He nodded his agreement, then his brow dented in consternation. “We don’t have protection.”
Darby bit her lip, weighing that truth, but didn’t need more than a few seconds to make up her mind. “Doesn’t matter. If I get pregnant, so be it. I consider Savannah one of your greatest gifts to me, and I’d love her sibling just as much.”
Connor remained serious, brooding. “I’m going to arrange with the marshals some way to send you child support, including back payments.”
She blinked hard, stunned by his change of topic. “I...I don’t need you to send money.”
His gaze hardened. “I have a responsibility to you and Savannah that I won’t ignore.”
She clapped her hand over his mouth. “We will not talk about this now.” He tried to say something, his lips tickling her palm as they moved, but she shook her head. “No. No more talk. Kiss me, Connor. Hold me. Make love to me.”
She felt his lips curve into a smile, saw the spark of light and love that lit his eyes, and her heart swelled. Sliding her fingers from his mouth, she stroked his jaw and tangled her fingers in his hair. She traced the shell of his ear with her thumb, then dragged his head closer to kiss him.
A sensual growl rumbled from his chest, and he rolled, pulling her on top of him. His kiss moved from lips to her ear, her neck, the sensitive dip between her collarbones, while his hands explored, massaged and aroused.
Soon they’d shed their remaining clothes, and their bare limbs twined together. Her passion-dampened body strained to press closer to his. Her hands roamed restlessly, eager to relearn everything about the texture of his skin and the taut shape of his muscles and sinew. She moved through their lovemaking without conscious thought, as if muscle memory took over, her body at home with Connor. She relaxed her mind to the heady sensations, the incredible joy and sweet release as he made them one.
Darby hooked her legs around his, clung to his shoulders and arched into him, riding a climax that shook her to the marrow while Connor murmured her name and pledged his undying love. His whispers dissolved in a primal moan when he peaked, his arms tightening around her as he thrust deeper, harder. Then he collapsed on top of her, clutching her head to his heart. After a moment of silence, the two of them listening to the serenade of tree frogs outside and their own ragged breathing, Connor whispered hoarsely, “This is where you belong. With me.”
A knot of emotion clogged her throat as she gave a small nod, but her heart asked, Then why haven’t you asked me to go with you into WitSec?
* * *
The next morning, Darby’s first thought, as it was every morning lately, was of Savannah. Her heart lurched when she pictured her baby in the hospital bed, fighting for her life without her mother at her side. Connor’s admonition about dwelling on Savannah’s condition and making herself sick with worry resounded in her head. He was right, of course, but as she’d told him, it was impossible for her not to fret over her daughter’s health and well-being. Just the same, she drew a cleansing breath and battled down the grief and frustration that surged in her throat.
She rolled to face the other half of the bed, but it was empty. Connor’s pillow still bore the dent from his head and the faint scent of cedar...and sex. Her pulse leaped when she remembered their lovemaking last night. His ardor balanced with tenderness. The weight of him pressing her into the bedding, his body flush with hers. The sensual feel of his hands and lips exploring her skin.
The indescribable intimacy of their bodies joined, their souls reconnected. Their hearts reunited. She squeezed a fistful of the sheet and bit back the sound of despair that rose in her throat. Despite her best effort to keep her heart safe, to not open herself to the pain of losing him a second time, her love for Connor refused to be shunted away or repressed, regardless of the cost. Maybe her fight to protect herself from heartache had been a losing battle from the start. Connor was too deeply rooted in her soul, too visibly evident in their daughter’s genes, too much a part of who she was and what she wanted from life to ever be denied.
She heaved a resigned sigh, knowing the inevitable bleak days of yearning and loneliness that lay ahead for her.
