A Kid to the Rescue Read online

  “I know you don’t like fighting, but do you ever at least fight yourself?”

  Greg inched forward.

  “Wh-what do you mean?” Shannon asked.

  “I mean, say there’s something you want that you know you shouldn’t have. Say, cheese and pepperoni pizza. You know it’s all wrong for you. It’s never going to work. But you want it. It looks delicious.” He planted his palms on the wall on either side of her head, then leaned in, nuzzled her shoulder and inhaled deeply as he skimmed the curve of her neck. “It smells fantastic. Do you fight with yourself over tasting it? Or do you just take a bite?”

  “I–” She lowered her gaze to his mouth. The tip of her tongue darted out, moistening her lips, and Greg’s hormones jumped to attention like a superhero to a beacon light in the night sky. “Fighting’s wrong,” she murmured. “Don’t fight it. Taste it.”

  He bent his elbows, letting his body weight ease against her.

  “Is that your utility belt,” she muttered, “or are you happy to see me?”

  Dear Reader,

  It’s so good to be back! I’ve missed sharing stories with you.

  Isn’t it interesting how our past influences the people we become? The good, the bad, the ugly…all the things that happen to us color the way we look at life.

  I’d like to introduce you to Shannon Vanderhoff, a woman whose past has made her who she is at the start of this story—and to Ryan, her six-year-old nephew, who’s going to change her. With some help from comic-book artist/art therapist Greg Hawkins and his enormous family, it’s Ryan who’s going to rescue Shannon, not the other way around.

  I’ve had a lot of fun with this book. I mean, what’s more fun than superheroes, comic books and impish kids who love the story The Ransom of Red Chief?

  I hope you enjoy it.

  I’d love to hear from you! Please visit my Web site, www.susangable.com, e-mail me at [email protected] or send me a letter at P.O. Box 9313, Erie, PA 16505.

  Susan Gable

  A KID TO THE RESCUE

  Susan Gable

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Susan Gable’s love of reading goes back to her preschool days, when books arrived at her house through the Weekly Readers Book Club. Both her parents are voracious readers, and they passed that on to their daughter. Susan shared her love of books (and Weekly Reader!) as an elementary teacher for ten years, then turned to writing after a year of homeschooling her son caused her to nearly lose what was left of her mind. Writing, it turns out, is cheaper than therapy, and homeschooling is way harder than teaching other people’s kids. Susan is a Waldenbooks bestselling author. Her books have been Golden Heart and RITA® Award finalists, and twice nominated by Romantic Times BOOKreviews for Best Superromance of the Year. In addition, she’s won numerous awards, including the National Readers’ Choice Award. She has been praised by readers and reviewers alike for her ability to tell emotionally compelling stories that make them laugh and cry.

  Books by Susan Gable

  HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

  1103—THE BABY PLAN

  1150—THE MOMMY PLAN

  1204—WHOSE CHILD?

  1285—THE PREGNANCY TEST

  Dedicated in loving memory:

  Of Susan Harmon, who always believed

  there’d be another book.

  Sus, you’re missed so very much.

  Storytelling’s not the same without you.

  And of Deandra Francis May,

  who left her family way too young.

  Dee, we’re never letting go.

  You’ll stay in our hearts forever.

  Special thanks to:

  Stacey Konkel, Esquire, for answering my numerous family law questions.

  Jack Daneri, Esquire, for answering a million criminal law questions and being a good sport that a romance author, not a thriller writer, consulted him with legal questions.

  Holly, for always encouraging me to keep fighting.

  Jen and Diana, tireless CPs, always there to lend encouragement and tell me where I’d gone off track. Di, thanks for making me laugh.

  Victoria and Wanda, for bringing me back into the Superromance lineup and making this book so much stronger.

  Tom and TJ. Living with a writer is never easy. Thanks for understanding when I disappeared into the office and appeared to have forgotten your existence in favor of my imaginary friends. Do we have any clean socks?

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  FOR THE UMPTEENTH TIME, Greg Hawkins glanced at the observation window—the one that reflected into the room he used at Erie University’s Children’s Center—and wished he had superpowers.

  Nothing spectacular, mind you. Just the ability to see and hear through walls. To know who was staring at him this time.

  At least a goldfish in a bowl could stare back.

  “Kerpow! Kerpow!” At the far end of the table, one of Greg’s kids wiggled in his chair, banging his fist on the cluttered surface and sending colored pencils rolling in all directions. “Mr. Hawkins, how do you spell kerpow? I want to write it big.”

  “Kerpow, huh?” He jotted it on a scrap of paper and passed it down the table, sneaking a covert look at his watch as he did. They were more than halfway through the session and Julie still wasn’t here. It wasn’t usually a good sign when one of his kids was late. Especially this late. Without a parent calling him.

  Just three weeks earlier they’d lost Scotty, a member of the group, and Greg didn’t think any of them—not him, not the kids, nor their parents—were ready to deal with another setback. Hopefully there was another explanation.

  “Okay, guys, quick five-minute break. Take a stretch, look at what everyone else has been doing.” While the kids got up from their chairs, he pulled out his cell, checking for messages.

