"At any rate, I have a private investigator looking for Sarah," Matt continued, turning to face her. "Now that we know she's somewhere in the city, we should be able to find her. I guess I'll take Emily back to the apartment and wait." He shook his head with impatience. "I hate waiting."
"Emily will keep you company."
Matt sent her a doubtful look. "I hope she doesn't start screaming again. Will you come by when you're done here?"
Caitlyn hesitated. "Uh, I don't know."
"Please. I don't know anything about babies. And I don't want to do something wrong or hurt her in any way." He paused, looking into her eyes with a hopeful expression. "I only moved to town a couple of months ago, so there's no one else to call. I don't really have any friends...."
"Yeah, yeah, you're breaking my heart," she said dryly. "I should tell you, Matt, that I've been manipulated by the best, so I can pretty much recognize a sob story when I hear one."
"I would appreciate your help. This isn't an area I know how to control."
And she had a feeling there wasn't much else in his life he didn't control down to the last detail. "You're pretty good at getting what you want, aren't you?"
"That depends on your answer," he said, turning on the killer smile he'd used on Tiffany earlier.
If Caitlyn had any sense, she'd say no. Just say no, she told herself. It's an easy word, just spit it out. But with Emily looking at her with her big brown eyes and Matt looking at her with his big brown eyes, she was completely lost.
"I'll come by," she said. "For a few minutes, just to check on you. But no disappearing on me."
"Deal."
She handed Matt the baby, who didn't seem to mind cuddling up on Matt's strong shoulder. Emily apparently sensed that he was one of the good guys. And something inside of Caitlyn told her the same thing. She put a hand on his arm, and the heat between them suddenly seemed to sizzle.
He looked into her eyes, and she felt her stomach clench. She'd meant to offer him a gesture of comfort, but instead the touch had created an awareness between them, a connection, a sexual attraction. Oh, Lord. Another complication! She dropped her hand from his arm. "You better go," she said abruptly.
He stared into her eyes as if he were seeing her for the first time. "I'm leaving," he said somewhat gruffly as he bent over to put Emily in her car seat. He awkwardly fiddled with the straps as she began to squirm. "Shit. Can't she just sit still?"
"You have to show her who's the boss."
He rolled his eyes as he looked up at Caitlyn. "I think we both know she's the boss."
"Maybe. By the way, I almost ran into Mrs. Pederman on my way out this morning. I had to hide in the laundry room so she wouldn't see the baby."
"Mrs. Pederman?"
"The nosy old lady who lives by the elevator and asks who you are every time you walk in the front door."
"Oh, her."
"She takes a nap between one and three every day, so you should be okay, but maybe you should leave the car seat in the car and –"
"And do what, smuggle her in under my jacket?"
"I don't know; you're the investigative reporter. Figure something out. But whatever you do, don't let her see the baby or we'll both be in trouble. I do not want to lose my apartment."
He frowned. "This isn't going to work."
"It will if Sarah comes back today."
"If being the operative word. The women in my family have a history of disappearing."
"She said she'd be in touch. Have some faith."
"I'm trying, but I don't have a good feeling about this."
Neither did Caitlyn, but she hoped she was wrong, because getting Matt and Emily out of her life as soon as possible suddenly seemed desperately important.
* * *
The Reverend Jonathan Mitchell stared down at the broken glass. The small window by the back door of the church had once again been broken, the third time this month. He hated to give in to cynicism, to hopelessness, but even he could take only so much without losing patience. He might be a minister, but he was also a man.
Pauline Evans, the church secretary, an African American woman in her mid-fifties, clucked disapprovingly as she saw the damage. "I think it's time to put a board over that window," she said.
"It's bad enough we have to lock the church at night. If we start boarding up all the windows, we might as well lock God into a safety-deposit box."
"It's just another homeless person looking for a warm place to sleep," Pauline replied. "Or a runaway."
"But if they come here, maybe they're not just running away, maybe they're running to something."
Her stern expression softened. "I know there's always hope, but honestly, Jonathan, I think sometimes you're too optimistic. You have to face facts. There isn't enough money in the church budget to keep replacing broken windows."
"Then maybe we should just unlock the door," he said with a smile.
She shook her head. "And what will they do to the inside of the church, to our sanctuary?"
"But that's just the point, it isn't our sanctuary, it belongs to everyone."
"You're young, you'll change your mind. The Reverend Wallace locked this church up twenty years ago, and it's the only reason it's in as good a condition as it is."
Jonathan was tiring of the constant references to Reverend Wallace, whose place he had taken a year earlier when the good minister had finally decided to retire at seventy-nine. At thirty-three, Jonathan was much younger, and he knew he had a lot to learn, but he also knew he had a lot to give, if he could just figure out the best way to give it.
"You know the church board will use this broken window as one more reason to close the church," Pauline pointed out.
He sighed, knowing she was right. With the neighborhood deteriorating around them and the low attendance at Sunday services, there was growing pressure to close the church and sell the land for a profit that could be used at other churches within the ministry.