Dragging herself out of bed, she dressed in clothes Hargrove had brought to the safe house from her home. The idea of Hargrove packing her panties and bras gave her the heebie-geebies, but she was glad to have clean underclothes given the circumstances. She pulled on a pair of athletic shorts, jogging shoes and her old track club T-shirt from high school before following the scent of fresh coffee to the kitchen. When she entered the front room, Connor was at the stove with a spatula in his hand, and Jones was comfortably kicked back in a chair at the table, sipping from a large mug.
“Hey, whatcha cooking?” She crossed to Connor, gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. His face still bore the stubble of the day before, and the rough texture of his unshaven skin was tantalizing against her lips. Quashing the stir of lust at her core, she peered into the frying pan.
“I made you soft scrambled eggs with diced ham and cheese, just the way you like ’em.” Connor grinned, clearly proud of himself for remembering her preferred breakfast.
“Oh.” Darby caught a whiff of the cooking eggs, and her stomach turned. “Connor, that’s sweet of you, but...” She winced and backed away from the pan, covering her nose.
“What?” His brow furrowed.
“It’s just that, when I was pregnant with Savannah, I was hypersensitive to certain smells. Things I used to be fine with, even like, suddenly made me nauseated.”
He glanced at the omelet he was making, then back at her, his expression crestfallen. “Let me guess. Eggs?”
She shot him an apologetic look. “Especially eggs. I still can’t eat them. I know it’s just a lingering association with the persistent morning sickness I had during my pregnancy, but...” She looked into the pan again and shuddered.
“Same thing happened to my wife when she was pregnant with our son,” Jones said. “Except for her, it was the smell of vinegar. Anything with vinegar in it—pickles, ketchup, salad dressing—made her sick as a dog. I ate a lot of plain hot dogs and lettuce those nine months.”
Connor turned the heat off under the pan. “You’re sure you can’t eat some of this? I made a ton. It’d be a shame to waste it.”
“Feed it to Toby.” She nodded toward the brown tabby winding himself through Connor’s legs and clearly hoping for a treat. “He’ll be thrilled to have eggs for breakfast.”
“Feed it to Jones,” the marshal said, a wry exasperation in his tone. “Jones would like to have eggs for breakfast.”
Connor waved a hand to the pan. “Help yourself.”
Before Jones could take them away, Darby snagged a bite of egg and blew on it to cool it. Crouching, she held it out to Toby, who gulped it down and licked her fingers. “That’s my boy. You’ve been so good through all the moves and upheaval.” She scratched him behind the ear, then lifted his front paws off the floor to kiss the top of his head.
After pouring herself a cup of coffee, Darby walked to the window and stared out at the dappled sun streaming through the trees. Even in May it didn’t take long for the Louisiana sun to turn the day miserably hot. She faced Jones, who was at the stove heaping scrambled eggs onto a plate. “What are the chances you’ll let me go out for a run? I’ll go stir-crazy if I have to stay inside, and I think a brisk jog before the day gets too hot will help me unwind.”
The marshal’s gaze took in her attire, and he scowled. “Not a good idea.”
She groaned, her shoulders drooping. “Really? There’s nothing out there for miles but trees and an occasional farm house. Even if the farmers in those houses did happen to look out their window at the exact moment I jogged by, I can’t believe they’d have enough interest in a runner on the street to give me anything more than a glance. If this cabin is isolated enough to be safe, the de
serted roads within a couple miles of the cabin have got to be safe, too.”
Jones set his plate on the table and licked cheese from his finger. “Still no. Hargrove is asleep, and I have to stay here with him.” He jerked his head toward Connor, who pulled a disgusted face that expressed his opinion of being babysat by the marshal.
Darby took a sip of coffee, then squeezed the mug with frustration. “I’ll stay close to the house. I just need twenty, thirty minutes to work off some stress.”
“Sorry,” Jones said and shoveled in a bite of omelet.
“What if I go with her?” Connor turned a chair backward and straddled it. “Now that my hip’s feeling better, I wouldn’t mind loosening up my muscles with a run myself.”
Jones glanced up from his breakfast and chuckled wryly. “What part of protective custody don’t you understand?”
