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Finally a Mother
Dana Corbit


A Mother's Second ChanceWorking at a home for teenage moms is a constant reminder for social worker Shannon Lyndon of the baby she gave up. When state trooper Mark Shoffner shows up at her door with a troubled teenage boy, Shannon knows she's looking at her own child. Temporary custody is given to Mark, but the handsome officer is more than she bargained for. She has another opportunity to be a mom, and Mark's rugged good looks and charisma are a distraction she can't afford. But as Shannon gets to know her son, and the man who's stealing her heart, she realizes that this makeshift family could be the happy ending she's always wished for.







A Mother’s Second Chance

Working at a home for teenage moms is a constant reminder for social worker Shannon Lyndon of the baby she gave up. When state trooper Mark Shoffner shows up at her door with a troubled teenage boy, Shannon knows she’s looking at her own child. Temporary custody is given to Mark, but the handsome officer is more than she bargained for. She has another opportunity to be a mom, and Mark’s rugged good looks and charisma are a distraction she can’t afford. But as Shannon gets to know her son, and the man who’s stealing her heart, she realizes that this makeshift family could be the happy ending she’s always wished for.


“How are you handling your son’s arrival on your doorstep?” Mark asked.

Shannon turned back to him. “Have you looked at me tonight? I’m not handling it that well.”

He had been looking at her. He could barely take his eyes off her. “I think you’re doing all right. It’s a lot to digest.”

“You act as if it came as a big surprise to me that I had a child.” A sad smile spread on her lips. “Believe me, I never forgot it.”

“But you never expected him to show up on your doorstep like an overnight delivery, either.”

“No. That I didn’t expect.”

Suddenly Shannon lifted her head and looked right at him. She seemed to be searching for something. Was she trying to decide whether he was just being polite or if he really wanted to know her story?

He was surprised to realize that he did want to know. More than he had any right to.


DANA CORBIT

started telling “people stories” at about the same time she started forming words. So it came as no surprise when the Indiana native chose a career in journalism. As an award-winning newspaper reporter and features editor, she had the opportunity to share wonderful true-life stories with her readers. She left the workforce to be a homemaker, but the stories came home with her as she discovered the joy of writing fiction. A Holt Medallion award winner and Booksellers’ Best award finalist, Dana feels blessed to share the stories of her heart with readers.

Dana lives in southeast Michigan, where she balances the make-believe realm of her characters with her equally exciting real-life world as a wife, busy mom to three nearly grown daughters and food supplier to two tubby cats named Leonardo and Annabelle Lee.


Finally a Mother

Dana Corbit






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Do not judge, and you will not be judged.

Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.

—Luke 6:37


To Ruth Ryan Langan,

you are an example of graciousness and class

in the publishing industry and in real life.

Thank you so much for supporting me, guiding me and making me believe in myself and in all of those characters clamoring in my head for their stories

to be told. You are the real deal, my friend.


Contents

Chapter One (#u76231650-3499-5af7-93f1-e0b449a6a6af)

Chapter Two (#uc383c4c8-872f-542c-a7e6-67879597f5c3)

Chapter Three (#u9fa5d910-e6d2-58ca-ac28-b7350e572f65)

Chapter Four (#u15dc858f-8635-543e-adb0-601b74075c91)

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)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

“Miss Shannon, he just kicked me.”

“On my way.”

Shannon Lyndon grinned at the sight she must have made, galloping in like the cavalry toward the voice coming from the computer room. The voice of one of her girls. The chance that one of them was in any real danger was slim after all. At Hope Haven, a kick didn’t necessarily signal an attacker, stomach upset seldom meant the flu and excessive restroom breaks were as ordinary as pop quizzes.

Inside the room, half a dozen teenage girls were crowded around a redhead named Holly. Her chair was pushed back from the computer desk, and hands of varying sizes and skin tones were pressed to her slightly protruding tummy. Most of the girls had rounded abdomens to match hers, and the remaining few would blossom in a matter of weeks.

“He’s doing it again.” Holly’s eyes were as wide as the grin on her freckle-dusted face. She’d already started referring to her child as a “he” although it was too soon for an ultrasound test where she could find out for sure. “Want to feel it, Miss Shannon?”

“Of course I want to.”

Well, want was a strong word, given that perspiration dotted the back of her neck though late fall already held Southeast Michigan in its frozen fist. And given that no matter how many times she shared moments like this with the teens, she’d never been able to escape her own private longing. But she brushed away the dampness, tucked the lock of hair that had escaped from her braid behind her ear and stepped right inside the circle of teens. One of her girls had invited her into this special moment, and she was determined to be there for every one of them no matter how much it cost her.

It couldn’t matter this morning that Holly and the other girls entering their second trimesters weren’t the only ones intimately familiar with the butterfly flutter of life inside of them. Shannon’s secret was just another square stitched into a faded quilt of memories, and that quilt needed to remain folded away for another day.

She bent over the sixteen-year-old and splayed a hand on her belly. It came as no surprise that she felt no motion beneath her fingertips other than the rise and fall of the girl’s breathing. When she shook her head, Holly’s smile fell.

“Here, let me try.” Kelly, a recent Hope Haven addition with close-trimmed black hair and lovely café au lait skin, squeezed in closer. She held her fingers to the spot Holly indicated for several seconds and then pulled them away. “I don’t feel it, either.”

Shannon patted Holly’s shoulder. “At first you might be the only one who can feel the baby’s movements, but before long they’ll be strong enough to knock a quarter off your stomach.”

“She’s right. Believe me.” Brooke, in her thirty-third week, rubbed a spot where a foot or elbow must have been poking her rib cage.

Holly’s smile returned as she traced a circular pattern near the hem of her oversize Michigan State sweatshirt. Still a child herself, she clearly was in love with her baby.

Shannon could relate to that. As much to escape from her feelings as to hide them, she turned away from the sweet scene. Only then did she notice the three girls sitting in a row at computer terminals, focused on their online assignments while avoiding the excitement surrounding Holly’s pregnancy milestone. It seemed unfair that they couldn’t enjoy this celebration of life together since they’d all already chosen life for their babies. But for some of the girls who’d committed to adoption, becoming attached to the fetuses they carried was a luxury they couldn’t afford.

Unfortunately, Shannon could relate to that, too.

The girls’ varied reactions served as reminders of where they were. No matter how positive she and the other staff tried to make Hope Haven, it was still a Christian home for teen moms. The girls there would make more critical decisions than even the unfortunate choices that led to their pregnancies. Most would make those decisions with no input from their babies’ fathers, some without their families’ support. Shannon only prayed that the girls would be able to live with their decisions.

“Miss Shannon, have you planned the menus for our Thanksgiving celebration?” Tonya called from one of the PCs across the room.

“We’re all set, but the holiday’s still six days away, and you have midterms coming up, so don’t start thinking about turkey and dressing yet.”

Tonya grinned as she tightened the band on her raven ponytail. “Then could you look at this problem for me?”

“Absolutely.”

The request for study help came as a relief from the intensity of the moment, that is until she recognized that the honor student was working on derivatives.

“Are you sure you want my help? Can it wait until Mrs. Wright comes back to teach on Monday?”

Her ponytail bobbed as she shook her head, her hand resting on the curve of her tummy. “Today you’re all we’ve got.”

Tonya probably hadn’t intended for her comment to be a monumental statement, but their gazes connected with the truth of her words. While the girls were at Hope Haven, Shannon really was all they had. Well, she and a second social worker, a part-time classroom instructor, a weekends-only cook and a visiting minister, anyway.

Still, her girls were relying on her to help them navigate this terrifying journey into teenage motherhood. They needed her to teach them about proper nutrition and prenatal care, help them keep up with their online high school classes, pray with them, cry with them. And yes, she would even help them with derivatives once she refreshed her memory on how to find those.

“Well, let’s give it a shot.”

She pulled over a chair and sat next to Tonya, studying the steps the teen had typed below the math problem.

“Wait. You multiplied the coefficient wrong here.”

Pushing her red wire glasses up on her nose, Tonya studied the screen and then smiled. “Maybe I should learn to multiply before I take on calculus.”

“The simple mistakes are the ones that trip us up.” Shannon pushed back from the desk and stood, grateful that the answer had been easy to locate.

If only the solutions to the challenges facing these teens were as obvious or as simple. Some of the girls and their families would choose to keep the babies, with real or idealized expectations. Several would choose adoption and become the answer to prayer for childless couples. Some would return to their former lives and try to forget this ever happened. But the truth remained that no matter what decisions they made, no matter what justifications they gave for their choices, none of these girls would ever be the same.

