Five Kids, One Christmas (The Brannigan Sisters) Page 5

  His pulse leapt suddenly as a hint of something intrinsically feminine invaded his nostrils, filled his lungs.

  "Nat," Helen said again, this time from a point so close to his left ear that he jumped and backed into her. The damned woman moved more quietly than any cat he’d ever met. Maybe that was why he was having such a hard time dealing with his nether regions around her: because she engaged—or perhaps that was enraged—his mind, then snuck up on him when his self–control was elsewhere.

  "Sorry," she said now, steadying him with a hand on his arm, the other at his back, ignoring the current, the desire to turn "steadying him" into an embrace. "Didn’t mean to startle you. Thought you had ears like a bat. Emma needs to talk to you…."

  An odd sensation fizzed inside Nat; he couldn’t quite nail down its source. "Is that some kind of blind joke?"

  "Pardon?" Her change of emotion was evident in her voice: puzzled, distracted, and then suddenly embarrassed. "Oh, ah, you mean, ah, as in ‘blind as a—’? Ah, no, I’m sor—I didn’t mean—"

  The chuckle that had been building inside Nat broke loose. He grinned.

  Helen made a sound of disgust, ignoring the intriguing set of responses his grin elicited: the restless fuzz that skimmed her shoulders and across the back of her neck, the hypersensitive feel of the prickly cling of clothing on skin just before a thunderstorm. The desire to lift her arms, bare her body and stretch to meet the storm head on. It would be a warm storm, full of thunder and lightning, but with a delicious rain that refreshed and renewed at the same time that it laid waste—or was that waist, as in Nat’s long–fingered hands sliding along hers, first up, then down, around…

  Her mind snapped to attention with a silent raspberry. Oh, for the love of… Like she didn’t have anything better to do than fantasize about hedonistic pastimes. This proximity thing her mother used to talk about when she and her sisters were teenagers—as in "too much proximity to the cute boyfriend, or even boy friend, leads to temptation"—was getting way out of hand.

  She breathed, shutting the door on uninvited reverie before the subject in question—Nathaniel Hawthorne Crockett wasn’t nearly as blind as he might appear, and anyway, the whole idea of him reading her in braille was simply far too evocative for daytime consideration—figured out what she was thinking about.

  "Not funny, Crockett. Besides, anybody with any trivia background at all knows bats aren’t blind. It’s a misconception, the same way lemmings rushing to the edge of a cliff and throwing themselves into the sea by the thousands as a means of population control is a misconception, or like—"

  "Like blind people needing someone to get fire trucks off the stairs or wanting their furniture to stay where they left it the night before is a misconception?" The question was calm but pointed.

  He’d gone down on his knees over a Tonka hook–and–ladder truck last night trying to keep his footing on the second floor landing.

  Argumentative.

  He’d tripped over the wing chair she—or, to be fair, someone, but let’s face it, who else in this house was stubborn enough to hoist the damned thing—had moved into his bedroom sometime between when he’d gone to bed last night and when he’d risen this morning.

  Challenging.

  No military mind—especially Helen’s—could fail to miss this gauntlet, chain mail that it was and flung coolly at the side of her face. Especially not when Nat had been delicately alluding to the issue without once stating it all week.

  Helen herself subscribed to the "If there’s a problem, state it, don’t eat it" school of thought and had a little—well, okay, a lot—of trouble being sensitive to other people’s needs if she didn’t know what those needs were, specifically.

  She pursed her lips in consideration. "Well, yeah, I guess so," she agreed, deliberately dodging the point by figuratively grabbing hold of the end of the stick and shaking it. "Exactly like that. Besides, I thought that’s why you have the dog."

  Toby pricked up his ears and wagged his tail. The phrase "the dog," when used by Helen, was often accompanied by illicit handouts and surreptitious ear scratching worthy of his response.

  "Pardon?" The flung gauntlet, returned with unforeseen force, caught Nat off guard. The fact that his dog seemed willing to desert him for Helen even while in harness disconcerted him further. "Excuse me?"

