Page 21 of Montana Justice

“Don’t move,” I told her. “I’ll get your things from the car.”

The Honda’s trunk held a single small suitcase that had seen better days and a diaper bag that looked like it had been through a war. That was it. Everything she owned in the world,apparently. The suitcase was so light I wondered if there was anything in it at all.

One night, I reminded myself as I carried the bags inside. She would get some food and some sleep, then she would be gone in the morning. This wasn’t my problem to solve.

But as I set the bags down by the front door, I couldn’t ignore how thin she’d gotten. How exhausted she looked. How that baby was depending on her for everything, when she clearly had nothing left to give.

Not my problem.Fuck.

I walked back into the living room to find her exactly where I’d left her, eyes still closed, breathing deep and even. The baby had settled too, no longer fussing. Good. They both needed the rest.

My stomach chose that moment to growl, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since the sandwich I’d grabbed for lunch six hours ago. If I was hungry, she had to be starving. The peanut butter and bread she’d been buying at the store suggested she was living on the bare minimum. Who knew for how long.

I headed to the kitchen without asking if she wanted dinner. She needed food, period. The question was what to make that would be quick but also substantial.

Spaghetti with meat sauce would work. I always kept ground beef in the fridge and pasta in the pantry—bachelor survival food. I could have something ready in thirty minutes, maybe less.

The routine of cooking gave me something to focus on besides the questions burning in my mind. Why had she come back to Garnet Bend, of all places? And why did something about her story feel off, like pieces of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit together?

I browned the ground beef, added a jar of marinara sauce, and set water to boil for the pasta. Simple, but it would giveher the protein and calories she desperately needed. While the sauce simmered, I found myself staring out the kitchen doorway toward the living room, where I could just make out the top of her head over the back of the couch.

Way too many questions. I was already trying to gear myself up for the fact that I might not ever get any answers to them.

The timer chimed, pulling me back to the present. I drained the pasta, plated up a generous serving with the meat sauce, and grabbed a fork and napkin. She needed fuel more than fancy presentation.

When I walked back into the living room, I found her awake but barely. She’d taken the baby out of the carrier and laid him on the couch beside her, one protective hand resting on his tiny chest. The infant was sleeping peacefully, his little face relaxed and content.

“Here.” I handed her the plate, noting how her hands shook slightly as she accepted it. “Eat.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but I caught the genuine gratitude in it.

I wanted to sit down, to ask her all the questions piling in my mind. But it was more important that she eat.

“I’ve got some work to catch up on in my office,” I said instead. “Take your time.”

It was a lie. I didn’t have any pressing work. But she needed space to eat without feeling like I was interrogating her, and I needed distance to think clearly about what the hell I was going to do with this situation.

My home office was down the hall from the living room, far enough to give her privacy but close enough that I could hear if something went wrong. I settled at my desk and pulled up some case files on my computer, trying to focus on the mundane details of small-town law enforcement.

Forty-five minutes passed before I heard it—a soft fussing sound coming from the living room. Baby sounds. I saved the file I’d been trying and failing to read and headed back toward the front of the house.

Piper had fallen asleep on the couch, her plate balanced precariously on her lap. She’d managed to eat most of the pasta, which was something at least.

The baby was awake now, making soft sounds of displeasure at being left alone. As I approached, he turned his head toward me, and I got my first clear look at his face.

The world tilted sideways.

I’d seen those eyes before.

Every time I looked at old photographs of myself as a child. Every time I looked at pictures of my father or grandfather.

Hell, every morning in the mirror.

Dark brown, almost black, with long lashes that would probably make women jealous when he got older. The exact same shade and shape as mine. As my family’s.

The baby—Caleb, she’d called him—hadmyeyes.

My hands were shaking as I reached for him, lifting him carefully from the couch. He was so small, so light, but he settled against my chest like he belonged there. Like he’d been waiting his whole short life for this moment.

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