To Cherish Page 2

  He absolutely refused to open himself up to more heartache.

  2

  “I’ll take another look around outside,” Deputy Lewis said abruptly. He set his coffee cup aside and strode through the living room, heading out through the French doors. Jemma sat for a moment, trying not to think about how empty the house felt without the deputy being there.

  Soon enough, the place wouldn’t be empty at all. They’d have guests staying there, too. At least on the weekends, when the majority of their reservations happened to be.

  She turned her attention to the Irish brown bread, but her heart wasn’t in it. The very thought of Randal being anywhere near McNally Bay rattled her.

  Her ex-husband was capable of just about anything. And the fact that she’d managed to escape him seemed to have added fuel to the fire. It was as if he’d become obsessed with her.

  And Trey.

  When her phone rang, she startled so badly, she knocked her elbow sharply on the edge of the counter. Wincing at the pain zinging down her arm, she told herself to get a grip as she answered Jazz’s call. “Hey, how’s demolition going?”

  “Great, but what’s up?”

  Jemma frowned, wondering if her twin was experiencing another premonition. Once she’d assumed the shared empathy twins felt for each other was nothing but hooey, until the night Randal had attacked her. Jazz had called her from Chicago, instinctively knowing something was amiss.

  She forced lightness in her tone. “What do you mean? Nothing is up.”

  “Then why is there a Sheriff’s Deputy over there?”

  Jemma let out her breath in a soundless sigh. She should have figured either Jazz or Dalton would see the squad car in the driveway from their neighboring property to the west. “Oh, it’s fine. Just my overactive imagination.”

  “Randal?”

  “Trey called out the word daddy and I freaked out,” she finally admitted. “But when I asked where Daddy was, he pointed to a sailboat out on the lake, so I figure he must have gotten confused.”

  “I’ll be there in two minutes.”

  “No! Don’t be ridiculous. I told you it’s nothing. Deputy Lewis has already taken my statement and is right now looking around outside. There’s nothing you can do here.”

  Jazz didn’t say anything for a long moment. “The other reason I called is because we’re breaking for lunch. Dalton is picking up pizza. We’ll bring it over and share with you and Trey, okay?”

  She normally made pizza from scratch but wasn’t up to that task at the moment. “Sounds good.”

  “See you soon.”

  “Okay.” Jemma disconnected from the call, wishing she wasn’t such a burden to her twin. Over the past few weeks, she’d done nothing but lean on Jazz for support.

  There were times she wished Randal would violate his restraining order, just so that he’d be arrested. Maybe then he’d leave her and Trey alone.

  She forced herself to finish the dough, then placed it in the bread maker. Not exactly the way Grandma used to make it, since they didn’t have bread makers back in Grandma’s day, but she didn’t care. Her guests probably wouldn’t know the difference.

  Besides, the charm of baking like her grandma had worn off.

  Ten minutes later, Deputy Lewis returned, his expression thoughtful. She noticed he carried a clear plastic bag holding a small square card inside. Her blood went cold.

  “Does Trey have baseball cards?” He held it up for her to see.

  A wave of dizziness washed over her, as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. “Not here,” she finally managed.

  Deputy Lewis frowned. “This isn’t Trey’s?”

  She dropped into a chair, her thoughts whirling. She hadn’t seen the pack of baseball cards that Randal had collected for Trey since the night of the attack nine months ago. After the assault, Jazz had come to get her and Trey, they’d gone straight to the police and from there into a safe house. All the toys Trey currently had here at the B&B, including the miniature cars, she’d bought herself.

  She hadn’t purchased any baseball cards. For one thing, Trey was too young for them, but more so because that night she’d barely escaped, Randal had threatened to bash her head in with his baseball bat.

  Her husband was into baseball. A big Cubs fan. And he played on the Bloomington baseball team.

  “Jemma?” Deputy Lewis moved closer, his clear blue eyes full of concern.

  She did her best to pull herself together. “I—um, can I take a closer look at it?”

  “Sure.” He handed over the plastic bag.