  Helen sighed, martyred but exuding patience. "To get you around obstacles in the dark."

  Nonplussed, Nat felt his jaw go slack—with shock or wonder, he wasn’t sure which. He had a few friends, coworkers with whom he was comfortable enough—and who were comfortable enough with him—to make light of the darkness he occupied, but this was… Unexpected. Especially in the current circumstances.

  On the other hand, back while they’d still been friends, before his wife–stealing had intervened, John had told Nat a little of what Helen—and living with Helen—was like: incendiary, organized, impractical, righteous, surprising, curious, decisive, without ceremony, challenging, never boring. And that was putting name only to what lay near the surface. Now Helen, with all those qualities—and a great many Nat had a feeling John had never taken the time to recognize—was living with Nat and his–kids–her–kid–their–kids in a house where stasis, if it had ever existed, was certainly now a thing of the past.

  In other words, he thought, surrendering without being sure there’d ever been a battle, better get used to it.

  But so had she.

  From the kitchen behind them rose the faint squawk of someone ignored too long on the phone. Entrenched in the middle of something far more… interesting… Helen and Nat confronted each other and continued to neglect Emma.

  Nat’s jaw firmed, mouth grew thoughtful, face calculating. Forewarned by years of dealing with people who reacted to her in ways they didn’t expect from themselves, Helen armed herself with ready answers and watched him warily.

  "When you’re dropped someplace where you don’t know your way around in the dark, what do you do?" His voice was mild.

  Helen wasn’t fooled. "Get out my night vision goggles," she replied promptly.

  Sightless or not, he should have seen that one coming. She was military, resourceful and unpredictable, after all. He gritted his teeth and growled.

  "Okay, all right," Helen said, resigned, but not quite giving in. "That wasn’t what you meant, I understand. Whether they’d fit or not, you want me to put on your shoes and see what it’s like to be you living in a house with five kids and someone like me."

  "Okay," Nat agreed. "For starters," he added darkly.

  "Well," Helen mused, "let’s see." She thought for a moment, tapping one toe loudly enough to be sure Nat heard her mental wheels turning. "Okay, I’ve got it. The army trained me to never let down my guard—especially in the dark—in a combat zone, which, now that I think of it, this whole situation sort of is. So, I have a tendency to be pretty careful moving around in the dark, particularly if I’m somewhere with people I don’t know, like you."

  That was a novel thought that hadn’t occurred to him. He let himself be sidetracked. "You’re careful moving around in the dark here because of me?"

  "Of course." Helen nodded. "I never have any idea where you’ll leave the dog…."

  Toby’s tail thumped; he looked up at her hopefully. I’m starving. No one feeds me. Please, can’t you slip me something before he takes me out and works me to death?

  Helen rolled her eyes at the beast. "A likely story," she said without sympathy. "I know how well he treats you. Better than me, that’s how."

  Toby nosed her hand, working the crowd.

  "Don’t fish," Nat said automatically—to both of them—as Helen palmed the dog’s bearded chin and mouthed, "Later."

  "I heard that," Nat said.

  "I told you." Helen shrugged. "Ears like a bat."

  "Which," Nat suggested meaningfully, "if I remember correctly, is where we were before you started talking to the dog, who, by the way, is in harness and therefore not to be dist
racted…."

  On the table below the entry hall stairway, the cordless phone rang, the light on the second line flashing. Helen picked it up, punched it on.

  "Hello?… Oh, Lord, Emma, I’m sorry…. Were you holding all that time?… No, I—we… No, we just wound up in the middle of something…." She grabbed the sleeve of Nat’s jacket before he could edge Toby closer to the door and make his escape.

  "No, no, everything’s fine… No, the kids are just about on their way to school… No, no, it’s my fault. Take me out of Washington and I turn into a flibbertigibbet… No!" She was offended. Why couldn’t anybody who wasn’t family ever spontaneously know to reduce the exaggerated metaphors she was prone to using to their proper proportions? In this instance, "flibbertigibbet" equaled, say, "a tad frazzled." Maybe even monumentally out of her depth. She sucked in air, harassed out of habit—and perhaps for the fun of it.

