wanted—needed—more from her than that. He pulled her to him, feeling her involuntary recoil, her quick stiffening against his body.
But she wouldn’t reject his claim on her comfort. Not tender-hearted, loyal Bailey. He held her close, his heart pounding as he breathed in the bromine scent of her hair.
And at last, as he hoped, as he expected she would, Bailey put her arms around him and patted him awkwardly on the back.
From the other side of the room, the detective watched impassively.
THREE
G ABRIELLE scowled from the front porch steps as Steve pulled into the driveway at nine-thirty in the morning.
Busted .
The headache building behind his eyes ratcheted up a notch. He wanted to spend more time with her. That’s why he’d moved back to Stokesville. But not after he’d been up all night with a dead woman and three officers more used to drunk-and-disorderlies and traffic stops than crime scene investigation. And not before he’d had a chance to wash away the taste of station house sludge with a fresh pot of coffee.
Slowly, he climbed from the car, slinging his jacket over his shoulder.
Gabrielle narrowed her eyes as he approached the porch. “You missed breakfast.”
At least she was speaking to him this morning.
Stooping, he dropped a kiss on top of his nine-year-old daughter’s smooth, dark head, feeling his reality, his responsibilities, shift and grip around him. “Did you save me any?”
“Grandma did.” Gabrielle scrambled to her feet, leaning briefly against his side in what passed these days for a hug. “You didn’t call this morning, either.”
Guilt scraped him. Steve opened the door to his mother’s house. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Huh.” Gabrielle snorted. “That’s what I’m going to say when I’m a teenager.”
Four more years, he thought. They could make it.
“When you’re a teenager, I’m going to lock you in your room and sit on the front porch all night with a shotgun,” he said mildly. “So it won’t be an issue.”
Gabrielle tossed her braid in a gesture so reminiscent of her dead mother that his chest squeezed. “That’s police brutality.”
“Good parenting,” he corrected.
She flounced into the house.
The interior was cool and dim and smelled of bacon. Steve stopped in the entryway, rubbing the tension from the back of his neck.
“Gabby?” His mother’s voice carried from the kitchen. “Who is it?”
Steve took a deep breath and followed his daughter down the hall. “It’s me, Mom. I’m home.”
“About time, too,” his mother said.
Eugenia Burke was one of those Southern women who would look the same at seventy as she did at fifty-five, her body kept toned by exercise and her mind kept sharp by an interest in everything and everybody. As far back as Steve could remember, her hair was sleek and dark, her complexion moisturized, and her toenail polish pink. The death of Steve’s father five years ago had hit her hard, but her life since then had settled into a routine of book club, Bible study, and volunteer work at the hospital.
At the time, Steve had figured Eugenia was filling the void left by her husband’s death. Now he knew some chasms could never be filled. Eugenia had simply stepped back from the edge.
She slid a plate into the microwave and turned to face him. “I suppose it’s too much to hope you were out all night on a date.”
Steve crossed the sunlit kitchen to the coffeepot, refusing to rise to her bait. She knew where he’d been. He’d left a note. But he and Gabby had barely moved in when Mom took it into her head it was time he started dating agin, and now she never lost an opportunity to remind him he wasn’t getting any younger and there were plenty of nice girls in Stokesville. “I was out on a call.”
Eugenia nodded, momentarily distracted from her campaign to mend his broken heart