A couple of minutes passed, but there was no answer. Someone had to be around. She could swear the sound of drumbeats was coming from nearby. She decided to check the back.
With every step Anne took, the drumbeats grew louder. By the time she rounded the far corner of the church, it wasn’t hard to locate the boom box perched on the rectory porch. Or the man marching in time to the drumbeats as he pushed a lime spreader over the newly turned, acidic New England soil.
Anne had first seen Father Thomas Christen one Sunday a few weeks back, when she’d attended service at the church with Maureen. She’d heard that the priest who’d come to Cooper’s Corner the year before was a man of unusual contrasts, but nothing had prepared her for meeting him.
Tom Christen had a strong chin and cheekbones, ready complements to his light-bronze skin. But he had hair like thick, warm sunshine and eyes as blue as a summer sky. And when he talked about living a good life, he had quoted not just the Bible, but Mark Twain and Henry David Thoreau.
Anne would never forget how the deep richness of his voice carried to every corner of the old church. Or how he had smiled when his eyes had looked into hers. Or how that smile had made her acutely aware of every red-blooded corpuscle beating through her body.
Tom Christen was definitely not your average Episcopal priest.
Anne had left before the services were over, despite Maureen’s urging that she stay and meet the eligible Father Tom. Anne knew better than to shake hands with that much temptation.
Episcopal priests only had serious relationships, and that was the last thing she wanted.
She didn’t think Tom could possibly look any sexier than he had that Sunday in his formal black suit with white collar. But now, as she looked at his bare back retreating from her, she knew she had been wrong.
Tom Christen was wearing nothing but shorts.
He was just under six feet, and slender. The beautifully contoured muscles of his shoulders and back bunched with sinewy strength as he guided the large tires of the spreader over the hilly terrain in rhythm to the bouncing beat. Power pumped through his long legs, his calf and thigh muscles flexing in convex bulges as they propelled him forward.
The sun caught the light bronze of his skin, set fire to the pale gold of his hair. Anne had never stared at a man before in her life, but she was staring now. And her thoughts of the Reverend Tom Christen were anything but reverent.
Tom reached the end of the row of soil he had been sweetening with the lime mixture and turned around. He must have sensed her presence, for he suddenly stopped, turned and looked directly at her. And smiled.
Anne had the exact same sensation of blood beating through her body that she had experienced when he’d smiled at her that Sunday in church.
And then she saw the baby. It was securely wrapped in a large beige bath towel. The ends of the towel were tied around Tom’s neck—what she had originally thought to be a handkerchief—supporting the baby’s weight against his chest.
Tom set the lime spreader aside and walked over to the porch to switch off the boom box. He moved with that unconscious, sinuous grace of a man in prime physical condition.
Anne’s pulse started to skip. She quickly summoned the cool, dispassionate demeanor for which she was renowned.
Get a grip. He’s gorgeous, thirty-three and still single. The guy’s got to be gay.
The drumbeat ceased abruptly. Tom quickly closed the distance between them. “It’s nice to see you again, Anne.”
“You know who I am,” Anne said, thoroughly surprised.
Before Tom could answer, the baby against his chest stirred and let out a wail. Tom wrapped his arms around the tiny bundle and rocked it gently.
It was a red-faced, towheaded elf, emitting enough decibels to shatter steel. Anne’s eardrums started to ache.
“Only thing that seems to get him to sleep is a loud beat.” Tom yelled to be heard over the baby. “Which is why he and I have been gardening to African music this morning. Tiny little guy for such powerful lungs, isn’t he?”
Tom was standing close to Anne, nearly naked and smelling of warm, enticing male. Every female cell in her body was standing up and cheering. She had barely noticed the baby, outside of the noise it was making.
Anne forcibly reminded herself that she was a sober, sedate judge who was here on serious business.
“Where’s the baby’s mother?” she asked, determined to project her most solemn judge’s tone, even at four times its normal volume.
“Not here at the present,” Tom said smoothly.
“When will she be back?” Anne asked.
“Hard to say,” Tom answered as he continued to rock the little boy in his arms.
“She’s one of your parishioners?”