  "Of course I’m not a flibbertigibbet in front of the children, why do you ask… It’s an expression, Emma. Everybody in my family… Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. I was brought up by a pack of occasional flibbertigibbets and I think we all turned out splendidly, and so do the people who entrust a portion of the security of our sovereign nation to my capable hands. Here’s Nat." Helen took a deep breath, hit the mute button and pressed the phone against his hand. "Talk to her before I say something drastic."

  "Oh?" he asked mildly, entertained no end. In addition to what she did to his lust levels, the woman was a font of things he’d never met in anyone else. "What drastic statement might you make that you haven’t already?"

  His voice was innocent and interested.

  Distracting.

  Once more diverted from her purpose, Helen shrugged. "Oh, I don’t know, something like…" She caught herself digressing, shook the phone at him. The rubbery antenna bounced on his chest. "Oh, no you don’t, buster, you’re not sidetracking me again." Damn the man. He’d found her fatal flaw. She was a sucker for conversational tangents. Fell for them every time he found one. "She’s your children’s grandmother, and she has certain inalienable rights, so you’re talking to her whether you like it or not."

  "Take a message?" Nat suggested hopefully. "I’m on my way to an important meeting?"

  Helen snorted. "Not a chance, bud. I’ve been taking messages for you all week. I quit. Haven’t had to play anybody’s secretary since I was a captain, and I’m not going back to it now." She pressed the phone into his hand, unwisely gave his jaw a friendly, chin–up jab. The contact made her fist tingle, jarred her train of thought. She brought herself back to business with an effort. "Besides, what have you got to lose? If you talk to her now, maybe you won’t have to do it again for a while. It’s got to be better than being stuck with the laundry."

  "Optimist," Nat muttered. He took the phone, punched it on. "What can I do for you, Emma?"

  In lieu of a grin, Helen gave his arm a light jab, laughed aloud when he grimaced and turned his back on her, gasped when he suddenly spun about and grabbed her hand, pulled her toward him.

  "Hey—" she began, automatically resisting, then shut up and gave ground at the sight of his intensely expressive face twisted first with disbelief, then with outrage. Then it went utterly and completely blank.

  The hand around hers tightened and trembled.

  A sudden prickle of misgiving traced her skin; her insides went cold. "What?" she asked.

  Nat shook his head, silent, listening. Leaning in close to him, ear against the phone, Helen could make out Emma’s voice, cold and shrill; the words eluded her. In the middle of something that sounded particularly vindictive, Nat pulled the phone away from his ear, released Helen and felt for the ‘Off’ button, terminating the call. For a moment longer he stood silent, holding onto the receiver. Gently Helen took the phone from him, set it on the table, made him face her.

  "Tell me," she suggested quietly.

  Nat’s jaw worked. He sucked in air, expelled it slowly. "Apparently one of the kids said something yesterday when Emma picked them up from school—I’m not sure what, she wasn’t very coherent—and Emma… must have misunderstood or taken it wrong…."

  Thunder rose inside Helen without warning, like an unexpected summer storm that boded only ill. She caught his arm, shook him. "Get to it, Nat, damn it."

  "Emma and Jake called children’s services and filed an emotional abuse complaint against us. They’ve gone to court to contest custody and take the kids."

  Chapter Four

  "Emotional abuse?" Helen asked in disbelief.

  Mouth tight, Nat nodded.

  "Emotional abuse?"

  This time Nat didn’t nod, but merely tightened his jaw. The stain of angry color in his cheek was confirmation more damning than his silence.

  Disbelief gave way to outrage as she thought about it. "Their live–in parents died, let’s see…" She squinted, counting. "Six, eleven, twelve, thirteen days ago. They spent seven days with Emma and Jake, being told that you and I don’t care about them and aren’t fit to be related to them at all, let alone be their default parents, at the end of which they spent two days being questioned and observed in–home by custodial services, at which point we got here, completely unprepared for what was going to happen because Emma and Jake neglected to let anybody but their lawyer know so he could get a head start preparing for a custody battle. This is the same day that the kids find out they actually aren’t going to be split up the way they thought, but will be living under the dubious guardianship of their other parents—us—and we’ve had a complaint filed against us for emotional abuse?"

