that made it even harder to explain why Jack hadn’t signed the papers yet. Fortunately, she wasn’t asking about those right now. “I’m the one who owns this property. I’ll see to it.”
Once his wife made up her mind, you either caved in or took matters into your own hands. “I’ll need to do some research.”
“When can you get back to me?”
“Is tomorrow soon enough?”
“That would be great.” She hesitated, and for a moment Jack hoped she had something to tell him.
Maybe she regretted their split the way he did. Maybe she’d decided she loved him enough that she didn’t need children to make their family complete. Maybe the separation and loneliness had given her time to think.
Jack would have done almost anything to win his wife back. But every time he looked at a child, the misery of the past nearly overwhelmed him. At eleven, with his father in prison for robbery and his mother dead of cancer, he’d gone from a home in turmoil to a series of foster placements where he’d been at best an outsider and at worst a nuisance.
The memories remained raw and the wounds barely scabbed over. The one thing he couldn’t do, even for Casey, was relive them by having a child.
She broke the silence at last. “The sooner we catch this slob, the better. Several of my tenants are elderly and I don’t want them to have to worry about this.”
Jack tried not to register disappointment that she had nothing further to say. It almost made him angry, though, that Casey cared more about her tenants than her husband.
Well, she’d just handed him a golden opportunity to give their marriage one more try. To nab the prowler, he planned to dispatch the best-qualified security agent at his disposal. Himself.
“I’ll take care of it.” To forestall any protests, he added, “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
“I really appreciate it. Thanks, Jack.”
“No problem.” After a brisk goodbye, he clicked off.
Although he’d have preferred to get right back on a plane, Jack knew he needed to swing by his house, catch up on the mail and repack. Guiltily, he remembered the African violet he’d bought to make the place seem homier. It must have perished weeks ago, completely forgotten.
Nobody in her right mind would consider a guy like him a suitable father. Surely a little in-person persuasion would make Casey see reason. And if not, well, at least Jack would have tried. In the process, he’d take care of that prowler, too.
Readjusting the bag on his shoulder, he dropped the flight attendant’s card into a trash bin with a silent apology. Then, rejoining the stream of pedestrians, he made his way toward the ticket counter.
When Casey strolled into Ledbetter’s Garage on Saturday, she found that Royce had dived inside the truck he was repairing. All she could see of her former high-school boyfriend was his jean-clad rear end, somewhat expanded since his football days, sticking into the air in all its glory.
“Nice view,” she commented.
The clanking noises he’d been making halted abruptly. A moment later, an oil-smeared face emerged.
“Well, hi.” Royce grinned flirtatiously, not at all daunted by his greasy condition. “Your car’s ready to go. Tuned up, oil changed, brakes checked.”
“Great.” Although it galled Casey to have someone else work on her car, she couldn’t perform the maintenance due to her expanded waistline. “What do I owe you?”
“Let’s call it even.” He shook his head, which set his light-brown ponytail waggling.
“Let’s not.” Casey might be short on funds, but she didn’t want to owe Royce any favors. She hadn’t fallen in love with him in high school and it certainly wasn’t going to happen now. “I prefer to pay my debts up front.”
Since her condition had become obvious, Royce had mentioned several times how much he loved kids. Too bad she couldn’t picture waking up beside him every morning. Or, to be honest, any morning.
“Whatever.” The mechanic ambled into his office, where an oil-smudged computer blinked below a bikini pinup calendar. Posters of football heroes covered the other walls. “A hundred and twenty-three eighty-eight, if you insist. How’s your camera?”
She’d told him earlier that she planned to stop by Lanihan’s Department Store to find out whether the gush of water had damaged it. “It’s fine. Apparently the case protected it.”
“You mean you got the guy? You know who it is?”
“Uh, no,” Casey admitted. “There’s this big blur where his face ought to be.”
“Too bad. At least you have your camera back for the party tonight, though.” Accepting her credit card, Royce swiped it through a machine.
“You bet.”
Two of her tenants, Enid Purdue and Rita Rogers, were throwing her a shower. Half a dozen friends and neighbors planned to attend the event, which, due to the small size of the cabins, would take place at Casey’s house.
She hadn’t realized she’d mentioned it to Royce earlier when she dropped off the car, but she must have. Or else word had spread. Nothing stayed private for long in Richfield Crossing.
“So this stalker or whatever he is, you think you scared him off ?” Royce asked as he waited for the computer to finish processing her bill.
“I doubt it. Seeing a pregnant lady take a tumble isn’t likely to intimidate him.”
“I heard the police came out.” He certainly had been paying attention.
“Larry Malloy wouldn’t scare a cockroach. And he isn’t likely to find one, either, even if it’s six feet tall.” Although the town’s young, part-time police officer had arrived half an hour after she’d called Jack, he’d taken only a cursory glance around the property. She doubted she’d ever see an arrest unless her attacker marched into the police station and confessed to the chief.
Royce handed her the charge slip. She tried not to wince as she signed it, knowing what a hole the amount would make in her bank account.
The tenants’ rents had sounded like sufficient income when she decided to move here, but she hadn’t realized how big a bite maintenance and taxes took out of that. Once the baby got old enough to leave with a sitter, she’d have to look for a part-time waitress job.
Royce tore off her copy and handed it over. “Casey, everybody admires your guts, but you don’t have to go through this alone.”
She flashed him a smile. “I’m not. I have friends.”
He might have said more had a lean man in his late forties not strolled into view through the open door. “Got my truck done yet?” asked Al Rawlins, who owned the town’s movie theater and video store. “Oh,