Shannon understood that most of all.

* * *

The pungent scent of stale ice assailed his senses as Trooper Mark Shoffner passed through the frozen-food section on his way to the Savers’ Mart store office. The suspect hadn’t picked the most sanitary place in Commerce Township to hit, but he’d been wrong in assuming that the staff would be equally lax on theft recovery.

Inside the office, the juvenile suspect slouched in a chair in a belligerent teen pose: arms and ankles crossed, a Detroit Tigers baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Mark stopped outside the door, sighing. He’d drawn the short straw again as the new guy at the Brighton Post, having to deal with another James Dean wannabe, especially so early on a school day. If only he hadn’t responded to the call from the area dispatcher.

He had to be the biggest misery magnet on the Michigan State Police force. If his cheating ex-wife, who blamed her infidelity on his marriage to the force instead of her, wasn’t enough, then state cuts requiring the closure of the Iron River Post helped cinch the title for him. With setbacks like these, how was he supposed to build a decorated police career that could prove he wasn’t a juvenile delinquent anymore?

Mark referred to his notes from the manager and looked to the boy again. “Blake Wilson?”

“Present.”

Blake lifted his hand and let it fall without bothering to look up. He was trying to appear tough, all right. But the coating of filth on his jeans, sneakers and flimsy zipper sweatshirt and the grime melding with the crop of peach fuzz on his chin hinted that the world was beating up on Blake Wilson instead of the other way around.

“Well, good.” Mark stepped over the boy’s outstretched legs, pulled out a second chair from behind the desk and dropped into it. “I’m Trooper Shoffner of the Michigan State Police. Now, I’ll tell you how this is going to go. You’re going to sit up in that chair, take off that hat and look me in the eye. Then we’re going to have a talk.”

“So that’s how it’s going to go, huh?” The boy continued to stare at a spot on the floor.

“Unless you prefer me to cuff you now and take you on a ride in my patrol car first.”

Seconds passed without any movement from the teen, but Mark folded his hands and waited. One of them had to win this power struggle, and it was going to be him. Though they’d only just met, Mark knew the kid well. He’d been that kid. But he wasn’t that guy anymore, whether others accepted that truth or not, and he needed to stick with the present if he wanted to show the suspect who was in charge.

Finally, Blake straightened and lifted his head, meeting Mark’s gaze with intelligent hazel eyes.

“The hat.”

Though that gaze flicked to the trooper’s hat in unspoken challenge, the boy yanked his cap off by the bill. A mess of greasy dark blond hair fell loose.

“Thank you.” Mark left his own cover in place, as state police policy required that troopers wear them whenever responding to a call. “How old are you, Blake?”

“Fourteen.”

He bit at skin on the corner of his pinky fingernail and then, switching hands, chewed again. His fingernails were so heavily bitten that it was a wonder he still found anything left to nibble. Just fourteen. Mark jotted the figure in his notebook, guessing that the jaded boy’s life experience made him much older than that. “The store manager has reported that you were caught in possession of shoplifted items when you left the store. Can you tell me what happened?”

The boy shrugged. “I was hungry.”

The manager materialized in the doorway. “Oh, he was hungry, all right. He walked out of the place like it was a food bank or something.”

“Food bank?”

In answer to Mark’s question, the man indicated items arranged on a table lining the office’s back wall. Something heavy settled in Mark’s throat. No cold medicine that could be cooked up into more powerful drugs. Not even a six-pack of beer or a pack of cigarettes. The suspect was accused of swiping a half gallon of milk, a box of corn flakes and a carton of cherry toaster pastries. A teenager’s breakfast of champions. Arresting a hungry kid was the last thing he wanted to do, particularly so close to the annual gorgefest that was Thanksgiving, but unpleasant tasks sometimes were part of the job.

He turned to the store manager. “Thank you for your help. I will be taking Mr. Wilson back to the post for further questioning. I will be in touch.”

The trip would also include a breakfast stop at a fast-food restaurant, but Mark didn’t mention that to the manager, who would be complaining about special treatment. He’d questioned many things about his new faith that had helped him to turn his life around and then failed to keep his wife from leaving him, but the lesson he’d learned about feeding the hungry still seemed like a good idea.

Soon the suspect was Mirandized, cuffed and seated in the back of the patrol car, and they were headed west on the Interstate toward the post. Well, fidgeting in the backseat, anyway. How Blake had managed to do that with his hands cuffed, Mark wasn’t sure, but the boy’s wiggling had already caused the blanket that Mark had tucked around his shoulders to fall behind him. The only thing that stayed in place was the hat that Mark had returned to him.

“You’re just going to make the cuffs rub your wrists raw,” he pointed out.

“So?”

But the squirming stopped for about a minute, and then it resumed as if the boy couldn’t control it. Instead of mentioning it again, Mark took the Milford Road exit and headed south toward a shopping plaza with several fast-food restaurants nearby.

“We’ll call your parents once we reach the Brighton Post, but I’m hungry, so I’m going to stop for some breakfast.” He glanced at the boy in his rearview mirror. “I can pick something up for you if you like.”

Unmasked longing flitted through Blake’s eyes as he took in the brightly colored fast-food restaurant signs, but he blinked it away as he met Mark’s gaze in the glass.

“Can’t we just go to my house first? I mean...it’s right by here.”

Mark wasn’t sure which surprised him more, that a hungry teen was turning down food or that the boy was begging to see his parents sooner than he would have been forced to once they reached the post. Since he’d suspected that Blake might be a runaway, he was curious to see just how close they lived.

“Why would you want to go there now?”

“My parents will go ballistic when they hear about me getting into trouble anyway, so we might as well get it over with.”

The Lie-o-meter should have exploded on that one because Mark wasn’t buying it. The kid had probably figured out that the store was unlikely to press charges. Or maybe he had a juvenile record a mile long and wanted to delay Mark’s chance to get back to his computer. Mark’s lips lifted at the thought. Blake had missed the laptop mounted on the patrol car’s dashboard if he believed a side trip could slow access to that information.

“Good to get it over with.” His gaze flicked to the mirror. “Sure you don’t want to eat something before—”

Blake shook his head, interrupting him. That settled it. Something was making the boy desperate to get home. Something more powerful than hunger intense enough to drive him to steal. And Mark had to know what it was.

“Okay, what’s your address?”

He popped open the laptop and typed the address Blake gave him into the GPS. The short trip led to a rural area near the line that separated Oakland and Livingston counties. Turning off on a county road, he made a second left onto a lane with only a few houses spaced along it. He pulled onto the narrow drive of an expansive two-story brick house, remarkable in no way beyond its size. The place had seen better days. Its outbuildings were faded. Its gutters hung loose. Its long, blacktop drive begged for recoating. The owner had obviously tried to warm up the place with a fall display of hay bales and yellow chrysanthemums next to the porch, but the effort only reminded Mark of a tiny color portrait on a bare wall.

“Is this it?” At least it was a house. Many of the suspects he’d met lived with less. Far less.

“Guess so.”

From the way Blake was looking at the place, Mark could only guess that he hadn’t been there in a while. Maybe his premise about the boy being a runaway was right. No need to mention it now, though. He would have answers to at least some of his questions soon.

“Sure your parents will be home?”

“Hope so.”

Mark climbed out of the car, put his cover on his head and crossed to the rear door on the passenger side. After Mark had helped him out of the car, Blake looked over his shoulder, indicating his cuffed hands.

“Sorry,” he said with a shake of his head.

Frowning, the boy allowed the trooper to lead him up the walk. They climbed the crumbling steps onto the porch, and Mark rang the bell. Female voices filtered through the wood before a young girl pulled open the door. A very pregnant Hispanic teen.

She stared at them with wide eyes. “May I help you?”

“Who is it?” Another teenager pressed in next to her, this one a Caucasian blonde, clearly pregnant, as well. She shifted her feet, and her gaze slid right to left in that uncomfortable reaction that even innocent citizens sometimes have to an officer in uniform.

“Is it for Miss Shannon?” A third teen, this one African-American with what appeared to be the beginning of a baby bump, pulled the door wider so she could fit into the space.

Finally, the door came fully open, and enough girls to field a soccer team looked out at them, some with open curiosity, others with caution. Most were clearly pregnant.

What had he just walked into? Mark scanned the front of the house, trying to locate a sign, but he didn’t see one. He’d had no idea that homes for unwed mothers still existed. Didn’t pregnant girls usually walk the same high school halls with other students these days? It was obvious, though, that Blake had played a joke on him by leading him to one of these places out of the past. The kid might think this was funny now, but he wouldn’t be laughing when they returned to the station and he booked him.

