The Toddler's Tale. Rebecca Winters

the police department’s response time in getting to the scene of the accident.

      Though he and his partner had been cleared of any wrongdoing, the horrific incident had caused a blackness to creep into Max’s existence until he’d doubted his ability to be a good cop. Once his confidence had deserted him, he’d felt immobilized and took a leave of absence from his job.

      During the time off, he’d gone for professional counseling to deal with his grief. Though it was pointed out to him there was nothing he could have done to prevent the boy’s death, Max didn’t believe it. A little child had died under his watch. He couldn’t handle it.

      After a month, he’d still been too shaken by the experience to go back on active duty. Despite the urgings from his superiors to remain with the department and take a desk job for a while, he couldn’t see himself sitting at a computer eight hours a day. Not when it was his nature to live life on the edge.

      Eventually he resigned from the force and went to work as a PI. It meant he could handpick cases in which children weren’t involved. Or so he’d thought.

      He pressed on the gas, realizing he might have to drive all the way to Reiser to find a phone. The unincorporated hamlet of less than two hundred people had a German pub. On more than one occasion, he and his best friend, Michael Lord, had driven out here for a beer on their off-duty time as police officers—before Michael had gone to work for Maitland Maternity Clinic. It had been a great place to kick back, shoot a little pool.

      At moments like that they’d shared a few laughs and talked shop. The subject of women was taboo. Michael was a confirmed bachelor. As for Max, the high school sweetheart he’d planned to marry had been killed in a car accident.

      That painful period eventually passed, but it had left him changed. Though he enjoyed women as much as the next man, he had no desire to settle down. After working so hard to save the little boy who’d died despite all efforts to save him, Max had been running on automatic pilot.

      As the memory of that failed rescue attempt assailed him once more, he broke out in a cold sweat. He still suffered nightmares because he’d reached the child too late.

      Evidence of civilization ahead jerked his torturous thoughts to the present. A tiny general store with one lone gas pump materialized on his right, and he pulled in.

      With the motor still running, he leaped from the cab. God willing, he wasn’t about to lose Betsy!

      “TWINKLE, TWINKLE, Little Star,” was a tune Chelsea hadn’t heard for years. “Do you like the song Mommy just sang to you? I’m right here, Betsy, honey, and I’m not going to go away. You’re being such a brave girl, Mommy’s going to sing you another song. Would you like to hear ‘Jumbo Elephant?’”

      Huddled with Traci beneath the dry side of the tarp, Chelsea listened to the young woman’s tireless efforts to comfort her baby. As long as she sang, the little girl didn’t cry as much. The connection between the two of them was strong and touched Chelsea deeply. She’d never experienced that kind of bonding with her own mother. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to ward off more painful memories.

      It seemed as if Max had been gone forever. Though the rain had stopped, it was cold enough that the tarp created much-needed warmth. Chelsea was grateful Max had provided them with this much protection against the elements, even if she had been furious with him at the time.

      And hurt.

      But she refused to think about the pain he’d inflicted. Right now both the mother and child were frightened. Hunkered down as they were directly above the place where they heard Betsy crying, Chelsea could observe Traci Beal at close range. What she saw disturbed her.

      The extreme pallor of the young mother’s skin, stretched tautly over sharp cheekbones, and the heavy circles beneath her lusterless blue eyes convinced Chelsea she had been suffering long before the accident had happened. She looked exhausted and ill-nourished.

      Chelsea shuddered to think of Traci’s innocent, helpless little child caught down there beneath all that old lumber. Some of the boards had creaked and settled more during the worst of the downpour, making her realize how unstable everything was. No wonder Max had gone for help before he attempted any kind of a rescue.

      Wanting to be useful, Chelsea took off her jacket and placed it around Traci’s thin shoulders, hoping to infuse her with some of her own warmth and strength. If only the other woman would stop shivering.

      At first Traci stiffened, then relaxed a little. Encouraged because she didn’t try to pull away, Chelsea kept an arm around her and rocked her back and forth, singing to Betsy herself. Anything she could think of.

      Since Traci had exhausted every English nursery rhyme, perhaps something different would distract Betsy for a while. Chelsea started out with “Frère Jacques,” one of a dozen little French songs she’d learned in her youth at her boarding school in Switzerland.

      “Those were pretty,” Traci whispered as Chelsea ended with “Sous le pont d’Avignon.” “You like that, don’t you, Betsy!” she called to her child. They couldn’t hear any baby noises. “Betsy?” she cried louder.

      Chelsea clasped her a little tighter. “I’m sure she fell asleep for a few minutes.” I pray that’s all it means. Max, where are you?

      “Traci? I have an idea. Why don’t you run home for a coat and get something to eat. I promise I’ll stay right here and keep singing to Betsy.”

      “No! I’m not leaving my baby!” Terrified blue eyes stared into hers.

      Chelsea heard—felt—Traci’s fear.

      How foolish of her to suggest the other woman leave the site when it was obvious this child was her very life! But then Chelsea had to remember that not every child had Rita Maxwell for a mother.

      “You don’t have to go anywhere. I’ll go up to the house and fix you some food and bring it back along with a jacket or a blanket. It’s probably going to rain some more.”

      “No!” she cried again. To Chelsea’s surprise she felt the younger woman clutch her hands in a death grip. “Stay with me!”

      “But I’ll only be gone a few minutes. You need help, Traci.”

      “I’m f-fine.”

      The more Traci protested, the more Chelsea knew the woman’s fear wasn’t only about her child. Something else was going on here.

      Traci’s behavior reminded Chelsea a lot of herself back in Hollywood when she’d had to keep quiet about her fear of the men who lived with her mother. Especially Anthony.

      Chelsea’s horrific experiences had given her uncanny instincts about people, and right now they were telling her Traci needed rescuing every bit as badly as her child.

      Playing a long shot, she said, “Will your husband be getting home from work soon so you can take turns watching over Betsy?”

      Traci’s features froze before she shook her head.

      “A boyfriend then?”

      “No. There’s just Betsy and me.”

      The definitive response sounded like fighting words. But there was a tragic forlornness in her voice that reached a secret place in Chelsea’s heart.

      “I’m here for you.” She felt compelled to assure Traci, then gave her another squeeze. “Max will get your baby out of here soon.”

      “Max?” The younger woman sounded abnormally jittery. Almost paranoid.

      “Mr. Jamison. The man who went to call for help. He used to be a police officer. Now he’s a very fine private investigator here in Austin, and a friend of mine,” Chelsea added, afraid to alarm this anxious young mother any more than necessary.

      Not by any stretch of the imagination did Max consider Chelsea a friend or anything close to it, but Traci wasn’t to know that.

      “He