’t get much peace and quiet in Haiti, where he’d spent the majority of his time this past year training others for disaster preparedness and, more recently, working with Archer, Stanley Delbeau, and Sainte Michel Hospital administrators to structure their venture.

  There he spent muggy nights huddled on a net-covered bed, listening to the tinny buzz of mosquitoes and the eerie beat of the distant drumming from mysterious, off-limits voodoo ceremonies. Those things might’ve made sleep impossible if it hadn’t been for the effects of overwhelming exhaustion.

  Here in Oregon, he never experienced that bone-deep kind of tired, which wasn’t a surprise. If anything, whenever stateside, he felt a bit twitchy, like he knew he had someplace more important to be. Someplace where he had a million chances to improve others’ lives and carry out his father’s mission.

  His father’s legacy called to him on a constant basis. And when he was out there serving others, his nightmare—the memory of the last time he’d seen his father, when he’d lost him in the aftermath of the Haitian earthquake—always subsided.

  Farrah had never gotten that. She’d pretended to in the beginning, but she’d grown tired of being alone so often. Impatient to begin the future and family she wanted. Now that Ian was single again, he could fully commit to memorializing the man who’d meant everything to him
, without guilt.

  Somewhere beneath the deck, he heard a wild animal foraging. A raccoon, perhaps. He realized then that Colt had actually fallen asleep against his chest. He opened the door and stepped back inside. Guessing that the baby’s bassinet was in Gentry’s room, he settled Colt in the playpen set up in the space between the living and dining rooms.

  Had the slight rattle he’d heard earlier been temporarily been relieved by the cold air? He gently touched the back of his hand to Colt’s head. Still warm despite having just been outside.

  He frowned and looked over his shoulder toward Gentry’s bedroom. She was bushed. He should let her sleep.

  With nothing better to do, he began folding the various blankets and stacking the photographs of Colt and empty frames scattered across the massive glass dining table. A little unexpected help went a long way toward lightening the load for people under stress. Although this Lake Sandy condo was far from a true disaster zone, he had no doubt that Gentry Cabot was in over her head.

  Chapter Two

  Baffling

  According to Merriam-Webster: extremely confusing or difficult to understand

  According to me: Ian Crawford

  Gentry bolted upright in her bed and gasped as if she’d broken through Lake Sandy’s surface in search of oxygen. The red numbers of the digital clock read 5:36. Eight-plus hours of uninterrupted sleep. What the hell had happened to Colt?

  She tossed the covers aside and bounded to his bassinet. Empty! Without another thought, she ran—bare feet chilled by the cold walnut floors—to the living room, then stopped short.

  Was it possible to be disoriented and confused because of more sleep? She shook her head to wake herself up.

  The barest light in the sky came through the huge windows, giving her a clear view of the space. The clean space. Blankets neatly folded beside the sofa. Half-empty bottles removed. Playthings tucked away behind an oversize chair. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air.

  Mm-mm.