  Her stomach twisted into knots when she saw the card was that of Anthony Rizzo, one of the star hitters for the Cubs. She dragged her gaze up to the deputy. “It’s Randal’s.”

  He lifted a skeptical brow. “Your ex-husband collects baseball cards?”

  “My ex-husband is a Cubs fan, and yes, he collected baseball cards, supposedly for Trey,” she said in a dull voice. “I know he left the card behind on purpose.”

  “It could have been left by some kids,” Deputy Lewis pointed out.

  A flash of anger had her leaping to her feet. “What kind of cop are you?” she demanded. “We’re five miles out of town with no other kids around, and it rained last evening. How would a kid get out here without anyone seeing him? If a kid had left that card behind a few days ago, it would be a soggy mess.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of when it last rained.” Deputy Lewis tugged the bag from her fingers and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll see if we can lift any fingerprints.”

  “He’s too smart for that,” Jemma said, her burst of anger fading to a dull resignation. “I told you he’s a cop.”

  “Anyone can make a mistake.”

  Not Randal. Not over something as basic as fingerprints. Leaving the card behind hadn’t been a mistake either.

  He’d done it on purpose. His way of telling her he knew where she and Trey were living. Subtle cruelty was Randal’s specialty.

  This was all likely part of his master plan. To make her look foolish, or worse, crazy.

  She felt sick to her stomach. Randal would certainly get sole custody of Trey if she was deemed incapable of caring for her son due to mental disease or defect.

  She couldn’t lose Trey. Randal didn’t want his son. Hadn’t really paid much attention to him while they were together.

  All Randal wanted was for her to suffer.

  And she secretly feared he wouldn’t hesitate to do something to Trey as a way to hurt her.

  Garth hated seeing the stark despair on Jemma’s face but was helpless as to what he could do or say to make her feel better.

  The baseball card alone wasn’t proof that Cunningham had violated his restraining order. But knowing the jerk was a cop who’d already attacked her once made him think that the card hadn’t been left by accident.

  Jemma’s ex could very well be stalking her. He felt bad for doubting her.

  “I want you to take my personal number,” he said abruptly. “You can call me at any time, even if I’m off duty.”

  Jemma looked surprised, then doubtful. “I’m sure it’s not necessary for you to be on call for me twenty-four/seven.”

  “Please.”

  She hesitated, then nodded. She pulled out her cell phone and punched in his number. When she finished, she looked up at him and they locked gazes for several moments.

  “Lunchtime!” Jazz’s cheerful voice broke the silence. Jemma’s twin carried in two boxes of pizza followed by her twin’s fiancé, Dalton O’Brien, who carried a gallon container of some sort of soft drink.

  Spicy tomato and pepperoni intermingled with the scent of homemade bread. His mouth watered as his stomach rumbled, but he told himself it was time to go.

  “Hey, Garth, why don’t you join us for lunch?” Dalton asked. “We’ve got more than enough food, here.”

  “Oh, I really shouldn’t . . .” he began, but Jazz was already nodding in agreement.

  “You must g
et time to eat, don’t you?” Jazz asked. “Even on duty?”

  “Well, yeah, but . . .”

  “Come on, sit down and take a break,” Dalton urged.

  All efforts to leave were derailed when Trey came running into the kitchen, the plastic badge still prominently displayed on his small chest. “We’re both policemans, right?”

  “Policemen,” Jemma corrected, scooping her son up into her arms and cuddling him close. The boy had the same blond hair and dark eyes as his mother, and Garth felt a pang near the center of his heart at the thought of Cunningham getting anywhere close to them.

  Jazz opened the pizza boxes, and Dalton pulled plates and glasses out of the cupboard, including a setting for him. Garth knew he shouldn’t stay but somehow couldn’t dredge up the will to go.

  “You’re sure there’s enough?”

  “There’s plenty,” Jemma said reassuringly, favoring him with a hesitant smile. Trey wiggled in her arms, so she reluctantly set him on the floor. “Come on, Trey, we need to wash up.”