  “I need a drink of water,” Cheryl announced as she headed for the door.

  “And I have to go to the can,” Michael said, following on her heels.

  “Hold it. Earlier I let you get a drink—” he pointed at Michael “—and you—” he moved his finger to Cheryl “—go to the bathroom. What’s going on?”

  Cheryl turned in the doorway, hands behind her back. She shrugged her shoulders, but her face had gone white. That concerned him. Guilt, or not feeling well? Michael, meanwhile, danced in place, attempting, no doubt, to convince Greg of the urgency of the situation. “Got a drink before, now I have to take a leak. In one end and out the other, right?”

  “Thanks for the biology lesson, professor. Be back in five. We have work to finish.” Greg flipped his phone closed. No messages.

  While the other three kids milled around the room, and the unseen eyes on the other side of the observation window watched, he doodled a clock, hands racing around the face, springs exploding from the side. Time. The enemy of all.

  The enemy of his program.

  The new university dean was on a mad cost-cutting rampage, and had made it clear that Greg’s art therapy program was near the top of the chopping block. She believed his program would be better run through one of the local hospitals, or cancer centers, or even one of the social services organizations.

  And being that the university provided him with space he’d otherwise have to purchase or rent, utilities, an umbrella of insurance, grad students to do the grunt work…A serious amount of money would be needed to fill the gap if he couldn’t find someone else to take on his program.

  He was funded through the end of the summer semester. Unless he convinced Dean Auld otherwise, time was up in August.

  “All right, you guys, back to it.” The kids didn’t need much encouragement and returned to their places and drawings.

  Except the two who’d left the room and were still missing in action.

  It was the action part that had him worried. Michael and his sidekick Cheryl, ever faithful though of late slow moving, were undoubtedly up to trouble.

  He didn’t need superhero powers to sense it. Being the uncle to almost a baker’s-dozen kids—one of his sisters was due in two months with nephew thirteen—and having been a boy himself, he just knew it. He had a soft spot for Michael, in part because the boy shared his name with Greg’s dad. But soft didn’t mean he’d give the kid a free pass.

  Sticking his head out the therapy-room door, he scanned the hallway. Big surprise, Cheryl wasn’t at the water fountain on the corner. He couldn’t see Michael, either. “You guys keep working. I’ll be right back.”

  Greg turned toward the mirrored window, crossing his fingers Dean Auld wasn’t behind it. “Watch them,” he said, exaggerating the words in case the observers didn’t have the speaker turned on. At the very least, they could make themselves useful.

  At the men’s room, a quick search revealed Michael wasn’t there. He rapped on the women’s door next. “Cheryl? Are you in there?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Hawkins. Sorry, but after I got a drink, I had to go to the bathroom again. I’ll be right out.” Suppressed giggling followed her confession.

  Crap. “Do you know where Michael is?”

  “Uh, no. Didn’t he come back t
o the classroom yet?”

  “If he had, would I be asking you?”

  “Oh, right. I guess not.”

  “You have two more minutes. If you’re not back by then, I’m coming in there after you.”

  “You wouldn’t!” she shrieked. “This is the girls’ room.”

  “Try me. You could be sick in there. It would be my duty to be sure you’re okay.”

  “I’ll be back to the classroom.” Cheryl’s voice was more subdued this time.

  “If you see Michael on your way, tell him he’s pushing it if he wants to keep working with me. I don’t tolerate nonsense like this.”

  A loud gasp echoed in the bathroom. He didn’t often threaten to kick kids out his program.

  Satisfied she’d roust Michael, Greg hustled to the classroom, resisting the temptation to open the observation-room door and find out exactly who was in there. Low voices reached him as he passed.

  Back inside, he walked around, praising the other children. Stopping at Cheryl’s empty chair, he studied her four-panel page. An honest-to-goodness strip in the making, it had real potential. There was definitely art talent there, not that this was about talent. Still, he loved to nurture it when he found it.

  The Dastardly Duo skittered in the door and into their seats next to each other, both out of breath. “Sorry, Mr. H.,” Michael said. “Didn’t mean to take so long. I went for a stroll. Needed to stretch my legs, you know?”

  Greg narrowed his eyes, but opted to let it go. No fire alarms had gone off; there hadn’t been a flood coming out of the bathroom. “Cheryl, this looks great. I love your use of color here.” He pointed to the first panel, where a flying dog carried a basket of treats toward a building labeled Cleveland Clinic—where Cheryl had had her tumor removed three months earlier.

  She looked smugly at Michael, then beamed up at Greg. “Thank you.” She elbowed the boy. “Come on. Show him.”

  “Are you crazy? No way.”

  “But it’s great. I want him to see.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” Cheryl grabbed Michael’s Penn State baseball cap and yanked it off his chemo-bald head.

  “Cheryl! You know we don’t touch people’s caps in here,” Greg scolded, reaching for the hat, then stopped, staring at the crown of Michael’s head.

  “See? Now if someone at school steals his hat, it won’t matter. Because they’ll think it’s cool. Isn’t it cool? Don’t you love it?”

