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His Secret Child
Lee Tobin McClain


A Surprise Father Snowed in at the dog rescue farm where she’s housesitting, Fern Easton can’t turn away the handsome stranger who appears during the blizzard. Who is this mysterious man who’s as capable with stray dogs as he is with her four-year-old foster child?Carlo Camden’s returned to Rescue River to be a father to a daughter he never knew existed. But he doesn't expect to stumble upon little Mercedes right away. Let alone to start caring about the devoted beauty who desperately wants to be her mom. Carlo’s surprise homecoming is all about making amends. But he might just have found the woman of his dreams, too…







A Surprise Father

Snowed in at the dog rescue farm where she’s housesitting, Fern Easton can’t turn away the handsome stranger who appears during the blizzard. Who is this mysterious man who’s as capable with stray dogs as he is with her four-year-old foster child? Carlo Camden’s returned to Rescue River to be a father to a daughter he never knew existed. But he doesn’t expect to stumble upon little Mercedes right away. Let alone to start caring about the devoted beauty who desperately wants to be her mom. Carlo’s surprise homecoming is all about making amends. But he might just have found the woman of his dreams, too…


“You’re hoping to adopt her?”

“I’m planning on it,” Fern said with satisfaction. “As long as the birth father doesn’t show up, I’m golden.”

He cocked his head to one side. “You don’t want her father to find her?”

“It’s not like that. He’s shown no interest in her for four years, so it’s hardly likely he’ll show up now. But we had to publish announcements for a few weeks to make sure he doesn’t want her.”

Carlo’s head spun at her casual dismissal. He wanted to argue that just because a dad wasn’t around, that didn’t mean he was a deadbeat. Some dads didn’t even know they had a child. But there was no need to argue with the woman who’d treated a stranger so kindly. “Mercy’s kind of an old-fashioned name,” he said instead.

She smiled. “Oh, that’s just what I call her sometimes. Her mom did, too. Her full name is actually Mercedes.”

The word slammed into his aching head with the force of a sledgehammer’s blow. He had, indeed, blundered into the home of his own child.


LEE TOBIN McCLAIN read Gone with the Wind in the third grade and has been a hopeless romantic ever since. When she’s not writing angst-filled love stories with happy endings, she’s getting inspiration from her church singles group, her gymnastics-obsessed teenage daughter and her rescue dog and cat. In her day job, Lee gets to encourage aspiring romance writers in Seton Hill University’s low-residency MFA program. Visit her at leetobinmcclain.com (http://www.leetobinmcclain.com).


His Secret Child

Lee Tobin McClain






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


Then He said to them, “Whoever welcomes

this little child in My name welcomes Me;

and whoever welcomes Me welcomes the

one who sent Me. For it is the one who is least

among you all who is the greatest.”

—Luke 9:48


For my daughter, Grace


Contents

Cover (#uf04fd4db-1018-5a99-84cf-c2b16d815c5a)

Back Cover Text (#u8e9092ff-ea5a-5349-bbde-0228f39a46a1)

Introduction (#u9c170c7d-4e93-5ed7-9ace-01accdfd5ab9)

About the Author (#u84364782-a4cf-5aea-8121-07fe229b482d)

Title Page (#u607a1a0e-55c3-532f-b7bd-c6a068f6f500)

Bible Verse (#u2126096a-deaa-57dd-8b1a-a879f1d3c1de)

Dedication (#ue6f0e3b3-dce8-5cf3-aa26-bc43dcd8f3c4)

Chapter One (#ulink_e0733cbf-0389-58ec-bb27-ab49600c0449)

Chapter Two (#ulink_4cd46621-76b7-5d5f-b186-8af25eafe770)

Chapter Three (#ulink_aa0177e1-db33-56ae-bde5-e5c6e9377ecb)

Chapter Four (#ulink_d84f3313-d337-56c1-903b-781a45e480c1)

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)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_777b6867-e36f-5e84-9ce9-07b0d2526846)

Fern Easton looked at the fire she’d just built, then out the window at the driving snow, dim in the late-afternoon light. She shivered, but not because she was cold.

No, she was happy.

Two whole weeks to herself. Two whole weeks to work on her children’s book in blessed peace.

As soon as she’d gotten home from the library, she’d shucked her sensible slacks and professional shirt and let her hair out of its usual tidy bun. Threw on her softest jeans and a comfortable fleece top. Next, she’d set up her drawing table in the living room of her friends’ house.

House-sitting was awesome, because out here on the farm, no one would bother her.

Out here, she had a chance to fulfill her dream.

From the back room, her four-year-old daughter crowed with laughter over the antics of the animated mice and squirrels on the TV screen. Her daughter. Some days, Fern couldn’t believe her good fortune.

She’d fed Bull, the ancient, three-legged bulldog she was babysitting as a part of the house-sitting deal. Puttering around like this, feeding an animal, taking care of her sweet child, was what she wanted, and determination rose in her to make it happen full-time.

She’d create a fantasy world with her books, and in her life, too. She wouldn’t have to deal with the public or trust people who’d inevitably let her down. She wouldn’t have to come out of her shell, listen to people telling her to smile and speak up. She wasn’t really shy, she was just quiet, because there was a whole world in her head that needed attention and expression. And now, for two weeks, she got to live in that world, with a wonderful little girl and a loving old dog to keep her company.

She practically rubbed her hands together with glee as she poured herself a cup of herbal tea and headed toward her paints.

Knock, knock, knock.

She jerked at the unexpected sound, and worry flashed through her.

“Hey, Angie, I know you’re in there!”

Fern felt her nose wrinkle with distaste. Some friend of the homeowners. Some male friend. Should she answer it?

More knocking, another shout.

Yeah, she had to answer. Anyone who’d driven all the way out here in a snowstorm deserved at least a polite word from her before she sent them away.

She opened the door to a giant.

He wore a heavy jacket and cargo pants. His face was made of hard lines and planes, only partly masked by heavy stubble. Intense, unsmiling, bloodshot eyes stared her down. “Who are you?”

Whoa! She took a step backward and was about to slam the door in this unkempt muscleman’s face—she had her daughter’s safety to think about, as well as her own—when Bull, the dog, launched his barrel-shaped body at the door, barking joyously, his stub of a tail wagging.

“Hey, old guy, you’re getting around pretty good!” The man opened the door, leaned down.

“Hey!” Fern stepped back, then put her hands on her hips. “You can’t come in here!”

