Читать онлайн книгу «With This Child...» автора Sally Carleen

With This Child...
Sally Carleen
LITTLE GIRL FOUND!Single father Sam Woodward refused to believe his beloved child was not his daughter. But here was Marcie Turner, hesitantly offering official-looking papers, claiming that she was his daughter's mother–and that a big mistake had been made. And beyond the maternal love shining in her eyes, Sam recognized a familiar smile….And then the medical results came back and the unthinkable happened….Now, not only was Marcie moving into his daughter's heart–she began sneaking into his, too. But Sam wasn't about to let Marcie join their family so easily. First she'd have to pass some of Sam's tests–tests designed to last a lifetime….


“We’ll have the tests done soon.” (#u4fd860d1-5e33-52f3-b4f0-5f9d53145aae)Letter to Reader (#u696b9463-b902-54d8-a87e-4879792ea71d)Title Page (#u276ae420-9e21-534d-9663-fbe435e7bb3f)Dedication (#u1fe52d23-c893-5229-89d0-d4bfec7a21d6)SALLY CARLEEN (#uf291311e-24d1-5990-b903-83699cef8f56)Prologue (#u63af6c05-3046-5b4f-a512-f53e24d6f7bb)Chapter One (#u3df9914b-b888-5907-9251-66cc749b0a33)Chapter Two (#u1cb5cddc-d9be-51b2-b7ae-20abf00bfb99)Chapter Three (#u3d10fcc6-22e0-5831-9412-2749b61b5f79)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“We’ll have the tests done soon.”
Sam glared at Marcie as he prepared to leave. “And in the meantime, I don’t want you anywhere near my daughter.”
Marcie nodded. She understood Sam’s anger for what it was...fear of losing the child he loved.
She studied his broad back as he walked away. His stride was still determined if not quite as confident as when he’d arrived. She could imagine him teaching her daughter—his daughter—Kyla to play softball, fighting anyone who tried to harm heir, comforting her after a bad dream...yet he was helpless now. She could imagine his frustration and dread.
As if he felt her gaze, Sam turned.
Across the room, against all logic, she felt a bond flow between them. Irrationally she wanted to go to him, take him into her arms and comfort him, let him comfort her.
For their fears were the same.
Dear Reader,
Silhouette Romance is celebrating the month of valentines with six very special love stories—and three brand-new miniseries you don’t want to miss. On Baby Patrol, our BUNDLE OF JOY selection, by bestselling author Sharon De Vita, is book one of her wonderful series, LULLABIES AND LOVE, about a legendary cradle that brings love to three brothers who are officers of the law.
In Granted: Big Sky Groom, Carol Grace begins her sparkling new series, BEST-KEPT WISHES, in which three high school friends’ prom-night wishes are finally about to be granted. Author Julianna Morris tells the delightful story of a handsome doctor whose life is turned topsy-turvy when he becomes the guardian of his orphaned niece in Dr. Dad. And in Cathleen Galitz’s spirited tale, 100% Pure Cowboy, a woman returns home from a mother-daughter bonding trip with the husband of her dreams.
Next is Corporate Groom, which starts Linda Varner’s terrific new miniseries, THREE WEDDINGS AND A FAMILY, about long-lost relatives who find a family. And finally, in With This Child..., Sally Carleen tells the compelling story of a woman whose baby was switched at birth—and the single father who will do anything to keep his child.
I hope you enjoy all six of Silhouette Romance’s love stories this month. And next month, in March, be sure to look for The Princess Bride by bestselling author Diana Palmer, which launches Silhouette Romance’s new monthly promotional miniseries, VIRGIN BRIDES.
Regards,
Joan Marlow Golan
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

With This Child…
Sally Carleen


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To MHS Class of ’63.
SALLY CARLEEN
For as long as she can remember, Sally planned to be a writer when she grew up. Finally one day, after more years than she cares to admit, she realized she was as grown-up as she was likely to become, and began to write romance novels. In the years prior to her epiphany, Sally supported her writing habit by working as a legal secretary, a real-estate agent, a legal assistant, a leasing agent, an executive secretary and in various other occupations.
She now writes full time and looks upon her previous careers as research and/or torture. A native of McAlester, Oklahoma, and naturalized citizen of Dallas, Texas, Sally now lives in Lee’s Summit, Missouri, with her husband, Max, their very large cat, Leo, and a very small dog, Cricket. Her interests, besides writing, are chocolate and Coca-Cola Classic.
Readers can write to Sally at P.O. Box 6614, Lee’s Summit, MO 64086.


Prologue
I switched your baby for theirs. You buried their child. Your baby is alive.
Cars zipped past on the street in front of Marcie Turner. A locust chirruped from a nearby tree. A dog barked in the distance. The world around her continued, while Marcie stood frozen in the heat of Tulsa in July, staring uncomprehendingly at the last two lines of the letter.
A neighbor approached the mailboxes where Marcie stood, and she knew she had to move. She had to get inside, before anyone else came by, before anyone else saw her so completely out of control.
Moving like a robot, she unlocked the security door, entered the air-conditioned lobby of the building and took the elevator to the fifth floor, to the security and privacy of her condo.
She went inside, closed the door behind her, turned the dead bolt and put on the chain, as if she could lock out the sorrow and fear that lurked just over her shoulder, the way she’d locked them out.for years.
Her footsteps made no sound as she crossed the plushly carpeted living room, and for one crazy moment, she wondered if this was all a dream, if she even existed at all.
She slid onto a stool at the polished walnut breakfast bar and studied the envelope again, the ominous message that had prompted her to rip open the letter the moment she pulled it from the mailbox.
To be delivered to Marcie Turner at my death.
It had Dr. Franklin’s return address, and Marcie had known immediately that it could only relate to one thing.
Her hands trembled as she forced herself to read the two typewritten pages again, to see if she’d imagined the insane story they had to tell:
Dear Marcie:
I must be dead or you wouldn’t be reading this.
I can’t go to meet my Maker with this secret on my soul, but I don’t have the guts to tell you face-to-face.
You know I’ve always wanted the best for you, and so has your mama.
It wasn’t easy on her raising you alone after your daddy died when you were just a little thing. It hit her hard when you got pregnant your junior year in high school. Raising that baby would have made it tough for you to get a good education and have a better life than she did.
You were always so easy-going, and your mama thought at first she could talk you into giving your baby up for adoption, but I knew you’d never agree to that. When I gave you the news, your whole face lit up with love, and I knew this would be the first time you defied your mama.
I guess you think I’m taking my time getting to the point, but to tell the truth, I’m not all that anxious to get there. My head thinks I did the right thing, but my heart’s not so sure.
To get on with it, right after you had your baby, I did an emergency C-section on another woman. Did you know Lisa Kramer? She was a few years older than you, and her folks lived a little ways outside of town, so you might not have. Anyway, she was a real nice girl. Married a fellow named Sam Woodward that she met at college, and they moved to McAlester so he could coach football at the high school. But she came back home to have her baby. That baby had a defective heart, only lived a few hours. Lisa had problems, and I had to do a hysterectomy.
