Born to Die - Lisa Jackson [159]
“Mommy?” he asked in a sleep-shrouded voice.
Kacey’s throat constricted. “No.” She sat on the edge of his bed and touched the fingers sticking out of his cast. “No, honey, it’s Kacey. Dr. Lambert. You remember me.”
He was still eyeing her, and even in the semidarkness she saw the hope on his face fade.
As the storm raged outside, her heart cracked for the boy, but she forced a smile and pushed the hair off his forehead.
He glanced at the closet, which was dark, its door closed tight, then to the window, as if he were trying to get his bearings. “But—”
“It’s okay,” she said when she recognized his disappointment. He swallowed hard and bit his lower lip to keep from shedding tears.
Her own eyes burned. “So . . . how’re you feeling?”
“Okay.”
“You want anything?” Other than your mother.
“Nah.” He shook his head and flopped back onto the pillow.
“Okay. Then go back to sleep and I’ll check on you later. Okay?”
He was too tired to argue, it seemed. Closing his eyes, he burrowed deeper under the covers, and though his forehead was creased with confusion for a second or two, soon he was breathing deeply again, probably dreaming about having a mom nearby. As she observed Eli for a few seconds, Kacey mentally swore that if she were ever to run into Leanna, she’d wring her neck.
Stop it! She could be dead, for all you know.
That could explain why Trace hasn’t heard from her, why she seems to have completely deserted her son.
Give the woman a break. Leanna could be the victim of an accident, like the others. There is a chance her body just hasn’t been discovered.
A cold chill slithered through her body, but even so, she was angry with a woman who could abandon her child.
Satisfied that Eli was sleeping soundly, Kacey walked back to the hallway and down the stairs, where the scents of Tilly’s killer chicken were wafting from the lower level.
Her stomach had the bad manners to growl loudly as she entered the kitchen.
Trace, gingerly lifting a bowl from the microwave, looked over his shoulder. “How was he?”
“Confused. Thought I was Leanna,” Kacey admitted. “Kinda like Tilly.” She managed a smile as she found plates and set them on the table. “I’m giving your son a pass. He’s on medication and just a kid. Tilly . . . I’m not so sure.”
“She’ll come around,” he said.
He served the dinner, and Kacey, seated on a beat-up kitchen chair that looked to be at least fifty years old, had to admit Tilly’s killer chicken was the best meal she’d eaten since Thanksgiving with Maribelle, maybe better.
They ate in silence. The chicken was succulent, and the beans were seasoned with soy sauce and garlic. Even the mashed potatoes, tasting slightly of butter and sour cream melted in her mouth and really didn’t need the gravy that she’d ladled on, anyway.
“Okay,” Kacey admitted, once her plate was nearly empty. “So she can cook. And knit. And didn’t you say play checkers?”
“And a lot more. Give her a chance.”
“If she gives me one.”
“No promises there,” he teased. “I’m going out and double-checking the stock. Make sure all the hatches are battened down. Wanna come?”
She glanced out the window just as a gust of bitter wind rattled the shutters. “You know, I think I’ll pass,” she said. “Stay in with Eli and clean up the kitchen.”
“Can’t get a better offer than that.”
She watched him put on his jacket again, long arms sliding through the sleeves. What was it about him she found so damned attractive? She, who had always been interested in professional men, city guys.
Like JC?
Or maybe a guy who is more like one of Gerald Johnson’s sons, not the men themselves, but a man in a suit and tie, with an uptight attitude?
“Nope,” she said aloud.
With both dogs on his heels, Trace made his way outside to check on the cattle and horses for the night. Kacey, meanwhile, cleaned the kitchen, then settled onto