The guy didn’t listen; he was squatting down just inside the door to pet the thrilled bulldog.

Fern’s heart pounded as she realized just how isolated she was. Never taking her eyes off him, she backed over to her phone and turned it on.

“Where’s Troy and Angelica?” The man looked up at her. “And who’re you?” His voice was raspy. Dark lines under his eyes.

“Who are you?”

He cocked his head to one side, frowning. “I’m Carlo. Angie’s brother?”

Her jaw about dropped, because she’d heard the stories. “You’re the missionary soldier guy!” She set her phone back down. “Really? What are you doing here?”

His eyes grew hooded. “Got some business to conduct here in the States. And I’m sick.”

“Oh.” She studied him. Maybe illness was the reason for his disheveled look.

“Your turn. Who are you? You supposed to be here?”

“My name’s Fern. I’m house-sitting.”

“Okay.” He nodded and flashed an unexpected smile. “I didn’t think you looked real dangerous.”

The appeal of a smile on that rugged face left Fern momentarily speechless, warming her heart toward the big man.

“Thought I could bed down with my sister and get myself together before I get started with my...legal work. Where is she?”

“She’s at Disneyland Paris.” She said it reluctantly. “For two weeks.”

“She’s in Paris?” His face fell. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

She studied him. “Didn’t you think to, like, call and check with her? When did you last talk?”

“It’s been months. I don’t...live a normal life. And like I said, I’ve been sick.” He swayed slightly and unzipped his jacket. “Still have a little fever, but it’s not catching.”

“Hey. You don’t look so good.” In fact, he looked as though he was going to pass out, and then how would she ever get him out of here? She took his arm gingerly and guided him toward the couch. “You’d better sit down.” She helped him out of his heavy, hooded, military-style jacket.

“I don’t want to bother you...” He swayed again and sat down abruptly.

So now she had some giant guy who claimed to be Angelica’s brother, smack dab in the middle of her living room. She studied him skeptically as she picked up her phone again. Dark gray sweater that didn’t look any too new, heavy combat boots melting snow on the floor. Hmm.

Could he be acting this whole thing out in order to get in here and...what? Steal everything Troy and Angelica had? They were plenty comfortable, as evidenced by the Euro-Disney vacation, but they didn’t put their money on display in expensive possessions, at least as far as she’d been able to tell in the few months she’d known Angelica.

What else could he want? Had someone told him she was going to be out here alone? She normally wasn’t a skittish person, but this was different. This wasn’t safe.

She was about to dial 911 when he said, “Let me call Ang. I have to figure out what to do next.”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out an ancient-looking flip phone.

Fern walked to the back room to glance in on Mercedes. The child was fully immersed in her princess movie, a Friday-night treat Fern allowed reluctantly. For one thing, she wasn’t overly fond of the princess phenomenon for little girls, and for another, she’d rather read Mercy storybooks than have her watch TV.

But those were preferences. Mercedes had watched princess movies with her mom, and it comforted her to watch them now.

Even one day with Mercedes was a blessing, but now she had the potential, even the likelihood, of adopting her permanently and for real. That was truly exciting. That was a dream much bigger than her dream of writing and illustrating children’s books.

If she could create a nest for herself and a child—or six—who needed a home, and write on the side, she’d be the happiest woman on earth.

And maybe, just maybe, that was what God had in mind for her. Because she obviously wasn’t suited to relating to other people, right? She wasn’t cut out for marriage, nor couples entertaining, nor a singles life with a big close-knit group of friends.

But kids! Kids and books. And a dog or two, she thought, walking back out to the front room followed by the loyal Bull. She rubbed his graying head and let him give her a sloppy kiss. This was the life.

Or it would be, once she got rid of her uninvited guest.

“Stupid phone.” Carlo shook his head and stared at the shiny black object in his hand. “It’s not doing anything. I can’t reach her.”

“We can try my phone,” Fern offered. She picked hers up and clicked through her few contacts, watching as the man removed his boots and set them on a newspaper beside the couch. Despite his size, he seemed very weak. Fern wasn’t as afraid as she’d been before.

She put in the call. Felt a little bad about it—she couldn’t remember exactly what time it was in Paris, and she hated to wake up her friends.

No answer.

“Did you get a connection?” Carlo asked.

She shook her head. “Angelica bought some special plan to be able to talk over there. I should be able to get hold of her, but it might take a while.”

The guy, Carlo, stared down at his hands. “I guess I’ll be on my way, then.”

“Where will you go?” she blurted out against her own will.

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Do you have friends in town? You grew up here, right?”

He nodded slowly, putting a forefinger and thumb on his forehead and massaging, as though it hurt. “I did grow up here. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the most upright kid. So a lot of people have a bad impression of me.”

“That’s too bad. I don’t think it’s a judgmental town these days—at least, I haven’t felt it to be—but maybe it was different in the past.”

Carlo shrugged. “We were a pretty offbeat family. My parents made some enemies and I just added to the number. It’s not Rescue River’s fault.”

That made her almost like him, that he admitted his own culpability rather than blaming everyone else but himself. A disease so many people seemed to have these days.

“Do you...would you like something to drink?”

“Yes, thank you.” His face had taken on a greenish cast. “My head hurts pretty bad.”

“Of course. Tea and aspirin?”

“Tea sounds good. I’ve got medicine.”

Fern hurried into the kitchen and turned on the gas under her kettle to bring it back to a boil. It was so rare for her to have someone over, she barely knew how to handle it. But Carlo looked as though he was about to pass out.

What was she going to do? She couldn’t have him stay. Oh, the place was plenty big, but she couldn’t house a giant man who seemed to take up all the air in a room. She couldn’t deal with company full-time.

Being solitary, living in her own head, was what had saved her as a foster child, shuttled from house to house, never fitting in, never really wanted. It had become a habit and a way of life. Nowadays, she preferred being alone. She thought longingly of her paints, of the children’s story she was working on.

The water boiled and she fumbled through the cupboards, finding a mug and tea bag. Carried it out to the living room.

“Do you like milk and sugar... Oh. No, you don’t.”

He’d fallen asleep.

He’d tipped over right there on the couch and was breathing heavily, regularly.

No! That wouldn’t do. She didn’t want a stranger sleeping on the couch. She had to get him out of here. “Hey,” she said, nudging him with her knee as she set the tea down beside him.

