The Virgin Mistress. Linda Turner

      Chapter Two

      “Oh, Dan!” Shelly exclaimed in a whisper. “Forgetting your baby carrier seems strange enough, but forgetting your baby?”

      At her expression of indignation, the baby’s smile crumpled and he began to cry. Both little arms went up in agitation and Dan reached for a piece of paper tied to the blue-and-white crocheted blanket with a diaper pin.

      “Oh, no. No, baby. Don’t cry.” Shelly took a tiny hand in hers and shook it playfully as Dan opened the note. “It’s okay. Don’t get upset. I’m sure your mom will be right back.”

      Dan shifted his weight as he read. “Well, you’re wrong about that,” he said with a sigh. “Somebody left you this baby.”

      “What?”

      The baby shrieked at her loud exclamation and Shelly pulled him out of the carrier, blanket and all, and held him to her chest where he screamed in her ear.

      “‘Please take care of Max,’” Dan read loudly over the baby’s screams. “‘I know you can give him all the love and money any little boy could need. Tell him I love him and I’m sorry.’”

      “Sorry?” Shelly said in agitation. “Sorry? She leaves a helpless little baby in an empty coffee shop and she’s sorry? You poor baby!” She held the screeching baby tightly to her and paced back and forth behind the counter, Dan staring at her in concern.

      “Call the sheriff,” he said. “He’ll get a caseworker from Pine Run to come get him.”

      Shelly paced and shushed and talked nonsense, something she was surprised she knew how to do. Working with her parents in the coffee shop had left little time for the baby-sitting experience most other girls had acquired. But she found herself pressing her cheek to the baby’s hot cheek and patting his back. She noted that the scent of roses clung to him.

      “He’s so small,” she said as the sobs quieted somewhat.

      Dan nodded. “Most babies are.”

      “How old do you think he is?”

      He shrugged. “It’s been so long since mine were that size. I’d say maybe six, seven months.”

      Even in her concern, Shelly was aware that there was something comfortable, comforting about the weight of the baby in her arms, about the little heart beating against her own.

      She looked down into the unhappy little face, feeling a connection being made. Bright blue eyes looked back at her, a big tear perched on a bottom lid, stuck there. Max looked her over gravely then took a fistful of her hair. He studied it, then opened his mouth like a little bird and tried to bring the hair to it.

      “Ouch. Ow.” Shelly offered him her index finger instead. “Here, take this. It’s used to being scraped and burned and otherwise abused.”

      Max took it, put sharp little gums to it, then leaned sideways against her with a little piglet sound of contentment.

      An urgent, protective feeling raged through her, taking every nurturing inclination she’d ever had and squaring it to make her feel—oh, God—maternal.

      For a moment she felt as though a pair of giant hands had shaken her, disturbed her whole being and her world, then set her down again. Absently she saw through the window that snow had begun to fall.

      Great, she thought. Shelly Rose Dupree, millionairess, caught in a snow globe.

      No! she thought fiercely. No, no, no! This was probably just some passing sensation every girl or woman experienced when she held a baby. But this baby wasn’t hers. Someone had left it to her, but she was sure she’d change her mind in a heartbeat and be right back—probably before they even closed the coffee shop.

      And she was not a candidate for motherhood. She loved children, sure, but she worked six long days a week, and she finally had some money to go places and do things. She couldn’t take care of a baby.

      Dan was right. She had to go see Luke McNeil, the sheriff.

      There. The maternal feeling left as quickly as it had come. The past two weeks had been such an emotional roller coaster. She was just stressed. Not to mention shocked by having a baby left on the counter of her coffee shop.

      “Okay.” She tried to put Max back in the carrier, but he began to scream again, so she held him in her arms instead. “I’m going to see Luke. I hope he’s in his office, and not out on a call. Can you close up for me? Put the soup in the fridge? I’ll come in early and prep in the morning.”

      “Sure.” Dan helped her into her coat, then took the gray sweater she kept in the back and wrapped it also around the baby. “Are you going to be okay? You need me to come?”

      “I’ll be fine,” she said. “You take care of things here. Oh.” She pointed to the purse she’d left on the table in the first booth when she came in. “Take that envelope sticking out with your name on it, and put the purse on my shoulder.”

      He did as she asked, then studied the envelope as he walked her to the door. “What’s this?”

      “Open it when you get home,” she directed, then walked out into the snow, wrapping her coat around the baby. The sheriff’s office was kitty-corner from The Brimming Cup.

      As she waited to cross the street, Shelly became aware that Luke was not out on a call, but he did seem to be having some kind of problem. She could see his tall, strong, uniformed body in the middle of a throng of people holding placards. They were marching around him and shouting.

      No News Is Good News! she noticed one of the signs read as the sudden disappearance of traffic allowed her to cross diagonally. Other signs read, Clear Out Of Jester! Go Bother Somebody Else! Money Talks. It Says, Get Out Of Jester! Dean Kenning was carrying that one, but he was smiling. She had a feeling he’d joined the crowd out of amusement rather than any serious disapproval of the presence of the news media.

      Shelly pushed her way through the crowd to approach Luke. He was tall and dark and had Native American ancestors. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” she asked.

      “If you’re going to complain about the press,” he said with a long-suffering sigh, “it’s been taken care of. And then some.”

      “I wasn’t,” she assured him.

      He looked surprised. “But you hate them.”

      “Yes, but I also realize we’re news and that pretty soon we won’t be and they’ll all go away. Luke, can we talk?”

      “Sure.” He caught her arm and, opening his office door, pushed her gently inside. Then he turned to the protestors and said firmly, “You keep your voices down and stay out of the street.”

      Several nodded and everyone kept marching.

      Luke closed the door behind him. He had a small, cluttered office, but in the past six years that he’d occupied it, he’d solved Jester’s problem of nighttime vandalism, and two years ago he had caught a pair of prisoners who’d escaped from Folsom and were considered armed and dangerous. He had a toughness appropriate to