The Christmas Child (3 page)

Sophie put aside her fork. “Sure it can. Maybe he wants to order ten-dozen cookies.”

Carmen looked toward the ceiling with a sigh. “You'd put a positive spin on it if he fired you.”

Well, she'd try. But she couldn't help wondering why her principal had been so abrupt.

 

She found out two hours later, seated in his tidy, narrow office. The space smelled of men's cologne and the new leather chair behind the unusually neat, polished mahogany desk. It was a smell, she knew, that struck terror in the hearts of sixth-grade boys. A plaque hung on the wall above Biff Gruber's head as warning to all who entered: Attitudes Adjusted While You Wait.

“I understand you're doing the cookie project again this year,” he said without preliminary.

Sophie brightened. Maybe he
did
want to place an order. She folded her hands in her lap, relaxed and confident. This was Biff and she was not a sixth-grade rowdy. “I turned in the lesson plan last week. We're off to a promising start already and I hope to raise even more money this year.”

Biff positioned his elbows on the desk and bounced his fingertips together. The cuffs of his crisply ironed shirt bobbed up and down against his pale-haired wrists. The light above winked on a silver watch. His expression, usually open and friendly, remained tight and professional. Sophie's hope for a cookie sale dissipated.

“We've had some complaints from parents,” he said.

Sophie straightened, the news a complete surprise. No one had ever complained. “About the project? What kind of complaints? Students look forward to this event from the time they're in second and third grade.”

In fact, kids begged to participate. Other classes loitered in her doorway, volunteered and occasionally even took orders for her. This project was beloved by all. Wasn't it?

“How many years have you been doing this, Sophie?” The principal's tone was stiff, professional and uneasy.

Suddenly, she felt like one of the students called into the principal's office for making a bad judgment. At the risk of sounding defensive, she said, “This is year five. Last year we donated the proceeds, a very nice amount, I might add, to the local women's shelter. Afterward, Cheyenne Bowman spoke to our class and even volunteered to teach a self-protection seminar to the high-school girls.”

Biff, however, had not followed up on that offer from the shelter's director, a former police officer and assault victim.

“I'm aware the project does a good deed, but the worry is academics. Aren't your students losing valuable class time while baking cookies?”

“Not at all. They're learning valuable skills in a real-life situation. I realize my teaching style is not traditional but students learn by doing as well, maybe better, than by using only textbooks.”

Biff took a pencil from his desk and tapped the end on a desk calendar. He was unusually fidgety today. Whoever complained must have clout. “Give me some specifics to share with the concerned parent.”

“Who is it? Maybe if I spoke with him or her?”

“I don't want my teachers bothered with disgruntled parents. I will handle the situation.”

“I appreciate that, Biff. You've always been great support.” Which was all the more reason to be concerned this time. Why was he not standing behind her on the cookie project? Who was putting pressure on the principal? “The project utilizes math, economics, life skills, social ethics, research skills, art and science.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “There are more. Is that enough?”

Biff scribbled on a notepad. “For now. You may have to articulate exactly how those work at some point, but we'll start here.”

“I really don't want to lose this project, Biff. It's a high point for my students.”

“As well as for their teacher who loves everything Christmas.” With a half smile he bounced the pencil one final time. “Why don't we have dinner tonight and discuss this further?”

The offer caught Sophie as much by surprise as someone's objection to the cookie project. She sputtered a bit before saying, “Thank you, but I have to say no. I'm sorry.”

Her thoughts went to Davey and the way he'd clung to her this morning. She couldn't wait to see him again and let him know she kept her promises. She'd phoned after lunch to say hello and see how he was doing. Kade had answered, assured her Davey was doing fine and was at that moment sound asleep on Ida June's couch. The memory of Kade's voice, clipped, cool and intriguing, lingered like a song she couldn't get out of her head.

No, she definitely did not want to have dinner with the principal.

“I've already made other plans.”

Biff's face closed up again. He stuffed the pen in his shirt pocket. “Ah. Well, another time, then.”