He leaped to his feet and grabbed her instantly in a choke hold, pulling her against his chest.

“Aaah! Hey!” She screamed, which made Bull start barking.

Carlo dropped his arms immediately and sidestepped away from her, lifting his hands to shoulder level. “Sorry. Sorry.”

She backed halfway across the room and eyed him accusingly. “What was that for?”

“Jungle instinct,” he said. “Sorry. I...don’t do well when I’m startled. Did I hurt you?”

She rubbed her neck and stretched it from side to side as her heartbeat slowed back down to normal. “I’m fine.” The truth be told, his closeness had had a very weird effect on her. She didn’t like being grabbed, of course, but being forced to lean against that broad chest had given her a strange feeling of being...protected. Of being safe.

Which was ridiculous, because obviously, having him here was putting her and Mercedes at risk, not keeping her safe.

“Mama Fern? You okay?” The little-girl voice behind her was wary.

She turned, squatted down and smiled reassuringly. “Yeah, honey, I’m fine. C’mere.” She held out her arms, and the little girl ran into them, nuzzling against her.

“I didn’t know you had a child here.” Carlo stood as if to come over toward them, and then swayed.

Fern wrapped her arms tighter around Mercedes. “Sit down and drink your tea,” she ordered, gesturing toward it on the end table. “You look terrible. Do you know what’s wrong? Have you seen a doctor?” She sat cross-legged and settled Mercedes in her lap.

“You ever hear of dengue fever?”

“Dengue! You have it?” The mother in her was glad it was indeed noncontagious.

He nodded. “You know what it is?”

“I’m a reference librarian, so I learn about all kinds of things like that. Do you have a bad case?”

“I hope not.” He was rubbing the back of his neck again, as if it hurt. “It’s been a couple of weeks and I thought I was better, but I’m weak. And apparently, it’s possible to relapse, and if you do, it’s pretty serious.”

“Fatal sometimes.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“Sorry. Sit down.”

He did, and drank the tea, and she watched him and stroked Mercy’s hair and wondered how on earth she could get rid of him.

* * *

Carlo stared at the blurry woman and child across the room and wondered what to do.

His head was pounding and the pain behind his eyes was getting worse.

He reached out and brought the teacup to his lips, trying hard to hold it steady. Forced himself to drink. Staying hydrated was key.

“So you don’t know anyone in town you could stay with?” she asked skeptically. “From growing up here, I mean?”

Well, let’s see. He could stay with the family he’d bummed off when his parents had been too drunk or stoned to unlock the trailer door. Or maybe the teacher he’d lifted money from when his little sister had needed medicine they couldn’t afford.

Or, who knew? Maybe some of the guys with whom he’d chugged six-packs in the woods had made good and would take him in. Trouble was, he’d lost touch during his years in the jungle.

“I’m not sure. I can work something out. Stay with my grandfather, maybe.” Although Angelica had said something about new rules at the Senior Towers, maybe they’d make an exception for an ailing veteran, if he and Gramps could resolve their differences long enough for him to ask nicely.

He tried to stand and the world spun.

“Sit down!” She sounded alarmed.

He did, wishing for a cold cloth to cover his eyes.

“Let me call the emergency room in Mansfield. You need a doctor.”

He waved a hand. “Not really. All they can do is tell me to rest and wait it out.”

“Oh.” She bit at her lower lip. Whoever she was, she was real pretty. Long brown hair and fine bones and big eyes behind those glasses. The kind of woman he’d like to sit down and have a conversation with, sometime when he wasn’t delirious. “Well,” she continued, “do you think some food would make you feel better? Chicken soup?”

Something hot and salty sounded delicious. He’d slept through the meals on the plane and hadn’t stopped for food on the drive from the airport. Maybe that was why he felt so low. “Yeah, food would be great.”

“Be right back. C’mon, Mercy.”

“Is he staying all night, Mama Fern?” The little girl didn’t sound worried about it.

Somehow this Fern didn’t strike him as the type who’d have men overnight casually. She looked way too guarded and buttoned up. But her little girl seemed perfectly comfortable with the notion of a man spending the night.

“No, he’s not staying. But we’re going to fix him a snack before he goes. Come on, you can help.”

“Yay!” The little girl followed her mother and Carlo watched them go, feeling bemused.

How old was this little girl—maybe three or four?

Not far off from his own daughter’s age, so he ought to pay attention, see what she did, what she liked. He needed to make a good first impression on the child he was coming to raise.

More than that, for now, he needed to figure out what to do. It was a blow that his sister wasn’t here, and of course he should have called, had tried to call, but when he hadn’t reached them, he’d figured she and her new husband would be here. They were newlyweds, practically, though Angelica’s last note had let him know she was expecting a baby. And they also had a kid who was in full recovery from leukemia, his beloved nephew, Xavier. Not to mention that they ran a dog rescue. Shouldn’t they be staying close to home?

It wasn’t the first time he’d miscalculated. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. So he’d eat whatever this pretty lady brought him, drink a lot of water. He’d hold off on those pain pills the doctor had given him, the ones with the mild narcotic, until he’d bedded down for the night. After his years in South and Central America, Carlo wasn’t a fan of drugs in any form, and the last thing he needed was to feel any foggier. He needed to get himself strong enough to leave and find a place to stay. Tomorrow he’d talk to the lawyers and to his daughter’s social worker and soon, very soon, he’d have his daughter. And he could start making amends for not trying hard enough to make his marriage work and for not considering that Kath could’ve been pregnant when she kicked him out that last time.

The woman—what had she said her name was? Fern?—came back out carrying a crockery bowl. She set it on a tray beside him, and the smell of soup tickled his nose, made him hungry for the first time in days. Behind her, the little girl carefully carried a plastic plate with a couple of buttered rolls on it.

It all looked delicious.

“I’ll eat up and then be on my way,” he promised, tasting the soup. Wow. Perfect. “This is fantastic,” he said as he scooped another spoonful.

“Mama Fern always has good food.”

Something about the way the little girl talked about her mother was off, but Carlo was too ecstatic about the chicken soup to figure out what it was.

“So...” The woman, Fern, perched on the other edge of the couch, watching him eat. “What are you going to do?”

He swallowed another spoonful. “As soon as I finish this soup—which is amazing—I’m going to head into Rescue River and see if I can find a place to stay.”

“There’s that little motel right on the edge of town. It tends to fill up during storms, though. Travelers coming through don’t have a lot of choices.”