Your baby, however, was born alive and kicking. Your mama was there, of course, and while you were resting and Lisa was in the recovery room, we went down to the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee. I was pretty upset, knowing Lisa’s baby was dying and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. I’d already told Sam, and he was all broken up. I dreaded telling Lisa when she came out of the anaesthetic. I knew how much she wanted children, what a good mother she would have been, what a nice fellow Sam seemed like.
Your mama said it was a shame Lisa’s baby wouldn’t live when it would have had such a good life, and it was a shame your baby, precious as she was, would ruin your life and have a tough time growing up with a single mother. She sat there in the hospital cafeteria and looked at me, and I knew what she was thinking even before she said it.
Marcie, I want you to know this wasn’t an easy decision for either of us. We both wanted to do what was best for you and for your baby. I falsified all the records, and only your mama, my nurse and I know the truth. Lisa and Sam never knew their baby died.
May God forgive me because you probably never will, I switched your baby for theirs.
You buried their child. Your daughter is alive.
Marcie lowered the pages to the wooden surface of the bar. She needed a drink... iced tea, wine, a soft drink, water, anything wet. But she couldn’t seem to move.
It wasn’t possible. She’d have known if her baby was alive.
She’d dreamed about her every night that first year, but surely that was normal, didn’t mean anything.
After she managed to lock away the pain, the dreams had stopped.
Now this letter, almost thirteen years later, was asking her to unlock that pain, to think about her baby again, to hope and pray and dream that she was alive, that she’d be able to see her and hold her.
She couldn’t do that.
Dr. Franklin had been old, probably senile. She’d pitch this insane letter and get on with the life she’d so painstakingly built for herself.
But she couldn’t do that, either. It was too late.
Even this glimmer of hope had revived the old pain, the old love.
If there was even the slightest chance her child was alive, she had to know.
Chapter One
Marcie drove slowly down the small neighborhood streets of McAlester, Oklahoma. As she stared out the window, carefully following the directions given her by the detective she’d hired to find her daughter, her fingers fidgeted with the envelope containing everything she had of her baby—the letter from Dr. Franklin, the detective’s report, and pictures of Kyla and Sam Woodward.
Kyla Woodward...twelve years old...thirteen next month... Going into eighth grade...active in sports... Lisa Woodward died seven years ago...congenital heart problems... Sam Woodward, coach of high school football team...coaches Kyla’s softball team... Neighbors say they’re a happy, well-adjusted family.
She’d read the report until she knew it by heart, looked at those photographs a thousand times, memorizing every detail, searching for her features in Kyla Woodward’s face.
Her mother, embarrassed at being caught but unrepentant, had verified Dr. Franklin’s story, but still Marcie had held back. She couldn’t face the possibility of holding her daughter, only to have that child yanked away because her mother and Dr. Franklin were wrong.
Over the past couple of days, she’d swung wildly from guarded certainty one minute to doubt and confusion the next.
She had no idea what to do now.
She had no idea why she was searching for their house.
What would she do if she saw Kyla? What would she say to her? To Sam?
She turned onto Maple Street, one hand clutching the envelope in her lap. According to the directions, Sam Woodward’s house was at the end of the third block down. Even though she couldn’t see it from this distance, she could feel its presence.
Claustrophobia suddenly overwhelmed her, making her feel trapped in her small car, propelled by forces beyond her control into a scary unknown world. She wasn’t ready for this, to know for sure whether her baby was alive, to risk seeing her only to lose her again.
Marcie lowered the windows, breathing deeply, focusing on everything around her except that house three blocks away.
It was an older, established neighborhood. Huge trees formed a canopy over the street and colorful flower bloomed everywhere.
Scents she’d almost forgotten assailed her—freshly cut grass, honeysuckle, roses, and all the other fragrances that never reached her fifth-floor condo in Tulsa.
A small boy in a blue sunsuit pedaled his tricycle across the street in front of her.
A young couple diligently painted a house they appeared to be restoring.
An elderly woman puttered in her flower beds.
A tiny Yorkie darted to the end of a sidewalk to bark frantically as Marcie drove past.
Saturday morning in a small town.
Several cars were parked in the street—a common problem with houses too old to have garages—but other than that, the area seemed well cared-for. The detective had told her that much; had assured her that while Sam Woodward might not be getting rich working as a high school football coach, he appeared to be providing well for his daughter. Her daughter.
There was absolutely nothing in this well-kept, comfortable neighborhood to send nervous chills down Marcie’s spine, to cause her palms to sweat, her hands to tremble as they clutched the steering wheel.
Nothing except the two-story white house that seemed to be approaching her, rather than vice versa.
Seeing the picture of the house hadn’t prepared her for the sense of isolation the actual structure made her feel, the sense of total separation from everything inside it.
From Sam and Kyla Woodward.
She drove past, her gaze skimming over the detached garage to scan the front porch, the open windows and doors, searching for a glimpse of the blond girl in the pictures.
She turned the corner to go around the side of the house—
And a baseball slammed onto the hood of her car, followed by a young girl and then a dull thud. Marcie swerved to the side of the road, crushing the brake to the floor, while adrenaline exploded through her body.
Oh, God! She’d just run down her daughter!
Her breath caught in her chest as she shifted into park. The trees and houses and everything else around her blurred as mat moment in time locked on itself, filling her vision with the sight of the girl slamming against her car.
“I’m sorry, lady!”
Marcie jumped at the sound of the words coming from the passenger window.
The beautiful child from the pictures, now distressed instead of laughing, peered at her from wide blue eyes.
From the same blue eyes Marcie saw in the mirror every morning.
In that instant, she knew, and in spite of the black fear that hovered around the edges of her soul, happiness burst over Marcie like sunrise after a night filled with terrors.
Her baby wasn’t dead. She was alive, breathing, speaking.
A thousand words and a thousand emotions lumped in Marcie’s throat, and she had to blink back sudden tears as she gazed at her child in the flesh only a few feet away. She wanted to fly across the distance, grab her and hold her in her arms, tightly enough to make up for all the years she hadn’t been able to hold her. She wanted to laugh, to cry, to live the thirteen years separating them in one burst... to reclaim her baby.
Instead, she sat behind the wheel of her car, paralyzed, unable even to speak.
And the child she’d carried inside her body, given birth to, shared the same hair and eyes with, that child looked at her as if she were a stranger.
Which she was.
Cold darkness pressed against her, throwing a shadow over her joy.
“Don’t cry, ma’am. We’ll pay to have your car fixed.” The girl inclined her head toward the hood. “It didn’t make much of a dent, anyway. You hardly notice it.” She smiled tentatively. “And I didn’t even make a dent at all when I ran into you.”
A tall, muscular man wearing cut-offs and a T-shirt jogged over from the yard and put an arm possessively about her daughter’s shoulders.