  He had to admit, the superhero about to kick the snot out of a cancer-cell bad guy drawn in black Magic Marker actually looked good. Maybe Cheryl had a future as a tattoo artist. “Not bad, Cheryl. Still, I don’t think Michael’s mother is going to be happy when she sees this. What’s wrong with working on paper like everyone else?”

  “Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel ceiling,” offered one of the others from the end of the table. “That’s not paper.”

  “He didn’t paint someone’s head and besides, that was a commissioned work,” Greg said.

  “Does ‘commissioned’ mean someone asked for it?” Cheryl said. “’Cause Michael asked me to do this. And he paid me.” She yanked a rumpled five-dollar bill from her pocket and displayed it proudly. “Now I’m a professional artist, Mr. Hawkins, just like you.”

  Greg swallowed his chuckle, turning it into a cough. Then, recalling that he was being watched, he pasted a stern look on his face. “Go to the bathroom, Michael, wet some paper towels and clean that off. With soap.” Thank God they only used water-based art supplies, nothing permanent.

  “Awwww, come on. At least let my mom see it first. Maybe it will make her laugh. She hasn’t laughed in a long time.” Michael made sad, puppy-dog eyes at him, a technique the ten-year-old had perfected with hospital nurses.

  “You can’t pull that face on another guy, kid. It only works on women.”

  “Damn. Well, it was worth a shot.”

  “Language, mister.”

  “Leapin’ lizards, Batboy, it was worth a shot.”

  Greg struggled to keep a straight face at that one. Then the idea of what Michael’s mom would say chased the fleeting humor away. “You seriously think your mother is going to laugh when she sees your head?”

  The boy shrugged. “Like I said, it’s worth a shot, don’t you think?”

  “Put your hat back on. Save the surprise for after you’re out in the car, okay?”

  The boy’s grin returned as he crammed the cap back on his head. “You’re cool, Mr. H. Thanks.”

  Greg wasn’t sure Michael’s mother would thank him. If nothing else, it would remind her that despite her child’s illness, he was still a kid. All boy and then some, despite his second bout of cancer. “Now, all of you, finish your work. On the paper. We’ve got ten minutes left.”

  The door flew open, crashing into the wall as Julie came barreling into the room, causing the drawings taped nearby to flutter upward, then slowly fall back into place. The group stared at her, pencils, crayons, markers, poised midstroke.

  “Woo-hoo! Guess what, everybody? I did it.” She waved a piece of paper in the air. “I kicked cancer’s butt! I’m in remission.”

  “All right!” Greg caught the girl as she launched herself into his arms, lifting her up in a celebratory hug as a wave of relief washed over him. A win. Not a loss, but a win. Exactly what they needed right now. He glanced over her now-curly-haired head at her mom, who leaned against the door frame. He smiled.

  Happy tears glistened in the woman’s eyes, but didn’t spill over. “Thank you,” she said.

  He just nodded, then set Julie back on her feet. “That means I owe you a special certificate, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, you do. And you hafta make me a character in your next comic book, too.”

  While the rest of the kids hugged her—no more work was getting done today, that much was obvious—Greg thumbed through a folder he kept in his briefcase, looking for her certificate. He kept one prepared for each kid, showing it to them when they were down and needed some extra motivation. A lump filled his throat as he flipped past Scotty’s to find the right one. It featured Julie in a flowing purple cape, one fist raised victoriously, booted foot on the “head” of a cancer-cell villain with black X’s for eyes—because he was dead. Using a calligraphy marker, he inked in the date, then blew on it before presenting it to the girl with a flourish.

  “There you are. I knew you could do it. And so can the rest of you. Say it with me…”

  Voices blended together as they all shouted, “Captain Chemo kicks cancer’s butt!”

  “KICKS CANCER’S BUTT?” Shannon Vanderhoff raised a skeptical eyebrow at the social worker as they watched the commotion from the dimly lit observation room. “See? That proves my point. This man, this comic-book artist—” she let the phrase drip with as much scorn as she could muster “—encourages violence in children. Ryan hardly needs more violence around him. Besides, my nephew doesn’t have cancer. I’m not sure why you wanted me to see this.”

  “Greg Hawkins isn’t just a comic-book artist, Ms. Vanderhoff. He’s got a master’s degree in art therapy. And he doesn’t only work with cancer kids. He’s had amazing results with children who need empowering. Children like Ryan.”

  Shannon turned to the opposite window, moving closer and leaning her forehead against the glass. In this other room, set up like a mini preschool with a wide variety of toys and books on short shelves, Ryan sat at a low, kidney-shaped table. A social-work grad student was vainly trying to coax the boy into helping her assemble a wooden puzzle. “Really? Children like Ryan? So, he’s worked with kids who’ve watched their father kill their mother? How many?”

  “Well, I don’t know if Greg’s worked with kids exactly like Ryan. I just meant emotionally traumatized kids.”

  In the room, Ryan shook his head at the young blond woman, pushing the puzzle to the far end of the table. He rose from his chair and wandered to the bookshelves. Without being choosy, he pulled out a picture book and plunked down in a beanbag. He held the open book close to his face, effectively shutting out the student who’d followed him.