driven down Main Street past businesses and houses and finally fields when Emma asked, “What happened in there, Tucker?”
There was a pause. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“With Steffie. I noticed before when you came into the day-care center, you stayed away from the children.”
“You’re imagining things,” he said gruffly.
“I may have lost my memory, Tucker, but my eyesight is good. Don’t you like children?”
“Children are fine. I’m just not a…family man, that’s all.”
“Where is your family?” she probed, wanting to know more about him, wanting to know why he was so quiet sometimes, wanting to know why he was so strong.
“I don’t have any family.”
“Your parents are…gone?” she asked hesitantly.
He glanced at her and was silent for a few moments, but eventually answered, “My mother left my father and me when I was a kid. She didn’t like being married to a cop, and she wanted a different life than the one we had. She sent a few postcards and then we stopped hearing from her altogether.”
“And your dad?”
After a moment, he responded, “My dad died in the line of duty when I was at the police academy. I searched for my mother after that, found out she’d been in an automobile accident about three years before and didn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry, Tucker.”
He shrugged. “Life goes on.”
That sounded a little too glib to her and didn’t explain how he’d reacted to the children. But she could see he didn’t want to talk about it. He’d been so kind to her, so protective since that night when he’d taken her to the hospital, that she didn’t want to pry where she shouldn’t. “Aunt Gertie told me you’ve lived in Storkville about three years. Where did you live before that?”
With a frown, he cast a quick glance at her. “Why all the questions, Emma?”
She fiddled with her seat belt. “I need something to concentrate on. I can’t just sit here wondering what’s going to happen when we get to Omaha.”
He blew out a breath. “I see. I should have figured that out. I thought you might be asking because—Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Before I moved to Storkville, I lived in Chicago.”
“You were a member of the police force there?”
“Oh yeah.”
“So why’d you come to Storkville?”
His jaw tensed for a moment, then he replied, “I needed a change, and Storkville certainly was that. You’ve heard how it got its name, haven’t you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I don’t know how Gertie missed telling you that. Thirty-two years ago, a storm knocked out all the electricity in the town and there was a blackout that lasted quite a few days. Nine months later, a lot of babies were born. When the media in the surrounding areas heard about it, they dubbed the town Storkville. On the second year anniversary of the blackout, the town council officially renamed the town Storkville. Apparently there’s always been a lot of multiple births here. And Aunt Gertie gave the town its motto—When The Stork Visits Storkville, He Bestows Many Bouncing Bundles On Those Whose Love Is Boundless.”
“You sound as if you don’t believe that.”
“Some days I’m not sure what I believe.”
What had he seen, what had happened to persuade him to give up a life in Chicago and move here? But she knew he might not answer that question. So she asked another. “What made you become a police officer? Your dad?”
“I suppose. I said some days I don’t know what I believe, but that’s not quite true. My father taught me a code—a code of values, a code of behavior. He taught me right from wrong, and I saw him put it into practice. I never wanted to be anything else.”
“You’re a lucky man, Tucker.”
He gave her more than a glance this time. “Why?”
Their gazes held for a moment, then he looked back at the road. But she could tell he was intensely interested in her answer. “You had a good man for a father who taught you the basis of being an adult. It sounds as if you’ve always known who you are. You’re really blessed.”
The nerve in his jaw worked, and she had a feeling there was so much he hadn’t told her, so much he wouldn’t tell her. She went on, “Every minute of every day, I wonder who I am. I wonder what kind of parents I had. I wonder what they taught me and where I grew up and why I can’t remember any of it. The neurologist said traumatic amnesia is selective in a way. I’m not sure I understand what he means, but have I selected not to remember my parents, not to remember my upbringing?”
“Your amnesia could very well have a physical cause, too, and in about another half hour, you might know a whole lot more. How about some music? Will that distract you?”
She’d rather keep talking to him. She’d rather keep learning about what he thought and what he felt and why he considered their kiss a great big mistake. But she suspected he wouldn’t tell her that. She suspected he wouldn’t tell her a lot of things.
If Emma had ever been to Omaha, she couldn’t tell. None of it seemed familiar. Tucker knew exactly where he was going. When he parked near the police station, Emma took a deep breath.
He came around to her side of the truck and opened the door for her. His dark brown eyes stared down at her steadily. “Are you ready?”
She nodded and took the large hand he gave her to help her step down from the truck. His palm had calluses, and the heat from his fingers seemed to warm her down deep inside. She was glad he was here with her. She was glad she didn’t have to do this alone.
Tucker ushered her inside the six-story building where they were directed to Roy Compton’s office. A tall, broad-shouldered man opened the door, shook Tucker’s hand then hers, and introduced himself as Roy Compton. As soon as Emma stepped into his office, she was aware of another man also wearing a suit who had auburn hair, green eyes and looked to be in his fifties. She felt no flicker of recognition and her stomach somersaulted.
“Sheriff Malone, Emma, this is Robert Franz.”
It didn’t take long for a terribly disappointed look to come over the man’s face, then he shook his head. “She’s not my daughter. She’s not my Emma.”
Emma’s breath caught, her heart pounded. He didn’t know her. She might never find out who she was. But as soon as those thoughts clicked through her mind, she realized how distressed the man was, how agonizing this was for him. Without thinking twice, she crossed to him. “I’m sorry I’m not your daughter, Mr. Franz. I hope you find her. I hope you find her very soon.”
Robert Franz’s eyes grew moist. “I might never find her if she has anything to say about it. She thinks I want to run her life and she’s probably right.”
“But