At the risk of encouraging him, Sophie nodded and quickly left his office. The mystery casserole churned in her stomach. As her boot heels tapped rhythmically on highly waxed white tile, she reviewed the unsettling conversation. As much as she wanted to believe Biff's dinner invitation was purely professional, she knew better. Carmen was right. The principal liked her. She liked him, too. It wasn't that. He was a good man, a by-the-book administrator who strove for excellence and expected the same from his staff. As a teacher, she appreciated him. But as a woman? She hadn't thought seriously about her
boss, and given the buzz of interest she'd felt for Ida June's nephew, she never would.

Frankly, the concerns about her teaching methods weighed more heavily right now.

Would Biff go as far as vetoing the cookie project?

K
ade pushed back from the laptop perched on Ida June's worn kitchen table and rubbed the strain between his eyes. Hours of poking into every law-enforcement database he could access produced nothing about a missing mute boy named David. He'd chased a rabbit trail for the past hour only to discover the missing child had been found.

Hunching his shoulders high to relieve the tightness, he glanced past the narrow dividing bar into Ida June's living room. Davey still slept, curled beneath a red plaid throw on the 1970s sofa, a psychedelic monstrosity in red, green and yellow swirls that, ugly as sin, proved a napping boy's paradise. In sleep, Davey had released his beloved book to fall in the narrow space between his skinny body and the fat couch cushion. Sheba lay next to him, her golden head snuggled beneath his lax arm. She opened one eye, gave Kade a lazy look and went back to sleep.

“Traitor,” he said, softly teasing. The boy had taken one look at the affable dog and melted. Sheba could never resist a kid. When Davey went to his knees in joyful greeting and threw his arms around her neck, Sheba claimed him as her own. He'd shared his lunch with her, a sight that had twisted in Kade's chest. The kid had been hungry, maybe
for days, but he'd shared a ham sandwich with the well-fed dog. Whatever had happened to Davey hadn't broken him. It may very well have silenced him, but his soul was still intact.

Kade rubbed a frustrated hand over his whiskered jaw and asked himself for the dozenth time why he'd gotten involved. He knew the answer. He just didn't like it.

Leaving the pair, he poured himself another cup of coffee and went to finish the laundry. At the moment, Davey wore one of Kade's oversize T-shirts and a ridiculously huge pair of sweats tied double at the waist. Now, when he awoke, Davey's clothes would be as clean as he was.

Once the boy had been fed, cleaned and his clothes in the washer, Ida June had barked a few orders and gone to work at the little town square. With Kade's less-than-professional assistance, she'd been erecting a stable for the town's Christmas celebration. She'd promised to have it finished this week, and leaving Kade to “mind the store” and “find that boy's mama,” Ida June had marched out the door with a final parting shot: “Promises are like babies squalling in a theater—they should be carried out at once.”

He was still smirking over that one. His mother's aunt was a colorful character, a spunky old woman who'd outlived two husbands, built her own business and half of her own house, drove like a maniac and spouted quotes like Bartlett. And if anyone needed a helping hand, she was there, though heaven help the man or woman who said she had a soft heart.

Kade removed Davey's pitiful jeans and sweatshirt from the dryer and folded them next to clean socks and underwear before tossing the washed sneakers into the still-warm drier. He set them on tumble with one of Ida June's
fragrant ocean-breeze dryer sheets and left them to thump and bang.

He wasn't much on shopping any more than he was on doing laundry, especially at Christmas when the holly, jolly Muzak and fake everything abounded, but a single man learned to take care of business. The boy needed clothes, and unless Sophie Bartholomew or Ida June offered, he'd volunteer.

Sophie.
The wholesome-looking teacher had played around the edges of his thoughts all day, poking in a little too often. Nobody could be that sweet and smiley all the time.

“Probably on crack,” he groused, and then snorted at the cynical remark. A woman like Sophie probably wouldn't know crack cocaine if it was in her sugar bowl.

His cell phone jangled and he yanked the device from his pocket to punch Talk. With calls into various law-enforcement agencies all over the region, he hoped to hear something. Even though he was a stranger here, with few contacts and no clout, his federal clearances gave him access to just about anything he wanted to poke his nose into.

It had been a while since he'd wanted to poke into anything. When he turned over rocks, he usually found snakes.

He squeezed his eyes shut. The year undercover had skewed his perspective. He wasn't looking for snakes this time. He was looking for a boy's family.

One hand to the back of his neck, the other on the phone, he went to the kitchen window and stared blindly out at the gray sky as the voice on the other end gave him the expected news. Nothing.

