His little arms went around her shoulders and his legs gripped her waist as he buried his face against her neck.
“What did you think I was going to do? Give him a beating?”
“No, oh, no. Sorry. I was scared.”
He nodded, but the notion that she thought he would hurt a child stung.
“Thank you,” she said, gulping air as she patted the boy on the back.
“Who is this kid?”
“My son, Zack.” She continued to stroke the boy’s thin little back.
For the second time that day Trace felt as if he’d been smacked by a two-by-four. Jenn had a child?
She smoothed a hand over Zack’s curly brown hair, as if to reassure herself he was all right. “He was supposed to stay with Kelly, but she came back alone.”
How come he’d never heard that Jenn had a child? Feeling as twisted up as old hay wire, Trace shoved his hands into his pockets. “I yelled at him to get down, but he ignored me.”
Jenn’s big hazel eyes filled with tears. “He didn’t hear you. Zack is deaf.” She lowered the boy back onto his feet, and used sign language to ask him something. Zack pointed to the front of his red shirt, where there was a big hole.
Jenn looked up at Trace. “He was trying to get down, but he got stuck.”
There was a piece of the boy’s shirt hanging from a splinter on the fence post. “He never should have been there in the first place.”
Jenn nodded, and had started to say something when Zack shook her hand to get her attention. He pointed to his shirt and then signed something.
Jenn laughed and nodded, signing back and speaking to him. The child watched her lips. “I know it’s your favorite. We can get you another one.”
Trace took another look at the boy’s red shirt and realized it had the Chicago Bulls’ mascot on the front.
The boy made some motions with his hands, and Jenn translated.
“Zack said he’s sorry. He wants to thank you.”
Trace nodded at the boy, then looked up at Jenn, still trying to absorb the fact that she had a child.
She gave him a wobbly smile and said, “I want to thank you, too. I’ll keep him with me in the future.” She took Zack’s hand and walked away.
Trace watched them leave, and slowly withdrew his hands from his pockets. He wasn’t very good at guessing ages, but the boy looked as if he could be about seven.
The same age the child they had supposedly lost would be.
Trace started after them. He needed answers. Now.
His phone beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket, saw the “911” designation and swore under his breath. As much as he needed to confront Jenny, his job called. He flipped open the phone and barked, “What?” He didn’t take his eyes off Jenn or Zack until they disappeared from sight.
There was a moment of silence and then his dispatcher, Henrietta, said, “Sheriff?”
Trace ran a hand over his face. “Sorry, Henrie. What’s up?”
“Accident on the highway, four miles south of the fairgrounds. Butch thinks one driver might be drunk.”
“Any injuries?” Trace glanced at his watch. Geez, it was ten o’clock in the morning.
“Doesn’t look too bad, but one of the passengers is trapped in the car. I already dispatched an ambulance, but Butch needs help. And there was another vandalism call, but that can wait until you get in.”
Henrie had managed the sheriff’s office since before Trace was born. He trusted her judgment completely.
“Tell Butch I’m on my way.” Trace shoved his phone into his pocket and headed to his cruiser.
Gripping Zack’s hand, Jenn hurried away from Trace and the feelings he awakened in her.
For so long she had tried not to think about him or any of the memories that went with him, but seeing his concern for her son brought those unwanted emotions flooding back. She tried to push them away into the back of her mind where she’d locked them. They didn’t seem to fit any longer.
Zack made a growling noise tugged and tugged free of her grasp. “Are you angry with me?” he signed.
She shook her head. “No. Why do you think that?”
He rubbed the hand she’d been holding. “Because you were smashing my hand.”
In her agitation she’d had too strong a hold on him. She scooped him up, reveling in the little-boy smell of him. He wiggled out of her grasp as she set him down again. “I’m not angry at you.” But she was furious at Kelly. Jenn had given her niece strict instructions to keep an eye on Zack.
Zack signed again. “The man was angry.”
“He was frightened for you.”
Zack shook his head in disbelief. “Policemen don’t get scared.”
She nodded, amused by Zack’s childlike view of the world, and took him more gently by the hand. She didn’t want to talk about Trace. Or why, if Trace was angry at anyone, it was her. Instead, she walked Zack back to the pigpen.
Kelly was sitting on a stool beside Petunia, talking on a cell phone. She didn’t look up at them.
Jenn pointed Zack to the empty pen opposite them, where he had been playing earlier with his assortment of action figures. Once he was absorbed, she said. “Kelly, I need to speak to you.”
Kelly rolled her eyes and pointed to the telephone.
Jenn barely resisted the urge to rip it out of her hand. “Tell them you’ll call them back.”
Kelly turned away and said something Jenn couldn’t hear, then disconnected the call. When she turned back she had a sullen look on her face. “What?”
Jenn wondered briefly what had happened to the sweet girl who had stayed at her house in Dallas last summer. Kelly had changed from a sunny child to a sullen teenager in the course of a few months.
“I told you how important it was to keep an eye on Zack. He’s not like other children.”
Kelly shrugged. That insolent lift of her shoulder was becoming a familiar thing. “It’s not my fault. I thought he was right behind me.”
“Well, he wasn’t. He wandered away and was almost gored by a bull.”
Kelly glanced over at Zack. “But he wasn’t.”
“No. Thanks to Trace.”
“He should stay with you. I can’t talk to him.”
“Yes,