Sam Woodward.
The man who’d raised her baby and given her the laughter she’d seen in the photographs her detective took.
The man she was grateful to and resentful of. The man she envied and feared beyond all reason.
He leaned over and peered in the window, his face beside her daughter’s. “Are you all right?”
She forced herself to nod, though she was as far from all right as it was possible to be.
He went around to the hood of the car, peered closely at a spot and traced a small circle with one finger of a large hand, a hand big enough to catch footballs.
She didn’t want to look at him. She wanted to focus on her daughter, to never let her out of her sight again, to never risk losing her again.
But her gaze involuntarily followed him, her mind racing, as she tried to think of what she should say.
With a scowl, he walked around to the driver’s side window. He had a kind face, tanned, with laugh lines like sunbursts accenting his clear hazel eyes. Unruly brown hair tumbled over his forehead, imbuing him with a rakish innocence.
“My daughter’s right,” he said. “The ball didn’t leave a very big dent at all. I have a friend who works on cars. He can probably pop it out for you today without even hurting the paint.”
My daughter?
No! she wanted to scream. She’s my daughter! You can’t have her!
She lifted a shaky hand to her forehead.
“Of course, you can take your car wherever you want and get it fixed, and I’ll pay for it,” Sam continued, apparently mistaking the reason for her confusion.
She had to say something, she had to tell them.
“Why don’t you get out and come sit on the porch for a few minutes?” Sam asked in a concerned voice. “You seem kind of shaken up. Kyla—that’s my daughter—she’ll fix you a glass of iced tea and you can catch your breath.”
Kyla.
Not Jenny, but Kyla.
She hadn’t even been able to choose her daughter’s name. She’d given her baby’s name to Sam and Lisa Woodward’s baby. She’d buried their child with her daughter’s name.
Sam opened her car door and extended his hand to help her, as if she were an invalid.
It was an accurate assumption. Her brain and body had shut down, ceased to function. She had no idea what to say, and wasn’t sure she’d be able to speak if she did know.
She shut off the engine and accepted Sam’s hand. It was big and competent and gave her a protected feeling. As she slid from the car and stood, he placed his other hand at the small of her back, steadying her, as if she were fragile and likely to stumble.
She squelched a nervous giggle at the irony. Sam Wood-ward was helping her, making her feel protected and secure. Sam Woodward, whose life she’d come to destroy.
Kyla bounced up beside her as they came around the car. “Dad was teaching me to catch pop flies, and that one got away. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Marcie said, the words coming out barely above a whisper. “I thought I hit you. I thought you were hurt.”
“Nah. I ran into your car ’cause I wasn’t watching where I was going. Hardly anybody ever comes down that street, but Dad’s always yelling at me for running out.” She grinned at Sam. “Guess he’s right once in a while. I’ll go fix you some tea. You want sugar and lemon?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “Yes, please. I’d like that.” She didn’t usually take sugar and lemon, but she’d have taken salt if her daughter offered it.
Her baby was there, in person, real, alive.
Kyla sprinted up the walk and into the house ahead of them, a happy, secure, obviously loved child, with no clue that she’d just met her mother.
They reached the porch, and Sam indicated a scattering of wrought-iron chairs with faded green-and-white striped cushions. Marcie sank into the closest one, grateful that she was no longer dependent on her shaky legs to hold her up.
“I’m Sam Woodward.” He offered his hand again, and she clasped it for the second time. His shake was firm and confident, and she was amazed at how much she liked him, in spite of everything.
He was the personification of a high school football coach. His open, friendly smile—the same smile she’d seen in his pictures, but even more potent in person—promised carefree autumn evenings at football games and wiener roasts in the park.
Sam looked at her oddly, and Marcie realized she hadn’t told him who she was. She smiled nervously. “I’m Marcie Turner. I, uh—” I’m Kyla’s mother? No, that probably wasn’t a good way to establish her identity.
Sam took the chair beside her, looking at her expectantly, waiting for her to finish her sentence. She couldn’t think of anything to say except I’m Kyla’s mother. Every crevice in her mind was filled with that thought, leaving no room for coherency.
“I’m an accountant,” she finally blurted, then wondered why she’d said it. An attempt to offer some sort of validation that she existed, that she had an identity and a life, that she wasn’t really as disconnected as she felt right now?
“That must come in handy around April fifteenth,” Sam replied, as if their conversation were perfectly normal. And maybe it was. Right now, she had no idea of what was and wasn’t normal. “I’m the high school football coach,” he continued.
“I know.”
“Then you’re from McAlester,”
“No. I live in Tulsa. I just meant you look like a football coach. All those muscles.” Oh, God! What on earth was she saying? “I don’t make a habit of running into...people.”
“Relax. You didn’t. Kyla ran into you. First I bounced a softball off the hood of your car, then my kid plowed into you.”
“Teenager,” Kyla corrected, pushing open the screen door with her hip and emerging carrying three large glasses of tea on a tray. “I’m almost a teenager, and Dad’s having a hard time accepting that I’m practically grown up.”
Your mother’s having a hard time accepting that, too! Marcie wanted to shout.
“That’s because you’re not practically grown up, missy,” Sam replied. “Not even close.”
Marcie accepted a tall drink from Kyla, trying not to stare at her, to let her eyes feast only in short, hungry glances. Her teeth chattered against the rim of the glass, but she managed to swallow several large gulps of the cold liquid.
Kyla sprawled in another chair. “Pretty soon I’ll be dating, and next thing you know, you’ll be a grandfather.”
Marcie choked on her tea, and Sam leaned over to pat her on the back.
“You okay?” he asked solicitously when she caught her breath.
Marcie nodded and forced a smile. “That was, um, kind of shocking. I mean, I know you were teasing. It’s just that you’re so young, and...” Her voice trailed off, and she took another drink of her tea to cover her confusion.
Sam chuckled. “My impertinent daughter is baiting me. It’s one of her favorite pastimes.”
Kyla grinned mischievously. “Keeps him on his toes. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it, and I’m an only child. Are you married? Do you have any kids?”
Marcie froze at the last question, but Sam saved her from having to figure out how to answer it.
“Kyla!” he exclaimed, but he smiled as he looked at Marcie. “My kid may be totally tactless, but she has no manners.”
“Oh, Dad,” Kyla groaned. “It’s a good thing you can coach football, ’cause you’d sure never make it as a comedian.”
He leaned over and yanked on her blond ponytail, and burning, icy envy washed over Marcie.
Being with her daughter was making her feel impossibly distant from her. Kyla and Sam shared a closeness she wanted desperately, but wasn’t sure she could ever have.
Her daughter was happy and loved, that was obvious. Perhaps she should leave it at that, get up, set down her glass of tea, thank the two of them politely and walk away, out of Kyla’s life. Marcie had dealt with the pain of losing her once, and that pain had been diffused and pointless. Now, if she knew it was for Kyla’s benefit, surely she could do it again. Perhaps that would be the kindest, most loving thing she could do for her daughter.
