But inside the house had its own dangers.
Nanny LaCroy was dangerous. Always surprising him with her candor and that calm sense of rebellion.
A faint cry sounded over his head.
The nursery was above. Had the storm frightened Lionel?
For Busick, being in Hamlin had always made it hard to sleep. Maybe it was that way for Lionel.
He pulled on his dressing gown, taking care with his sore back. The last thing he needed was for it to begin aching so much he couldn’t keep his balance.
He stared at the invalid chair.
The three-wheeled monster propelled easier on hardwoods than carpet, but it was stable and dependable.
His hand tightened about his crutch.
The contraption with its nicely sprung seating and wicker chair was a symbol of dependence, of his always needing help. It made him want to run and punch fate.
He fought despair, finished his rum, and headed for the third floor.
All was quiet when he made it to the nursery.
The room was spotless.
But Lionel wasn’t alone. Curled up in the rocking chair was the nanny.
Bare brown feet.
Bright white nightgown with lace and ribbons—something elegant and denoting a refined lady.
Who was LaCroy?
What was her background?
And why did he like the shape of her small feet?
With a shake of his head, he returned to his mission.
“Hey, little soldier. The storm has you awake, too.”
The babe lifted his arms.
If Busick felt steadier he’d pick him up. Instead, he lowered his hand, letting the boy have the cuff of his robe.
Lionel caught it and batted it about.
But Busick’s gaze lifted to LaCroy.
She sighed and curled deeper into the chair. That blanket had fallen away, exposing a hip and more of her long legs.
“Such strength, little one. Man-to-man, do you want to keep your nanny?”
The boy dribbled on the trim piping on Busick’s sleeve.
He wasn’t sure if that was a yes or no.
Lightning zipped out the window. Thunder crackled.