Jonathan didn't want to see his ministry closed. The people in the community needed the church; he just had to make them realize that. Sometimes the task ahead of him seemed impossible. Maybe if he was a different kind of preacher, more like his father, with fire and brimstone and passion in every word, he'd draw in the masses. But he wasn't his father, and he had to stop making the comparison, even if he couldn't stop others within the religious world from making it.
Just the other day one of the board members had suggested he ask his father to visit, to come in and preach a sermon that would have the rafters shaking with the force of his personality, with the passion of God's word delivered in a way that only William Mitchell could deliver.
But Jonathan didn't want to ask for his father's help, didn't want to admit that he needed the help. It was selfish on his part, and he prayed for forgiveness every night. He wanted to make it on his own. He wanted to find his own way to serve God, not just follow in his father's overly large footsteps.
"Why don't you call someone to fix the window?" he suggested to Pauline, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand.
"Are you sure you don't want me to go inside with you? Lord only knows who's in there."
"That's exactly true, Pauline. The Lord knows. That's why I'm not worried about going in by myself." Jonathan smiled at Pauline's disapproval of his sometimes irreverent humor. Ah, well, they'd figure out a way to work together. Because deep down they both wanted the same thing.
As Pauline left to call for a window replacement, Jonathan let himself into the church. All was quiet, nothing out of place, nothing damaged. His practiced eye noted all the details at the altar, then he walked down the center aisle, looking into each pew. It wasn't until he came to the last one that he saw her -- fast asleep.
She looked like a tiny broken bird, a raven -- with straight black hair down to her waist, pale white skin, small bones, old clothes that hung big on her frame. She shifted on the bench, obviously uncomfortable. It was then he caught sight of her face, her
swollen cheek, black eye, cut lip. Each wound made his fingers clench tighter in his fist.
Someone had hurt this beautiful creature and hurt her badly. His gaze traveled down to her hand, to the sharp jagged cuts that could have been made only by shattered glass. He'd found his trespasser. Was she just another down-on-her-luck story or was she something more?
He caught his breath as her eyelids flickered and slowly opened to reveal eyes as dark and as deep as a starless sky. She saw him watching her and sat up abruptly.
"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.
"I'm leaving now. You don't have to call the cops." She tried to stand up, but swayed, then sat back down. "I feel a little dizzy.”
"What's your name?”
"Why?"
He smiled gently. "Maybe I can help you. But first you have to tell me your name."
She hesitated for a long, long moment. "Sarah. My name is Sarah."
Chapter Four
"Sarah." Jonathan offered her a gentle smile. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Jonathan Mitchell, and this is my church."
"You're the minister?" she asked uncertainly.
"That's right."
She licked her swollen lip, drawing his attention once again to her injuries. He instinctively raised a hand to her face, and she flinched as if he were about to strike her.
"I won't hurt you," he said quickly.
She didn't look like she believed him. Nor did she appear to have any reason to believe him. For someone had definitely hurt her and broken whatever trust she'd had. Sarah looked past him, her gaze darting to the door, seeing her escape route, her way out, but he couldn't let her go, not in her condition.
"Let me help you, Sarah."
Her mouth trembled, but she didn't speak; she simply shook her head.
"Please?"
"It's too late," she said in a breathy whisper, as if she were afraid to say the words too loudly.
"If it were too late, I don't think you'd be here now. I think you came to church looking for something. Maybe you found it."
Her dark eyes clung to his for a long moment, a glimmer of something in their dark depths. Then she glanced away. "I was cold. That's all. I saw the broken window, and I thought I'd be gone before you found me."
"So you didn't break the window?"
"I'm not a thief."
"That's not what I asked you." He wondered then if his pity was misplaced. Had he been taken in by what looked like innocence but was nothing more than practiced ingenuity? For surely she was lying. There was blood on the floor from where she'd cut her hand.
Sarah tried to stand up but swayed once again, and Jonathan grabbed her arm to steady her.
"Ow," she said, grimacing with pain. He looked down at her arm and after a second's hesitation pulled the sleeve of her sweater up until he could see the dark purple bruising on her forearm. At least there were no needle tracks.
She pulled away from him, pushing her sleeve back down.
"Let me help you, Sarah. I've got a house next door, a bathroom where you can clean up, and we can wash some of those cuts on your face."
"I can't tell you anything. I won't," she warned him.
"I wasn't going to ask -- yet."
As they faced off, Pauline came into the church, brandishing a large wooden broom in one hand. She lowered it when she saw it was just the two of them.
"You were gone so long, I thought maybe there was trouble." Her voice faded as she took in Sarah's condition. "Oh, my, someone did a real number on you, didn't they?"
"This is Sarah. She's coming next door to get cleaned up," Jonathan said.
"I'll call--”
"No," he said, cutting her off.
She raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"Not yet." He sent her a silent plea to let him play this one his way. There would be time to call in the appropriate social services, but right now he wanted to ease some of Sarah's pain. He wouldn't be able to do that if she tried to run. And there was no doubt in his mind that she would run.
"All right," Pauline murmured reluctantly. "You come with me, and we'll get you fixed up. Maybe some food, too? Are you hungry?"