“There’s a few doors I can knock on.” Not really, but she didn’t need to know that. He could sleep in his truck. He’d slept in worse places.

Although usually, the problem was being too hot, not too cold. He’d have to find an all-night store and buy a couple of blankets.

“So what brought you out of the jungle?”

He paused in the act of lifting a spoon to his mouth. She was being nosy and he hated that. But on the other hand, she was providing him with soup and bread and a place to sit down.

“You’re nicer than my mommy’s boyfriends.” The little girl leaned on the couch and stared up at him.

He couldn’t help raising an eyebrow at Fern.

Fern’s cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink. “She’s not talking about me. I’m kind of her foster mom.”

“And she’s gonna ’dopt me!”

“After all the grown-up stuff gets done, sweets.”

They went on talking while Carlo slowly put down his spoon into his almost empty bowl of soup and stared at the two of them.

It couldn’t be.

Could it?

It had to be a coincidence. Except, how many four-year-old girls were in need of being adopted in Rescue River, Ohio?

Could Fern have changed her name from Mercedes to Mercy?

No, not likely, but he’d learned during battle to consider all possibilities, however remote.

He rubbed his hand over his suddenly feverish face and tried to think. If this girl, by some weird set of circumstances, was Mercedes—his own kid, whom he hadn’t known about until two weeks ago—then he needed to get out of here right away. He was making a terrible impression on someone who’d be sure to report every detail to the social workers.

Not only that, but his lawyer friend had advised him not to contact the child himself.

The child. Surely she wasn’t his? The hair color was his own, but light brown hair was common. He studied her, amazed at her beauty, her curls hanging down her back, at her round, dark eyes. She was gorgeous. And obviously smart.

And obviously close with this woman who wanted to adopt her.

If this was foster care, then it was different from anything he’d imagined. He’d expected to find his daughter staying in a dirty old house filled to the brim with kids. No doubt that stereotype was from his own single bad experience years ago, but it was the reason he’d dropped everything, not waited to recover from his illness, and hopped a plane as soon as he realized he was a father and that his child’s mother was dead.

He didn’t want a child of his to suffer in foster care. He wanted to take care of her. And he would, because surely this beautiful child in this idyllic life was no relation to him.

When he did find his own daughter, he’d find a way to make up for some of the mistakes of his past.

Maybe redeem himself.

“Are you finished?”

The pair had stopped talking and were staring at him. Oh, great. He was breathing hard and sweating, probably pale as paper.

“I’m done,” he said, handing her the plate and bowl. “Thank you.”

She carried them into the kitchen and he took the opportunity to study the child.

“How do you like it here?” he asked her.

“I like Bull,” she said, “but home is nicer.”

“Home with Mommy Fern?”

“Mama Fern. Yes.”

“I guess you miss your mommy.”

She looked at him. “Do you know her?”

He settled for “I don’t think so.” Because almost certainly, this wasn’t his own child, whose mother, Kath, he had indeed known quite well. Theirs had been a mistaken marriage, born of lust and bad judgment. Soon after the wedding, they’d started having serious problems. Her drinking and drugs and promiscuous behavior had led to them breaking up, not once, but twice.

What he hadn’t known was that the last time she’d kicked him out, he’d left her pregnant.

Fern walked back into the room and squatted down beside the child with a natural grace. “Half an hour till your bedtime, sweets. Want to have your snack in front of the TV? Finish your movie?”

“Yeah.” The little girl hugged Fern. “Thanks for letting me.”

“Fridays only. Let’s get you set up.”

Carlo’s head was spinning so badly with questions and fever that he had to stay seated, but he forced himself to keep his eyes open and take deep breaths. Not only was he sick, but he was dizzy with confusion.

Could God have arranged it that he’d meet his child this way, rather than wearing nice clothes in a social worker’s office?

Was that beautiful little girl his daughter?

Fern came back in. “She loves her princess movies,” she said apologetically. “I’m not real big on TV for little kids, but it comforts her.”

Carlo lifted his hands. “I’m not judging. Don’t most kids watch TV?”

“Yeah, but...I want to do better.”

She was a good, caring foster mom. And he had to find out the truth. “How old did you say she is?”

“She’s four, going on five.”

He nodded. “Now, did you name her Mercy or was that already her name?”

She looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “You can’t change a four-year-old’s name. She’s been Mercy all her life.”

Relief poured over him. He hadn’t messed up the all-important moment of meeting his own daughter. To be polite, he tried to keep the conversation going. “And you’re...hoping to adopt her?”

“I’m planning on it,” she said with satisfaction. “Everything’s looking great. As long as the birth father doesn’t show up, I’m golden.”

He cocked his head to one side. “You don’t want her father to find her?”

She shook her head impatiently. “It’s not like that. He’s shown no interest in her for four years, so it’s hardly likely he’ll show up now. Typical deadbeat dad, but we had to publish announcements for a few weeks to make sure he doesn’t want her.”

Carlo’s head spun at her casual dismissal. He wanted to argue that just because a dad wasn’t around, that didn’t mean he was a deadbeat. Some dads didn’t even know they had a child. But there was no need to argue with the woman who’d treated a stranger so kindly. “Mercy’s kind of an old-fashioned name,” he said instead.

She smiled. “Oh, that’s just what I call her sometimes. Her mom did, too. Her full name is actually Mercedes.”

The name slammed into his aching head with the force of a sledgehammer’s blow. He had indeed blundered into the home of his own child.


Chapter Two (#ulink_20ed3f63-5ac8-5325-8c43-60d640a7078a)

Fern frowned at the man on her couch. He was pale, his forehead covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Great, just great. The poor man was deathly ill.

Maybe he should go to the hospital. Didn’t the ER have to take everyone, regardless of their ability to pay? Although the nearest ER was quite a ways off...

She walked over to the window, flipped on an outdoor light and gasped. Huge snowflakes fell so thickly that it was hard to see anything, but she could make out thigh-high drifts next to the porch.

“What’s wrong?” She heard his slow footsteps as he came over to stand behind her.

His looming presence made her uncomfortable. “It’s getting worse out there.”

“I should go.” He turned, swayed and grabbed the back of a chair with one hand and her shoulder with another. “Whoa. Sorry.”

Compassion warred with worry in her heart. “Why don’t you at least take a little nap? You’re not looking so good.”

“I... Maybe I will. Don’t know if I can make it to my truck.”