“Everyone who visits the Good Shepherd is part of the flock.”
“What’s the mother’s name?”
“Why so curious, Anne?”
Anne figured she’d given Tom enough time to open up and tell her the truth. Now it was time to tell him.
“Look, I know this baby was left on your doorstep last night.”
He had the nerve to smile. “Nothing like the grapevine of a small village, is there?”
She was not going to be sidetracked. “You should have called the state police the moment you found him.”
Tom gestured toward the rectory. “Come on inside. I can offer you stale crumb cake and the worst coffee in Cooper’s Corner.”
“As hard as it is to refuse such a tempting menu, I’ve had breakfast, thank you. Now, about—”
“Good,” Tom interrupted. “Then you can keep us company while I give the baby his. Poor little tyke had a hard night.”
Without waiting for a response, Tom bounded up the porch stairs, swung open the door and disappeared into the rectory.
Anne stared after him for several long moments without moving. Her statements about the baby had been direct, clear, unequivocal. And he had ignored them. Irritation licked along her nerves.
They were going to settle this. Right now.
She charged up the stairs, ready to do battle. But when she opened the back door and entered the kitchen, she found herself already in the aftermath of a war zone.
Dishes littered the surfaces and sink. Banana skins turned brown on the counter. The blender spilled over with mushy gray liquid. Empty cereal boxes lay scattered everywhere. Cans of beef and chicken broth and several bottles of juice stood open, most of their contents congealing inside them. Dishcloths and paper towels soaked in messes on the table and floor.
And Tom was calmly standing over the stove, bouncing the wailing baby as he warmed a bottle that sat in a pot of water.
“What happened here?” Anne asked.
“He refused to eat his formula,” Tom called over his shoulder. “Took me a while to come up with the winning additives of a teaspoon of chicken broth and one of cranberry juice.”
Anne shook her head. “That can’t be good for him.”
“He’s getting it down,” Tom said amicably. “Some of it, anyway. The general store should be opening in about thirty minutes. I’ll try him on some different stuff then. Would you mind pouring me a cup of coffee?”
It was clear to Anne that Tom had been up most of the night trying to take care of the baby that had been dropped so abruptly on him. She didn’t know of many men who would have made the effort. Hell, she didn’t know of any men who would have done that.
“Where’s the coffee?” she asked.
She followed Tom’s pointing hand to the coffeepot, drew a cup out of the cupboard and filled it to the brim. She had seen sludge that looked and smelled better.
“How do you drink this stuff?” she asked.
“By the gallon,” Tom said cheerfully.
“You realize that baby has to be handed over to the authorities so that he can be properly cared for?” Anne said.
Tom turned off the burner and picked up the bottle. He dripped its contents on his forearm, seemed satisfied with the temperature and eased onto the nearest chair.
“I’ll be ready for that coffee in just a minute,” he said.
He had ignored her question again. Anne was not pleased. Good intentions aside, the guy obviously didn’t have a clue what he was doing.
It was time for her to lay down the law.
But before she could, Tom stripped off the towel from around both the baby and his chest, and tossed it onto the table.
His exposed bare chest was magnificent—two mounds of smooth muscular pecs over a six-pack of rock-hard abs. Anne forgot whatever it was she had been about to say.
Damn. It had to be a sin for a man of God to be this sexy.
Tom rewrapped the towel around the baby before cradling him in the crook of one muscular arm. He held the bottle up to the infant’s mouth, but the baby fought taking it. It took some gentle nudging before the little boy finally accepted the bottle and settled down.
A blessed quiet descended on the kitchen.
When Tom’s eyes rose from the baby’s to Anne’s, she knew she had been caught staring, and quickly held out the cup in her hand.
As Tom freed one hand and took it from her, he flashed her a knowing smile that made her short of breath. Anne had never seen a man who exuded such a relaxed air of self-awareness. Tom Christen knew exactly who he was, and was comfortable with that knowledge. His eyes never left hers as he drank the coffee.
“Are you passing through the village today?” Tom asked when he was finished drinking and had set down the cup.
“I’m staying at the Twin Oaks B and B this weekend,” she said.