But when Mark turned to him, Blake wasn’t paying any attention to him. He was staring straight ahead, his posture rigid, his chest pushed forward. Mark followed the boy’s gaze to the petite brunette who had appeared in front of the girls. And Mark couldn’t have looked away if the woman had demanded it with a handgun.

She had this fair porcelain skin, these huge hazel eyes, delicate features and amazing full lips, which combined to give her a fragile, china-doll quality that was just unfair to a guy trying to keep his thoughts on the job. Dressed in jeans and a Henley shirt and with her hair tied back in a braid, she could have been mistaken for one of the girls, but the creases at the corners of her eyes and her attempt to corral the teens behind her signaled that she was in charge.

For several heartbeats, she stared back at him, a deer caught in his headlights, and then, as her cheeks turned a pretty pink, she shifted her gaze to Blake.

Mark cleared his throat. If he couldn’t avoid noticing a female while on the job, at least he’d chosen the only adult in the room. She didn’t appear to be pregnant like the girls either, he noted, feeling strangely relieved. What was that about?

“May we help you, Officer? Has something happened?” She glanced from Mark to Blake, her gaze narrowing.

He frowned, expecting idiot to be stamped on his forehead. Who could blame a woman in a house full of pregnant girls for being cautious when facing a police officer and a teenage boy in handcuffs?

“Everything’s all right, ma’am. My name is Trooper Mark Shoffner.” He paused, clearing his throat again. “We apologize for the disturbance. There was a mistake about the address.”

“Oh... Okay. You must be new. This home is a center for teen mothers. It’s called Hope Haven. I’m Shannon Lyndon, the housemother and one of the social workers.”

At least she hadn’t asked more about why he’d brought a dirty, handcuffed teen to her front porch because he wasn’t sure how to answer that. She wasn’t looking at him, anyway. She was studying Blake as if he was a science specimen. Finally, she shook her head. Her cheeks flushed again. Mark hadn’t noticed earlier, but her hazel eyes struck him now as familiar. Had he met her before? That was unlikely since he’d only transferred to Brighton a month earlier, but he couldn’t shake the sense that he knew her.

“Well, thank you and sorry, again, for the disturbance.” He backed away from the door, pulling Blake along with him, but the boy dragged his feet.

“Wait.” Blake’s voice was tight.

Mark stopped. “What’s going on? I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, but I’m not impressed.”

He wasn’t happy with himself either, for letting his curiosity get the best of him and for agreeing to come here in the first place.

“I can explain.”

“Well, you’d better start. Now. Did you think it would be funny to bring us here? Because this obviously isn’t your house.”

The boy didn’t crack a smile, didn’t even look his way. Instead, he trapped the housemother in a straight, accusing stare.

“No, I don’t live here.” He paused a few heartbeats before adding, “But she is my mother.”


Chapter Two

Voices all around Shannon erupted in varying tones and speeds, but the words themselves were muffled and faraway. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Mother. The word she’d waited fifteen years to hear spoken in reference to her, the word she carried in her heart, so soft in its potential, its reality full of jagged edges.

But the venom she hadn’t expected. Now she didn’t know why she hadn’t prepared herself for that. She didn’t question for a second that this was her baby. Her big boy now. He was standing right there in front of her, dirty, sure, but tall and handsome. She couldn’t get enough of seeing him. Eyes so like her mother’s...and her own. A face that looked like, well, his father.

Taking in all of him, she couldn’t help but notice that his arms were cuffed behind him or that he appeared to be in the custody of a uniformed police officer. One with the heavily lashed black-brown eyes and the short brown hair that showed off the kind of face that could have been—no, should have been—sculpted in marble. Shannon blinked, catching herself staring again. She’d had no business gawking at the handsome officer even before she’d recognized Blake. Now it was unforgivable. What kind of woman allowed a man to distract her at a time like this? Well, someone who’d allowed a guy to sidetrack her in the past from what really mattered. But not this time. She didn’t care about the trooper’s broad shoulders and strong-looking arms and chest dressed up that navy blue uniform with its silver tie and badge.

She pushed those unacceptable thoughts away and zeroed in on Blake. Why he’d chosen to come here today, how he’d gotten into trouble, even the officer who’d brought him here—none of that could matter. Nothing except that he was here now.

“Blake?” It was the first time she’d ever spoken his name aloud, and she could only manage a squeak. She cleared her throat. “It is Blake, right?”

He didn’t respond as he stood, shifting his feet, but he didn’t look away, either. It was something. She braced herself and accepted the accusation and conviction in his gaze the best she could. He deserved that much, and if he gave her the chance, she would make him understand.

“She had a baby?” someone said in a low voice. “A baby as old as him?”

“And he got arrested? That means...”

Whispered questions that escalated to frantic chatter invaded her senses, making her vaguely aware that they weren’t alone, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away from her son. Her son. Just the thought of it made her long to reach out to touch him. When she could no longer resist, she took a tentative step toward him, her hands lifting from her sides.

“Do...not...touch...me.”

His words were a wall of glass, keeping her from the only thing she’d ever wanted, the chasm between them suddenly huge and growing. She’d never expected to feel anguish again like the day the nurse had carried her blanketed baby from the birthing room and from her life, but here it was again, bitter and deep. If she could move at all, she would have collapsed into a heap of loss.

“Why don’t we take this conversation inside?”

She blinked at the sound of the officer’s voice, and her gaze flicked to him. Accusation filled his eyes. His expression was as hard as Blake’s was. What right did this stranger have to judge her when he didn’t know all the facts of the situation? He didn’t even know that the choice hadn’t really been hers. But then Shannon shivered as she became aware of the frigid air pouring in through the gaping front door. And that Blake’s sweatshirt was so thin.

“Oh. What was I thinking? Sorry.”

Backing away from the door, she bumped into Holly right behind her. She whirled to face the shock on so many of the girls’ faces. How betrayed they had to feel over learning about her secret this way. They would never understand that it was her shame and not a fear of trusting them with her story that had kept her from sharing it.

“Miss Shannon?”

So many questions were folded into Holly’s two words, and Shannon promised herself she would answer every one of them, but she owed her son an explanation first.

“Girls, could you just give me—”

“We’re going to need to speak privately with Mrs. Lyndon,” the trooper said, interrupting her.

“Miss,” she corrected.

His gaze flicked to the bare finger on her left hand. “Sorry. Miss.” Guiding Blake inside, he closed the door behind him. “Ladies, could you give us a few minutes?”

The teens paused, reluctant to leave her alone with the two males.

Chelsea, who had celebrated her fifteenth birthday at Hope Haven just last week, touched her arm. “You going to be okay?”

Shannon nodded, though she was as unsure as the girls appeared to be. “I’ll be fine. Just work on your lessons in the computer room. I’ll be in as soon as we’re finished.”

She didn’t bother telling them that everything would go back to normal when she returned, if she could call these lives they’d lived on a tangent at Hope Haven “normal.” For Shannon and for the girls she worked with every day, nothing would be the same.

Once the door to the computer room closed, she braced herself and faced the officer, the boy and the past that haunted her memories.

Trooper Shoffner guided Blake a few steps forward so that he was standing in front of her.

“I take it you and Mr. Wilson know each other?”

Shannon looked longingly at the boy who’d stared her down earlier but now refused to look her in the eye. “Well, not exactly, but—”

“You called him by name.”

“As I started to say, he is, he is...my son.” She was simply putting the truth into words as Blake had done, so she hated that her voice broke under the weight of it. She tried again. “I gave up a baby boy for adoption almost fifteen years ago. I met the adoptive parents once. They told me if the baby was a boy, they would name him Blake.” She lifted a hand to indicate the teen. “That’s him.”

“You’re certain of this?”

“Look at him. Don’t you see the resemblance?”

The officer didn’t look at either of them as he withdrew a notebook and pen from his pocket, but Blake sneaked a glance at her from beneath his shaggy hair.

“Obviously, maternity will have to be confirmed.” He tapped his pen on the paper. “But since you appear to have an interest in this boy, you should be aware that he was arrested this morning. You might be interested in knowing what type of items he was accused of shoplifting.”

“Um, okay.” Since Blake had turned to his side now, she couldn’t help staring at his cuffed hands.

“Food.” Trooper Shoffner spat the word as if it had soured in his mouth. “He was hungry.”

