Only when she set her burden down did Alma see the sheriff and the person and a half who were with him in the office.
Olivia felt a definite chill as the woman regarded her.
“I see you found the baby’s mother.” The expression on the deputy’s face was far from friendly. It wasn’t hard to see what she thought of a woman who left her baby on someone’s doorstep.
“No, this is his aunt, Olivia Blayne,” Rick told Alma. Alma’s expression softened a degree. “She’s been looking for the baby. And for her sister.”
“Her sister, the mother?” Alma asked, still eyeing Olivia.
“Got it on the second try,” Rick congratulated the woman drily. He glanced at the teeming box the deputy had set down. Once Alma got caught up decorating, there was no stopping her. “Look, I need you to stop decorating the office for a minute and put out an APB for me.”
“Haven’t started decorating yet,” Alma informed him. Resigned that the decorating would have to wait, she held her hand out. “Give me the information.” Rick gave her both the paper he’d written on and the photograph of the missing duo. Alma glanced at the photograph first, then looked at the description of the car. Raising her eyes to her boss, she shook her head. “You should’ve been a doctor, Sheriff. Medical people appreciate handwriting that looks like a chicken did a war dance after stumbling over a bottle of ink.”
Joe glanced up from the book he was studying. He’d been taking classes online, intent on eventually getting a degree in criminology. His face remained expressionless as he told her, “You can’t say that,” in his low, rumbling voice.
They’d been together so long, they were like siblings, she, Joe and Larry, with a sibling’s penchant for squabbling.
“Say what?” Alma asked.
“‘War dance,’” Joe told her.
Alma pressed her lips together, annoyed. “Why not? You say things like that all the time.”
Joe went back to reading. “I’m a full-blood Apache, I can make any reference to Indians I want to. One of the few pleasures that your government forgot to take away from us,” he deadpanned.
Alma’s eyes shifted toward the sheriff.
Rick raised his hand before she could speak, waving away anything that might have risen to her lips. Friendly squabble or not, he was not about to get pulled into this.
“Just get that APB out for me,” he told Alma. “Now.”
She sat down at her desk and looked at the paper again. Her brow furrowed as she turned the paper upside down, pretending to try to make sense of what was on the page. But she really couldn’t decipher what Rick had written down.
“What kind of a car are we talking about?” she finally asked.
“It’s a red Mustang, 2004,” Olivia filled in, moving over toward the woman’s desk.
“Red Mustang, huh? Shouldn’t be too hard to spot,” she commented. She moved the keyboard closer and began to type. “How long have they been gone?” she asked conversationally.
“They took off several days ago. This is the closest I’ve gotten to finding them.” Despite the fact that she was swaying slightly in an attempt to soothe her nephew, Bobby was becoming more audible about his displeasure. Olivia turned toward the sheriff and held up the bottle she had in her other hand. “You said there was a microwave around here?”
About to point her in the direction of the back room, Rick decided he might as well take her there himself. Alma, who was far better at the computer than he, was taking care of putting out the APB. So right now, nothing was on tap except some annoying paperwork that required his attention. The paperwork wasn’t going anywhere.
“This way,” Rick said, walking in front of the woman and her fussing nephew.
The room that did double duty as a kitchen/break area and storage facility was only slightly larger than a walk-in closet. The window on the opposite wall gave it the illusion of being larger than it was.
Rick pointed out the microwave. It sat in the middle of a table that looked only a fraction more sturdy than a folding card table. The microwave itself had seen better days. It had come to them, a second-hand donation from Miss Joan, who had upgraded the one in her diner.
Olivia shifted the baby to her other side, trying to prop him up on her hip. The boy was still too small for that and she didn’t want to have to juggle him while testing the milk. Putting the bottle inside the microwave, she selected a time, then pressed Start. When the oven dinged, she turned to the sheriff and held the baby out to him.
“Hold him, please,” she requested,
Now what? Rick eyed her uncertainly. Why was she giving him the boy? “You want me to feed him?”
She opened the microwave and took the bottle out again. “No, I need to test the milk to make sure that it’s not too hot for Bobby.”
Olivia shook out a few drops on her wrist. Then, because she didn’t want to just let the milk slide down her skin onto the floor, she quickly licked the drops up.
Why he found that simple act so sensual and arousing was something Rick told himself he’d have to explore at a later time. Right now, he figured it was best not to go there.
“What’s the verdict?” he asked.
She smiled, setting the bottle down on the table for a moment and holding out her arms. “It’s warm, but not too hot.”
“Like the fairy tale,” Rick commented, handing the baby back to her.
“Fairy tale?” Olivia asked, curious. Sitting down, she tucked Bobby against her and started feeding him. The moment she placed the nipple near his lips, he started sucking greedily.
“Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” Rick told her, resting a hip against the table as he watched the baby eat. “You know,” he elaborated, “too hot, too cold, just right.”
“Oh, right.” Her mind hadn’t gone in that direction for a reason, which she explained. “I didn’t take you for the type to know fairy tales.”
Rick laughed shortly. “I didn’t just appear one day, wearing a badge and a gun belt. I was a kid once, just like you were.”
The smile that came to her lips was sad, distant, as if she was trying to access something and wasn’t quite successful. She looked down at her nephew, taking comfort in just watching him. “I don’t remember ever being a kid. It feels like I was always an adult.”
He read between the lines, remembering what Olivia had said to him earlier. “How long have you been at it?”
Her eyes met his. “‘It’?”
He nodded. “Taking care of your sister.”
She didn’t even have to stop to think. She could have told him the figure in months if he’d wanted it that way. “Ten and a half years.”
No wonder she didn’t remember having a childhood. She practically hadn’t. She had to have been in her teens when she’d taken on the responsibility. “That’s a long stretch.”
She smiled at his choice of words. “You make it sound like a prison sentence.”
He