  Again Nat nodded, swallowing a crooked smile. She sounded for all the world like a she–bear with cubs, bellowing and snarling a warning to any comers. Knowing how little she thought of her aptitude in the mothering area, he couldn’t help but feel some bittersweet enjoyment of her reaction. She was a Mother with a capital M, whether she realized it or not.

  "If I followed it," he told her, "it’s got to do with something one of the kids said about us living together without being married, which Emma interpreted as being overly confusing to young minds brought up with traditional family values, not to mention detrimental to their psyches. And somebody being forced to eat peas—"

  "That doesn’t make sense. Peas are good for them."

  Nat gave a helpless shrug of agreement, then continued, "—who always gags on them—"

  "Nobody gagged on them. Nobody said anything about them. Nobody even hid them in a napkin and fed them to the dog, and he loves peas."

  "—and it would be laughable if it weren’t so damned serious…." He stopped, his train of thought arrested when Helen’s observations caught up with him. "He does?" Hell, now she knew things about his dog that he didn’t.

  "Yes." Helen nodded, sidetracked in spite of the furious adrenaline flowing through her veins. "He prefers raw broccoli, but frozen peas’ll do in a pinch. He won’t eat ’em if they’re canned." She shuddered. "’Course, neither will I." She came straight back to cases. "What about the kids? They can’t take them from us—we don’t even have them yet."

  Nat’s mouth twisted. "That’s the problem—we don’t have permanent custody yet. Even if we did, protective services would have to start a file, investigate, but we’d have some legal place to stand. As it is—" he shrugged unhappily "—more than one judge decided we weren’t the right parents to have even shared custody of our own children after our divorces. And if Emma’s right, extenuating reasons won’t matter, only the results will show in court."

  Protest was instinctive. "That can’t be right."

  "No."

  "A custody battle won’t be pretty, and it’ll be hell on the kids."

  "On all of us."

  Helen’s chin came up; Nat heard it in her voice. "I’m not losing Libby again."

  "Me, neither." A promise and a warning.

  She caught his sleeve, gave his arm a shake, a threat of her own. "I won’t give up Zach and Cara, either."

  A grin twist
ed his mouth, faded. "Or Max and Jane."

  "None of ’em," she said flatly.

  "They’re family," he agreed. "We’re family. We’re just a bit snarled at the moment—"

  "And untangling the knots takes time—"

  "Right."

  "—which we’re apparently out of."

  "Yes."

  They were silent for a moment, hardly breathing, squared off opposite each other not as adversaries, but as nations that had never been at war calling a truce, forming an alliance. The fact that they had no blueprint to follow perplexed, but did not deter, either of them.

  The silence ended when Helen inhaled deeply.

  "I’ll fight," she said finally, ferociously, stating it for both of them. After all, she was a bang–up U.S. Army colonel, with a degree in military logistics and a breastful of well–earned decorations—including combat medals, thank you very much—and it hadn’t been easy getting here. It had been hard work, with an overabundance of man made impediments and some really rotten hours, but she’d done it. It would be silly not to utilize the skills she’d spent twenty years of her life honing. "There’s a lot of things being in the army might not have taught me, but I know how to do that."

  Nat shook his head, smiled grimly and supplied what she left out. Years spent living navy and Pentagon protocol had taught him well, too. "We’ll fight."

  She gave a clipped nod. "Whatever it takes."

  "Except—" Nat took her hand off his sleeve, held it with her attention "—except we keep the kids out of it as much as possible."

  "Of course," Helen agreed, surprised. "That goes without saying."

  "No." Nat shook his head. "It doesn’t."

  "Well, it should."

  "True, but it didn’t, and now we both know that we both know."