No.
Her own mother had done what she thought best for Marcie, and it hadn’t been the best at all. Marcie should have had the right to make her own decisions.
Now she would give her daughter that right. If Kyla should decide she wanted nothing to do with her real mother, then Marcie would have to somehow force herself to walk out of her life, to again learn to live with emptiness.
Whatever the outcome, the decision belonged to Kyla.
Marcie suddenly realized Sam and Kyla were staring at her curiously.
She rose on shaky legs, setting her tea on the small wrought-iron table.
“I, uh...” No, she couldn’t just blurt it out like that. “I’d better be going. Thank you for the tea.”
“You sure you’re okay to drive?” Sam asked.
She tried a confident smile, but knew it came out weak and uncertain. “I’m sure.”
She moved numbly down the cracked sidewalk, with Sam on one side and Kyla on the other. At the end of the walk, her silver compact car reflected the sunlight in a painful glare as it lured and repelled at the same time—offering escape from this unknown, frightening situation, while taking her away from her daughter.
Sam opened her car door for her, as if speeding her exit, getting her out of his life, away from the child she’d given birth to but he claimed as his daughter.
“If you have a pencil, I’ll write down my name and address so you can call me about that dent,” he said.
“I don’t need your address. I—” She stopped herself before she could blurt out why she didn’t need his name and address, that she already knew it. She knew his age and where he worked and how long he’d been there and his social security number and when his wife had died...and the name of the hospital where Kyla had been born.
But this wasn’t the right time to tell him that She had to carry through with the charade. She retrieved her purse from the floorboard and, hands shaking noticeably, withdrew a pen and a small notepad, then offered it to him.
He scribbled something and returned it to her. Without looking, she shoved it into her purse.
“Thank you,” she said.
He closed the door, stepped back from the car, wrapped one arm around Kyla and smiled his wonderful, carefree smile again. She found her own lips turning up in answer, as if something deep inside couldn’t resist being sucked into such complete happiness.
Kyla lifted a hand to wave. “Bye, Marcie! Sorry ’bout your car.”
“Goodbye...Kyla.” Time seemed to freeze as Marcie gazed at Kyla, unable to break the last contact with her, but unable to do anything about it. She wasn’t sure whether she’d been staring for a second or an hour.
“So long, Ms. Turner,” Sam said, breaking the spell.
With a quick wave, Marcie started the engine and drove down the block. Her heart threatened to pound its way out of her chest, her mouth was dry, and her thoughts darted past in unrecognizable, kaleidoscopic images.
She headed for the highway, for the fastest way home. Once inside her condo, she could lock the doors and draw the blinds and feel safe.
Except she feared she’d never be safe there again. Always she’d be trying to find a way to reach her daughter—and terrified of what would happen when she succeeded.
As Marcie Turner drove away, Sam tugged on Kyla’s ponytail again. “What happened to your manners? Wash them down the drain when you showered this morning?”
“You told me you never learn anything if you don’t ask questions.”
“There are questions and there are questions, and asking a strange woman if she’s married and has children pretty much pushes the limits.”
Kyla shrugged and gazed toward the corner where Marcie’s car had just disappeared from view. “Yeah,” she said thoughtfully, “she did get a funny look when I asked her that.”
That she had, Sam thought. In fact, Marcie Turner had been a whole review of funny looks.
“Well, I was just checking her out for your benefit. She’s a real babe.”
Sam groaned. “Go get your softball.” He pointed down the street.
With Kyla’s own burgeoning awareness of the opposite sex, she’d begun to tease him unmercifully about women. And this time she’d nailed him.
In spite of Marcie’s nervousness, he’d found himself attracted to her. Even in khaki shorts and a plain white blouse, she had an air about her. Her shiny golden hair fell straight to her shoulders, catching and reflecting the sunlight. In the sweltering heat of the July afternoon, she’d seemed cool and aloof, yet strangely vulnerable.
She looked familiar, in an eerie sort of way. Something about her had tickled around the edges of his memory, nagging him with a resemblance he couldn’t quite place. He was positive that he didn’t know her, but just as positive that he should.
“And how about when you called her by her first name?” he shouted after Kyla.
Kyla stopped, turned back to look at him and tilted her head to one side. Her face, soft with the remnants of childhood yet edged with the approach of maturity, mirrored his confusion about the woman. “I didn’t think about it. It was like I’d known her a real long time or something.” She shrugged, grinned and trotted the rest of the way to retrieve her ball.
So Kyla had noticed the odd familiarity about the woman, too.
Well, they’d probably seen her somewhere, at the grocery store or one of Kyla’s softball games or the school’s football games.
Except she lived in Tulsa.
Heck, she probably resembled some television star. She was a babe, that was for sure.
Sam shoved his hands into the pockets of his cutoffs and turned to walk back to the house.
Directly in front of him, where it must have fallen from Marcie Turner’s car, was a large manila envelope.
He picked it up, hoping it contained an address, so that he could return it. She hadn’t seemed too likely to contact him again.
Not that he was looking for an excuse to contact her, no matter how much of a babe she was. Okay, maybe he had taken her hand and put his arm around her waist to help her out of the car when it probably wasn’t necessary. And he’d certainly enjoyed the contact.
He smiled at himself and his daughter and life in general as he opened the envelope...
...and found a letter-size envelope inside, along with several typewritten pages and pictures of his house, himself and Kyla.
A cold hand wrapped around and squeezed his heart.
What the hell was going on? Why did this woman have pictures of his home and his daughter? Was she stalking them? Was that why she’d seemed familiar? Had he seen her in crowds, watching them?
Her assertion that she didn’t need his address replayed itself in his head.
No wonder she hadn’t needed it.
She already had it.
“What’s that, Pops?”
Sam fumbled the pictures and letter back into the envelope. “Nothing.” He wasn’t going to have Kyla frightened.
“Looks like something to me.” Tossing the ball into the air and catching it, she walked beside him as he strode back to the house.
“Papers. Marcie Turner’s papers.”
“Kyla!” The familiar shout came from across the street. “Wanna ride bikes for a while?”
“Sure, Rachel! Be right there.” She handed Sam the ball. “You don’t mind, do you, Dad? Rachel’s having a tough time since her mom and dad split up.”
He looked into his daughter’s beautiful, concerned face. Maybe because she had no mother, she’d taken on the role of caring for any of her friends who had problems. Or maybe she did it just because she was a wonderful, caring kid, his own personal angel.
“Of course I don’t mind. I’ll be glad to get a little rest from playing ball with you!” He grinned, trying to maintain their usual banter, hoping his grin wasn’t as shaky as it felt.
She ran toward the garage to get her bike, long legs flying in the gracefully awkward manner of fawns and twelve-year-olds, and he loved her so much it hurt.
They’d almost lost her the night she was born. He still remembered the agony when Dr. Franklin had told him she had a fatal heart defect and wouldn’t live through the night.