The officer’s censure stung, but not as much as the reality that the precious boy next to her had ever known hunger. How could that have happened? “Oh. You poor thing.”

“He also appears to be a runaway.”

The trooper’s stony expression told her he wasn’t kidding. If his first comment had been a stab, he’d twisted the knife with this one.

“Blake?”

His only answer was a shrug. She needed him to look at her, to tell her this was all a mistake, but he kept staring at the ground.

Catching herself this time as her hands lifted to touch him again, she stuffed them into her pockets. “What happened? Did you have an argument with your...parents?” She hated that the word caught in her throat. They were his parents after all. Under the law, she was his birth mother. Nothing more.

“If you give him something to eat, he might be able to answer your questions,” Mark said.

“You mean you didn’t feed him? You knew he was starving, and you couldn’t stop before coming here?”

He met her incredulous look with a steady one. “I started to, but he insisted on coming here first.”

Her righteous indignation fizzled. The blame was back on her, right where it belonged.

“Right. Well, take those cuffs off him and bring him in the kitchen.”

“I don’t think—”

“He can’t eat without his hands.” She didn’t care if she’d just given an order to a police officer, who was clearly more accustomed to giving them than receiving them. For whatever reason, her child was hungry. She might never have been able to do anything for him before, but she could feed him now and help free his hands so he could eat.

The trooper studied Blake for a few seconds and then withdrew a key from his pocket, stepped behind the boy and opened the handcuffs. Blake rubbed his wrists and spread his fingers to stretch them before jamming them in his sweatshirt pockets.

As Shannon led them down the hallway to the kitchen, questions ticked in her mind at the same pace as her tennis shoes on the worn wood floor. Why had Blake run away? How had he known her identity or how to locate her? Had his adoptive parents refused to let him search for her?

In the kitchen, she opened the huge, industrial refrigerator and stepped inside the chilly room to scan the contents. She grabbed a carton of eggs, a green pepper and a tomato and closed the door.

“Hope eggs are okay.”

Blake cleared his throat. “Anything’s fine. Except tomatoes.”

“You’d probably eat even those this morning,” Trooper Shoffner said with a chuckle.

“Probably.”

But Shannon wasn’t laughing, as irrational fear tightened her throat. She was about to make a first meal for her son, ever, and she knew nothing about him. What did he like to eat? Did he prefer video games or TV? Did he have food allergies? Worse than that, she didn’t know what type of life he’d led until now or what unfortunate events had landed him on her doorstep.

But she would find out. She would ask her questions and answer his. She would listen, no matter how painful his stories, no matter how much he blamed her. This was what she’d wanted: to be reunited with Blake and to have a chance to explain the past. Although this wasn’t the warm and tender reunion she’d imagined and prayed for, this was their story, and they would find a way to work through it. Her son had come looking for her. He was close enough to touch, if he would ever allow it. Having him with her was the most important thing. The only thing.

* * *

“Slow down or your breakfast is going to come back up,” Mark warned as Blake shoveled food into his mouth with barely a breath between bites.

He’d been right. The boy would have eaten even the dreaded tomatoes, and might have licked the plate afterward, if Shannon Lyndon had set those in front of him at the long table in the house’s cafeteria area. Although the boy didn’t appear to be malnourished overall, something told him that this wasn’t the first time Blake had ever been hungry. The same protective impulse he’d felt when he’d realized the boy was accused of stealing food rose in him again, but Mark tamped it down a second time. Becoming involved in this mess of a situation was the last thing he should do, even if he felt terrible for the boy who was the true victim in it.

Shannon sat across from them, staring in amazement at the boy as he wolfed down his food. She shouldn’t have been shocked. She’d known all along he was out there somewhere. Or at least some kid who was about Blake’s age. Mark shifted in his seat as the scent of Miss Lyndon’s perfume—something light and floral and too feminine for its own good—mingled with scents of Blake’s breakfast. Clearly, he was picking up on the wrong details in this case if he was mentally cataloging that one.

“You’re left-handed,” Shannon said to the boy.

Blake’s fork stilled. “So?”

“My dad’s a lefty.”

“Oh.”

As Blake scraped his plate, he met the woman’s gaze with those green-brown eyes. Instantly, Mark knew why he’d found Shannon’s eyes so familiar. They had to be related.

“Hey, any chance I could get some more?”

Setting his coffee aside, Mark patted Blake’s shoulder. “Give the food a few minutes to settle. If you’re still hungry after we talk, I’m sure, uh...Miss Lyndon would be happy to give you seconds.”

He wrapped his hands around his mug again, frustrated that he hadn’t been sure what to call her. He wouldn’t refer to this woman as Blake’s birth mother without proof, even if he suspected it was true. If she’d chosen to give up her parental rights, she had no claim to Blake, anyway.

“Sure. Whatever you want.” Shannon smiled across the table at the boy.

“Now, Blake, let’s start with you.” Mark picked up his notebook and pen. “I need your parents’ names and numbers so I can let them know where you are.”

Blake dropped his fork on his plate and pushed back from the table, crossing his arms. “Which ones? Birth parents? Adoptive parents? Foster parents?”

“Foster parents?” Shannon asked.

“And of the foster parents, which of those do you mean?” Blake continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “There’ve been a bunch. Some decent. Some not so much.”

Shannon drew her brows together, gripping the edge of the table so tightly that half-moons of white appeared beneath her nail beds. “Wait. How can that be?”

Blake looked up from his plate, trapping her in his gaze. “The state has this thing about parents who neglect their kids. Funny, they think that kids should have a few things. Food. Clothes. A place to sleep.”

Shannon shook her head. “No. The couple I met was so desperate to adopt a baby. They both had steady jobs. They could provide anything a child would need or want.”

“If not for the drugs.”

The anguished sound escaping from Shannon’s lips made something tighten inside Mark’s gut. He could understand some of the shots Blake had taken with his comments. The boy definitely deserved more compassion than the adults in this twisted situation did. But as this shot made a direct hit, the color slid from Shannon’s face like a snow cone once the flavoring was gone.

“You were temporarily removed from your adoptive parents’ home because of drug addiction?” Mark couldn’t help but watch Shannon as he asked it.

Blake made a flippant gesture with his hands. “The first few times. The state took away their parental rights when I was seven.”

“That can’t be. It can’t be,” Shannon said miserably, tears draining from the corners of her red-rimmed eyes. “I was supposed to be doing the right thing. That’s what they told me. The best thing.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Mark heard himself saying despite his intention not to weigh in.

Always uncomfortable with crying women, he scanned the room for tissues and crossed to a table near the door separating the dining area from the kitchen to grab some paper toweling instead. She nodded her thanks and dabbed her eyes, her lashes spiky and wet.

He would have reminded her that adoption was often the best choice for pregnant teens, something she had to know from working at Hope Haven, but she wouldn’t hear him now. This adoption hadn’t been the best thing for this child. For Blake. He reminded himself who was central to this situation. He couldn’t lose focus of that fact no matter how much the tears tracing down her cheeks threatened to soften him with their salt.

“Okay, I need names, an address and a contact number for your current foster parents. We’ll contact them and the Department of Human Services when we get back to the post.” He wrote down the information the boy provided. “You came all the way from Rochester Hills? That’s about seventy miles from here. Did you walk all that way?”

“Hitched some of it.”

From the look of him, Blake had crawled the rest. But no matter how he’d gotten there, the boy had come a long way for answers from the woman he believed to be his birth mother, and he would get them if Mark had anything to say about it.

“Miss Lyndon, you said you gave up a child for adoption born when and where?”

“Nearly fifteen years ago. On March 7. In Shelby Township.”

He turned back to Blake. “And your birthday is?”

“March 7.”

He wrote a check next to the date in his notes. “And you were how old when you gave birth?”

“Fifteen.” She sniffed and wiped her cheeks with the towel. “I was sent away to stay with my grandma until he was born.”

“And the adoption was conducted through...?”

“A local attorney.” She coughed into her hand. “I wasn’t exactly given a choice.”

Doubt flashing through Blake’s gaze, he looked away. The boy was gripping his anger like a precious possession, and he wouldn’t give it up easily.

Mark tapped his pen on the pad. “The infant’s father?”

“MIA. From the beginning.”

Shannon Lyndon’s story was a cliché. As common as teen pregnancy. So the sudden rise of his anger at this unidentified deadbeat dad shocked him. He cleared his throat. “Now we have the basics, but, Blake, we need to know how you knew to come here. Adoption records are supposed to be sealed. How did you find out the identity of your...of Miss Lyndon?”