  “Nooo.” Trey seemed to share every kid’s aversion to soap and water. “Don’t wanna wash up.”

  “All policemen wash their hands before eating,” Garth pointed out.

  Trey eyed him suspiciously. “They do?”

  “Yes. Always. Would you like it if we washed our hands together?”

  “Okay,” Trey agreed.

  “Thanks, Deputy Lewis,” Jemma said in a low voice, as they worked together to hold Trey up so he could wash his hands in the sink. Jemma grabbed a towel to dry her son’s hands, then stepped back.

  “Call me Garth,” he said, gently setting Trey back on his feet.

  She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay, first names it is.”

  He felt ridiculously pleased by her acquiescence. Not that it should matter to him one way or the other what she called him.

  The impromptu pizza party was nice, and he found himself enjoying the banter between Dalton and the twin sisters. He knew that Dalton and Jazz were renovating the old Stevenson house located next door, Dalton’s recent purchase. Apparently, there was an ongoing music war between country and eighties rock bands while Jazz and Dalton worked.

  He suspected Jazz and her taste for eighties rock was winning the music war.

  By the time they were finished eating and drinking lemonade, Trey’s face and hands were liberally smeared with tomato sauce. There was even some matted in the boy’s hair.

  A timer went off, sending Jemma surging to her feet. “My bread!” She opened a boxlike device and then lifted a loaf of homemade brown bread out. Even though he was stuffed from the pizza, he wouldn’t have minded sampling the homemade bread.

  Jemma glanced over at him, as if sensing his thoughts. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I need all of you to be taste testers to let me know if this is good enough to serve our first guests this weekend.”

  “Twist my arm,” Garth joked. “I’ve been dying to try a slice since I walked in.”

  “Really?” Jemma’s cheeks were pink, probably from the warmth of the bread. She pulled a ridged knife from the butcher block and began to slice. She put the bread on a small plate and set it in front of him, along with some butter. “You’re first up, then.”

  The bread was warm enough to melt the butter into an oozing softness. He took a bite and tried not to moan with pleasure. “It’s amazing,” he managed. “You’re an incredible cook, Jemma.”

  “Thanks, but this is my grandma’s recipe,” Jemma said. “She was the true mastermind of the kitchen.”

  “Don’t be modest, Jem,” Jazz said, having tasted her own sample. “Grandma may have taught you many of her Irish baking secrets, but you still have talent. Trust me, our guests are going to love anything you make for them.”

  “I’d pay to stay here just for the bread,” Garth agreed. Then realized how that sounded and tried to backpedal. “I mean, your guests will appreciate every slice. Your business will skyrocket once the word gets out about your bread.”

  “Okay, enough,” Jemma protested with a small laugh. “You’ve convinced me already. No need to go overboard with your praise.”

  Jemma was beautiful when she smiled, and Garth had to force himself to tear his gaze away.

  What was he doing here? First giving her his private cell number, then offering his first name. If he didn’t watch out, he’d repeat his mistakes of the past.

  His radio went off, and he quickly stood and turned away to respond to the call. “This is unit ten.”

  “Unit ten, there’s a D and D out at the Pine Cone Campsite,” the dispatcher said. “Patrons are requesting a response.”

  Drunk and disorderly, he thought with a grimace. These types of calls generally came in at bar time, not at quarter to one on a Monday afternoon. “Unit ten, responding.” He turned and raked his gaze over the group at the table. “Sorry to eat and run, but I have to go. Thanks for the lunch and the homemade bread.”

  “Anytime,” Dalton said.

  Jemma followed him through the great room to the front door. “Take care, Garth. Be safe.”

  “I will.” He glanced at her. “I’ll be in touch if we find anything on the baseball card.”

  She nodded but didn’t respond, and he knew she didn’t harbor any false hopes. Leaving her standing in the doorway as he walked to his squad car wasn’t easy. Every nerve in his body longed to stay near her side. To protect her, and maybe because he was drawn to the sense of home and family she represented.

  But he slid behind the wheel and quickly made a circle in the wide driveway, before heading out to the highway. When he hit the highway, he flipped on his lights and sirens.