She helped him to the couch, even though having his arm draped over her shoulder felt strange. The few guys she’d dated had been closer to her own small size, not like this hulking giant, and they tended not to snuggle up. Something about her demeanor didn’t invite that.

She helped him down onto the couch and noticed he was shivering. Finding a quilt, she brought it over and spread it out across his body. Located a more comfortable pillow and helped him lift his head to slide it underneath.

His hair felt soft, and he smelled clean, like soap.

“Thanks, I really appreciate...this.” His blue eyes drifted shut.

Fern watched him for a few minutes to make sure he was really out. Then she watched the end of the princess movie cuddling with Mercedes, and then carried her up to bed on her back, cautioning her to be quiet because of the man sleeping in the living room.

“Who is he, Mama Fern?”

“He’s our friend Angelica’s brother. You know Xavier? This man is his uncle.”

“I like Xavier,” Mercedes said with a little hero worship in her voice. “He’s in first grade.”

“That’s right.”

Fern read two picture books and then, firmly denying the request for a third, turned off the light.

She grabbed a novel and sat down on the floor outside the child’s bedroom.

Sometimes nights were hard for Mercedes. She still missed her mom.

But tonight was a good night. Within minutes, Mercedes had drifted off and was breathing the heavy, steady breath of a child in sleep.

Fern went back downstairs quietly, picked up her phone and headed to the kitchen where her sleeping housemates couldn’t hear her.

This time, the call went through and a couple of minutes later, she was talking to her yawning friend Angelica. “What? Carlo’s there?”

“He’s asleep on the couch even as we speak.”

“Let me go out in the hall so I don’t wake my boys. I can’t believe this!” Angelica’s voice proved that she’d come wide-awake. “I haven’t seen him for a couple of years, except for a few minutes at our wedding. Why’d he have to show up now, instead of last week?”

“He didn’t even stay for the whole wedding?”

“No, he stayed. And at our house after for a night, but I was with my husband.” Her voice went rich and happy.

Sudden hot jealousy flashed through Fern. Why couldn’t she ever feel that joy that seemed to come so readily to other fortunate women?

She got a grip on herself. What was wrong with her? She was truly happy for her friend. She explained about Carlo’s fever. “He’s pretty sick, and he said that’s why he hadn’t called first. I just wanted to touch base with you because...well, he’s a stranger and I don’t know if it’s safe to have him here. I mean, I know you and I’d trust you with my life, and Mercedes’s, but...”

“I totally understand.” Angelica paused, obviously thinking. “I wonder who he could stay with. We could call Troy’s brother, Sam, and see if he could stay out there. Or Gramps. He could bunk down at the Senior Towers. They have a new rule about no guests staying overnight, but maybe they’ll bend it for Carlo, at least for one night.” She sounded doubtful.

“I hate to make him go,” Fern said. “It’s snowing something awful.”

“Carlo’s been in much worse places. He’s very tough. He can handle a little drive in the snow.”

“I don’t know. He’s pretty shaky.”

“Let me make a few calls,” Angelica said with a huge yawn. “I’m sure I can get hold of somebody who’ll take him in, if this phone doesn’t glitch again.”

“It’s okay, you go back to sleep. I can call Sam or your grandpa.” Fern’s shy side cringed at the notion of talking to men she barely knew, but it would be worth it to get the disconcerting Carlo out of her house.

“Oh, could you? That would be so wonderful. We had a long day, and Xavier didn’t want to go to sleep, and...”

“And you’re frazzled. Go back to bed. I’ll deal with Carlo.”

“Thanks so much! And, Fern, he’s a totally trustworthy guy, okay? A real hero. He took incredible care of me when I was a kid. He managed everything when our parents couldn’t, and got Gramps to take me in. Plus, he’s done all kinds of top-secret military stuff. Has a security clearance that’s a mile high. And he’s served as a missionary in all kinds of super-dangerous places. So you’re safe with him, whatever happens.”

They said their goodbyes and Fern stared at the man on the couch. A military hero, huh? And a missionary to boot.

But as she studied him, another thought crossed her mind: What if he wasn’t Carlo? What if he was a criminal who’d just assumed that name and identity? Sure, Bull had acted friendly, but maybe the guy had a pocket full of good-smelling dog treats.

How could she verify that this guy on her couch was in fact Carlo, Angelica’s brother, the war hero?

She walked around the house, looking at the photo groupings, but she didn’t see any that included Angelica’s brother. Of course, he hadn’t been around lately, but you’d think she would have old pictures of him...

Except that the two of them had grown up in chaos, and Angelica had struggled, really, right up until she’d reconnected with Troy. So there were no pictures of Xavier and his uncle Carlo; Angelica probably hadn’t even had a phone.

She saw a khaki-colored duffel bag by the door, next to his jacket, and an idea crossed her mind.

She looked back at the stranger, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Then she walked over toward his things. Surely he’d have identification there, or at least something to verify his identity. To put her mind at ease. Searching the man’s belongings wasn’t the most ethical thing to do, but she had a child to protect.

And if she was going to search, she needed to do it now, while he slept.

A quick check of his jacket pockets revealed nothing, so she undid the knots that tied the duffel shut, moving slowly and carefully. Given how he’d jumped up and grabbed her, he was obviously pretty sensitive to noise. She had to be utterly silent.

She eased the bag open and then tensed as his breathing changed. He shifted over to his side while she sat, frozen, watching him.

As soon as he breathed steadily again, she parted the edges of the bag.

The first thing she saw was an eight-inch hunting-type knife, in an old-looking leather case that would go on a belt.

Well, okay, then. He hadn’t taken that through airport security, no way.

She picked it up with the tips of two fingers, pulled it out of the duffel, and set it beside her on the floor.

Digging on through, she found some trail mix, a thriller paperback and a Bible that had seen hard use. She took the risk of flipping through it and saw underlining, highlighting, turned-down pages.

Wow. He took his faith seriously. What would that be like? Since being saved, Fern attended church most Sundays and read a devotional book every night before she went to sleep, but she’d never gone so far as to study the Bible on her own.

He certainly didn’t fit the stereotype of a Bible scholar, but Angelica had said he was a missionary. And anyway, who was she to judge? The fact that he had books, especially a Bible, was a point in his favor. Not quite enough to counteract that deadly looking knife, though.

Next, she found a vest. Camo colored, made of heavy nylon, with pouches that held hard plates. She pulled it out a little, making a slight clatter, and her heart pounded as she went still, turning her gaze to the man on the couch.