And he still remembered the incredible joy when she had survived the night, in defiance of the doctor’s death sentence.
Knowing they could have no more children, he and Lisa had spoiled Kyla shamelessly from that day forward. In fact, Lisa had devoted herself totally to Kyla, even to the extent of ignoring him. But he’d accepted that. He’d understood how much she hurt when the doctor told her about the hysterectomy, how frightened she was each day that the doctor’s prophecy about Kyla’s death would come true.
Kyla had been Lisa’s priority, and five years later, as she lay dying from the same heart disease the doctor had diagnosed in Kyla, she’d made Sam promise to take care of their child.
Not that such a promise was necessary. He’d gladly lay down his life for his daughter.
Whatever Marcie Turner was up to, he’d stop her. Whatever it took, he’d protect his daughter.
He carried the envelope inside, sat down at the kitchen table and dumped out the contents. The smaller envelope was a letter addressed to Marcie in Tulsa. So at least he had the woman’s address, he thought grimly. And he would take this to the police.
But then he noticed the return address—Elton Franklin, the doctor who’d delivered Kyla. Suffocating heat flushed his body, prickling his skin, making breathing difficult.
He’d worried about Kyla for the past twelve—almost thirteen—years, terrified every time she caught cold or had a childhood disease. And he’d berated himself for that worrying, telling himself it didn’t accomplish a blasted thing, but unable to stop doing it.
Now...today...into his life came Marcie Turner with her pictures of the two of them and a letter addressed to her from Lisa’s doctor. Were all his concerns being validated? Did this letter contain a death sentence for Kyla?
But if it did, why was it addressed to Marcie Turner?
He had to open that letter and read it.
Sam stared at the envelope for several minutes. He regularly bench-pressed two-hundred-pound weights, but he couldn’t seem to find the strength to lift that little bit of paper weighing less than an ounce.
He wiped his sweaty palms on his cutoffs, then drew a shaky hand across his mouth and chin. His face was damp with perspiration.
Moving rapidly, so that he wouldn’t have a chance to chicken out, he yanked the letter from inside the envelope and unfolded the two pages.
Chapter Two
Marcie clutched the steering wheel with damp, sticky hands and made herself focus on the task of driving, on actions that normally came automatically. But not today. Today, leaving Sam’s house, she had to concentrate, to remind herself which pedal to use, to stop at red lights, go on green, turn the wheel at corners.
Her brain, her heart, her entire body, screamed in protest at the overload of emotions. She’d found her daughter alive, talked to her, met the man who’d inadvertently stolen her daughter. And then she’d had to walk quietly away.
Reaching the highway that led to the turnpike, she pulled into a convenience store and parked at the side. Out of the main traffic area, she finally let loose, laid her head in her hands and allowed earthquake tremors to shake her body, while tears spilled between her fingers.
In a minute she’d pull herself together, go into the store and get a cola, then get home as fast as she could. Once in her safe haven, she’d think about everything, about Kyla and what she ought to do next. Right now, she couldn’t face it, couldn’t deal with the huge explosions of happiness and anger and disbelief and sheer terror.
Finally, the tremors subsided, as some of the unbearable tension dissipated. She snatched a handful of tissues from the box in the back seat and dried her eyes.
This wasn’t like her, she thought, to completely lose control. But these were not usual circumstances.
She pushed her hair back from her face. She had to get home and figure out what to do next.
Needing to reassure herself that everything that had just happened was real, she looked around for the envelope containing her pictures of Kyla, along with the detective’s report and the letter from Dr. Franklin.
It wasn’t in her lap.
Or on the passenger seat beside her.
She slid out of the car and searched under the seats, in the back...everywhere. Her movements became more frantic with each empty space she encountered. Her hands trembled as she searched for the second time.
She stepped back from the car and looked at it in disbelieving horror.
The envelope was gone.
It could only have fallen from her lap when she got out at Sam’s house.
Either her pictures were lying in the street, being run over by cars, or Sam and Kyla had noticed them and picked them up.
In that quiet neighborhood, the latter seemed more likely.
By now, Sam and Kyla probably knew the truth.
This wasn’t the way she’d wanted her daughter to find out.
Her mind whirling with black despair and chaos, she sank into the car and closed the door behind her.
With one stupid act, she’d made a terrible situation worse. She needed to get home as fast as possible.
But her fingers refused to turn the key.
She had to face the consequences of her actions. She couldn’t blame her mother or Dr. Franklin for this latest disaster.
In fact, maybe she had to take some of the blame for everything. Would things be different if she’d paid more attention when her baby was born, if she’d asked more questions about the death?
She’d been in shock, stunned by the loss, overwhelmed by guilt, convinced that the death was somehow her fault, because she’d been so stubborn, because she’d refused to consider her mother’s plan of adoption. So she’d allowed Dr. Franklin and her mother to take charge.
She’d asked to hold her child once before they took her away forever, to bury her in the cold, impersonal earth, but Dr. Franklin and her mother had persuaded her not to. She’d had only one look at her baby...Sam and Lisa’s baby...and that look had been blurred by tears.
If she’d done what she knew in her heart she should, if she’d insisted on holding the child, she’d have known immediately it wasn’t hers, wasn’t the baby she’d given birth to.
Now she had to somehow rectify the wrong. She had to take some control over her life, over Kyla’s life. She had to take charge of circumstances, instead of waiting and hoping for the best...trying to hide from the worst. She had to fight for the best. She had to go back to Sam’s house.
The safety of her condo, ninety minutes away, might as well have been on the moon.
She started her car and pulled away from the store in the direction from which she’d just come. Every movement was an effort, as in nightmares when, pursued by a horrible monster, she could move only in slow motion.
A hurricane roared in her ears as she approached the house.
Pushing the brake, stopping her car at the sidewalk, took every ounce of strength she possessed. Then she had to somehow find more to enable her to get out and walk up to the front door.
He met her there, stepping out onto the porch and standing in front of the door, denying her access to his home. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Who are you and what do you want?” He advanced on her, his brow furrowed, his face dark, and she backed away, stumbling against the side of one of the chairs she’d sat in earlier. He loomed over her. “If this is some kind of a joke, it’s not very damn funny. I’m warning you, Marcie Turner, or whoever the hell you are, if you continue to follow me or my daughter, or if you breathe one word of this nonsense to her, you’ll wish you’d never heard of either of us.”
Every angry word slammed painfully against her heart. She’d expected him to be upset, but she hadn’t been prepared for this furious disbelief. She hadn’t been prepared for so much venom from the smiling football coach.
A few feet away, off the porch, the sun still shone brightly. A woodpecker drummed in a nearby tree. A car drove by, releasing a burst of music from its radio. Only in the small area of Sam’s front porch had the world turned grim and ugly.
Her hands fluttered up to push him back, to allow her to regain her balance and defend herself. He jerked away before she could touch him.
A steel band wrapped around her chest, squeezing the breath from her. For Kyla. she reminded herself. For your daughter.
