Deputy Daddy. Patricia JohnsЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Two

      The room smelled faintly of floor polish mingled with the scent of the flowers on the bedside table. His hostess had thought of every detail, from the Wi-Fi password in a silver picture frame to the handmade quilt draped across the end of the bed. Bryce lay between crisp white sheets that smelled ever so subtly of bleach, knowing that he’d probably never been more comfortable in his life, but was still unable to sleep. There was something about the quiet that was throwing him off. How did people relax in a place so ridiculously silent?

      Lily and the baby stayed in a little cottage in the back—a structure that probably used to be a mother-in-law suite, but that seemed to serve her purposes nicely. She got some privacy, but she was still close enough if her guests needed anything during the night. She’d given him a phone number for her cell phone and told him not to hesitate to call if he needed anything at all. Truthfully, he’d hesitate. He never had been comfortable being waited on.

      Bryce’s Bible lay to the side. He’d tried reading it twice already and been unsuccessful.

      Lord, I’m sorry.

      Bryce wasn’t one to shirk the consequences of his own actions, and he knew he’d been wrong when he punched Leroy Higgins. He wasn’t the kind of guy to just lose control like that, and the episode had scared him a bit. Leroy had been ragging on him for weeks when he’d found out who his father was.

      Bryce’s dad had been a police officer, too, until he quit under some fierce allegations of professional misconduct. And while Leroy thought his jokes were hilarious, Bryce had finally had enough. But physically lashing out...that had been wrong and a lot more like his father than he was comfortable with.

      Outside an owl hooted, forcing him to take back his last thought about silence. It wasn’t completely quiet, really, because there were sounds, just not the kind that he was used to. The constant hum of traffic and the far-off chug of a train did the trick back in Fort Collins. A mystery novel and a couple of Psalms just before turning in had been a great relaxer as well, but all this quiet made his ordinary routines insufficient. His conscience wasn’t helping matters, either.

      That evening, he’d held Emily for an hour or more while Lily went around cleaning up the kitchen. The baby cried in the bassinet and cried in Lily’s arms. The only quiet they managed to get was when he paced the kitchen with Emily snuggled against his chest. What was a guy supposed to do? Lily had cleaned and scrubbed while he paced, and while she worked, she talked. For as much as she talked, though, he had a feeling there was a lot she held back.

      Lily was pretty in a way that he didn’t see too often in the city. Her hair was natural—not the bottle blond he saw so often. She wore very little makeup, and he was glad of that because the smattering of freckles over her face was endearing. She was petite and slim, but she wasn’t weak by any stretch. He’d seen her effortlessly lift a twenty-four-pound bag of flour. It was impressive.

      And the whole time he’d held little Emily with those big brown eyes and the black hair that sprang off the top of her head like fireworks. Every time he looked down at that pink bow of a mouth, or let her grasp his finger with that tiny little hand, he couldn’t quite forget that he was terrible at this—he had a rotten track record.

      There had been other kids in his life, and he’d managed to bungle those relationships. One Christmas Eve, he’d spilled the truth about Santa Claus at his cousin’s house. He still felt slightly wronged in that one, though, because he’d had no idea that kids actually still believed in Santa. He never had as a child, and no one had given him the memo about retaining the innocence or whatever. After that he’d stayed away during the holiday, and gave the kids Christmas cards with twenty-dollar bills enclosed. As far as he knew, they were happy with that arrangement—his cousin included.

      Then there was the time that he tried to pull the tooth of his partner’s youngest daughter. That tooth had been dangling by a thread for the longest time, and he thought if he just gave it a tug...only it didn’t come out. The poor girl had hollered and cried and bled into a tissue, and he’d felt like a complete jerk. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, and while her parents had been very forgiving and gracious about the whole thing, he still hadn’t forgiven himself for that one.

      There was a whole litany of stories where Bryce muddled things up with kids—he was no good at it, and he shouldn’t be surprised. His dad had been the least comforting, most awkward man when it came to being a father, and Bryce had inherited every last bit of it.

      So as he’d cradled Piglet, he tried to pull his emotions away. But whenever he did, Emily would seem to sense a change in him, and she’d start to cry, and he’d be pulled right back into singing “America the Beautiful.” And Lily would look at him like he was ridiculous, and he’d know that this arrangement that left him on baby duty was most definitely not working.

      He knew it wasn’t, but he didn’t have a whole lot of choice. It was this or sleeping in his truck, and he knew that he’d be an idiot to give up the clean, cozy bedroom. Somehow, he’d just have to get through these next two weeks, and then escape back to Fort Collins. At least doing a background check on Lily’s aunt’s fiancé would help to distract him. Besides the beautiful Miss Ellison, Comfort Creek seemed to offer very little distraction from his own personal issues. Perhaps that was part of the strategy out here.

      Outside, a different kind of sound broke the night stillness. It was the thump of feet hitting the ground and a soft grunt, followed quickly by another pair of feet and a male voice muttering in irritation. Bryce tossed back the sheet and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. A digital clock glowed 11:00, and Bryce almost rolled his eyes. It felt like the middle of the night here in Comfort Creek. In Fort Collins, he’d be up watching the news.

      Bryce crept to the gabled window and looked out. He had a clear view of the yard in the silvery moonlight, and he could see two young men standing in the flower garden, picking their way out of it. They’d obviously just jumped a fence, and they were moving toward the house.

      This was the kind of thing he knew how to handle. Babies—not so much. Break-and-enters, trespassers, and general run-of-the-mill bad guys? That was his comfort zone.

      Bryce slipped his gun holster over his shoulder and buckled it into place. He slid into a pair of jeans, too. Taking down a couple of perps in pajama bottoms just seemed undignified. His bare feet made no sound on the wooden floorboards as he crept from his bedroom and down the stairs. Everything was silent and still—nothing out of order, but he could hear the muttered voices of the young men outside the kitchen window.

      “...give me a boost...”

      “Ouch. No, this way—”

      Bryce unlocked the side door with a soft click, then swung it slowly open. The hinges were well oiled, much to his relief, and he slipped out onto the veranda, then jumped over the railing into the dew-laden grass. The cottage, located down a stone path and no more than fifty feet away, was dark and silent, and he peeked around the side of the house to see the two teenagers attempting to use a crowbar on the window. He rolled his eyes. They were obviously