Hannah Grace (10 page)

When the mute boy did nothing but survey the store, Hannah reached down and took his hand. "Come on, I'll show you." Skirt swishing and heels clicking, she led him across the worn, wood floor, bobbing her head of red curls as she walked. Gabe followed like an obedient pup.

To say she'd laid aside a few clothes for the boy was an understatement. A wagonload better described it. He wanted to argue that outfitting the child for the next year seemed extravagant, mainly because he planned to unload him on the folks responsible for his care just as soon as he could locate them.

But he kept his thoughts tucked away, thinking now wasn't the best time for bursting her bubble.

"Let's try on a couple of these shirts," she suggested, maintaining her gentle tone while showing him a long-sleeved, plaid cotton shirt. She reached for his top button, but he quickly wretched away and took a giant step backward, his brown eyes untrusting.

Standing at the ready, Gabe said, "No one's going to hurt you. Remember the talk we had on the way over here?"

The boy's dark eyebrows slanted downward as he looked from Gabe to Hannah. Then, dropping his chin, he looked at his big toe protruding from the hole in his right boot and started to unbutton his shirt of his own accord. He took it off and handed it to Hannah. His shoulder blades were peppered with bruises-bruises Gabe had seen that morning when he'd forced the boy into the tub. He gave Hannah credit for not mentioning them now, even though her mouth temporarily slacked open at the sight. Hannah tossed the old shirt aside and handed him the new one. At first, he eyed it with incredulity; then he rubbed his hand over the fabric, as if he'd never seen or felt anything quite like it.

Slipping both arms through the sleeves, he stood a little straighter as he fastened the buttons. He looks half-pleased, Gabe thought. When he was done, Hannah led him to a cracked mirror propped against a wall, where he gave himself a silent inspection, his lip twitching in one corner and looking ready to break into a smile. Gabe remained in the shadows, almost afraid to breathe for fear of ruining the moment.

Hannah's own smile bounced off the mirror as she stood there, hands folded at her skimpy waistline, moss-colored eyes never straying from the boy. One red lock fell forward on her face. "He looks very dapper, don't you think, Sheriff?"

Unexpected tenderness came welling up. Were they looking at a child who'd never owned a new shirt? "He looks mighty fine."

For the next fifteen minutes, Hannah assisted the boy in trying on everything from bib overalls to trousers to knickers, from denim shirts to woolen socks to dark, ankle-high, lace-up shoes. She even plopped a blue cap on his head, which she said would be handy for keeping out the sun. When they were finished, three piles of clothes resulted: the "too big," the "too small," and the "just right." Naturally, the "just right" rose higher than the rest.

The dark-haired urchin examined himself from head to toe, taking in his new cap, his white button-down shirt under his bib overalls, and his new socks and shoes. A long interlude seemed to pass while he stood there staring at himself, hands shoved into his pockets, outwardly awed by his own reflection.

Hannah and Gabe exchanged a fleeting glance, along with a glimmer of a smile. "You want to wear those?" she asked the boy.

His reply was a simple nod.

"How about we split down the middle-the cost, I mean?" Hannah said later as she gathered up the clothes that fit, folding each piece with care. The boy had wandered off to a table to look at an assortment of toy wagons and miniature farm equipment, all handmade from fine wood.

"Does he need all these?" Gabe kept his voice to a low murmur. "It's not like he's going to be here forever."

He watched her hands perform the folding task and noted her neatly trimmed fingernails, buffed to a glossy finish. He tried to recall what Carolina's fingers even looked like, berating himself for having forgotten so quickly.

Without glancing up, she said, "Whether he's here five days or five weeks, he'll still need clothes, Mr. Devlin."

"Well, that's true, but he's not exactly our charge."

"No, he's not ours; he's yours." She made a point to emphasize the last two words. "But because you've brought him to my father's store, I would like to share in the expense of outfitting him, if you don't mind. It's the least I can do. Naturally, we'll purchase them at cost, so the final total shouldn't be too extravagant."