She forced herself to stand straight, to face him, to pull words from her throat. “I haven’t been following you. I came by your house for the first time today, because I had to see Kyla. I had to know for sure if the letter was true, if Kyla was my daughter.”
Sam glared at her, his eyebrows forming a straight, continuous line. “You need help. Psychiatric help. Believe me, you’re not my daughter’s mother.”
He was only lashing out at her because he was frightened of losing someone he loved. She shouldn’t blame him for that. He was fighting for Kyla, just as she was.
But his accusations hurt. She wasn’t accustomed to fighting. She wasn’t accustomed to having a nice person, someone she’d like under other circumstances, hating her, saying horrible things about her.
She reached behind her, clutching the cold, solid wrought iron of the chair back. “I know my own child. You and I need to tatk, to decide what to do, what’s the best thing for Kyla.”
Sam paced to the front of the porch, then back again to stand before her, his fists clenched at his sides. “The best thing for Kyla would be for you to drop off the face of the earth.”
“Maybe,” she admitted, the single word coming out a croak. She cleared her throat, lifted her chin and tried again. “Maybe. But that’s Kyla’s decision. She’s entitled to know the truth, then she can choose how to act on it. If she wants me to leave her alone, I will.”
“No. It’s not her decision. I’m her father. That makes it my decision, and I intend to see to it that she never hears a word of this garbage. I’m going to give you one chance to stop whatever you think you’re doing and disappear quietly before I have to call the police.”
She flinched at his classification of her as a criminal, someone who needed to be dealt with by the police. But he hadn’t called them yet. He must know, deep inside, that she was telling the truth. He must.
She retaliated with her own legal threat. “I talked to a lawyer, and he said I could file a petition with the court requesting genetic testing.” Her own hands clenched into fists, the fingernails digging into her palms painfully, as she watched the anger swell on Sam’s face. “I don’t want to do that,” she added. “I thought we could work something out.”
“Do you really expect me to give serious consideration to a letter you probably typed yourself, and to your ridiculous threat of going to court?” He flung one arm outward. “Go on. Give it your best shot. File all the petitions you want. See if you can find a judge who’ll listen to this trash. But in the meantime—” he leaned closer, jabbing a finger toward her “—you stay away from Kyla.”
“I can,” she whispered, then raised her voice, determined that no one was going to take her child from her a second time. “I can find a judge who’ll listen. I’ve spoken to my mother and Dr. Franklin’s nurse, and they’re both willing to testify. I don’t want to do it that way, but I will. I don’t want to disrupt Kyla’s life. I don’t want to force myself on her.”
“Then don’t. Stay out of her life. Kyla’s not your daughter. She’s my daughter, and believe me, lady, you and I have never made a child together. My wife gave birth to Kyla. I carried her home from the hospital.” He stepped back, shook his head and raked a hand distractedly through his hair. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”
“I’m doing this because Kyla is my child. I want to be part of her life.”
“You want to take her from a father she loves, from her home?” His words were quieter than before, and she saw the glimmerings of doubt and fear in his eyes.
“No, of course not. I want her to be happy. I know she loves you. I have no intention of taking her from you.” In spite of her efforts to be strong, she knew that her voice had lost its certainty, that Sam would sense her weakness and take advantage of it. “I just want to be a part of her life. I want her to know I’m her mother.”
He sighed and looked away from her. “If you really did have a baby, and that baby died, I’m sorry. But if you think you’re going to take Kyla, you better think again.” He turned back to her, his hazel eyes blazing. “I want this insanity ended right now. I don’t want Kyla to ever find out about you. But if you think for one minute that’s going to stop me from calling the police and having you thrown in jail, you’re dead wrong. And I’m keeping those pictures and that letter as evidence.” He moved closer, so close she could see the tiny lines around his eyes, where a smile used to live. “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my daughter from you.”
He whirled away, strode into the house and slammed the door behind him.
Marcie walked stiffly back to her car, away from her daughter’s home, where she wasn’t welcome, from Sam’s cold threat, his assertion that her baby needed to be protected from her.
She’d made a mistake, coming to McAlester and looking them up. She should have made firm, sensible plans. The lawyer she consulted had suggested she let him call first. That was what she should have done. She should never have given in to her impulse and driven by the house.
Her only excuse was that she’d wanted to be certain Kyla really was her daughter before she did anything. But having an excuse didn’t change the situation. Her mother had a roomful of excuses for what she’d done, and they didn’t change a thing.
She’d taken a step in the wrong direction, and life gave no opportunities for U-turns. The road chosen, whether by deliberation, impulse or accident, had to be traveled. She’d learned that years ago.
The drive home was going to be a long one. And she doubted that even when she got there she was going to feel safe. Her carefully constructed world was crumbling.
When Marcie finally walked into her condo, exhausted to the point of collapse, the light of the answering machine sitting on the kitchen bar seemed to blink a brighter red than she remembered, an ominous, threatening shade of red.
She hesitated for a moment, wanting only to go to bed. If she pressed that button, would she hear more cruel accusations from Sam? Or had he talked to the police and they were calling to warn her away from Kyla?
She made herself cross the room to the answering machine and press the button. Every muscle in her body tensed as she waited for it to rewind and begin to play.
“It’s me, sweetheart.” Though it was better than she’d expected, nevertheless, Marcie cringed as her mother’s overly bright voice grated along her nerves, prickling like a thousand tiny daggers. “Just checking in to say hi and see if you’ve found out when I’m going to get to meet my granddaughter.”
All the tension from the day returned, and anger Marcie hadn’t known she possessed burst from its hiding place. It was all well and good for her mother to be so interested in her granddaughter since Marcie had confronted her with the letter. But if she’d been a little more interested thirteen years ago, this nightmare wouldn’t be happening. If she hadn’t schemed and conspired and lied to get rid of that granddaughter, she’d have her today. Marcie wouldn’t have had to go through the grief of thinking her child had died. Kyla wouldn’t have spent the past thirteen years living a lie with a stranger who thought he was her father. Marcie wouldn’t now be faced with battling that stranger, hurting him and her daughter and herself.
She jabbed at the button to forward to the next message, to rid herself of her mother’s voice, her interference.
“End of messages,” the machine’s computerized voice announced.
Sam hadn’t called. The police hadn’t called.
The next move was hers.
She sank onto one of the stools. It had only been a short time ago that she sat at that bar, poring over pictures of a blonde girl, afraid to hope, afraid to let herself be happy, afraid to believe this could really be her child. Now it would seem she’d found her child and lost her in a remarkably short space of time, shorter than before. She’d had nine months before she lost her last time.
Briefly she wondered whether she should take Sam’s advice, leave her daughter alone, knowing she was happy. Would that be the loving thing to do? She and her child both had lives...good lives...without each other. For almost thirteen years, each of them had been unaware of the other’s existence.
Moving woodenly, she rose and went to the refrigerator to get a glass of iced tea.