The rumble of an engine outside caught their attention, and Jones rose quickly to peer out the window, standing to the side and squinting through the tiniest of gaps cut from blinds.
His obvious agitation over the arriving vehicle made Darby tense. She took a step closer to Connor and watched Jones reach for his weapon.
The marshal’s brow puckered. “What the...? It’s Morris.” Though he visibly relaxed and moved his hand from his gun, Jones was obviously still bothered by Morris’s unexpected arrival.
Savannah! Darby’s stomach pitched. Was Morris here because something had happened to Savannah? Could she have taken a turn for the worse?
She rushed to the door on Jones’s heels, anxiety beating its wings inside her.
“What are you doing here?” Jones asked gruffly as Morris trekked in, lugging a large bag with him. “What’s all that?”
Morris looked past Jones to Darby, then to Connor. “It’s some stuff I was asked to pick up.” He stepped past Darby and handed the bulging bag to Connor. “I couldn’t find some of the stuff on your list. I hope this will do.”
Connor took the sack and looked inside. “Thanks. I guess it’s for her to decide if it’ll do.” He, in turn, handed the large bag to Darby. “For you.”
She gave him a puzzled look and reached for the bag. When she peeked inside, her heart gave a hard thump, and tears sprang to her eyes.
Art supplies. She saw at least two blank canvases, a large pad of high-quality drawing paper, charcoals, paints, pencils...more tools of her craft than she even had at home. Of course, she’d had to set aside her art in recent years to concentrate on raising Savannah and earning a living, so she’d allowed her supplies to dwindle on purpose. Her art had to take a backseat to the demands of a young child, the need for health insurance and the practicality and convenience of working for the Mansfields’ family business.
She blinked back the moisture—darn it all, the stress and losses of the past few weeks had turned her into a leaky faucet—and raised a wide smile to Connor. “I...I don’t know what to say.”
Connor pulled her into his arms. “Say that you’ll paint something I can take with me when I have to leave town.”
She nodded. “Of course.” After setting the bag on the floor, she hugged him tightly. “Thank you. This is so sweet of you.” She glanced to Morris over Connor’s shoulder. “And thank you.”
He acknowledged her with a grin. “No signing your work, though, if he’s going to take it with him. Even that’d be a link to his past if someone saw it.”
Morris’s warning cast a cloud over her happy moment and reminded her of one of the reasons Connor said he’d left her behind four and a half years ago. He hadn’t wanted to put her in the position of giving up her art, her passion. And yet, Connor had given up everything he loved—people, hobbies, career and home—to protect her and his family. The generosity of his sacrifice hit her anew, and a tremor rolled through her. She squeezed him tighter, not wanting to let go, knowing if not for Savannah’s illness, she’d gladly give up her art to be with Connor. If given the choice of her past or a future with Connor, she’d choose Connor.
But he hadn’t asked. And the fact that he hadn’t given her that choice, that he hadn’t asked her to join him, cut her deeply.
* * *
Morris stayed at the safe house that morning, joining Hargrove and allowing Jones a respite he seemed grateful to receive. Morris informed them he’d checked at the hospital and had a “no news is good news” report from Ramsey and a message from Hunter that Savannah continued to make baby steps forward in her recovery.
And so it went, day after day. The men watched TV or played cards while Darby sketched and dabbled at painting. And worried about Savannah.
She glommed onto every scrap of information she got from the marshals about Savannah’s condition, her appearance, every minuscule event they could report. She wanted to hear about her daughter’s every request for juice, for her stuffed bunny...and for her mommy. Her heart broke knowing her daughter wanted her and she wasn’t there. Hunter had told Savannah Darby was taking care of important business and was still there in spirit, but she knew that excuse rang hollow. No business was more important than her daughter. She’d vowed to herself the day Savannah was born that she’d never abandon her little girl the way her father had abandoned his family. Yet the marshals’ actions, bringing her to this safe house in the Louisiana woods, meant Savannah felt deserted by her mother when she needed her mommy the most.