Shannon leaned forward, resting her arms on the table, curious, as well.

Blake pulled something out of the pocket of his filthy jeans and tossed it on the table. The crumpled piece of paper might have once been blue floral stationary, but now it bore only a faint blue hue.

“What is that?” Mark asked.

The boy didn’t answer, and Shannon only stared at the piece of paper as if she already knew what it was. Mark reached for it and unfolded it. His throat tightened as he read the smeared words written in a loopy script: “To my dearest baby boy...”

He skimmed the private message, its words those of a brokenhearted girl. At the bottom of the page, Shannon’s name and what must have been her parents’ Walled Lake address stared back at him, a confirmation in faded blue. He folded the note again and placed it on the table in front of him. Shannon and Blake only stared at each other, her pleading expression unable to breach the wall of the boy’s unbending one.

“They were supposed to give you that letter when you were old enough to understand,” she said in a small voice.

Her hands reached toward Blake, but then they froze, and she lowered them to the table, gripping them together.

“You trusted people who couldn’t even remember to feed a kid to keep a letter like that in a safe place?”

A strangled sound escaped Shannon’s throat. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, you should have.”

Shannon must have heard as much as she could bear because she buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders heaved with the force of her sobs. Each shake echoed inside Mark’s chest, and he couldn’t make it stop. If that didn’t shame him enough, his hands itched to reach over and pat her arm. Where was his professional distance when he needed it? Hadn’t he already learned the hard way not to be a patsy for duplicitous women?

He pointedly turned his attention away from her and back to Blake. “How did you know to find Miss Lyndon here? The address on the letter says Walled Lake.”

“They allow the internet in foster homes, you know. Sometimes they even have wireless.”

“Right.” Mark chose not to address the wise-guy comment. This time.

When Blake leaned forward and reached for the letter, Mark closed his hand over it. “Sorry. I’m going to need to make a copy of that. I’ll give it back later. I promise.”

“Whatever.”

He shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or another, but Mark wasn’t buying it. That letter had traveled with the kid through several foster homes for at least seven years. It was probably his most precious possession.

Mark turned back to Shannon, who was wiping ineffectively at her eyes.

“Miss Lyndon, do you have someone you can call in to stay with the young ladies? I need you to come to the post with us to sort out this matter.”

“The other social worker, Katie, should be here soon.”

“Then until she arrives you might want to speak with your residents.” He gestured toward the kitchen door. “They’ll probably have a few questions.”

“Oh. Right.” Bracing her hands on the edge of the table, she pushed back and stood. She started for the door, and then, as if remembering, turned back to them. “Did you still want something more to eat?”

Blake shook his head. “No, I’m full.”

Mark doubted that, but after the conversation they’d just had, he couldn’t blame even a hungry kid for losing his appetite. He’d certainly lost his.

“I’ll be right back, then,” Shannon said.

She paused in front of the door and then straightened her shoulders and pulled it open. Outside, a group of disobedient girls stood like a jury waiting for the foreman to announce a guilty verdict. Shannon froze, her hands stiff at her sides. Clearly, the girls had heard at least part of the conversation because they wore a collective look of shell-shocked fury.

Again, that temptation to protect the woman rose, intense and unwelcome, and it was all Mark could do to stay seated instead of stepping between her and her accusers. It wouldn’t have helped for him to tell them that they didn’t have as much of a right to their anger as Blake did, anyway. They felt betrayed. It didn’t matter that Shannon had been under no obligation to share the truth of her own pregnancy and adoption with a group of teenagers she counseled.

This was a muddy mess, with more than enough smears of anger and blame to cover them all in muck. But in the chaos, one thing had become disconcertingly clear to him: Shannon Lyndon was standing all alone as she faced the mistakes of her past.


Chapter Three

“There’s good news and bad news.”

Shannon startled at the sound of Trooper Shoffner’s voice. She turned as he strode back into the interview room of the Brighton Post and took a seat at a long table against the wall. She had to be jumpy over the officer catching her staring at Blake again because it couldn’t be that the man himself unnerved her. It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t stop looking at her son, even if Blake had no problem ignoring her. Sometimes she could almost feel the boy’s gaze on her, but when she would look over, Blake would be fidgeting or biting his nails.

“So what did you find out?” She craned her neck to look through the doorway to the open area of the squad room. The caseworker from the Department of Human Services was still at one of the desks, talking on her cell phone.

“Which first, good or bad?”

“I vote for good,” Shannon said, though the question hadn’t been for her.

Maybe some good news was just what Blake needed to help him forget about his anger for a while. She hated that he hadn’t spoken to her during the car ride, but she refused to give up hope of establishing a relationship with her son. They were together, and she could ride for a long time on the adrenaline of that answered prayer.

“Blake? What do you think?” Mark pressed again.

Whatever Mark had planned to say had him grinning at Blake, but when the boy didn’t look up, he turned that smile Shannon’s way. Her breath caught. Though she’d noticed the trooper’s straight white teeth when he’d spoken earlier, she couldn’t imagine now how she’d missed those dimples. And for that matter, how had she failed to notice those intense, dark eyes that seemed to see straight through a person? Even women like her, who’d sworn off men, and those with as much on their minds as she had today couldn’t avoid noticing such appealing scenery.

“The bad.”

It was Blake’s voice that startled her this time. Instantly, she was ashamed. After waiting so long to be reunited with her child, what kind of mother was she to allow her attention to be drawn away from him, even for a second? With her son blaming her for his life after the adoption and with her girls feeling betrayed that she’d kept her secret, she had no time for other distractions. Particularly a man.

“Why the bad first?” Mark wanted to know.

But Shannon suspected she knew why, and that only made the braid of ache inside of her stomach twist tighter. Someone who’d experienced as much bad news as Blake had couldn’t trust anything masquerading as good news.

Mark closed his notebook. “Okay, the bad news. Your foster parents reported you as a runaway, which adds to a pretty impressive juvenile record. And because you did run, they have refused to let you return there. You’ll be a bad example for their other foster children.”

“No big loss.”

“No big loss?” Mark repeated his words.

Blake lifted a bony shoulder but didn’t look up from his hands. “Is that it?”

Shannon exchanged a quizzical look with Mark but managed to hold back her own questions. Why didn’t Blake see the rejection of his current foster parents as a loss? Had they abused him? Assumptions crowded her thoughts, each one more horrific than the last. Then the realization struck her that whether or not that couple had hurt him, others probably had. Worse than that, she was responsible for placing him in the care of his first abusers.

“Miss Lafferty’s out there right now, working with the private agency responsible for your initial foster placement. They’re looking for another one,” Mark continued.

I’m right here, Shannon wanted to shout. It was difficult to think of another placement for her son besides with her, but her social-work training told her it wasn’t so simple. She hadn’t proved yet that she was Blake’s birth mother, let alone that she could properly care for him.

“Have fun with that.” Blake’s chuckle held no humor.

Now Shannon couldn’t stop herself. “What do you mean, ‘Have fun?’”

“I’m what they call a ‘placement challenge.’”

“Why?” She tried to ignore that he’d spoken to Mark instead of her.

“ADHD.” This time Blake stared directly at her as he spat the acronym for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. He seemed to have forgotten that he hadn’t sent a single syllable her way since they’d left Hope Haven.

“That’s not a big deal,” Shannon assured him. “A lot of kids have that diagnosis.”

That Blake happened to be one of them didn’t surprise her, either. She’d been with him only a few hours, and she’d already picked up on his distractibility and fidgetiness. While before she’d been uncomfortable with the idea of her son being placed with another family, she bristled now that some foster parents wouldn’t want him. How could they be so cruel as to reject her child?

Blake crossed his arms. “ADHD kids aren’t the ones that foster parents are begging to bring home with them. Low on the cute-little-kid scale. Older kids and those who’ve had trips to juvie are even tougher sales.”

Shannon took an unsteady breath as the impact of his words became clear. Blake was a member of all three groups. Three strikes against him in a state system where the statistics weren’t on his side. A system she’d subjected him to when she’d signed that voluntary release of parental rights.

“Trooper Shoffner, didn’t you say you had good news, too?” She managed to keep her voice level, though she was tempted to beg him to say something offering a little hope.

“Right.”

But he waited as if he expected Blake to look over at him. Instead, the boy continued picking at his cuticles, his gaze darting to the side. He was curious, all right. Finally, he sat up and looked at the officer.

“The grocery store owner decided not to press charges. Because of mitigating circumstances, we might be able to have the runaway charges reduced.”

