Laura Altom - His Baby Bonus

“Did I say you couldn’t have done it?”

“No, but your tone implied it.”

“What tone?”

“That one,” she said, plucking pickles from her burger. “You used it just now. It plainly said you think I’m incompetent, and that I need a big, strong man to look after me and make my ketchup come out. But you know what? I made it this far on my own, and—” Startled, she jumped.

“Here you go,” the waitress said, having caught Gracie off guard when she’d abruptly rounded the corner. She set a plate loaded with another burger and fries on the table. “Need anything else?”

“No, thank you,” Gracie said. Why, oh why, when she’d flinched, hadn’t she headed for the wall instead of her assigned marshal? Who actually, now that she’d gotten a better look at him, was disturbingly hot. The whole right side of her body still tingled.

But there were no tingles in Normalville! Especially when she had no want nor need for any men in her life—let alone hot ones!

“Actually,” the marshal said to the waitress, “I wouldn’t mind a Coke when you get a second.”

“Be right back.” On her return trip to the kitchen, the rail-thin redhead sang along with the jukebox.

“Mind passing the ketchup?” the marshal asked.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Gracie said, careful to set the stupid bottle in front of him, rather than risk another touching encounter by passing it directly into his waiting hand. “How if I’m skitterish enough to jump when a waitress comes around, that I must be a real head case. But I’ll have you know I didn’t flinch just a second ago because I was scared or nervous or anything. Flinching is a natural reaction often encountered during the latter stages of a woman’s third trimester.”

“Uh-huh,” he said before taking a bite of his burger.

“You don’t believe me?”

He just sat there chewing.

She cut her burger in half, then took a bite, only to wince before swallowing. “I can’t eat this,” she said.

“Why?”

“It’s cold. I don’t usually eat foods like…” Making a face, she waved at the offensive burger. “Plus, I have a texture issue about cold grease. Feels funny on my tongue.”

“Take mine,” he said, switching plates. “It’s still good and hot.”

“I couldn’t,” she said.

“Afraid I’ve got cooties? Want me to cut off the part where I bit?”

“Of course not,” she said. And to prove it, she took a bite right beside his, only to then wish she’d have just stuck with her own cold burger.

The slow grin he cast her way made a mess of her earlier assumption that the man was her enemy. How long had it been since someone was truly nice to her? Sacrifice-his-own-hot-burger nice? A while. But that didn’t mean now she should suddenly go soft.

If she let this marshal take her back to Portland, she’d be stuck in some so-called safe house for who knew how long before Vicente’s case went to trial. Seeing how now that he’d vanished, he couldn’t exactly be put on the stand. Her chance for winning the CAI’s prize would be gone, along with her and her baby girl’s future.

Keeping this in mind, she concentrated on finishing her marshal’s burger and planning a new escape. She’d tried living in Chaosville and found it not to her liking.

“Hate to interrupt you,” she said while he downed the last of her burger. “But I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

“Again?” He sighed.

“Sorry.” She flashed him her brightest smile. “Another pregnancy thing.”

“It’s okay,” he said, sliding out of the booth. “But just in case you’re thinking of trying anything, I’m going with you. Not only are you a key witness, but whether you want to acknowledge it or not, you’re in danger.”

“That’s just plain silly,” she said, thickening her accent. “Vicente would nevuh really hurt me. And now that you’ve found me, where could I possibly go? Now, be a good boy and please hand me my purse.”

He cautiously did as she’d asked.

“Thank you. I won’t be but a second.”

“That’s mighty considerate of you, darlin’, but just in case you get a hankering to take another drive, how about leaving me your keys?”

“Y-you can’t be serious,” she said. “After hearing about those other men trailing me, you honestly think I’d willingly leave your side?”

“Keys.” He held out his hand, wagged his fingers.

With a huffy sigh, she dug through her purse, handing them to him.

“Thanks.”

“You’re not welcome.”

While Gracie headed for the ladies’ room, Beau sat on the opposite side of the booth so he could have a better view. He chuckled to recall the expression on her face when he’d asked for her keys. Boy, he’d really caught her off guard with that one. Of course she’d been planning another escape. Running straight for that cooking thing.

Seeing her, being near her, brought to mind memories of how things had been with Ingrid. The luminescence of pending motherhood. The luster of her hair. The rattler-type snap when coming between her and her food. How long had it been since he’d recalled happy memories about that time?

Still grinning, Beau shook his head.

The waitress approached. “Need any pie?”

“You know,” Beau said, “that’d really hit the spot. Got anything chocolate?”

“Chocolate cream guaranteed to curl your toes.”

“In that case,” he said with a wink. “Better get two. My friend doesn’t like to share.”

She laughed. “When it comes to pie, I don’t blame her.”

The pie came, and in Beau’s case, went. The waitress had been right—it was damned good.

He eyed the bathroom. Gracie had been in there awhile. Should he call the waitress back over and ask her to check on his Southern belle?

He did just that.