"I'm not worried about the cost."

"Good." She moved to the "too big" pile and started folding, not missing a beat.

`And for your information, he's not my charge," he added, coming up beside her.

"Of course, he is,"

He swallowed down a knot of anger. "The boy jumped on my rig and hid, miss. I had nothing to do with that. I don't even have a clue where he belongs, or to whom. I'm not a foster parent; I'm the sheriff. "

She made a curt, snapping sound with her tongue. "Precisely. And, as such, you will see, I'm sure, that the boy is your responsibility. Now, you can arrange for his care, I'll grant you that, but he is ultimately your liability until you figure out where he belongs."

He cocked his left eyebrow down at her, but she failed to look up. "You're a bristly thing, you know that?"

No words of retort shot out of her mouth as he would have expected. Instead, she lifted her face and made an abrupt turn, advancing to the table where the boy's old clothes lay in a heap. "I'll just toss these in the waste barrel," she stated.

"Fine, you do that."

She picked up the pants with two fingers, as if they carried some kind of deadly disease. Next, she went for the shirt, but when she tossed it over an arm and bent to pick up the boots, the shirt slipped to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, she let out a little gasp.

"What?"

She plopped down on her bottom, extended her legs straight out, pants tossed aside, and stared at the inside of the boy's shirt. "What are you looking at?" he asked, coming up behind her to peer over her shoulder, making every effort to dismiss her lemony scent. "What is that?"

"It's a tag-sewn into the back of his shirt-with a name and number on it."

"Tag? I never saw a tag." But then he hadn't looked, either. The boy had undressed himself that morning.

He hunkered down beside her, arms resting on his thighs, and tried to see around her mass of curls, but all he got in return was a glimpse of the small square cloth stitched neatly under the dirty, torn collar and that blasted feminine scent wafting through the air.

"What's it say?"

"It says Jesse Gant, #47," she whispered. A full ten seconds passed before she lifted her head to gaze full into his face, a smile tripping across her lips. "Jesse Gant."

He bobbed his head in a slow nod, mouth pressed together as he let the name sink in. Jesse Gant.

Reaching out, he snatched up the shirt to see for himself. There it was, clear as anything. Jesse Gant, #47. Quickly, he searched the garment for more clues. But nothing surfaced, so he handed it back.

They stared evenly into each other's eyes, their faces only inches apart, as if to draw out some piece of wisdom from the other's gaze.

"Let's see what happens when I call his name," Gabe whispered. Hannah swept her tongue across her upper lip and nodded in agreement.

He pushed himself up and spotted the boy on the other side of the store, where he was surveying a fishing pole suspended from two hooks on the wall.

Gabe cleared his throat and gave a little sniff. "Hey, Jesse, come here a minute."

The boy glanced at him, beheld the fishing pole with one last wistful look, stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, and walked across the room.

Hannah kept Jesse with her the rest of the day, putting him to work with Maggie Rose in the library for the first two hours. He helped stack books in their proper places and listened to Maggie's prattle. Then, in the stockroom at the back of the store, he unpacked cartons and arranged the merchandise on the shelves. Between customers, Hannah checked on him, finding him busy most times, except for when he found a box of toy soldiers and lined them up all around him on the floor. It occurred to her then how little he'd probably played recently, and she decided to give him the soldier set later.

After some discussion, she and the sheriff had worked out an agreement of sorts. She would manage Jesse's care during the day, at least until Gabe could figure out where the boy belonged, and he would pick him up, either at her house or at the store, at the end of his workday. He balked, at first, but she convinced him that he needed help, a point he could hardly argue. They measured each other a while with narrowed gazes. "Didn't you just say he wasn't our responsibility?" he asked with quirked brow.

"If you'll recall, I said he is ultimately your responsibility, but you can certainly make other arrangements for his care. I'm merely offering my services."