He shifted but didn’t open his eyes.

Whew. He was really out. She studied the vest more closely. A bulletproof, military-style vest? But why?

She put the vest down, thinking through the few facts she knew about Angelica’s brother. He’d been a good uncle to Xavier, a male influence who’d gotten him into sports when he was little. He’d been in the military, and right before Xavier became sick, Carlo had gotten the call to the missionary field. Come to think of it, she didn’t know whether the call was from a person or from God. Why hadn’t she listened more closely?

And if he’d gone into the missionary field more than two years ago, why were a bulletproof vest and hunting knife in the top of his overnight bag?

She rummaged underneath the vest and pulled out a photo in a metal frame, of Carlo squatting down in the midst of a group of ragged, dark-skinned boys. In the background was jungle-type vegetation and a leaf-covered hut. All of them, Carlo and the boys, were smiling broadly. The younger ones were pressed close to Carlo and he had his arms around them.

So he liked kids. Reassuring.

She wasn’t finding the ID she wanted, but she was finding evidence of a man with a complicated life.

She fumbled further and found a piece of notebook paper, folded over twice and much crumpled. She opened it up.

“Dear Uncle Carlo, I miss yu pls come hom.”

The signature was a scrawled XAVIER.

Fern drew in a deep breath and let it out, some of her fears abating.

She hadn’t found an ID, but she believed in the man now. He was Angelica’s brother, and if his possessions were any indication, he cared about kids, especially his nephew. Why else would he keep the letter from Xavier?

Carefully, she replaced all the items in the bag and closed it up. Then she sat back on her heels and studied the man.

He was breathing evenly, now lying on his side. He had short hair and his skin was bronzed, and there were creases at the corners of his eyes. Obviously a guy who spent most of his time outside.

She tried to remember what Angelica had told her about him. Their friendship had started at church, so it wasn’t that old. It was natural that Angelica had talked about her brother’s missionary work, but hadn’t she also mentioned something about a marriage that hadn’t worked out, somewhere out West? If she remembered right, Angelica hadn’t even had the chance to meet Carlo’s wife—the marriage had been too brief and chaotic.

His arms bulged out the edges of the T-shirt he was wearing, but his face had relaxed in sleep, erasing most of the harshness.

Here was a soldier, but also a missionary. With a well-worn Bible. Who cared about kids.

As she watched him, she was aware of a soft feeling inside that she rarely felt. Aware that her heart was beating a little bit faster.

How ridiculous. He was nothing like the few guys she’d gone out with before—mostly pale, video-gaming types. If he’d ever set foot in the children’s room of a library, she’d be surprised.

And there was no way he’d look at the likes of her! She only attracted supernerds. She was a boring librarian who never left Ohio. She couldn’t keep up with him.

“Quit staring.”

“What?” She jumped about six feet in the air.

“Did you like what you found?” he asked lazily.

“What I... What do you mean?” Fern felt her face flashing hot.

“In my bag.”

“You were awake!” She felt totally embarrassed because of her thoughts, because of how long she’d sat staring at him. Had he been watching her, too? What had he been thinking?

“I’m a trained soldier. I wake up when you blink. So don’t try to pull one over on me.” He was half smiling, but there was wariness in his eyes. “What were you looking for?”

“Um, an ID? I wanted to see if you were really Angelica’s brother. I talked to her, but then I thought you might not be Carlo at all.”

“You didn’t find an ID in there,” he said flatly, “so why aren’t you calling the police?”

“Or pulling your own nasty-looking knife on you? Because of your letter from Xavier.”

“What?”

“You had a letter from Xavier. And it was folded and refolded, almost to where it’s tearing at the creases. So that means you looked at it a bunch of times. You really care about your nephew, don’t you?”

A flush crept up his cheeks. “Yeah. He’s a good kid.”

“And maybe you’re not a terrible guy. Or at least, maybe you’re who you say you are.” Awkward, awkward. Fern was way too awkward with people, especially men. Being alone was way more comfortable and safe.

* * *

Carlo tried to sit up, pulling on the back of the couch to shift his weight to a sitting position. The room only spun for a minute.

He had to get out of here before his pretty hostess dug deeper into his stuff or his psyche and found out something he didn’t want known.

Bad enough that she’d found a hunting knife in his bag. He checked his ankle holster reflexively, even though he knew his weapon was safe there.

Her phone buzzed and she checked the front of it. Worry creased her face as she punched a message back. Then she got up and turned on the TV.

The weather analysts were in their glory as she flipped from station to station.

“It’s being called the storm of the century!”

“If you don’t have to go out, don’t go out!”

“Stay tuned for a list of closings!”

Finally, she settled on the local station he remembered from his childhood. A reporter stood in front of an overturned tractor trailer on the interstate as snow blew his lacquered hair out of control. “Folks, it looks as if things are only going to get worse for the next couple of days. All nonemergency vehicles are advised to stay off the roads, and several of our rural counties have just issued complete road closings...”

Great. He needed to get out while he could. He stood to go and her phone buzzed again. She answered and as he chugged the rest of his tea and reached for his boots, he heard one side of an intense conversation that seemed to be about dogs.

When she clicked off the phone, she looked worried.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “I mean, besides the snowstorm. I need to get out of here while I can.”

“They’ve actually closed the roads between here and town,” she said. “And the people Troy and Angelica hired to take care of the dogs can’t get out here.”

“How many dogs?”

“Something like forty.”

“That’s a lot. Where?”

She walked to the window that faced the back of the house and gestured out. When he put his face to the glass and looked, he saw the vague outline of a barn about a football field’s distance away. It came back to him then, from Angie’s wedding: the size of the barn, the number of dogs Troy and Angelica housed inside.

When he walked to the other window and looked out toward his truck, it was completely obscured. As was that path that had led to it.

He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. He really, really wanted to get out of here, and he was sure he could make it in his truck.

On the other hand, he hated to leave a woman and child alone out here. “How are you going to take care of the dogs?”

“I’ll get it done.” She straightened her shoulders as worry creased her forehead. “How hard can it be?”

“Pretty hard. You’ve never done it before?”

“No, but one of their usual helpers can coach me through it by phone.”

He studied the storm, then turned back to look at the petite woman in front of him. Taking care of forty dogs meant a lot of messy kennels to clean. There’d be heavy bags of food to carry, water to fetch, medications to dispense if any of them were sick. And from what his sister had told him, they weren’t the easiest dogs.

