Dying for Love by Rita Herron

little boy’s life depends on it.”
    “What about my little boy?” she asked, anger hardening her voice.
    “I’m sorry but your son has been gone for years, and is probably in a home with another family. This child has asthma and doesn’t have his inhaler with him. If he has an asthma attack, he could die.”

    John hadn’t meant to make Amelia feel guilty. But he was worried sick about the Tillman boy. And every hour that passed lessened his chances of finding him alive.
    Besides, something about the mere sight of her disturbed him on a level he had to deny.
    He wanted her.
    In spite of all the reasons he shouldn’t, he ached to touch her. To remind himself that something beautiful existed in the midst of all the darkness and pain and violence in the world.
    But that dark world was his. It was where he belonged. Not with someone special like Amelia.
    Amelia rose from the chair, her mouth firmly set. “Then I’ll leave you to work,” she said. “I can take care of this myself.”
    Her tone raised a red flag. “Take care of what?”
    “Nothing,” she said, although disappointment flickered in her eyes as she turned away.
    Dammit.
    Knowing that Arthur Blackwood might have been involved meant that asking questions could endanger Amelia.
    There was no telling how many minions he had working for him. One of them might try to silence her as they had before.
    He bolted up from his chair and stopped her at the door with a light hand to her shoulder. That simple touch sparked a current of awareness in him that made him yank his hand back.
    “All right, talk to me, Amelia,” he said gruffly.
    She angled her head, the orbs of her eyes filled with such deep anguish that he felt her pain in his soul.
    “I spoke to Reverend Bartholomew. He was a friend of my grandfather’s and his pastor for years.”
    She had to be going somewhere with this. “And?”
    “Before he died, Papaw gave the preacher a letter for me.”
    “What did the letter say?”
    Amelia wet her lips with her tongue, drawing his gaze to her mouth. A big mistake. He suddenly imagined kissing her, hunger jolting through him.
    Not a good sign.
    “That he was sorry for what the Commander did to me, and he was trying to make things right.” She held the necklace in her hand. “Papaw discovered I’d had a baby boy. He left me these rosary beads.”
    A strong sense of déjà vu hit John as he looked at the cross. A faint memory of being inside a Catholic church.
    A feeling of needing to pay penance.
    “Was your family Catholic?”
    Amelia shook her head. “No. But these came from the church where my baby was left. Papaw said he didn’t have time to trace them, that Blackwood was onto him.”
    John frowned, details of the Catholic church playing in his head.
    “Rosary means ‘crown of roses,’ ” John said instinctively. “It refers to a series of prayers. The traditional fifteen mysteries of the rosary were standardized in the first century.”
    Amelia looked at him with an odd expression. “You’re Catholic?”
    “No.” At least he didn’t think he was. But there were all those lost years of his life.
    A time he knew nothing about. And the distinctive sense he’d needed a confessional . . .
    “May I look at them?”
    She handed the beads to him, and he cradled them in his palm. Suddenly he saw himself as a small boy, ducking into a church. Organ music groaned from the front as people filed in and knelt, made the sign of the cross, and bowed their heads in prayer.
    But he wasn’t part of the service. He was hiding out.
    Why?
    “Do you think we can trace them to a specific church?” Amelia asked.
    He narrowed his eyes. “You can buy rosary beads at dozens of places, and online.”
    “But these are old,” Amelia said. “And look at the back of the cross. A symbol of a saint is etched on it.”
    John walked back to the computer and clicked some keys, searching for Catholic churches near Slaughter Creek.
    A list appeared on the screen