He nodded. "Well, then, since he's my responsibility, I'll pay you.

"You'll do no such thing, and if you try, I won't accept it,"

An amused glint splashed through his eyes. "You are a bristly woman, slightly bullheaded, to boot,"

She'd been called a lot of things, but never bristly and bullheaded. Determined and dedicated, perhaps, but not bristly. Bristly meant headstrong, but with Ralston, she was happy to settle back and let him make all the decisions. She couldn't imagine Ralston ever calling her bristly.

It struck her that Gabriel Devlin had a way of bringing out a side she wasn't accustomed to seeing, and it rankled her, particularly since she'd only just met the man.

"Mr. Devlin, I don't consider myself a difficult person." She forced a smile so as to appear unflappable. "But I suppose certain people can bring out the worst in folks."

At that, he laughed outright. His was a most contagious laugh-one that forced her to purse her lips tightly to dodge a smile. "Now, look there, you're putting words in my mouth. Did I say you were difficult?" He leaned forward, caught her gaze, and folded his arms. "You are a handful, though, I'll grant you that. I would imagine you present quite a challenge for that doctor friend of yours."

Now, how had he heard about her association with Ralston? "You are a meddlesome man, sir."

His laughter slowed. "Why, Miss Kane, don't you know a sheriff's got to get his nose in where it doesn't belong sometimes?"

She sniffed. "Well, not in my case, you don't."

`And speaking of that doctor-Van Huff, is it?-I'm told I should take Jesse to see him for a checkup."

Hannah had to admit it was a good idea. With his expertise, Ralston would certainly detect any physical ailments Jesse might have, particularly anything to prevent him from speaking. Still, the notion that Mr. Devlin might intentionally bring up her name in the course of the examination filled her with the jitters.

"I'll be glad to take him to see Ralston," she stated.

"I'd just as soon go with you."

"But it's not necessary."

"I'd like to hear firsthand if there's anything wrong with him,"

She opened her mouth to argue, but he turned on his heel. "I'll start digging into Jesse's identity as soon as I get to my office," he said at the door, placing his hat securely on his head. "My father has some influence. I'll start by placing a telephone call to him. He might have a few leads or suggestions. Knowing Jesse's name is a huge bonus. Maybe by the time I pick him up tonight, I'll have some answers," He lowered his chin and tapped the brim of his cap in a farewell gesture, his sandy eyebrows barely showing from beneath it.

He closed the door behind him, making the shade waggle in his wake, and Hannah stared after him, suddenly curious. What did he mean when he said that his father had influence? Just who was this Gabriel Devlin, and where did he come from?

Hannah's own father entered the Whatnot at two-thirty that afternoon, all ears about the homeless waif who'd ridden into town on the back of the sheriff's wagon. Word of mouth around Sandy Shores traveled much faster than the newfangled telephone systems cropping up all over the country.

"Josh Herman stopped in to renew his insurance policy and told me you've got the boy here. Says he won't speak. Is that true? Afternoon, Arvel." Her father nodded at the elderly Mr. Sikes, who stood at the counter, waiting for Hannah to ring up his order of work gloves, a garden rake, a sack of flour, and two chocolate bars.

"It's true, Papa. He's in that little room off the library now, but don't go up there. He's napping on a makeshift bed Maggie made for him. He's plain tuckered,"

`A-bed?" Jacob asked. "What in the world? This isn't a hotel, Hannah Grace."

His expression was one ofamusement, not irritation. "Next thing you know, we'll be running a home for runaways."

"Oh, Papa, don't be silly."

She finished her order, wrapped the gloves and chocolate bars in some paper and twine, and handed the package over to Mr. Sikes with a smile. He nodded, tucked it under an arm, and picked up the rake.

Jacob stepped forward and hefted the sack of flour over his shoulder. "I'll take this out to your rig, Arvel. You getting ready to rake some leaves?"