Darby would never forgive the agents for the heartache they’d forced on her daughter—even if she understood the need. Every day, she battled not to break down and exert the choice Jones had given her to leave their protection. But then an image of her incinerated car or of Tracy’s casket would flash in her mind, and she’d stay put, determined to keep the Gales’ danger away from Savannah if at all possible.
By night, she lay in Connor’s arms, cherishing every moment with him, making love to him and sleeping with her head resting over the drumming of his heart, while losing another tiny piece of hers to him each day.
Later that week, Darby convinced Morris to allow her and Connor to go for a walk in the woods behind the safe house—with Morris tailing them as their protection. She took a large tote bag full of the art supplies, genuinely excited by the prospect of finding a tranquil nature scene to sketch, the opportunity to stretch her legs and breathe fresh air.
As they trekked through the shaded woods, the scent of pine and honeysuckle redolent in the air, Darby cut Morris a side glance. “I’m curious, Marshal. Earlier this month, when I went to see William Gale at the prison, Marshal Jones told Connor that guarding me, restricting my movement, wasn’t part of his assignment. His official job was only protecting Connor as the WitSec client. Even after the bomb blew up my car, his family and I were only under your protection in that Connor was living in the same house with us. What changed? Why am I now part of your assignment?”
“Simple,” Morris said with a casual shrug. “You’re his fiancée now. A witness’s immediate family can enter WitSec with him and receive our protection.”
Confused, Darby stopped walking and stared at Morris. “Who said I was his fiancée?”
Realizing she’d halted, Connor and Morris turned to look back at her.
“You did,” Morris said. “You said he asked you to marry him.”
Connor arched an eyebrow, his expression full of hope. “You told him we were engaged?”
“No.” She scowled at Morris. “If you’ll remember, I told you I said no. As in, not engaged. Don’t men ever listen?”
Connor’s shoulders dropped, and the light that had filled his face moments earlier faded. Darby’s heart pinched, regretting the hurt her denial clearly caused him.
Morris swatted away a mosquito and sent her a cagey glance. “What do ya say we keep that minor detail between us?”
She blinked her disbelief. “Minor detail?”
“As long as Jones and the depa
rtment heads think you’re engaged, they’ll continue to protect you and your daughter with the full resources available, until you’re all able to relocate, as a family.”
Darby stood straighter. “I—”
“Then,” Morris continued, “should you change your mind about marrying him —”
“What?” Darby goggled.
He held up his hands, palms toward her. “Sorry, that’s personal and for you to decide.”
“Darn right.” Connor faced Morris with his hands on his hips and a dark glower on his face.
“But I can’t relocate with Connor. We’ve discussed this!”
Morris ignored Connor’s glower and spoke to Darby. “‘Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.’”
She shook her head. “What?”
“Rumi. He was a thirteenth century poet and theologian. My wife has a plaque with that saying in our living room.” Morris shrugged. “I figure it fits.”
Darby shook her head. “How’s that?”
Morris scoffed. “Come on. Maybe you can’t relocate, but by convincing the other marshals you were engaged, I’ve bought you time. Your daughter is getting the best protection available, and you—” his gaze honed more fully on Darby “—have time with him—” he hitched his head toward Connor “—away from distractions for a few days. That’s a gift. What do you think Grant would pay for a few more days alone with his wife?”
Air backed up in Darby’s lungs. Morris was right. Rather than quibble over the marshal’s methods, she should relish the opportunity he’d given her to be with Connor, what might be her last chance to share a beautiful day and a walk in the woods.
Without saying any more, Morris tucked his hands in his pockets and strolled ahead.
Darby and Connor exchanged a long look. Darby’s heart kicked hard against her ribs, and another chunk of the protective wall she’d erected crumbled.
The Return of Connor Mansfield Page 21