“You’ve picked the right time. April has never begun better here in the Berkshires, so I’m told. Why don’t you sit down, Anne?”
Anne wished she could make herself comfortable, eat his stale cake, drink his terrible coffee—and drink in this mouthwatering man who was muscle everywhere she looked. His self-knowledge and scintillating sex appeal were such a compelling combination.
“This isn’t a social call,” Anne said, ignoring the offered chair. “I’m here to talk about this baby. Father Christen—”
“Call me Tom.”
Oh, no. Appreciating this good-looking man was one thing. Getting personal with him was quite another. She was here on business and she was sticking to it. “That baby must be placed in the hands of the proper authorities right now.”
“And what proper authorities would that be?” Tom asked.
The deep timbre of his voice hadn’t changed. But something about his eyes belied his easy conversational tone.
“I’ll call Child Care Services,” Anne said. “They’ll put him in a foster home until his mother can be located.”
“Child Care Services will not return this baby to his mother even if they’re able to find her.”
Anne didn’t know how he’d done it, but she suddenly felt herself on the defensive. “She’d have to face charges for abandoning him. But it’s possible—depending on the circumstances and her willingness to get her act together and provide a safe and healthy environment for her baby—that they would eventually be reunited.”
“And how many times have you seen that happen?” he asked.
“It’s not always in the best interest of a baby to be reunited with its birth mother,” Anne said.
“So instead he gets dumped in some foster home.”
Anne didn’t miss the sudden, albeit subtle change from his conversational tone. “What do you have against the foster care system?” she asked.
The baby stopped feeding and began to fuss. Tom put the bottle aside, held the baby up and gently rubbed its back. It burped, spitting up all over Tom’s shoulder.
He looked around, probably for something to wipe up the spit. But all the available dishcloths had already found similar use, and the paper towel roll was empty. Spying a box of tissues, he pulled one out and swiped at his shoulder.
The baby’s fussing escalated into a cry. Tom spread the blanket across the kitchen table and laid the baby on top of it. He set about removing the wet diaper, which turned out to be several sheets of paper towels secured around the baby’s bottom with duct tape.
“You didn’t answer my question, Father Christen,” Anne yelled, trying to be heard over the wailing baby.
“A baby belongs with his mother,” Tom yelled back.
“Not with a mother who abandons him.”
“This baby wasn’t abandoned. He was left with me so that I could care for him.”
“Without enough diapers or the right formula? What kind of a mother would do that?”
“You don’t know the circumstances, Anne.”
“Tell me about them.”
“It’s a confidential matter,” Tom said.
“You’re refusing to tell me?”
“Would you tell me about confidential courtroom matters?” Tom asked.
Anne didn’t know which urge was stronger—the one to strangle him or the one to run her hands across his smooth, muscled chest and see if it could possibly be as warm and hard as she imagined.
Out of the corner of his eye Tom saw Anne shake her head in frustration. He wished he could explain so that she would understand.
The crying baby kicked his feet, impeding Tom’s progress as he removed the damp paper towels and threw them into the wastebasket. There was a flat, pink rash on the baby’s tiny chest and tummy. Was that rash hurting him? Tom wondered. Was that why he cried so much?
“There’s a fresh roll of paper towels in that drawer over there,” he said, gesturing to an end cabinet. “Would you hand it to me?”
He heard Anne moving behind him, opening the drawer. A moment later she was standing close beside him.
“Well, I can give you points for creativity when it comes to diapers, if nothing else,” she said as she held out the paper towels.
Tom recognized Anne’s tough, by-the-book judge’s tone. She had been using it on him ever since she arrived. But he’d also caught her looking at him while he fed the baby, and that look had been anything but judicial.
He could feel the warmth of her now, smell the subtle, sweet scent of her freshly shampooed hair. From the first moment he saw her this morning, every nerve ending in his body had come alive.
“Thanks,” he said, turning to take the paper towels she held out.
She looked even lovelier than he remembered. As he constructed a new makeshift diaper out of the paper towels, Tom’s mind replayed the first time he’d seen Anne Vandree.