He made a snap decision. “I’d better stay and help you.” Even as he said it, his heart sank. That was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Excuse me? I’ll be the one issuing invitations. Which I didn’t do.”

“Sorry to be rude. But there’s no way you can manage all those dogs alone. What will you do with your daughter?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out, okay? Look, I don’t even know you.”

He nodded. “I know. It’s not exactly comfortable, is it? I can sleep in my truck or in the barn.”

She tossed her head back, looking at the sky. “There’s no way that will work! The barn and the bunkhouse aren’t winterized, not well enough for a person to stay, and you’ll freeze to death in your truck. And you’re sick!” She bit her lip and looked around, struggle evident on her face.

“I assume you’ll give me a blanket if I’m extranice?” He meant to lighten her mood, but the line came out sounding flirtatious. Great move, Camden.

She ignored him. “I guess,” she said slowly, “you can stay in the TV room. And I’ll lock the doors upstairs.”

“If you’re sure, that would be fantastic.” It was a shame that women had to be so careful, but they did. And he was glad his daughter—his daughter, he could still barely wrap his mind around that concept—was safe with someone like stern, protective, beautiful Fern.

She was worrying her lower lip. “For now, I’d better check on Mercy and then go out and make sure the dogs are okay. They got their dinner, but I want to make sure they’re warm enough. Let them out into their runs one last time.”

“I’ll go with you.” He stood and got his feet under him.

“No! You don’t need to come.” Then she bit her lip, and he couldn’t help thinking how cute she was. Not a stereotypical librarian at all, despite the thick glasses.

“What?”

“I...I guess I don’t want you to stay here alone with Mercy, either.”

“Then, you’ll have to accept my help. As much as I can do anyway. Bull can watch over...your little girl.” Whoa, he had to be careful what he said until he decided how he was going to punt.

She let out a sigh and he recognized it. “Not a people person, eh? Me, either. We don’t have to talk.”

She stared at him. “You get that?”

“I get that. I’ve got an introverted side myself.”

She raised an eyebrow and then put on her coat and sat down to pull furry boots over her skinny jeans. “I guess I could use some help, come to think of it. It’s like a Little House on the Prairie storm. Wonder if we should tie a line from the house to the barn.”

“Not a bad idea,” he said. “But I think we’ll be able to see our way back. The structures are bigger than in Laura Ingalls Wilder’s day.”

She stared at him again. “Why do you know about Laura Ingalls Wilder?”

“Because I have a little sister,” he said. “I used to get books at the library for her all the time. Those were some of her favorites. Mine, too, if you want to know the truth.”

“You’re a sensitive soldier?”

“More like a desperate big brother.” He chuckled. “It was either books or playing with her one and only Barbie doll. I couldn’t stomach that.”

She opened the door and cold wind cut into Carlo’s body like a frigid knife. He wasn’t used to this, not after years in the tropics. “You ready?” he asked, shrugging into his jacket.

“I guess. But if you collapse out there, I don’t think I can drag you back.”

“I won’t collapse.” In truth, he felt better after the meal and the bit of a nap. Strong enough to make it out to the barn, which he could barely see through the whiteout conditions. Maybe a rope wasn’t a bad idea, at that.

He broke a path all the way to where the dogs were, checking back frequently to make sure she still followed. She was small boned and thin, and the cold and wind had to affect her more than it did him, but she pushed on without complaining.

When they got to the kennels, she took the lead, unlocking the gate and then the barn door, letting herself in to a chorus of barking. She approached each dog, touching them, clucking at them, and they calmed down quickly.

Okay, so on top of being cute and maternal, she was a dog whisperer.

And she was raising his daughter and hoping to keep the child away from her worthless birth father, he reminded himself. She was his enemy, not his friend. He was here to learn more about her, not admire her looks or skills.

“If you start at that end, we can let out whoever wants out,” she said, nodding toward the kennels closest to the door.

He knew from his sister’s notes that most of the dogs were bully breeds because Troy, who owned the rescue, took in dogs that wouldn’t otherwise find a home. As he started opening kennels, he could see that some were scarred, probably from abuse or neglect. But their rough background didn’t mean they were stupid; most elected not to go out in the storm. When he finished his side, he checked the heating unit.

Fern was taking twice as long as he was to work with the dogs, and he realized she was patting and playing a little with each one. She was obviously unafraid of them, even though several stood as tall as her waist.

Carlo started letting out the dogs on her side, this time taking a little more energy to pat and talk to them.

By the time they met in the middle, he was feeling feverish again, but he still needed to keep the energy to get back to the house. “Ready to go back?”

“Sure. You look done in.”

“I am. But I’ll do my best not to collapse on you.” He tried to smile.

“At least let me lead this time.”

“No, it’s...”

But she was already out the door. She obviously was a woman who did what she wanted to do, who, despite appearing shy, was very independent. Okay, then. He could respect that.

The storm had grown even worse. His breath froze and the wind whipped his face, and despite the fact that he’d broken a path and had someone walking in front of him, Carlo came close to losing his footing several times. His head was swimming.

Then Fern stumbled and fell into a thigh-deep snowdrift.

He reached for her, braced himself and pulled her out, and as he steadied her, he felt a sudden stunning awareness of her as a woman.

She looked up into his eyes and drew in a sharp breath.

Did she feel what he felt, or was the closeness a distinct displeasure?

Wind squealed around the fence posts, and whiteness was all he could see. Whiteness and her face. “Come on,” he said into her ear. “We’ve got to get inside.”

She pulled away from him and soldiered on toward the house, tossing a mistrustful look over her shoulder.

It was going to be a long night.


Chapter Three (#ulink_468a4fa2-4305-56f8-8cd1-252adc2d0b11)

Fern woke up to silence, utter silence. The light in the room was amazing. She walked to the window and gazed out into a world of soft white mounds overlaid with a crystalline sparkle. Sunlight peeked through a gap in heavy clouds that suggested the snowstorm wasn’t done with them yet.

When you see the wonder of God’s creation, how can you doubt Him? She smiled as her friend Kath’s words came back to her, even as she marveled at her friend’s faith. Despite Kath’s horrendous past and her illness, she’d been able to praise God and had taught Fern to do the same.

She slipped out of bed and went to her bedroom door.

Locked.

Oh, yeah. The stranger.