Pauline moved forward, then stopped, her gaze suddenly fixed on Sarah's chest. Sarah placed a defensive hand over her breast, but it was too late.
"Oh, honey." Pauline shook her head, her eyes worried. "Where's your baby?"
Jonathan realized then that Sarah's shirt was wet, stained with milk.
"Sarah?" he questioned. "Do you have a baby?"
"No. I don't have a baby," she said flatly. "Not anymore." She broke away from both of them, startling Jonathan with her quickness. One second she was there, barely able to stand, and the next she was disappearing through the door.
He finally got his feet to move and rushed after her. He caught a glimpse of her as she turned the corner in front of the church, but by the time he reached the same corner she was gone. He turned and walked slowly back to the church.
Pauline met him on the sidewalk. "She's in trouble."
"It looks that way."
"You should have called the cops as soon as you found her."
"So they could throw her in jail?"
"Maybe she should be in jail. Because that girl had herself a baby and not too long ago. So where is it?"
"It could be any number of places, all legal."
"Or not." Pauline looked at him through troubled eyes. "They found a baby in a Dumpster by Golden Gate Park, barely alive, just last week."
Jonathan's gut told him it couldn't have been this woman who'd left her baby in a trash can. She hadn't seemed defiant, only hurt. Then again, maybe she'd felt she had no way out.
"You should call the police, Jonathan."
"I will report the break-in, Pauline."
"You know that's not all you should report."
"Someone hurt that girl badly." He found his fingers curling into fists, which disturbed him, for violence was not supposed to be a part of his nature. Yet there were times like this when his civilized Godly demeanor wore thin. He hadn't always been a man of the cloth. He'd once been just a man.
Pauline studied him with the wisdom of her years. "I know you're the reverend, and I'm the secretary, but I've seen some things in my life. You can help a lot more people if you stay on top of the cliff throwing down ropes, rather than climbing down into a hole to save one soul and maybe never coming back."
Jonathan looked down the empty street, knowing that Pauline was probably right.
"Anyway, I don't think she'll be back," Pauline said, turning toward the small house next door to the church where he resided and where the church office was located.
"I hope you're wrong," he said.
She stopped and looked at him. "I'd like to believe that girl hasn't gone and run herself right back to the man who beat her up. But I'm not sure I'd be right. I just hope..."
"What?"
"I pray that baby of hers doesn't bear the same scars."
"I pray that, too," he murmured heavily. But this time he wanted to do more than just pray.
* * *
It was past six when Caitlyn finished work. After a long day of anxious brides and controlling mothers, she was more than ready for a quiet evening at home. But as she walked down the hallway to her apartment, she was reminded of Matt's plea for her help.
She hesitated outside his door, listening for Emily's cry. All was quiet. Well, as long as she wasn't crying, Matt didn't need her help, which was a good thing. She didn't need to get further involved in their problems, she had enough of her own.
And she was determined to pick up her sketch pad tonight and try to draw something. Besides, it wasn't as if Matt had made any attempts to get to know her before Emily's arrival. He had wanted to be a silent neighbor, and that's the way she preferred it, too. Why let Emily's arrival change their relationship? It was better this way. The whole situation had heartbreak written all over it. And Caitlyn wasn't about to let a handsome reporter and his mysterious sister drag
her to a place she didn't want to go.
Deliberately, she turned toward her apartment and slid her key into the lock. She had barely touched the knob when Matt's door flew open. His hair stood on end, as if he'd raked his fingers through it a dozen or more times, and his eyes had a wild look in them.
"Where are you going?" he demanded.
"Into my apartment."
"You said you'd help."
"I don't hear Emily crying."
"That's because she cried herself to sleep," he said, waving his hand in the air. "She screamed every second of the last two and a half hours. Her face turned purple. I thought for a minute she had killed herself when she finally fell asleep."
Caitlyn tried not to smile, because in truth, a desperate, barefoot Matt Winters was pretty irresistible. "Well, she's asleep now. You should try to get some rest, too."
"You can't leave me alone with her."
"I think I can."
Matt grabbed her arm, his eyes filled with desperation. "I'm going crazy, Caitlyn. She hates me. Nothing I do is right. She hates the way I hold her, the way I talk to her, the way I feed her. I'm doing everything wrong. You have to help me."
"I'm sure she just misses her mother. It's not you."
"It is me. I was never good with babies. Kids that can talk are okay, but babies are like little aliens to me."
She felt herself weakening. "I can't. It's been a long day, and I'm tired," she said, removing her arm from his grip. There -- she'd done it. She'd said no.
"I'll make you dinner." He snapped his fingers, a new light in his eyes now, one of determination. "Or I'll order out. That would probably be safer for your stomach. I'm not much of a cook. And we can have some wine. Do you like red or white?"
"White, but that doesn't matter. I'd like to help you, but I--”
"But what?"
"It's too hard," she said helplessly, knowing he wouldn't begin to understand and she couldn't begin to explain.
"I know it's hard. That's why I need your help," he said, misunderstanding her reluctance. "I've been playing music to cover up her crying, but I'm afraid if she keeps on screaming, someone in the building will come looking for a baby, and then what will we do?"
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