He figured as much. A dumped kid might be big news in Redemption but to the rest of the world, Davey was another insignificant statistic.

Acid burned his gut—an ulcer, he suspected, though he'd avoided mentioning the hot pain to the shrink. Being forced by his superiors to talk to a head doctor was bad enough. No one was going to shove a scope down his throat and tell him to take pills and live on yogurt. He didn't do pills. Or yogurt. He'd learned the hard way that one pill, one drug, one time could be the end of a man.

He scrubbed his hands over his eyes. He was so tired. He couldn't help envying Davey and Sheba their sound sleep. He ached to sleep, to fall into that wonderful black land of nothingness for more than a restless hour at a time. The coffee kept him moving, but no amount of caffeine replaced a solid sleep. He took a sip, grimaced at the day-old brew and the growing gut burn. Yeah, yeah. Coffee made an ulcer worse. Big deal. It wasn't coffee that was killing him.

In the scrubbed-clean driveway outside the window, a deep purple Ford Focus pulled to a stop. The vehicle, a late-model job, was dirt-splattered from the recent rain, and the whitewalls needed a scrub. Why did women ignore the importance of great-looking wheels? The schoolteacher, brown hair blowing lightly in the breeze, hopped out, opened the back car door and wrestled out a bulging trash bag. Curious, Kade set aside his mug and jogged out to help.

“What's this?” he asked.

The afternoon sun, weak as a twenty-watt bulb, filtered through the low umbrella of stratus clouds and found the teacher's warm smile. There was something about her, a radiance that pierced the bleak day with light. Kade's troubled belly tingled. She attracted him, plain and simple—a surprise, given how dead he felt most of the time.

Her smile widening, Sophie shoved the black trash sack into his arms. She had a pretty mouth, full lips with gentle
creases along the edges like sideways smiles. “Davey needs clothes.”

“You went shopping?” She'd barely had time to get here from school. And why the hefty bag?

“No.” Her laugh danced on the chilly breeze and hit him right in the ulcer. “I know kids, lots of kids, all sizes and shapes, who outgrow clothes faster than their parents can buy them. I made a few phone calls and voilà!” She hunched her shoulders, fingers of one hand spreading in the space between them like a starburst. “Davey is all fixed up.” Perky as a puppy, she hoisted another bag. “This has a few toys in it. We were guessing size, so I hope something fits. The rest can go to the shelter.”

“Bound to fit better than what he's wearing now.” She was going to get a kick out of his impromptu outfit.

“How is he?” she asked as they carried the bags inside.

“Exhausted.” Kade dumped his bag in a chair inside the living room and hitched his chin toward the ugly couch. “He's slept like a rock most of the day.”

“What did the doctor say? Have we heard any news on where he came from? Where's Ida June?” Shooting questions like an arcade blaster, Sophie moved past him into the room. A subtle wake of clean perfume trailed behind to tantalize his senses. Sunshine and flowers and—he sniffed once—coconut. She smelled as fresh and wholesome as she looked.

Amused by her chatter, he slouched at the bar and waited for her to wind down. “You finished?”

“For now.” She stood over Davey and Sheba, a soft smile tilting her naturally curved lips. “Is this your dog?”

“Was until this morning.”

She gave him that happy look again. She was lucky. No one had wiped away her joy. Life must have always been good in Sophie's world.

“A boy and a dog is a powerful combination,” she said.

“Sheba's a sucker for kids.”

“So is her master.”

“Me?” Where did she get such a weird idea? He did his job. Did what he had to. And a dose of retribution was only just.

“So tell me, what did the doctor say?”

“Dehydrated and run-down but otherwise healthy. Nothing rest and nutrition won't fix.” He'd been careful to ask the right questions and the child showed no signs of physical abuse. No outward signs.

“What about his voice?”

Kade nodded behind him to the kitchen. “Let's talk in here.”

“Sure.” Smart Sophie got the message. He didn't want to talk near the boy, not with the suspicions tearing at the back of his brain. With a lingering glance at Davey, she followed Kade to the kitchen.

“Want some coffee?” he asked.

“It's cold out.” She rubbed her palms together. “A hot cup sounds great if it's already made.”

“Coffee's always made.”

She raised a dark, tidy eyebrow. “Chain drinker?”