When she lifted it to her lips, the taste recalled the glass of tea Kyla had given her, the thrill of sitting on the porch, looking at and listening to the child she’d thought dead.
She sipped the drink slowly, wanting to draw out the taste, the flavor of the memories it evoked.
There was no going back. Now she knew her daughter was out there. She’d seen her, talked to her, drunk tea with her. Maybe Sam would do whatever it took to keep her from her daughter, but she’d do whatever it took to get to her. Kyla had the right to know the truth, and only Kyla had the right to order her to stay away.
She stood silently in the kitchen, running her fingers over the smooth, polished wood of the breakfast bar, looking around, trying to find the secure, content feeling her home usually gave her.
Soft silvery carpet stretched across the living room, interrupted by the muted pastels of her sofa and chairs and the rich wood of her coffee and lamp tables. When she moved in four years ago, she’d decorated with comfort and serenity in mind. Since that time, she hadn’t changed anything, hadn’t added a picture or moved a piece of furniture.
Every time she opened the door, she knew exactly what to expect.
She’d organized her entire life that way—dependable and safe.
Except suddenly that safety was slipping away.
Her home looked different, somehow. Or maybe it only felt different.
On Monday she’d go to work in the same office with the same people she saw five days a week...seven during tax season. She’d dress the same way she always dressed. She’d tie her hair back the way she always did. She’d get a cup of coffee and go to her desk and turn on her computer... and nobody would know that her whole world had changed.
Marcie crossed her living room to her bedroom, then stopped and looked back at the faint footprints in her carpet. Just walking through the room had changed it. How much more of an effect would her daughter and Sam have on her life?
It was too late. She wouldn’t go back even if she could.
But going forward was damn scary.
Sam sat in his van, elbow on the open window, directly in front of the entrance to the Little Dixie Cinema. His gaze darted back and forth as he alternately checked the door for his daughter, and every car that went past, every movement in the shadows where the streetlights didn’t reach.
He’d arrived half an hour early to wait for the movie to end, for Kyla and Rachel to come out.
That woman had him on his guard, edgy, afraid to take any chances that the girls might leave early and she or someone she’d hired might kidnap them. He’d been lucky when she returned for her pictures and letter. Kyla and Rachel had been off somewhere riding their bikes.
But he couldn’t count on that kind of luck every time.
He drummed his fingers nervously on the side of his van. Man, the crazies were everywhere, even here in this town he’d always thought of as a refuge from such things. That woman, Marcie Turner—if that was really her name—must be a loony. At first, she’d seemed normal, except for being a little shaken up over the accident. He’d even liked her—been attracted to her, as a matter of fact.
But it wasn’t normal to fixate on a kid to the point where she probably really believed that kid—his kid—was her daughter.
The whole damned thing scared him.
Losing somebody you loved could happen so fast, like a giant sword suddenly flashing down and cutting away part of your soul. Like Lisa. One day she was alive and happy, and then she was gone.
He wasn’t going to lose Kyla, certainly not to some sick woman, not after his daughter had overcome such gigantic odds to be with him in the first place. After the initial fatal diagnosis on the night she was born, subsequent tests had shown Kyla’s heart to be strong and healthy. She was a miracle.
A miracle he’d never questioned.
Before tonight.
He shivered, even as the hot, muggy evening squeezed against him. With a hand that shook slightly, he wiped perspiration from his upper lip.
Of course, miracles weren’t logical, he assured himself. That was why they were called miracles. You didn’t question them; you just accepted them and gave thanks.
The doors of the theater opened, and the Saturday-night crowd of couples and kids burst out.
When he finally spotted Kyla and Rachel, he realized he had lifted himself off the seat in his anxiety to locate them. One hand clutched the steering wheel, the other arm pressed painfully on the open window.
He forced himself to relax. He couldn’t let Kyla or Rachel see him this stressed.
Giggling and talking, the girls dashed over. Kyla yanked open the side door, and they climbed into the back.
And Sam’s heart stopped. An Oklahoma panhandle dust storm seemed to pound through his brain, obscuring reason, turning ordinary objects and people into unrecognizable, nightmare figures.
Kyla had loosened her hair from her usual ponytail, and for just a moment he saw Marcie Turner’s hair, Marcie Turner’s face, superimposed over Kyla’s. For a stark, terrifying moment, he knew why Marcie had looked so familiar. She was an older version of Kyla, right down to the small, almost unnoticeable dimple in her chin.
He faced forward, refusing to look at the frightening phenomenon, focusing instead on Kyla’s familiar voice, her familiar laughter.
“Dad, are you listening to me?”
“What? Of course I am.”
Kyla heaved a dramatic sigh. “No, you’re not. You’re still thinking about that blond babe I crashed into this afternoon, aren’t you?”
She’d called that one right.
“I guess I’m going to have to find him a girlfriend. I mean, it’s like the man’s a monk.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll pick my own girlfriends.” Preferably someone sane. “At the moment, you’re the only woman I have room in my life for.” “Well, okay, but you’re not getting any younger, and I don’t know how much longer I can be responsible for taking care of you.” She and Rachel giggled at that comment.
Smiling to himself, Sam turned the key and started the van. Of course Kyla was his and Lisa’s daughter.
What was the matter with him, letting himself buy into Marcie Turner’s fantasy?
“Can we get pizza?” Kyla asked as he pulled into traffic. “That’s what I asked you when you were ignoring me. Not answering counts the same as if you’d said yes, you know.”
It was Sam’s turn to heave a dramatic sigh. “Like I ever refuse you anything. I think there may be a law against spoiling a kid as badly as you’re spoiled.”
Kyla leaned forward between the seats and gave him a loud kiss on the cheek. “I promise not to turn you in if we can have an extra large double-pepperoni pizza.”
“Oh, that’s great! My kid’s learned how to blackmail! That’ll look so good on your résumé.” He dared a glance at her impish face in the rearview mirror, searching desperately and vainly for Lisa’s features, not Marcie Turner’s.
Lisa had been a short brunette with dark hair and brown eyes. His coloring was dark, also, but blond hair and blue eyes were recessive traits. They could have sprung from some long-forgotten ancestor. Coloring didn’t prove a thing.
When Kyla was a baby, Lisa’s family had said she looked like Lisa, and his family had said she looked like him. He and Lisa had agreed that she looked like a baby, period.
Now she looked like a blond twelve-year-old, period. Not like Lisa, but not like Marcie. Okay, so Marcie Turner had the same silky hair, though the shade was a little darker, as if she didn’t get out in the sun much. So she had the same thin, straight nose, perfect oval face, wide blue eyes. None of that proved a thing. Lots of people had those traits.
Blood type. That was what mattered. With all the medical tests, he knew Kyla’s blood type. O positive, the same as Lisa’s.
His world shifted back into focus. The familiar highway, lined with stores, restaurants and gas stations, suddenly became a thing of beauty. The neon signs were works of art.
