The Christmas Child. Линда Гуднайт

three was a crowd. “Who’s your friend?”

      She tilted her face toward his, noticed the tense lines around his eyes and mouth. “One frightened boy.”

      Kade turned a quiet look on the child. “Hey, buddy, what’s your name?”

      Sophie waited, but when the child’s response was more silence, she said, “He’s not said a word to me, either.”

      “What’s that he’s holding?” Kade gestured, stirring the scent of warm, working male and clean cotton shirt, a welcome respite from the stink of trash.

      “A book.”

      “Good work, Sherlock,” he said, lightly enough that Sophie would have laughed if she hadn’t been so concerned for the child. “What kind of book and why is he gripping it like a lifeline?”

      Sophie wondered the same thing.

      To the boy, she said, “I’m a teacher, honey. I love books. What kind of story are you reading?”

      He shifted slightly, his gaze flickering to the oversize book.

      “Will you show it to me? Maybe we can read it together over breakfast? Are you hungry?” She extended an upturned palm and waited. She was surprisingly aware of Kade squatted in the trash next to her. She knew little about him, other than rumors and that he was good-looking in a black panther kind of way. An interesting energy simmered, in this of all places, as his arm brushed hers.

      She ignored the sensation and smiled encouragement at the little boy, all the while praying for guidance and a way to connect.

      Slowly, with stark hope and a dose of anxiety, the towheaded boy relinquished the picture book. Sophie shifted nearer, relaxing some and moving easily into teacher mode. She knew books, knew kids, knew how to relate.

      “This is beautiful.” She touched the brightly colored cover. “Is it your favorite?”

      For the first time, the boy responded. His head bobbed up and down. He scooted closer and opened the cover of the popular Christmas tale. Sophie shot a glance at Kade, who offered a quick, approving hitch of his chin. For some reason, his encouragement pleased her. Not that she wanted to impress Ida June’s great-nephew, but they were in this crowded Dumpster together. The thought made her giggle. The males gave her identical, bewildered looks.

      “Look what we have here,” Sophie said, her finger on the flyleaf inscription. “To Davey. Happy Birthday. Love, Mama. You must be Davey.”

      Eagerly, the child nodded, his face lighting up.

      Someone rapped sharply on the side of the trash bin. The sound echoed like a metallic gong. Davey jumped, then shrank back into himself.

      “Are you two taking up residence in there?”

      Sophie glanced up. Three pairs of eyes peered back from above the edge, watching the scene below.

      “Ida June has the patience of a housefly,” Kade muttered, but rose and offered a hand to the little boy. “Come on, Davey, I’m hungry. Let’s get some pancakes.”

      Davey hesitated only a moment before putting his small hand in Kade’s much larger one. Then, with eyes wide and unsure, he reached for Sophie on the other side. Body tense, his fingers trembled. Over his head, Kade and Sophie exchanged glances. She wasn’t sure what she expected from Kade McKendrick, but anger burned from eyes dark with a devastation she couldn’t understand.

      In that one look, Sophie received a stunning message. Davey was lost and alone. So was Kade McKendrick.

       Chapter Two

      Davey sat in Police Chief Jesse Rainmaker’s desk chair, swiveling back and forth, while the adults—Sophie, Ida June and Kade—discussed his situation. The Dumpster divers had come and gone, promising to “spread the word” and find where Davey belonged.

      Kade hoped they could, but he wasn’t holding his breath. He’d seen this before, although finding a kid in a trash can was a new low. A kid, tossed away like tissue. Use once and discard. Yeah, he’d seen plenty of that. Only they got used more than once before they ran or were discarded.

      Kade’s gut burned with the implication. He hoped he was wrong. He turned his back to the sad little scene and perused the faxes and photos on a bulletin board. Creeps, losers, scum. Somebody somewhere knew who this kid was and what had happened to him.

      “Has he told you anything at all? Where he’s from, his name, his parents. Anything?” Police Chief Jesse Rainmaker was a solid man. In a few short weeks, Kade had come to respect the understaffed officer and his handful of deputies. They were small-town but efficient and smart. Good cops.

      “Nothing,” Sophie said. “Even over breakfast, he didn’t say a word. I’m starting to wonder if he can speak.”

      The sweet-faced schoolteacher had drawn a chair up next to Davey. She was good with the kid, calmed him, gave him a sense of security. For a fraction of a minute in the Dumpster, she’d done the same for him. It was a weird feeling.

      Kade pivoted. “Why don’t we ask him? Obviously, he can hear.”

      “Or he reads lips,” Sophie said.

      Chief Rainmaker tilted his head. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

      “I know sign language. I can try that, too,” Sophie said, moving round in front of Davey. “Davey.”

      The dirty little boy focused on her face. Some of his fear had dissipated, but he remained edgy, watchful, uncertain.

      With a grace Kade found beautiful, the woman moved her hands in silent communication. Davey stared but didn’t respond.

      “Well, that didn’t work. Davey, can you hear me?”

      An eager head bob.

      “Why won’t you talk to me?”

      Davey shrugged, one hand moving to his throat.

      “Let’s send him over to the clinic,” Rainmaker said. “Have him checked out. Either he won’t talk for some reason or he can’t.”

      Restless in the small office Kade paced from the bulletin board to the boy and back again. Someone had put an automatic air freshener on top of the file cabinet to counter act the smell of burned coffee and stale shoes. Every few minutes, a spurt of fragrance hissed a girly scent into the air. Jesse either had a wife or secretary. No self-respecting cop would buy—Kade squinted at the can—white tea and roses. Smelled pretty good, though.

      “Then what happens to him?” he asked.

      Rainmaker rounded his desk, a long metal structure overflowing with paperwork. Kade empathized. Paperwork was the bane of cops.

      The chief shuffled through some messages, pulled a stack of faxes from the basket. “Nothing on the wires about a missing child in the area, but I’ll make more calls and get the word out. We’ll hear something soon.”

      Kade didn’t let it go. Couldn’t. “If you don’t?”

      “Child protective services will take over. I’ll have to notify them anyway. Someone is responsible for letting this boy get in this situation. Finding them is my job. Taking care of the child isn’t.”

      Kade grunted. Shoulders tense, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. He’d told himself the same thing once. It was a lie. Taking care of the kids was everyone’s job.

      Ida June, who’d remained amazingly silent for a full ten minutes, piped up in her take-no-guff tone. “We’ll take the boy home with us. No need to call anyone.”

      His aunt’s idea took Kade by surprise, but he didn’t object. He wanted to keep an eye on Davey, just as he wanted to find out who’d left him in such a condition. Someone needed to pay big-time. And Kade was in the mood to be the collector.

      “Now,