The Soldier And The Single Mom

* * *

Buck pondered that thought all the way home, and it gave him a spring to his step as he trotted up the guesthouse stairs, trying to stay ahead of the rain that was starting to fall. People changed. Maybe even him.

Just before he touched the door handle, he saw a movement on the far side of the porch.

Gina. Rocking gently on the porch swing, pulling a blanket over her shoulder, probably to shield Bobby from the sound of Buck’s footsteps and the flash of lightning.

He walked quietly toward them, mindful of what Dion had said. He wanted to watch how she handled Bobby with Dion’s questions in mind. If Gina was in trouble, he wanted to help her somehow. He couldn’t push her away, no matter how disturbing it was to be around her. She could be in real danger.

“Hey,” he said, keeping his concerns out of his tone. “You made it back okay? Vehicle’s running well?”

She nodded. “Yes, and Lacey said we can stay one more night. Only one, though. Then we have to be on our way.” She sounded sad.

“Do you...want to stay more?”

She adjusted Bobby with a tender care and private, loving smile. Then she looked out at the rainy twilight. “I like it here, and it feels safe. Like a good place to get my bearings.”

“That’s the town’s history and reputation,” he said. “Rescue River’s always opened its arms to those in need.”

“It feels welcoming.” She shot him a glance. “Well, mostly.”

Buck decided to be honest. “I feel for your situation, but...” He trailed off as she adjusted Bobby again, and he realized exactly what she was doing.

She was nursing him.

He stood up quickly. “Whoa, I’m sorry to intrude. I didn’t realize...”

“It’s okay,” she said, chuckling. “It’s a natural thing and I know how to cover up. I’ve fed Bobby in all kinds of places.”

“That’s...pretty cool.” He’d never been one of those guys who was turned off by nursing or pregnancy or childbirth. Just the opposite, in fact. He’d never loved Ivana more, never felt closer to her, than when she was in the height and glory of womanhood, pregnant with his child or feeding little Mia from her own body. The whole thing amazed him. God’s creativity in action.

Rain was pounding hard now, bringing with it a fresh, clean-washed smell and cooler air.

He felt himself looking at Gina in a new light. His heart warmed toward her in a visceral way: that ancient male reaction to a mother and child in need. Yes, having her here was disturbing, but he thought he could handle it, at least for a short time.

And after all, he wouldn’t be here for long himself. He was putting every penny he had into making restitution, repaying money he’d borrowed, getting back on his feet. Living here with Lacey rent-free in exchange for his renovation work. He didn’t have the means to leave town, not yet, but he would soon.

“I like it here, Buck,” Gina said. “I think God may have sent me and Bobby here for a reason. I’m thinking, maybe, I’d like to stay.”

His ambivalence must have shown on his face, because she cocked her head to one side and spoke. “That bothers you, doesn’t it? How come? Is it about my resemblance to your wife?”

“Somewhat.” Actually, he was starting to wonder how he’d ever mistaken her for Ivana. She had a plucky strength and determination, a set to her chin, a way of holding herself that were completely her own. Still, he had questions.

She frowned and looked down at Bobby, who was starting to show signs of being done nursing. She turned a little away and wiped his mouth.

“Want me to burp him?” he asked before he could stop himself.

She quirked an eyebrow. “Can you?”

“Sure.” He leaned down and picked up the baby boy and held him against his shoulder. He was sturdier than Mia had been. Gina had mentioned that Bobby was ten months. Mia had made it only eight.

But propping a baby with one hand, flipping the burp cloth over his shoulder, patting the baby’s back, that all came right back to him. Like riding a bike. You didn’t forget.

He pulled Bobby a little closer, breathing him in, cherishing the feel of the baby, pretending he was Mia. Pretending his little daughter was still alive and well and happy. That he hadn’t driven Ivana from their home in a moment of anger and desperation.

If only none of it had happened.

“Look,” she said, “I’m sorry if I bring up memories for you. Maybe I’ll get on my feet quickly and be able to get out of here. But meanwhile...”

“Meanwhile what?” He was holding her baby in the rainy twilight, looking at her and finding her beautiful, and feeling like he might be stepping into the biggest mess of his life.

And then, as he adjusted the sweet little bundle in his arms, Bobby’s pajama leg came up and he saw it.

A bruise the size of a beer coaster. Or a man’s fist.

“If it were just me, I’d leave for your sake,” she said. “But this looks like the perfect safe place for Bobby, and I have to put him first.”

He concealed his reaction to the bruise and stroked the baby’s downy hair, his heart pounding. “Of course you do.”

“But I don’t know why I’m even talking to you about it. Your sister’s the one who’s determined to get rid of me.” She was looking up at him with troubled eyes as the wind blew a strand of hair in front of her face. “I don’t know what to do.”

He could see that it cost her to admit that, to ask for advice. She’d do it, though, for her son. He could already tell she was that kind of woman.

He didn’t think she could possibly have injured Bobby, which meant that someone else had done it. Someone she was running from?

And if so, what right did he have to push her away? Especially if it resulted in this little one being hurt again?

He patted Bobby’s back until a loud burp made them both laugh. Then he sat down in the rocker across from the porch swing, still holding Bobby.

“Want to tell me about Bobby’s father?”

She drew in a breath and let it out again, slowly, seeming to consider. Finally, she spoke. “Hank was...smart and handsome. And rich.”

He smiled. “Bodes well for Bobby.”

“Yes. I just hope he doesn’t inherit a couple of the other genes.”

“Like?”

“Like the addiction-prone one.”

“Oh.” Buck looked away, feeling ashamed. Addiction was considered genetic by some, but more of a character flaw by most. And it was a flaw he shared. “Did your husband ever do AA or anything like that?”

“He was more into cocaine,” she said, “but sure, he did NA. Plenty of times.”

“It never took?” That was discouraging. “You’re talking about him in the past tense. Is he dead?”

“He died not long after Bobby was born. Ski accident.”