In Every Heartbeat - By Kim Vogel Sawyer Page 0,100

him alone. If what you suspect is true, he’s bound to be defensive and dangerous.” Pete swallowed. “A gun was used on that clerk, Jackson. How would I live with myself if—”

“Don’t even think that way,” Jackson said. “I encountered plenty of unsavory characters in my battle to end child labor. I faced the barrel of a gun on more than one occasion, and I always emerged unscathed. I don’t intend to change that now.”

“But—”

“Trust me, Pete—I’ll stay safe. I’ve got a wife and two daughters at home who need me. I won’t do anything foolish. Now, stay here.” Jackson gave Pete a gentle push toward the canopy. Then he hunched his shoulders and trotted across the street, dodging raindrops. Moments later, he disappeared inside the apartment building.

Pete moved closer to his family. His brothers and sister stared up at him with wide, apprehensive eyes. His mother looked as worried as he’d ever seen her. For so many years, Pete had harbored resentful anger toward his parents—both of his parents. But looking into his ma’s tired, sad face, he wondered if she was just as much a victim of Pa’s apathetic selfishness as he had been. She certainly didn’t resemble the monster of his imaginings with her fingers combing gently through Lorenzo’s tousled hair.

Pete let his gaze drift from Lorenzo to Dennis to the older boys. What would become of his siblings if their home situation didn’t change? Jackson’s inquiries to remove the Leidig children from their parents and give Pete guardianship had gone no farther than a snail could race. He supposed he couldn’t blame the judge—he was a one-legged eighteen-year-old without a full-time job or a home to call his own. In the judge’s eyes, he couldn’t offer anything better than they were already receiving.

Yet Pete still wanted them. Desperately.

The market door squeaked open and the owner, Keith Branson, stepped out. “What’re you folks doin’, all standin’ out here?”

Although the question might have been perceived as a challenge, Pete heard no animosity in the man’s voice. “We needed a place out of the rain for a few minutes. If we’re in the way, we can—”

“Then come inside!” Keith waved his hand, smiling at the children. “Warmer in here. The missus has hot water boilin’ on the stove. Wouldja like a cup o’ tea? Or maybe some cocoa? My Norma makes the best cocoa in town—everybody says so.”

Lorenzo’s face lit. He looked up at his mother, his eyes begging. “Can we, Ma? Huh?”

To Pete’s surprise, Berta Liedig looked to him, as if seeking approval. A lump filled his throat. He offered a nod, and she ushered the children into the store with gentle nudges and murmured admonitions. Pete followed, and a pleasant shiver wiggled across his frame as warmth from the roaring woodstove in the center of the market reached him.

Mrs. Branson hustled forward, her gently lined face wreathed in a smile of welcome. “Oh my, you all look chilled to the bone! That rain’s sure turned our pretty November into a drearsome time, hasn’t it? Mrs. Leidig, there’s a real nice rockin’ chair over in the corner. Why don’t you sit a spell—you look plumb tuckered. You children come on over by the stove an’ I’ll get to pourin’ that cocoa. Nothin’ll warm you faster than a cup of cocoa with lots of milk. An’ cookies? Do you like cookies?”

Lorenzo nodded so hard his hair flopped. “Yes’m!”

Laughing, Mrs. Branson tweaked Lorenzo’s nose. “I thought so. Well, I got cookies, too. Oatmeal just overflowin’ with plump raisins. Come on over close, now.”

Berta sank into the rocking chair and rested her head on the curved back. But she kept her eyes trained on the children, who clustered around the stove while Mrs. Branson busied herself preparing the cocoa. With his family occupied, Pete returned to the front door and peered across the street, focusing on the apartment’s entrance. He sure wished Jackson would hustle on out of there.

Keith sidled up beside Pete and nudged him with his elbow. “Ever’thing all right?”

“I hope so . . .”

The man flicked a glance over his shoulder at the others, then inched closer to Pete. “That fancy man I seen out on the sidewalk with you all . . . he here to help?”

Pete nodded. “Yes. He’s a lawyer. We’re trying to get the children into a better home.” Please let it be with me!

“That’d be a right good thing.” Mr. Branson heaved a sigh. “The missus an’ me were talkin’ the other night.