Paternal Instincts. Elizabeth August

entirely discount the fact that some people had a sixth sense. The cards could simply be Roxy’s way of communicating with her inner voice.

      As he’d told her, with him it was a prickling on the back of his neck. A couple of times the effect had been so intense he’d known that when he turned around he’d be facing the criminal he was after. Sometimes it had taken a while to collect the evidence before he could arrest the man or woman, but at least he’d known who to keep an eye on and who never to turn his back on again.

      He grimaced self-mockingly. The problem was knowing how to interpret that prickling. He’d felt it when he’d dated Susan Irving, but he’d believed it was because he thought she wanted a commitment.

      “And it could be that Roxy’s instincts aren’t working properly this time and she’s interpreting the cards incorrectly,” he muttered under his breath. Besides, he admitted, as open-minded as he tried to be, he still couldn’t make himself believe that a deck of cards could tell anyone anything. It was too much like looking into a crystal ball or using some other conjurer’s trick.

      And maybe he was trying to help the wrong person. He’d always been a sucker for a maiden in distress, but just maybe the attachment between Roxy and the boy was more one-sided than she’d led him to believe and Jamie might be happier without her. Maude had a soft heart and preferred to see the good in everyone. She could have overlooked or missed the faults that had caused the social services people to take Jamie away from Roxy. On the other hand, it had been Eric’s experience that the social services people sometimes made mistakes.

      And consulting his instincts didn’t help. Roxy Dugan caused a confusing mix.

      “I’ll just bide my time for a few more days and see what develops,” he decided.

       Chapter Four

      Three days later Eric was sitting on the front porch taking an afternoon break when an ancient-looking pickup truck came down the long dirt drive. It stopped in front of the house and an old man and a young boy climbed out. Eric judged the man to be a farmer by his manner, his bib overalls and his leathery-looking skin that gave evidence of him having spent a great deal of time in the weather. The boy was somewhere around nine or ten years old, Eric decided, and slender to the point of looking unhealthy. His long, shaggy black hair needed a cut and a good combing and his clothes, clearly hand-me-downs, were dirty and didn’t fit properly. Slung on his back was a heavily laden knapsack.

      “Afternoon,” Eric said, rising and climbing down from the porch.

      The old man continued toward him and extended a hand. “Afternoon. You the handyman who’s been helping Roxy get this place in shape?”

      “Yes.” Accepting the handshake, Eric noticed that the boy had stopped several feet back and was standing immobile staring at him with an unnerving intensity. He cast a smile toward the youth, but the child’s gaze remained coolly distant. Remind you of someone else you know? he mused dryly. He’d been thinking of Roxy. Suddenly he was thinking of himself and recalling that his manner and expression hadn’t been much different from that of the child’s when he’d been dropped off at Maude’s door.

      “Found the boy a few miles down the road. Recognized him as one of Maude and Roxy’s. I told him the place was closed, but appears he’s determined to come back. Don’t talk much. Not at all, actually.”

      Eric’s gaze jerked to the boy. Jamie? he wondered, recalling Roxy’s determined belief the boy would return to the farm. But even she, he was certain, wasn’t expecting this kind of arrival.

      “Figured Roxy’d know best what to do with him,” the farmer concluded, and with a small salute of goodbye he turned back to his truck. Pausing by the youth, he shook his head. “You best start putting some meat on those bones. A strong gust of wind could blow you away.”

      The boy made no response. Not even acknowledging the farmer’s presence, he continued to stand rigid, staring at Eric.

      “Strange one, that one,” the farmer muttered.

      “Thanks for dropping him off,” Eric called out, suddenly realizing he should say something.

      The farmer cast back a glance that indicated that he wasn’t so certain he’d done Eric a favor, then he climbed into his truck and left.

      Eric barely noticed his departure. His attention had returned to the boy. If he was right about the child’s identity, then Roxy’s attachment hadn’t been one-sided. “Roxy’s in town working,” he said. “How about if I fix you something to eat while you wait?”

      The boy nodded and headed toward the house. Eric followed him inside. As the child continued up to the second floor, obviously with a destination in mind, Eric went into the kitchen.

      A few minutes later the boy joined him. He’d washed his face and hands and made an attempt to smooth his tangled mass of hair. Maude had always insisted the boys come to the table with clean hands and face, Eric recalled.

      There had been fried chicken left from the night before and he’d put the platter on the table along with a glass of milk and a loaf of bread. The boy ate hungrily. Standing, leaning on the counter watching him, Eric wondered when he’d last had a meal.

      “There’s some ice cream if you have room for dessert,” he offered when the boy finished a third piece of chicken and didn’t reach for a fourth.

      The boy nodded.

      In an experiment to see if he could make the boy speak, Eric asked, “Vanilla or chocolate or both?”

      For a long moment the boy made no response, then he held up two fingers.

      Eric was now certain of the identity of this newcomer. He dished up two bowls of ice cream and seated himself at the table. “I’m Eric,” he introduced himself.

      The boy looked up momentarily from his bowl of ice cream in acknowledgment but said nothing before returning his attention to the sweet treat.

      “Can I assume you’re Jamie?” Eric asked bluntly.

      The boy merely looked up at the clock on the wall. It read three-fifteen.

      Taking a guess that the child was wondering when Roxy would be home, Eric said, “Roxy’s on the seven-to-three shift. She was going to do a little shopping when she finished work. I’m expecting her back around four.”

      Quickly finishing his ice cream, the youth carried his bowl, plate and glass to the sink, washed them and put them in the dish drainer. Then he put the chicken and bread away and left the kitchen.

      Eric washed his own bowl, then went looking for the boy. He found him sitting on the front porch step, his gaze locked on the road.

      “I was caulking windows,” Eric said. “If you need me, just yell or make some sort of noise.”

      The boy gave no sign that he’d even heard.

      “Make yourself at home,” Eric added, and went back to work. Old memories flashed through his mind as he climbed the ladder. He’d sat in that same place, with that same intense expression on his face, for days after his grandparents had brought him here. As lousy as life with them had been, accepting the fact that they’d dumped him off like a bag of garbage had been difficult. He’d imagined them coming back in tears, telling him that they’d realized they loved him and wanted him back. But they hadn’t come, and eventually he’d accepted the fact that as far as his family was concerned, he was disposed of, never to be thought of again.

      The sound of a car’s engine caught his attention. He looked toward the main road and saw Roxy turning onto the long drive. Climbing down from the ladder, he walked to the corner of the house and stopped. From there he could observe her and the boy.

      Nearing the house, Roxy blinked, certain she was seeing things. Then the tears began to flow. Parking