And when the redhead returned with a funny look, telling him the ladies’ room was empty, if Beau had had three legs he would’ve kicked himself all the way back to Portland. How could he be so gullible?

How could Ms. Sherwood be so dumb?

He had her keys, so that left her sneaking away sometime during the thirty seconds in which he’d wolfed down his pie, then hitching a ride with a stranger. Surely he came across as more trustworthy than some of the scary-looking characters around here?

Leaving a twenty and ten on the table, Beau headed outside, shading his eyes against blinding sun.

Heat hovered in undulating waves above the blacktop. Not the best weather for a pregnant lady to be out hitching a ride.

The lot looked quiet. Three semis. Two off, one with the engine idling, stinking up the place with diesel exhaust. An assortment of eleven passenger cars lined the restaurant’s front. Two more passenger cars were filling up at covered gas tanks. On the access road running alongside I-5, a silver minivan whizzed by.

Beau looked to his own vehicle, to the big, pink Caddie, he’d blocked—

What the?

Gracie’s car was gone. The bushes in front of it flattened. His SUV’s grill all busted to hell. She’d even stabbed his driver’s side front tire. He knew it had been her because of the pink-handled metal nail file still stuck in the rubber.

When had she given him the slip? While he’d ordered pie? Common sense told him the bathroom’s location meant it was an interior room with only one exit. How was it a chirpy blonde who had tongue issues with cold grease had so effortlessly gotten away from him not once, but twice?

And how long was it going to take for him to get his tire patched so he could once and for all teach Gracie Sherwood who was boss?

More importantly, how long until he finally got it through his head that just because Gracie was pregnant, that didn’t mean he owed her special favors. He’d bent over backward trying to be kind to his wife, and look where that’d left him. He still hadn’t been able to right the wrong between them. The even sadder truth was that even if he’d wanted to, there was nothing he could’ve done.

“Listen up,” Beau said to Gracie through a still chain-locked door, six frick-frackin’ hours later, standing on the covered porch of a kitschy, roadside motel just south of Oregon’s Bandon State Park. Surrounded by a brooding fir forest, the brown and gray strip motel with plywood castle towers on either end and a moat-shaped pool with more moss than water looked like some Brothers Grimm fairy tale gone wrong.

It was only seven at night, yet in the shadows, felt more like midnight.

Gracie had parked her pink Caddie in front of her room.

Odds were, Beau never would’ve found her without a tip from a local cop who’d spotted her car. The man had offered his assistance in bringing Gracie in, but after her latest slip, for Beau anyway, this case had gotten personal. Or maybe it had always been personal, he thought, swiping his fingers through his hair.

Seeing how the rest of the crew was scattered at least a hundred miles in all different directions, looked like he had the good fortune to be bringing Ms. Sherwood in all by himself. “It’s time you learned who’s leading this mission. There are a lot of things I’ll put up with, but this hide-and-seek game’s getting old, and—” What was that funny noise?

Was she crying?

Oh, man, if his momma had still been alive to see this, she’d thump him upside his head. His dad still could, for making this little bitty pregnant thing sob.

Ingrid never once cried. Not during the entirety of her cruelly sterile speech.

“T-that’s so—wait,” Gracie said, noisily unhooking the chain. “I can’t even speak.” Whatever kind of girly cry she had going, it grew steadily worse until Beau felt two inches tall. On his list of things he didn’t do, making women cry was at the top. “Oh my gosh, you’re funny. Thanks. I haven’t had a belly laugh like that in—well, since never. At least not in the recent past.”

Funny? She called that donkey braying laughter? At his expense?

Door open, he brushed past her and stormed into the room, wanting for some unfathomable reason to be put off by peeling, smoke-stained wallpaper and the busted-tile bathroom usually indicative of this sort of hole-in-the-wall establishment. What he got was a scene from Southern Living—MTV style.

She’d draped silky-looking scarves over lamps, lending the place an exotic glow. The germy motel bedspread had been replaced with faux fur. Mink? On top of that were a half-dozen pillows, all embroidered with quirky sayings like, Woman cannot live on chocolate alone…She needs shopping, too!

As if all of that wasn’t enough, the smell was…fantastic? Some heavenly concoction simmering on a two-burner kitchenette stove sent his ravenous stomach into a growling fit. Too bad he was here to drag her back to Portland and not to eat!

“You haul all of this stuff around with you?” he asked.

Stepping inside, Gracie shut the door. His one question turned her smile upside down. “This stuff, my cooking gear and a few clothes were all I brought into my marriage, so that’s all I took when it was over.”

“Sure,” he said with a nod.

“Sure?” She shook her head. “I tell you my life is over, and that’s all you have to say?”

She’d paraded spicy-smelling candles across the top of the TV, and he sliced his finger through the flames. “Sorry. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re returning to Portland with me. Now.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m exhausted. I’ve been driving all day. I still have a couple more sauce variations to try tonight. If you insist on dragging me back, I’ll go peaceably—but in the morning.”