“Safer than chugging Red Bull.”

The answer revealed more than he'd intended. He went to the counter, more aware of her than he wanted to be and wondering, even though he didn't want to, what it would be like to be normal again the way she was. Normal and easy in her skin. Maybe that's what made her so pretty. She wasn't movie-star beautiful, although she warmed the room like an unexpected ray of sun across a shadow. Dark, soft, curving hair. Soft gray eyes. Clear, soft skin. Everything about Sophie Bartholomew was soft.

“What did the doctor say about Davey's voice?”

“He found no physical reason for Davey not to speak, though he did recommend a specialist.” Kade poured two cups and held up the sugar bowl. Sophie shook her head. Figured. She was sweet enough. Kade loaded his with three spoons and stirred them in. “We'll have to leave that to social services.”

Sophie grimaced. He got that. Social services did what they could, but who really
cared
about one little boy?

“Then there must be something mental or emotional, and he doesn't appear mentally handicapped.” She accepted the offered cup, sipped with her eyes closed. Kade, a detail man courtesy of his career, tried not to notice the thick curl of mink lashes against pearl skin. “Mmm. Perfect. Thanks.”

“Which leaves us with one ugly conclusion.” He took a hot gulp and felt the burn before the liquid ever hit his belly. The more he thought about what could have happened to Davey, the more his gut hurt. “Trauma.”

“I wondered about that, but was hoping…” Her voice trailed off. She picked at the handle of her cup.

“Yeah, me, too.”

Sophie's fingers went to her lips, flat now with concern for the little boy. She painted her fingernails. Bright Christmas red with tiny silver snowflakes. How did a woman do that?

“You think something happened that upset him so much he stopped talking?”

Jaw tight, Kade nodded. “So does the doc.”

And if it took him the rest of his life, somebody somewhere was gonna pay.

 

Sophie studied the trim, fit man leaning against Ida June's mustard-colored wall. In long-sleeved Henley shirt and blue jeans, dark brown hair combed messily to one
side, he could be any ordinary man, but she suspected he wasn't. Kade McKendrick was cool to the point of chill with a hard glint to wary eyes that missed nothing. He was tough. Defensive. Dangerous.

Yet, he'd responded to Davey's need with concern, and he had a wry wit beneath the cynical twist of that tight mouth. He didn't smile much but he knew how. Or he once had. Her woman's intuition said he'd been through some trauma himself. Her woman's heart wanted to bake him cookies and fix him.

A little troubled at the direction of her thoughts, she raised her coffee mug, a shield to hide behind. She didn't even know this guy.

“What could be so terrible that a child would stop speaking?” she asked. “I can't imagine.”

Something flickered in the stolid expression, a twitch of muscle, the narrowing of coffee-colored eyes in a hard face.

“I plan to find out.”

“I heard you were a cop.”

“Listening to gossip?”

She smiled. “Not all of it.”

The admission caught him by surprise. He lightened, just a little, but enough for her to see his humor. She didn't know why that pleased her, but it did. Kade needed to lighten up and smile a little.

“I am.” He went to the sink and dumped the remaining coffee, rinsed the cup and left it in the sink. “A cop, that is. Special units.”

“You don't want to hear about the other rumors?”

He made a huffing noise. “Maybe later. You don't want to hear about the special units?”

“Maybe later.” She smiled again, hoping he'd smile, too.
He didn't. “The important thing is Davey. Your police experience should help us find his family.”

“Us?”

“Well…” She wasn't a person to start something and not follow through. She'd been there when Davey was found and she didn't intend to walk away and leave him with all these unanswered questions. “I know the community really well. People trust me. They'll talk to me. I don't know the first thing about investigating a missing boy.” She stopped, frowned. Davey wasn't missing exactly. “Or rather, a found boy, but I know how to deal with people.”

Kade raised a palm. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves. It's early yet. Someone may come home from work tonight, find their son gone and call in. Problem solved.”

“Do you think they will?” she asked hopefully.

“To be honest?” He dropped his arms to his sides, shot a look toward the living room. “No.”

Something in the sudden clip of his voice chilled Sophie's bones. She frowned and leaned forward, propping her arms on the metal dinette. Ida June must have had this thing since the 1950s. “Have you worked in Missing Children before?”