Blake’s expression remained carefully neutral, the mask of a child who’d learned never to hope for too much. Finally, he nodded. It was something.

Trooper Shoffner didn’t take credit for convincing the store owner not to press charges or for speaking to the Oakland County prosecutor, but Shannon suspected he’d done both. She’d practiced adult maneuvering like that when a few of her girls had continued making poor decisions. A fleeting thought reminded her that Hope Haven residents might not wish to be called “her girls” after today, but she couldn’t think about that until Blake’s situation was under control. And she was beginning to wonder if that was even possible.

Two uniformed officers suddenly filled the doorway. Shannon remembered the muscular male trooper. He was the one who’d taken a report when a boy involved with one of her residents had shown up to cause trouble. She didn’t recognize the female trooper, an attractive blonde with her hair tied in a loose bun.

“Now, let me get this right.” The man paused, one side of his mouth lifting. “You let a juvenile suspect convince you to take him back to his house, and, instead, he led you to a home for teen mothers? Priceless!”

“Was he hoping to enroll there?” The female trooper laughed at her own joke, and then her gaze narrowed. “Didn’t you know about Hope Haven?”

“I do now.” Mark gestured toward the other officers. “Trooper Angela Vincent and Trooper Brody Davison, meet Shannon Lyndon and Blake Wilson.”

“We’ve met.” Shannon shook Trooper Davison’s hand.

He studied her for a few seconds and then nodded. “I remember. A suspect was harassing one of the girls. A real Dad-of-the-Year. But Trooper Shoffner here will have a better story about his visit to Hope Haven.”

Mark frowned as his fellow officer patted him on the back. “Have I mentioned that Mr. Wilson believes Miss Lyndon is his birth mother or that Miss Lyndon does not dispute the claim?”

“What?” Trooper Davison asked.

“Excuse me?” Trooper Vincent chimed.

The officers looked from Mark to Shannon and back to Mark again.

The female officer pressed her hands together. “Clearly we don’t have the whole story, so we’ll let you get back to it.” Already, she started backing away from the door, with the other trooper copying her exit.

“Is there a problem in here?”

Another uniformed officer stood just outside the doorway, blocking their exit in the already cramped space. He had eyeglasses and a boyish face that made him look like a teenager, but from the way the three other officers straightened at his appearance, he was in charge.

“No, Lieutenant.” His jaw tightening, Trooper Shoffner shot an annoyed look at his fellow troopers and then gestured to his superior officer. “Everyone, please meet Lt. Matt Dawson.”

He made another round of introductions and gestured toward the other troopers. “They were just leaving.”

“Uh, he’s right,” Trooper Davison said. “We have to get back out on patrol.”

Lt. Dawson nodded. “I’m sure the residents of Michigan will appreciate your diligence.”

Once they had disappeared down the hall, the lieutenant turned back to Mark. “I assume you have this under control, Trooper Shoffner?”

“Yes, sir.” But as soon as the officer stepped away, Mark pursed his lips, and his hand thudded on the desktop. “That went well. New guy perks.”

Something was going on with Trooper Shoffner at work, but she had more important things than that to worry about right now. Out in the squad room, the state worker was still on her cell phone.

“How do you think she’s doing?”

“I’m sure she’ll find something soon.” Mark looked far less certain than his claim.

“...and thanks so much for your time,” the woman said before ending the call.

As the state caseworker reentered the interview room, Shannon held her breath. Something was squeezing her heart from the inside out. She’d felt pain like this only once before. The empty receiving blanket. The void in her arms. She’d just found Blake, and he was being taken away again. Would he be placed far away so she wouldn’t have the chance to get to know him? How could she earn his forgiveness if she couldn’t be near him?

“I’ve been making some calls,” Miss Lafferty began, “but unfortunately, we’ve been unable to find a foster placement for Blake this morning—”

“What about an emergency placement?” Mark asked.

“I’ve tried that, too, but our numbers are really high right now, and with Thanksgiving just days away... Well, even our emergency homes are...unable to house him at this time.” As she sat in the only available chair, the woman’s gaze shifted to Blake, but then she looked away.

Shannon’s pulse thudded in her ears. How dare they turn away her son? But her breath caught as another idea sprang into her thoughts, eclipsing the righteous anger in its wake. Was it possible? Could there be a chance?

She took a deep breath, grasping for calm. “So you’re saying that Blake has no place to go?”

The state worker shook her head. “Of course not. There’s a spot for him at the Community Children’s Center.”

“You can’t take him there!”

Even Shannon heard the shriek in her voice, so she didn’t try to convince herself that the others had missed it. Blake and the trooper shot questioning glances her way. The caseworker stared at her with wide eyes.

“I mean, that’s not...er...the most appropriate placement for him.”

“It would be a temporary placement, of course,” the social worker said with a sigh.

Mark pushed back from the desk, gripping its edge with both hands. “Wait. Community Children’s Center is where we incarcerate teens, isn’t it?”

Miss Lafferty nodded. “Yes, but it’s also an emergency placement location for teens who’ve been removed from their homes for various reasons.”

“You put them together? In the same facility?”

At Mark’s incredulous look, the woman blanched. “Well, the boys and girls are kept separate at all times, and—”

“I mean, those serving juvenile sentences and the victims of abuse or neglect,” he pressed.

Miss Lafferty opened her mouth as if to offer another explanation, but she clicked it shut. “It’s not a perfect solution. But sometimes it’s the only option we have to keep the children safe.”

“Safe?”

A hard edge had come into the officer’s voice, but Shannon had no time to debate the advisability of placing juvenile offenders with victims of neglect or abuse. Right now she had to protect her own child, the son she’d failed to shield before.

“The center isn’t Blake’s only option.”

The other two adults turned to stare at her.

“Well, it isn’t.” No longer able to sit, Shannon sprang from her chair and paced toward the door. When she turned back, Miss Lafferty was shaking her head.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying. Wait.” The woman stopped and studied her. “You’re not suggesting...”

“Of course I am. I’m Blake’s mother...his biological mother. And I am a licensed social worker with a master’s in social work, so I could easily receive emergency foster parent certification. I could become his temporary guardian until I—”

“Miss Lyndon,” the woman said to interrupt her. “I understand that this has been an emotional day for you and Mr. Wilson, but this...”

Miss Lafferty offered one of those placating smiles that Shannon had used herself with parents enrolling their pregnant teens at Hope Haven. She promised herself never to smile at them that way again.

“You haven’t thought this through. You work and live in a center for pregnant girls, not the most appropriate place for an adolescent boy.”

“We have a few details to work out, but—”

That annoying smile was enough to stop her. Shannon crossed her arms over her chest.

“You have to know that it isn’t as easy as that,” Miss Lafferty continued. “There is no proof yet that Mr. Wilson is even your child.”

“Of course he’s my son. I knew his name was Blake, and he had the letter, and he looks just like—”

She stopped herself and jerked her head to see Blake glaring at her, accusation clear in his eyes. Yes, she had a lot to explain to him about his birth father, among other things, but if she didn’t fight right now, she might never have the chance.

“I understand that you’re convinced, but the state will need more proof.” The woman cleared her throat. “Not to mention the courts.”

The last had Shannon tearing her gaze away from her son. “What do you mean by that?”

“Even if we can prove that Mr. Wilson is your biological child, then there’s that whole matter of your completing a voluntary release of parental rights. You don’t have any—”

“I was fifteen years old!”

“Why do you talk about me as if I’m not sitting right here?” Blake shouted.

He came out of his seat, and although the trooper stood as well and stepped between them to stop the boy if he approached, Mark made no attempt to restrain him. Even he had to realize that Blake had every right to be angry.

Blake pinned the state worker with his stare. “You talk about me like I’m a piece of property.”

He pointed at Shannon.

“And you.” He paused, his jaw flexing as he gritted his teeth. “You didn’t want me then, and you don’t really want me now. You just feel guilty because you sent me to live with...them.”

Her tears came instantly, and Shannon didn’t bother trying to stop them. “No. You’re wrong. I always wanted you. They just wouldn’t let—”

“I don’t want your excuses.”

“They’re not excuses. Please. Just let me explain.”

“I don’t want to live with you. I don’t want anything to do with you!”

A sob broke loose before Shannon could stop it. The world was crushing her with its unforgiving weight. She’d waited a lifetime to be reunited with Blake. She’d dreamed of it. Prayed for it. Now her chance to even get to know him was slipping away, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Worse than even the prospect that he would be placed far away from her, if he was sent to the children’s center, he might spiral further into delinquency. Would he be lost to her forever?

