Sophie went into a crouch, inches from the child, but careful not to touch until he was ready. Holding back was hard. She was a toucher, a hugger, believing children needed physical connection. “I’m a nice person, honey. You can talk to me and I’ll help you.”
Still only that bleak stare.
“I’m a teacher here in Redemption. Fifth grade. What grade are you in?”
Nothing.
Outside the trash bin voices rose and fell—Ida June’s spit and vinegar, and a chorus of males. By now, someone had likely called the police station, and Sophie worried the sight of an officer might frighten the boy even more. He was like a wary, wild thing, cornered and ready to bolt at the first opportunity.
Metal scraped against the outer bin. Someone else was scrambling up the side. The boy’s gaze shifted to a spot behind Sophie just as that someone dropped to the surface with catlike quiet.
Sophie glanced over one shoulder to see the trim, lithe, dark-as-a-shadow nephew of Ida June Click. His eyes, the same espresso brown as his hair, met hers in a narrow squint. There was something lethal about Kade McKendrick, and she remembered the rumor that he’d been a big-city cop or in the DEA or some such. He looked more like a man who’d been on the wrong side of the law than a police officer.
“The cookie lady,” he said with an unsmiling nod.
Sophie offered a cheeky grin. “You’ll order some yet. It’s a great cause.” Every year she and her fifth graders baked and sold Christmas cookies and contributed the proceeds to charity.
He went to his heels beside her and hitched his chin toward the child. In the bin, large as it was, three was a crowd. “Who’s your friend?”
She tilted her face toward his, noticed the tense lines around his eyes and mouth. “One frightened boy.”
Kade turned a quiet look on the child. “Hey, buddy, what’s your name?”
Sophie waited, but when the child’s response was more silence, she said, “He’s not said a word to me, either.”
“What’s that he’s holding?” Kade gestured, stirring the scent of warm, working male and clean cotton shirt, a welcome respite from the stink of trash.
“A book.”
“Good work, Sherlock,” he said, lightly enough that Sophie would have laughed if she hadn’t been so concerned for the child. “What kind of book and why is he gripping it like a lifeline?”
Sophie wondered the same thing.
To the boy, she said, “I’m a teacher, honey. I love books. What kind of story are you reading?”
He shifted slightly, his gaze flickering to the oversize book.
“Will you show it to me? Maybe we can read it together over breakfast? Are you hungry?” She extended an upturned palm and waited. She was surprisingly aware of Kade squatted in the trash next to her. She knew little about him, other than rumors and that he was good-looking in a black panther kind of way. An interesting energy simmered, in this of all places, as his arm brushed hers.
She ignored the sensation and smiled encouragement at the little boy, all the while praying for guidance and a way to connect.
Slowly, with stark hope and a dose of anxiety, the towheaded boy relinquished the picture book. Sophie shifted nearer, relaxing some and moving easily into teacher mode. She knew books, knew kids, knew how to relate.
“This is beautiful.” She touched the brightly colored cover. “Is it your favorite?”
For the first time, the boy responded. His head bobbed up and down. He scooted closer and opened the cover of the popular Christmas tale. Sophie shot a glance at Kade, who offered a quick, approving hitch of his chin. For some reason, his encouragement pleased her. Not that she wanted to impress Ida June’s great-nephew, but they were in this crowded Dumpster together. The thought made her giggle. The males gave her identical, bewildered looks.
“Look what we have here,” Sophie said, her finger on the flyleaf inscription. “To Davey. Happy Birthday. Love, Mama. You must be Davey.”
Eagerly, the child nodded, his face lighting up.
Someone rapped sharply on the side of the trash bin. The sound echoed like a metallic gong. Davey jumped, then shrank back into himself.
“Are you two taking up residence in there?”
Sophie glanced up. Three pairs of eyes peered back from above the edge, watching the scene below.
“Ida June has the patience of a housefly,” Kade muttered, but rose and offered a hand to the little boy. “Come on, Davey, I’m hungry. Let’s get some pancakes.”
Davey hesitated only a moment before putting his small hand in Kade’s much larger one. Then, with eyes wide and unsure, he reached for Sophie on the other side. Body tense, his fingers trembled. Over his head, Kade and Sophie exchanged glances. She wasn’t sure what she expected from Kade McKendrick, but anger burned from eyes dark with a devastation she couldn’t understand.
In that one look, Sophie received a stunning message. Davey was lost and alone. So was Kade McKendrick.
Chapter Two
Davey sat in Police Chief Jesse Rainmaker’s desk chair, swiveling back and forth, while the adults—Sophie, Ida June and Kade—discussed his situation. The Dumpster divers had come and gone, promising to “spread the word” and find where Davey belonged.
Kade hoped they could, but he wasn’t holding his breath. He’d seen this before, although finding a kid in a trash can was a new low. A kid, tossed away like tissue. Use once and discard. Yeah, he’d seen plenty of that. Only they got used more than once before they ran or were discarded.
Kade’s gut burned with the implication. He hoped he was wrong. He turned his back to the sad little scene and perused the faxes and photos on a bulletin board. Creeps, losers, scum. Somebody somewhere knew who this kid was and what had happened to him.
“Has he told you anything at all? Where he’s from, his name, his parents. Anything?” Police Chief Jesse Rainmaker was a solid man. In a few short weeks, Kade had come to respect the understaffed officer and his handful of deputies. They were small-town but efficient and smart. Good cops.
“Nothing,” Sophie said. “Even over breakfast, he didn’t say a word. I’m starting to wonder if he can speak.”
The sweet-faced schoolteacher had drawn a chair up next to Davey. She was good with the kid, calmed him, gave him a sense of security. For a fraction of a minute in the Dumpster, she’d done the same for him. It was a weird feeling.
Kade pivoted. “Why don’t we ask him? Obviously, he can hear.”
“Or he reads lips,” Sophie said.
Chief Rainmaker tilted his head. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
“I know sign language. I can try that, too,” Sophie said,
