Watching Over Her. Lisa Childs

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      “Tell that witch that she didn’t break me,” Mr. Doremire said. “Tell her that I’m fine...”

      He was anything but fine. The former Mrs. Doremire was probably well aware of that, though.

      “I hope you will be,” Maggie said. After how the man had treated her, how could she wish the best for him?

      Blaine had met few women as sweet and genuine as Maggie Jenkins.

      But the old man stared up at her again with stark hatred. “I hope you get what you deserve.”

      It wasn’t so much what he said but the venomous tone with which he said it that had Blaine protesting, “Mr. Doremire—”

      “And you, Mr. Agent, I hope the same for you. Maybe you two deserve each other...”

      Blaine knew that wasn’t true. Maggie deserved a better man. He should have protected her better than he had. So, finally, he guided her toward the door.

      “But don’t go thinking you’re going to be raising that baby together,” Mr. Doremire yelled after them. “Andy’s going to take that baby. He’s going to raise his son himself.”

      Maggie sighed. “Andy’s gone...”

      “He’s not dead,” the older man drunkenly insisted. “You’re going to see when he comes for his baby boy. You’re going to see that he’s not dead.”

      Maybe he wasn’t dead—in his father’s alcohol-saturated mind or in Maggie’s heart. Blaine wished he was man enough to deserve her love. But he suspected she had none left to give anyway.

      * * *

      ONCE BLAINE SAID it was too late to see Mrs. Doremire, Maggie feigned falling asleep in the SUV. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to even look at Blaine. Her face was too hot, and not from Mr. Doremire’s slap but with embarrassment over all the horrible things that old drunk had said in front of Blaine.

      Maybe he hadn’t heard everything; maybe he’d been outside during the worst of it. But he had come running back when she’d screamed. He had saved her—as he always did.

      Mr. Doremire hadn’t been wrong about how she looked at the FBI agent. Despite not wanting to fall for him, she was falling. She had more love to give than she’d realized. But Blaine wouldn’t want her love—or anything else to do with her, for that matter—once the bank robbers were caught.

      The SUV drew to a stop. Then the engine cut out. A door opened and then another. Hers.

      Blaine slid one arm under her legs and another around her back, as if he intended to lift her up the way he would a sleeping child. She jerked back.

      “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just didn’t want to wake you up.”

      “I’m up,” she said.

      But he didn’t step back; he didn’t give her any room to step out of the SUV. He was too close, his green gaze too intense on her face.

      Her skin heated and flushed. She wished he wouldn’t look at her. She lifted her hand to her face.

      But he beat her to it, bringing his hand up to cup her cheek. “I don’t think it’ll bruise,” he said.

      She shrugged. She couldn’t have cared less about her face. The man’s words had hurt far more than his slap. “It’s fine.”

      “I’m sorry,” he said.

      “You’re sorry?”

      “I shouldn’t have left you alone with him.” Blaine pushed a hand through his disheveled hair. “I knew he was drunk. I never should have stepped outside.”

      “You called someone about Andy,” she said. It wasn’t a question because she knew that he’d done it. She had watched the new suspicions grow in his green gaze. “To make sure that he’s really dead.”

      Finally he stepped back and helped her from the SUV. Then he escorted her from the street up to the little bungalow where they had spent the night before. He hadn’t taken her back to the hospital or to a hotel.

      Her chest eased a little with relief.

      “Are you going to ask me what I found out?” he asked, opening the door.

      She shook her head as she passed him and entered the living room. “No.”

      “So, you’re sure he’s dead?”

      “I know it.” Even before Mark had called her, she’d known. She’d seen the news of the explosion—of the casualties—and she had known Andy was among them.

      “But they didn’t even recover his dog tags,” Blaine said.

      She shrugged. “I don’t know what was recovered or not. I don’t know if my letters were even sent back. You should have let me talk to Mrs. Doremire.”

      “It’s been a long day for you already,” Blaine reminded her as he flipped on the light switch. “We went back to the bank and watched all that footage. Then we saw Mark’s wife and nearly got run off the road.”

      She shuddered at the reminder of those harrowing moments when she had thought the SUV was going to flip over and crash onto the rocky shoreline.

      “And if that wasn’t already too much for you,” he said, “then you were assaulted by a crazy drunk.”

      “He is crazy,” she agreed. “Thinking that Andy’s alive...”

      “That makes sense, actually,” Blaine said, “that he doesn’t want to let his son go.”

      She sighed. “I guess that is his way of dealing with his grief—denial and alcohol.”

      “How about you?” he asked.

      She stared up at him in confusion. She had dealt with her grief months ago and neither alcohol nor denial had been involved. “What do you mean?”

      “Are you going to be able to let Andy go?”

      “I don’t think he’s alive,” she assured him. “I’m not seeing him anywhere.” She didn’t see ghosts. Regrettably, she did keep seeing zombies—in person and in her nightmares. She would probably rather see ghosts.

      “That’s not what I meant,” he said.

      “What did you mean?” she wondered.

      Instead of explaining himself, he just shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

      She thought that it might, though—to her. Did he want her to let Andy go? Or was he like her almost father-in-law and not entirely convinced that Andy was dead?

      “What did the people that you called tell you?” she asked. She already knew, but she didn’t want to leave him yet. As tired as she was, she didn’t want to climb the stairs and go to bed. Alone.

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