Miss Lafferty slowly stood. “Many details will have to be taken care of in the coming weeks. For now, I will put in another call to Community Children’s Center.”

Mark turned to her. “There’s another option.”

The woman pressed her lips together, losing her patience. “Trooper Shoffner, you called me in to assist here. It’s kind of you to be concerned, but this is a complicated situation, and you aren’t aware of all of the legalities in it. Now, please allow me to do my job.”

“I said, there’s another option.”

With a long-suffering sigh, the woman met his gaze. “And what might that be?”

“The boy can stay with me.”


Chapter Four

What had he done? As Mark allowed the social worker to usher him and Shannon into the hall, he braced his hand on the door frame to steady his head. With six words that had surprised him as much as they had everyone else, he’d done a cannonball dive into a situation that should have been wrapped in crime-scene tape or marked with a sign that said Keep Out. Still, the more he considered his knee-jerk suggestion, the more it seemed like a perfect solution for everyone. Him included.

“What was that all about?” Miss Lafferty said after she closed the door, shutting the interview room off from the squad room. She carried the thick, brown file under her arm like a football.

“Yeah. What were you thinking, saying something like that?” Shannon’s eyes were almost as wide as they’d been earlier when Blake had shown up on her doorstep.

“Now, hear me out.” But Mark didn’t rush to offer a profound explanation. He was figuring that out as he went. Because it was impossible to focus on anything with Shannon looking at him like that, he averted his gaze and spoke directly to the state worker.

“Well...I’m a state trooper.” He swallowed. Now, that was stating the obvious. His gaze slid without his permission toward Shannon, who was shuffling her feet, but he redirected his attention to Miss Lafferty.

“Anyway, I’ve already been through an extensive background check. I’ve been fingerprinted, too. An experienced professional like you, Miss Lafferty? You could get someone like me certified as an emergency placement foster parent with both hands tied behind your back.”

The woman shook her head, his flattery failing to sway her. Shannon was probably doing the same thing behind him, but he wouldn’t allow himself to check. He pressed on, determined to convince them both. He was surprised by how important it had become to him to win the argument.

“Divorced. No dependents. I live alone. I couldn’t have less complications for doing something like this.”

“Except not having certification,” Miss Lafferty pointed out.

“But you can make it happen. You know you can.”

Again, she shook her head. “I’m not saying I can’t get it approved, Trooper Shoffner. But I have to know. Why do you want to do this?”

Good question. Should he tell her that he was drawn to Blake, who reminded him so much of his former self, from the insolent slouch to that practiced smirk? Or he could admit that by becoming the boy’s temporary guardian he could prove once and for all that he’d left his own delinquent past behind. Both excuses were valid, and neither was as bad as confessing that he might have volunteered, at least in part, to play the hero for Blake’s desperate mother. That he couldn’t bear to admit.

“Haven’t the system and the adults in this kid’s life failed him enough already?” So he’d sidestepped the question altogether. That he’d also deflected the attention back to Shannon only confirmed what a coward he was.

This time he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at her. She stiffened at his jab, but, to her credit, she continued to look right at him. She didn’t even point out that he’d dodged the question better than a politician would on the campaign trail.

“Yes, the boy has had a tough time of it,” Miss Lafferty said. “Although I must tell you that some of his foster parents have been good ones.”

“Some? But not all?” Shannon searched the other woman’s face, as if hoping for assurances that they all knew wouldn’t come.

“Most. Not all.”

Mark braced his hand on the doorjamb again, this time to hold his frustration in check. The kid deserved better than that. All kids deserved better.

“Let’s face it. Blake has been bounced around the system for years. He’s the real victim in this mess. I don’t know about you, but I can’t turn my back on him.”

“No one is suggesting that we do that,” Miss Lafferty said.

“Sorry. That wasn’t fair.” Mark shook his head, taking hold of his emotions. “What I mean is if we can prevent the system from failing the boy again, then I think we should try. Even if it’s only for a while.”

Shannon looked back and forth between the police officer and the state worker, her thoughts colliding in a barrage of pipe dreams and practicality, wishes and reality. She still couldn’t get over that Trooper Shoffner had offered to give Blake a home. Whether it was a good idea or not, she wasn’t sure. This was the same man who’d vacillated between looking at her like a defendant at sentencing and comforting her with words like You couldn’t have known. Between announcing that she’d failed Blake and offering him a home when she couldn’t.

He had offered, though, which was more than most people would have done. Part of her resented his intrusion into their lives. But it was the other part that unnerved her. The one that was tempted to go beyond just being grateful that he’d offered. The one that was tempted to see him as her personal knight in state police blue or something. She couldn’t be thinking something like that. She’d learned the hard way never to put her trust in a guy, no matter how desperate she was.

“You don’t have a lot of options,” Mark said, breaking the silence. “I know Blake doesn’t.”

Shannon swallowed. She couldn’t allow this to be about her. It had to be about whatever was best for Blake. The police officer realized it, and he’d known nothing about her son two hours ago. As the person who’d been missing Blake all of his life, how could she have failed to recognize it?

“Thank you,” she managed. She didn’t care how sour and frightening those words tasted in her mouth. She would do whatever was necessary to help her son.

Miss Lafferty stared at the file in her hands for several seconds and then, as if she’d come to a decision, she looked up and nodded. “So tell me about the experience you’ve had working with troubled youth, Trooper Shoffner.”

“None.”

She had her pen poised to write, but she stopped and studied him. “Other children, then? With those of which ages have you had the most experience?”

“Look. This will go faster if I tell you that I haven’t worked with children. But I can figure it out.”

“None?” Shannon couldn’t keep the squeak out of her voice. “Ever?” Before, she’d been annoyed by his meddling, and now she was worried that he wouldn’t get the chance.

Miss Lafferty lifted a brow. “You’ve got to be—”

“I may not have experience working with kids,” Mark said to interrupt her, “but I can relate to the boy in that room better than either of you can.”

The state social worker lifted her chin and stared at him. “How is that?”

Mark bent his head, blowing out a breath. “I was just like him.”

“What do you mean?” Miss Lafferty asked. “A foster kid? An angry teen with a juvenile record?”

“A runaway?” Shannon couldn’t help adding.

“All of the above...except for the foster kid part.” At their questioning gazes, Mark held his hands wide. “Every family needs a black sheep. I was ours.”

Although he chuckled as he said it, the shadow that passed over his face gave Shannon a glimpse at the pain behind his words. Something tightened inside her belly. She was painfully aware of how a person’s past could follow him, but she couldn’t let herself wonder how the trooper’s history played upon his present. She had enough trouble in her own life without prying into his.

“Still, I worry that your lack of experience with troubled teens would make this too hard on you,” Miss Lafferty said.

“I have that.”

Only when the other adults turned to her did Shannon realize she’d said those words aloud.

“Well, it’s true. I have plenty of experience with troubled teens. I could help him out. Offer some tips.”

But Mark was already shaking his head. “Thanks. But I can handle it.”

“Really. I can help. I have about twelve girls at Hope Haven at any given time.”

“I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

She crossed her arms. “I doubt that.”

His jaw tightened, and he stared at her until she looked away. “You’ve known Blake for two hours, and now you’re an expert on him?”

“I never said that. I only said I know about troubled kids.” Shannon pressed her lips together to prevent herself from saying more, but this time she couldn’t stop the words from coming. “You can judge me all you want. Even without the whole story. But know this. I have loved my son every minute of every hour of his life, whether he was with me or not.” Though her eyes burned, she refused to cry again. “I had planned to find him when he turned eighteen. Whether he realizes it or not, he needs me.”

“You’re right about that.”

At the intrusion of Miss Lafferty’s voice, Shannon regretted that she’d lashed out, but she still couldn’t help wondering how the officer would have answered if given a chance. Why did she care? Why had she allowed him to get under her skin?

“Blake’s going to need you both.” Miss Lafferty waved away their arguments. “Neither of you can handle this alone. But together... Well, it just might work.”

Shannon met Mark’s wary gaze with her own cautious one, worrying now that working with him would be a bad idea.

“You.” The state worker pointed at Shannon. “Whatever you were planning to do when you met him in four years no longer matters. Blake is here now, although as yet we haven’t proved he’s your son. Even after that, it’s going to be a long, tough road before you can reestablish a legal connection to him. You’ll need a lot of help—including mine—to make that happen.”

Shannon drew her brows together in confusion, but Miss Lafferty must have been satisfied she’d made her point because she dismissed her.

