Special Forces Father - By Mallory Kane Page 0,12

hesitantly.

“I know,” he responded, tossing the leftover sandwich in the trash. “Makes it easier for you to keep an eye on me. To make sure I don’t go running to Lucas or Ethan.”

“Well, that,” she admitted with a small smile. “But also, it makes me feel safe.”

It was a reflection of the state of his mind and his body that his first thought was relief that he wouldn’t have to drive any more tonight. “You couldn’t make me leave if you tried,” he said wryly.

Her smile faded. “Travis, you never answered my question. What are you doing here? Why did you show up here tonight?” Her gaze grew sharp.

“It’s kind of a long story, Kate. Why don’t we talk about it later? Right now, you need to get some sleep. And I need to take a shower and get some sleep myself. I’ve got a bag in the car.”

She nodded, still pondering him.

As she sat down on the couch, he headed out to his car to get his duffel bag. When he returned, Kate pointed him toward Max’s room, which was filled with more toys, as well as stuffed animals and books. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt and headed to the bathroom. By the time he was finished showering, the hot water had made him so drowsy he could barely hold his eyes open.

He walked out into the living room and found Kate asleep on the couch, the remote control for the television held loosely in her hand. Her lips were parted. Her soft breaths were barely audible. He was glad to see she’d fallen asleep. The last thing he wanted to do was to wake her. But he didn’t want to leave her here in the dark by herself, either.

He took the remote and set it on the coffee table, then grabbed an afghan from the back of an armchair and gently spread it over her. When he turned out the lights and sat next to her, she turned and snuggled up against him. A lump grew in his throat as he relaxed back against the soft couch cushions.

He’d fled the confines of a military hospital and the shrinks who were trying to treat him for an illness that he didn’t believe he had. He’d traveled twenty-four hours to see her—maybe to clear his conscience by telling her he still loved her, maybe in hopes that she would want him back.

But his motive for coming here was no longer important. When she’d opened her front door, he’d walked right into her nightmare. He didn’t understand much about what was going on—not yet. But he knew one thing. Kate needed his help, and whatever he could do to help her find her child, he’d do it with all the strength he had in him.

Chapter Three

“Can’t you shut that kid up?” Bentley Woods groaned as he turned over on the narrow, lumpy sofa. “It’s hard enough to sleep on this damn fleabag couch without having to listen to him whining.” For a few seconds he didn’t hear anything except the kid’s caterwauling.

Then the bedroom door opened and Shirley stuck her straw-blond head out. “Shh!” she hissed. “If you don’t stop yelling, I’ll never get him to sleep.”

“What’s the matter with him, anyhow? I thought kids slept a lot.” Bent sat up and groped for a cigarette. He lit it with a disposable lighter and took a deep pull.

“That shows how much you know about kids,” Shirley said, slipping through the door and closing it quietly. Behind it, the kid sniffled. “Maybe he misses his mama.”

Bent snorted. “He’ll miss her a lot more if she doesn’t cooperate.”

“Oh, give me a break. You’re not going to hurt that kid or his mama.” Shirley leaned over the back of the couch and kissed his forehead.

“I will if I have to.”

“You get squeamish if you have to use your gun. Call me, you big wuss. I’ll shoot her.”

“You are good,” he said, smirking at her.

“You bet your life. Now gimme a hit on that cigarette.”

“Get your own,” he retorted.

“I can’t smoke in there. That’s not healthy for him.”

“You’re coddling that squirt. Since when are you all interested in babies?”

Shirley grabbed his cigarette and drew deeply on it, then handed it back. “Since you informed me I had to babysit one. And he’s four years old—hardly a baby.” Smoke drifted out of her mouth as she spoke.

“Four years, four months. What’s the difference?”

She laughed. “About a dozen dirty diapers a day,” she