  He made good time covering the ten miles between the B&B and the Pine Cone Campsite. When he arrived, there was a man stumbling around with a bottle of Wild Turkey Whiskey in his hand, occasionally tipping the bottle to his mouth and taking a sip.

  “I’m a good father,” he shouted, even though the other campers had made themselves scarce. He could see a man and woman huddled behind a tree near a small camper and figured they were the ones who’d made the call. “No one has the right to take my son away from me.”

  The guy didn’t appear to be armed, so Garth decided not to call for backup just yet. He got out from behind the wheel and lightly rested his hand on the butt of his gun as he warily approached the drunken camper. The way the guy was railing on about fatherhood made him wonder if this could possibly be Jemma’s ex-husband.

  “Put down the bottle, sir, and place both of your hands on your head,” he said in a deep authoritative tone.

  “Who are you?” The guy slurred his words and blinked as if he couldn’t focus. The drunk staggered, then lifted the bottle to take another slurp. “Whatdayawant?”

  “I’m Deputy Lewis,” Garth responded. “And I want you to put down the bottle, right now. I need you to place your hands on your head so no one gets hurt. Understand?”

  “I didn’t do nuthin’ illegal,” the man protested. He took another staggering step toward Garth, then tripped over a rock and fell forward, hitting the ground face first. The bottle of Wild Turkey went flying, trickling booze all over the place.

  Garth instantly moved in, jamming his knee in the center of the guy’s back and holding his head to the ground with one hand as he used the other to pat him down, searching for a weapon. There was a penknife in the right front pocket of the guy’s jeans, but thankfully, nothing more lethal.

  The drunk man began to struggle. “Hey! Lemme up! I didn’t do nothin’ illegal!”

  Garth leaned all his weight on the guy’s back as he wrenched both wrists back to cuff him. The awful scent of sweat and alcohol oozed from the guy’s pores. Once he had the guy secured, he eased up and rose to his feet. The drunk kicked at Garth but missed by a mile. With a sigh, Garth hauled the guy upward and half-walked, half-dragged him toward the squad car.

  “You’re under arrest for disorderly conduct,” he said, pressing the man against the side of the vehic
le. He pulled out the penknife first, then the man’s wallet. His heart thumped with anticipation as he opened the worn leather and looked at his ID.

  The driver’s license was from Illinois, but it identified the man as Stephan Ahern. Not Randal Cunningham. He stared at the photo, the image not exactly a recent replication of the guy he currently held pressed against the squad car.

  And it was freaky that the guy’s address was Bloomington, Illinois, the same place Jemma McNally had lived. The same city where Randal Cunningham was a cop.

  Sure, it was a big city, but what were the odds they’d both end up in Clark County?

  “What’s your name?” Garth demanded, wondering if the driver’s license was forged.

  “Steve. So, what? I’m not allowed to drink at my own campsite?” Ahern’s drunk tone turned whiny. “Hey, I got rights.”

  “Yeah, you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” Garth continued reading Ahern his rights, wondering where this guy’s wife/girlfriend and son were.

  Hopefully, somewhere safe.

  It would have been too easy to stumble upon Cunningham so soon after finding the baseball card. Besides, Ahern had clearly been drinking since the moment he’d crawled out of his tent.

  Garth glanced around the campsite, noticing how the one couple still remained huddled behind the tree, apparently still not feeling safe. Another deputy vehicle pulled up beside him, and Deputy Trina Waldorf slid out from behind the wheel. She helped Garth wrestle the drunken camper into the back seat.

  “His name is Stephan Ahern, and he’s from Bloomington, Illinois. He was rambling on about someone taking his son away when I pulled up,” Garth said. “I need to do a background check on him, see if he has other outstanding warrants.”

  Trina nodded. “I’ll run him for you,” she offered.

  “Yeah, okay,” he agreed. “Let me know if you come up with something.”

  He drove Ahern to headquarters and booked him for disorderly conduct. When he finished tossing the guy in jail, Trina called.