“And you, Trooper. You’ve offered to take in this boy, but you have zero experience working with kids like him, except for yourself. That doesn’t really count. I can help you receive emergency certification, if you pass the home visit, but you’ll need additional help while you’re catching up with the training hours.” She indicated Shannon with a wave of her arm. “She knows how to handle kids like Blake, and she’s willing to share some of the lessons she’s learned with you.”

When he shook his head, Miss Lafferty nodded hers.

“I realize you didn’t have time to really think about this before you volunteered, but did you consider that your job won’t allow you to be home 24/7, though Blake needs regular supervision?” She crossed her arms. “Didn’t think so.”

Mark opened his mouth as if to respond, but then he closed it again.

“In addition to welcoming her suggestions, I recommend that you hire Miss Lyndon to stay with Blake when you’re working and he’s out of school.”

Shannon held her breath as the possibility dangled there before her, almost within reach. A regular schedule with Blake. Time to love him. Time to explain. She was so caught up in the prospect that she didn’t realize at first that the room had become quiet. The others were watching her, waiting.

“Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I wanted to know if your work schedule is flexible enough for you to help Trooper Shoffner out.”

“Oh. Sure. I’ll just switch shifts with Katie, the other social worker.” She shot a glance at Mark, but he pointedly looked away from her. “I won’t take any pay for it, though.”

“Then it’s settled,” Miss Lafferty said with a nod.

Mark said nothing. He stood with his legs in a wide stance and his arms crossed, an intimidating posture that probably had criminals laying their weapons at his feet.

Miss Lafferty pursed her lips. “Bottom line. Either you agree to work together for Blake’s sake, or I will be forced to recommend placing him at the children’s center.”

Mark cleared his throat. “Fine by me.”

Shannon could only nod. Was there really a chance that all of this could work out?

“Great. Trooper Shoffner, you’ll provide a temporary home for Blake until Miss Lyndon’s maternity can be established and legal matters are settled. And Miss Lyndon, you’ll provide after-school supervision and parenting support.” She held her hands wide and smiled as if she’d just solved all the world’s problems. “That will work out fine...at least until a more permanent placement is located.”

Shannon’s breath caught. Of course it was only temporary. She knew that. So why did this interim plan seem so incredibly brief now?

But Trooper Shoffner and Miss Lafferty had moved past the subject, as if it wasn’t worth even a pause. Mark had made some suggestion about Blake doing community service with him before his juvenile court date to encourage the judge’s leniency, and the state worker agreed it was a good idea.

“We should do it right on Hope Haven’s grounds.” Mark’s gaze darted to Shannon. “The place looks like it could use some work. Cracked gutters. Ripped screens. Broken concrete.”

Shannon’s cheeks burned. “Well, money’s tight right now. Nonprofits, you know. There’s not even room in the budget for repair supplies. I appreciate the offer, but—”

“I’ll get donations for that,” Mark said, as if fund-raising wasn’t a constant challenge for charitable organizations.

With some of the details in place, they returned to the interview room, where Blake slouched low as though it didn’t matter to him what had happened outside that door. And what was about to happen with his life. Shannon didn’t buy his indifference any more than the others should have accepted her own mask of certainty. Now shell-shocked, that was exactly what she was.

As if providing a home for Blake wasn’t enough, Trooper Shoffner had volunteered not only to do repairs on the Hope Haven buildings that were falling down around them but also to find a way to pay for improvements.

Still, she couldn’t worry now about her lingering doubts over all the plans they’d made, or even the recurring image of Mark as that knight in the blue squad car with its red spinning light. None of that was important. Not now that Shannon and a ticking clock had been drafted to opposing teams. Mounting a legal custody challenge and building a solid mother-son relationship with a child who wanted nothing to do with her would be challenging enough without adding the pressure of a looming deadline. She had no choice, though, but to tackle both of those monumental tasks before Blake could be placed in another foster home. Possibly somewhere far away.

Seconds ticked on a loudspeaker in her ears. This tiny window of time might be her only opportunity to get to know Blake, to earn his forgiveness. Would he give her the chance? He had to. And she had to make this right with him, had to show him that no matter how wrong her decisions had been, she’d made them out of love. She had to do it...before time ran out.

* * *

“So why’d you do it?”

At Blake’s question, Mark looked up from the kitchen sink where he’d just put the pans in the sudsy water. He didn’t look back at him, but he didn’t pretend to miss the boy’s meaning, either. This was the most civil comment Blake had made all night. The twelve hours of foster parent training the private agency would still require Mark to take would be nothing compared to these three hours of introduction by fire.

Mark took his time drying his hands on a towel. “It was the right thing to do.”

“For me, you or my mother?”

He swallowed, and this time he glanced over his shoulder at the boy. Leaning against the kitchen doorway, his arms and ankles crossed, Blake stared right at him. What did the kid know? Had he noticed that Mark hadn’t been able to resist looking at Shannon’s smooth-looking skin, at her full, kissable lips? Had she noticed?

“For everyone,” he somehow managed.

He hoped the finality in his words would put an end to that line of questioning. He tried not to dwell on the way Blake had stressed the word mother, nor on how succinctly he’d encapsulated the situation. And Mark’s uncertainties. Out of the mouths of surly teens....

“Nobody asked me what I wanted.”

“Guess not.”

Mark wasn’t about to ask him now, either. Instead, he dunked his hands in the soapy water and tackled the pan with pasta noodles stuck to the bottom. All night Blake had made it clear that Mark’s three-bedroom rental home was the last place he wanted to be. He’d complained about everything from their dinner of slightly charred hamburgers and boxed macaroni to the bare walls and the basic bed and dresser in the guest room. And if Mark had ever been under the mistaken impression that Blake thought the plan to work at Hope Haven tomorrow was a good idea, then the kid had set him straight about that.

Okay, Blake had a point about the dinner. It hadn’t been Mark’s most shining culinary moment. But he’d been wrong to call the freshly painted two-story a dump. At least it had the bedroom and bathroom locks required for the foster care home visit.

Shutting off the water, Mark glanced over his shoulder again, but Blake was gone, so the opportunity had passed. He probably should have laid down some rules such as that the boy would help him clean up after meals. He should have done many things. Too bad for him he didn’t know what they were.

What had he been thinking, volunteering to become a foster parent? And, worse yet, offering to do work at Hope Haven. He was in so far over his head that his hands wouldn’t break the surface if he held them straight up and started jumping up and down. Just because seeing Blake was like looking at his fourteen-year-old self in the mirror, it didn’t mean that at thirty-three he had any idea what to do with the kid.

The disappointment-filled voices of his parents, of his brothers, of his ex-wife, Kim, even, the same ones that had been whispering in the background all day as he’d arranged details for Blake’s arrival, boomed in his ears now. The wheelchair-bound image of Chris Lawson stared back at him, a permanent reminder of the mistakes that Mark couldn’t take back. If he’d thought that working with one troubled teenager would be enough to prove that he was no longer the guy in that accident, then he’d never considered what would happen if his charity project was a major failure. And right now it looked as if that was exactly what it would be.

When the floor creaked behind him, Mark blinked away the painful memories and turned to find Blake standing there with a stack of plates, cups and silverware in his hands. Mark accepted the stack with a nod of thanks, and then as he returned to the sink, the boy spoke from behind him.

“But you didn’t have to do it.”

“Guess not,” he said again, though this time he had to forcibly keep his voice calm.

He could just imagine Blake staring at his back, trying to understand the angle he was playing with his offer of help. At least the boy, who was more accustomed to people failing to meet their obligations than those volunteering out of true charity, wouldn’t be surprised by Mark’s self-serving purpose. That only made Mark feel guiltier over Blake’s comment, which was the closest thing the boy would give to a thank-you. His chest squeezed with something unfamiliar and a little scary. He was becoming attached, which might have been his biggest mistake of all.

Once the last dish was in the dishwasher, he started in the direction that Blake had taken. He found him in the living room, watching television. Blake patted the spot next to him on the navy corduroy sofa and then gestured toward the brown-and-orange-plaid recliner near the window.

“Your ex must have really taken you to the cleaners.”

His jaw tightened, but he forced himself to remain calm. The boy was baiting him, maybe to step back from the words he’d said before. No matter how much Mark wanted to declare that subject off-limits, he wouldn’t give the kid the satisfaction of knowing he’d gotten to him.

“Yeah, we get a raw deal in life sometimes,” he said instead. “But I guess you already know about that.”

Blake shrugged, sank back into the sofa that Mark had intended to be only a temporary furnishing and started flipping through the channels.




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