Let that woman try to take them to court. If by some fluke she succeeded, he’d explain to Kyla that Marcie Turner was a disturbed person and it would be easiest to submit to the genetic blood testing and get it over with. Prove to her that Kyla was not her daughter. Maybe then she’d go away.
He pulled into the pizza parlor parking lot. “One-super-duper giant pizza with double anchovies coming up!” he announced.
“Daaaad...” Kyla groaned.
She was growing up. A few years ago, she’d have argued with him that she hated anchovies and wanted pepperoni.
He slid out of the van and caught up with the girls as they came from the other side of the vehicle. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his blue jeans, resisting an urge to hug his kid in public, an action he knew would embarrass her.
When they reached the door, he held it open with one hand, but succumbed to the urge to drape the other arm over Kyla’s shoulders as she went past him. He needed to touch her, reassure himself that she was still there.
She turned to him briefly, flashing him a quick smile.
And in the light from the pizza parlor, he saw Marcie Turner’s face, clearly and undeniably.
For a moment, he stood frozen in place, unable to move, and Kyla walked away from his embrace, from him.
He’d been kidding himself. O positive blood was the most common type. That simply meant she could be Lisa’s daughter, not that she definitely was.
Only genetic testing could prove parentage for certain.
And he’d changed his mind about allowing that He’d fight Marcie Turner to the death to prevent that test.
Chapter Three
Marcie pulled into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn in McAlester. Sam had called late last night and asked—ordered—her to meet him this morning to talk.
He’d been gruff, angry—frightened? She would be in his position.
I don’t believe you, he’d said. I want you to know that. I just don’t want any trouble for my daughter.
What he’d said didn’t matter. He did believe her, or he wouldn’t have asked her to meet with him.
During the hour-and-a-half drive down, she’d alternated between soaring ecstasy and black, subterranean despair.
It was going to happen. She was going to make contact with her daughter.
Would her daughter like her? Would Kyla hate her for not being determined enough to claim her as a baby?
Would Sam pass along his antagonism to Kyla, make her hate this woman intruding into their lives?
She slid from her car and spotted Sam across the lot. He must have been waiting for her.
He stepped down from the van and strode toward her, his scuffed cowboy boots making firm, determined contact with the solid concrete of the parking lot. His faded jeans were molded to the well-defined muscles of his thighs, and the sleeves of his denim shirt, rolled up to his elbows, accentuated strong forearms.
An unexpected surge of attraction coursed through Marcie, taking her completely by surprise. Astonished and dismayed by her inappropriate reaction, she shoved the feeling aside.
Sam Woodward was handsome, in a rugged sort of way. He definitely had a tantalizing, masculine appeal. But she couldn’t afford to let anything sidetrack her right now.
And Sam had the potential to do that. He was more than a little unsettling. He presented the picture of a man securely in charge. That was the last thing she needed. She was struggling to regain control of her life, to straighten out all the problems that had occurred because she’d lost it. As things stood, she was going to have to fight Sam for that control. She needed every advantage; she didn’t dare lose the slightest edge.
Sam had his own agenda, and it didn’t even come close to matching hers. If she didn’t have so much at stake, she’d run from the man as fast as she could.
She straightened her shoulders and went to meet him instead.
“Thank you for agreeing to talk,” she said, striving for an amicable beginning.
“You didn’t give me much choice.”
“I wasn’t given any choice when my daughter was taken from me.” As soon as she said the words, Marcie bit her lip, wishing she could recall them. So much for an amicable beginning. She’d intended to take charge of the discussion, to be reasonable, to keep things on an intellectual level, and already she’d slipped, let her emotions invade.
Sam didn’t reply, but she knew his guard had gone up.
She swallowed hard and forced herself to speak the appropriate words. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He nodded, unresponsive, his eyes focused straight ahead. Together, but miles apart, they entered the motel lobby.
“Food smells good.” She strove for some sort of conversation to break the thick tension surrounding them as they approached the dining room.
“Yes,” he agreed. “They have good food here.”
But when they were seated at a square, white-clothed table in the middle of the crowded room and the waitress came to take their order, Marcie asked only for coffee, and Sam seconded the request
“My stomach’s in knots,” she admitted, turning her glass of water nervously.
One corner of his mouth quirked upward in a way that almost resembled a weak smile. “Mine, too.”
Her gut unclenched a notch. She had to keep in mind that this was just as traumatic for Sam as it was for her.
She cleared her throat and plunged in. “So where’s...Kyla?” She made herself say the name, not refer to her as my daughter, not throw the issue at Sam the way she’d like to.
“At church.”
“She went alone?” For a fleeting moment, she felt guilty that, because of her, Kyla had to go to church without her father. Without Sam, she corrected herself.
“No, with a friend.”
A friend? Marcie’s heartbeat skipped erratically, remembering Kyla’s flippant comment about being grown up and dating and making Sam a grandfather. Had she completely missed her daughter’s childhood?
“A girlfriend?” She choked out the question.
He scowled. “Of course a girlfriend. What did you think? She’s only twelve.”
Marcie felt heat rise to her face... embarrassment that she knew so little about her daughter, relief at Sam’s words, and irritation at his tone, his superior knowledge of her daughter.
The waitress returned with thick mugs filled with steaming coffee.
Marcie sipped desperately, her attention fixed on the black liquid, a welcome distraction from the man sitting across from her. She wasn’t doing this well. She needed to lead the conversation and the decision of what to do next, to ensure that things turned out right this time.
“What do you want?” Sam suddenly demanded, snatching from her any last vestige of control over the situation.
She looked up from her coffee, refusing to back down from the anger in his dark gaze. “To be a part of my daughter’s life. To be her mother.”
“You want to take Kyla away from me.”
The statement fell between them like a weight.
“I told you, I don’t,” Marcie said. “To be honest, I wish I could. I wish I could turn back the clock and take her from you before you ever held her in your arms. But I can’t do that. I’ve lost almost thirteen years of my daughter’s life. I’ll never see her take her first step or hear her first word. I won’t get to play Santa Claus for her or hide Easter eggs. There’s no way I can ever get any of that back.”
Sam’s eyes darkened even more as she spoke. He wrapped big, capable hands around his coffee cup. His knuckles stood out white against his tan. The tendons bulged all the way up his forearms. For a moment, she thought he might crush the thick mug.
“If there were any way for me to take back my daughter without hurting her,” she went on, “I’d do it. If I had any evidence that you were a bad parent, I’d do my damnedest to get her away from you. But as far as I can tell, you’re a loving father, and she’s happy. And more than I want to have her with me, I want her to be happy.”
She’d faced that reality already, but putting it into words, hearing herself admit that she’d never really have her daughter, filled her with a bleak sense of loss.
It was all well and good for Dr. Franklin to beat his breast and repent his actions, but the past couldn’t be undone. She and Kyla were the ones who had to live with the results of those actions.
She and Kyla and Sam.
She looked down at the table, swallowed hard, picked up a spoon, then laid it back down.

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