distinguish her sitter’s panic from horror or even elation, Justine broke the connection without saying good-bye.
Chapter Seven
When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on.
—Thomas Jefferson
Though Ross would have preferred catching up on lost sleep in the blue bungalow he’d spent the last two years restoring, he stretched out on the sofa at his aunt’s house instead. It was too short for his height and nowhere near as comfortable as his bed at home, but he had no intention of leaving Laney until her sister showed up after work.
When the doorbell woke him later, he groaned, hoping his cousin would answer but prepared to ignore the interruption if she slept through it. Rolling over, he attempted to get back to a mouthwatering dream he’d been having about Anne.
Except it wasn’t his dead wife in the dream, he realized. The hair was too dark, the eyes a smoldering near-black, the pale and ample breasts overflowing both his hands as he squeezed them. Proving once and for all that a man’s subconscious was ruled by lust instead of reason.
Yet even awake, he wanted Justine. Wanted her fierce intelligence, her dark, deadpan humor, and God help him, the most exciting sex he’d ever experienced. He half dreamed it was her he’d heard at the door, and he envisioned himself rising from this sofa, from his very body, to let her in.
When the doorbell sounded again, he gave up his attempt to reenter the dream. Woke to the cold knowledge: It’s allover. Broken beyond fixing, even if it weren’t for Justine’s suspicion of his cousin.
The doorbell rang yet again, the chiming followed by a series of hard raps. Ross got up and answered, determined to get rid of whatever neighbor or door-to-door salesman had come calling. Instead, he was greeted by young deputy Calvin Whittaker in uniform, a concerned expression on his broad face.
Ross hoped like hell Calvin wasn’t about to tell them they’d come up with security video of Laney buying the rope. Though Ross’s knee-jerk response had been to defend her, he’d started to wonder, in those brief moments before sleep took him, about how odd Laney’s behavior had seemed, how unlike her the claim of racial intimidation had been.
“What’s wrong?” Ross asked. “You find out something about last night’s break-in?”
Whittaker shook his blond head. “Nothing to do with your cousin, Dr. Bollinger. I’m here to ask if you’ll come with me. When your sister couldn’t reach you, she said I should drop by and see if you were here.”
“Gwen?” he guessed. “Is something wrong?” Self-reliant and levelheaded as anyone he knew, his sister wasn’t the type to call the sheriff’s department over something trivial. Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he frowned at its blank face and realized he’d been too tired and distracted to recharge its battery.
“It’s Justine’s—the sheriff’s—little boy. Something’s wrong with him. Kid’s half-hysterical, pitching a fit over the idea of going to the ER. And Gwen thought, since you’ve seen him before…”
All thoughts of catching more sleep vanished. Regardless of his history with Justine or her suspicion of his cousin, this was a child, a child whose terror would be magnified by his developmental delays. “Is he sick? Injured? What’s going on?”
“We don’t know. He was missing after school—wasn’tthere when your sister went to pick him up, and he didn’t ride the bus home. A little later, they found him in the stable, crying. He’s wedged himself under a pallet where they pile hay bales. Real upset. Won’t let anybody touch him. Justine—Sheriff Wofford’s worried sick. They have no idea who brought him home or what’s happened to him, but they’re afraid of making things worse by dragging him out of there.”
Fully alert now, Ross said, “I’ll grab my bag out of my car.” Though he wasn’t in the habit of making house calls, he kept a medical bag stocked
Chapter Seven
When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on.
—Thomas Jefferson
Though Ross would have preferred catching up on lost sleep in the blue bungalow he’d spent the last two years restoring, he stretched out on the sofa at his aunt’s house instead. It was too short for his height and nowhere near as comfortable as his bed at home, but he had no intention of leaving Laney until her sister showed up after work.
When the doorbell woke him later, he groaned, hoping his cousin would answer but prepared to ignore the interruption if she slept through it. Rolling over, he attempted to get back to a mouthwatering dream he’d been having about Anne.
Except it wasn’t his dead wife in the dream, he realized. The hair was too dark, the eyes a smoldering near-black, the pale and ample breasts overflowing both his hands as he squeezed them. Proving once and for all that a man’s subconscious was ruled by lust instead of reason.
Yet even awake, he wanted Justine. Wanted her fierce intelligence, her dark, deadpan humor, and God help him, the most exciting sex he’d ever experienced. He half dreamed it was her he’d heard at the door, and he envisioned himself rising from this sofa, from his very body, to let her in.
When the doorbell sounded again, he gave up his attempt to reenter the dream. Woke to the cold knowledge: It’s allover. Broken beyond fixing, even if it weren’t for Justine’s suspicion of his cousin.
The doorbell rang yet again, the chiming followed by a series of hard raps. Ross got up and answered, determined to get rid of whatever neighbor or door-to-door salesman had come calling. Instead, he was greeted by young deputy Calvin Whittaker in uniform, a concerned expression on his broad face.
Ross hoped like hell Calvin wasn’t about to tell them they’d come up with security video of Laney buying the rope. Though Ross’s knee-jerk response had been to defend her, he’d started to wonder, in those brief moments before sleep took him, about how odd Laney’s behavior had seemed, how unlike her the claim of racial intimidation had been.
“What’s wrong?” Ross asked. “You find out something about last night’s break-in?”
Whittaker shook his blond head. “Nothing to do with your cousin, Dr. Bollinger. I’m here to ask if you’ll come with me. When your sister couldn’t reach you, she said I should drop by and see if you were here.”
“Gwen?” he guessed. “Is something wrong?” Self-reliant and levelheaded as anyone he knew, his sister wasn’t the type to call the sheriff’s department over something trivial. Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he frowned at its blank face and realized he’d been too tired and distracted to recharge its battery.
“It’s Justine’s—the sheriff’s—little boy. Something’s wrong with him. Kid’s half-hysterical, pitching a fit over the idea of going to the ER. And Gwen thought, since you’ve seen him before…”
All thoughts of catching more sleep vanished. Regardless of his history with Justine or her suspicion of his cousin, this was a child, a child whose terror would be magnified by his developmental delays. “Is he sick? Injured? What’s going on?”
“We don’t know. He was missing after school—wasn’tthere when your sister went to pick him up, and he didn’t ride the bus home. A little later, they found him in the stable, crying. He’s wedged himself under a pallet where they pile hay bales. Real upset. Won’t let anybody touch him. Justine—Sheriff Wofford’s worried sick. They have no idea who brought him home or what’s happened to him, but they’re afraid of making things worse by dragging him out of there.”
Fully alert now, Ross said, “I’ll grab my bag out of my car.” Though he wasn’t in the habit of making house calls, he kept a medical bag stocked
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