As if a locked door could stop a man of Carlo’s skills. But it had made her rest a little easier.

Her feeling of peace shaken, she took a deep breath and headed down the hall into Mercedes’s room. Maybe the stranger would sleep for a long time. He certainly needed to; by the end of the evening last night, he’d looked awful.

She frowned at the intrusion into her safe world. She’d wanted to be out here alone, not hosting a stranger. A disturbing stranger.

Why was he so disturbing?

Because you’re attracted to him, an inner voice said.

She shook her head. She didn’t want to be attracted to him. To anyone, really, but especially to this jock type who was so handsome, so far out of her league. She didn’t need to get her heart broken. She needed to protect it, because she needed to stay sane for Mercedes. Opening herself up to feelings would make all the bad stuff come back in, and she just wasn’t ready for that.

She opened Mercy’s door and walked over to the child’s bed. She was staying in Xavier’s room, so the surroundings were pure boy: race-car sheets, soccer trophies, toy trains and a big container of LEGO blocks.

Even in that setting, Mercedes glowed with girliness in her pink nightgown, her long curls spread across the pillow.

Fern’s heart caught inside her. She’d never loved anyone so much in her life. And if she could save one child, maybe more, from the pain she’d been put through as a ward of the state, she’d have done a lot.

Mercedes was sleeping hard. For better or worse, she was a late riser. Well, Fern would take advantage of the time and the light to do some artwork.

She grabbed a diet soda out of the refrigerator, not wanting to take the time to make coffee, and headed right toward her worktable. Sat down, got out her paints and immersed herself in capturing the snowy scene out the window.

A while later—minutes? Hours? She couldn’t tell—she smelled something that plunged her straight back to her own childhood. The memory was mixed, and she painted awhile longer, taking advantage of her own heightened emotions to evoke more feelings with her art.

“Breakfast’s ready!”

The deep voice startled her, making her smear a stroke of paint. She jumped up and turned around. The sight of Carlo with a spatula in hand disoriented her.

“Whoa,” he said, approaching her with concern. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Fern pressed a hand to her chest. “It’s fine. What’s that smell?”

“Bacon. I hope it’s okay...”

“You got in the fridge and took out bacon and cooked it?” Her voice rose to a squeak. “Really?”

“Yeah, well, I figured Angelica would have some. Actually, it was in the freezer. But I also stole some eggs, which may have been yours. And they’re getting cold. Where’s Mercedes?”

Fern was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that this...this man was cooking in her kitchen. Well, her friend’s kitchen, but still. She’d never had a man in her home. She didn’t know how to handle it. Didn’t want to know.

“Mama Fern?” Mercedes’s plaintive voice from the top of the stairs gave Fern a welcome focus.

She hurried up and wrapped her arms around the child. “Hey there, sleepyhead. What’s going on?”

“What’s cooking? It smells yummy.”

“Um...bacon.” Up until this moment, Fern hadn’t intended to eat any; she wanted to get this man out of the house quickly, not break bread with him.

But if Mercedes liked bacon, then bacon it would be. “Our guest cooked breakfast,” she explained. “Let’s wash your face and hands and you can come on down and eat.”

Minutes later, the three of them sat around the wooden table. Carlo had served up plates of bacon, eggs and toast, and he’d even poured orange juice and set out fruit on the side.

“This is good,” Mercedes said, her mouth full, jam on the side of her face.

“It sure is good, Mercy-Mercedes.” He made a funny face at the little girl, and she burst out in a torrent of giggles.

Fern’s breath caught.

Amazing that Mercedes could still be so happy and trusting, given the difficulties of life with her mother and then the loss of her. Amazing that she, Fern, got to raise this incredible child.

And it was amazing to be sitting here around the table with a child and a handsome, manly man who knew his way around the kitchen and could joke around with a child.

Thing was, Carlo was trouble.

Oh, he’d been questionable when he showed up here on her doorstep, sick and wild looking. But that man, that kind of trouble, she’d been able to handle.

Now, seeing him feeling better and being charming and domestic, she felt the twin weights of longing and despair pressing down on her heart.

She wanted a family.

She’d always wanted a family, wanted it more than anything. She hadn’t had one, even as a child.

But there was no way she could form a family with any man worth the having. She just wasn’t the type. She was shy, and awkward, and unappealing. She wore thick glasses and read books all the time and didn’t know how to flirt or giggle.

So the part of her that looked around the table and wished for something like this, forever, just needed to be tamped down.

She couldn’t have it and she needed to stop wanting it.

Abruptly, she stood up. “I’ve got to go feed the dogs.”

“But, Mama Fern, I want to come see the dogs.”

Fern hesitated. The animals were generally good, but they were just so big and strong. The idea of having a four-year-old—her own precious four-year-old—in their vicinity was a little too scary.

Carlo put a hand on her arm and she jerked away at the burn of it, staring at him.

His eyebrows went up and he studied her. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m jumpy.” Awkward, awkward.

“Let’s finish breakfast, and then we can all go out together.”

“Yeah!” Mercedes shouted.

Oh, great. More pseudo–family togetherness. “That’s fine,” Fern said. “I’m going to start the dishes.”

“But you haven’t finished your—”

“I’m not hungry,” she interrupted, and it was true. Her appetite had departed the moment those feelings of inadequacy and awkwardness and unlovableness arose in her.

She carried her dishes to the counter, fuming. Why had he shown up? Why hadn’t he left her there in peace, to do her art and create some kind of family, even if not the real or the best kind?

You couldn’t have handled the dogs alone, a voice of logic inside her said. Maybe God’s looking out for you. Maybe He sent a helper.

But did He have to send a helper who was so handsome, who woke those desires for something she could never have?

She scrubbed hard at the pan that had held the bacon and eggs. Looked out the window toward the kennels, and breathed, and tried to stuff her feelings back down.

“What were you working on in there?” Carlo asked.

“What do you mean?” On the defensive.

“Your easel. Your art.”

“I...I do some writing and illustrating.”

“Really? Can I see?’

“No!” She grabbed a towel to dry her hands and hurried toward the easel, bent on covering her work.

Carlo scooted his chair back to watch her from the kitchen. “Hey, it’s okay. I wouldn’t have looked without your permission.”

“I’m just... It’s silly. I...I don’t like to show anyone my work before it’s done.” Truth to tell, her stories and illustrations were the one place she felt safe to delve into her own issues, to the challenges of her past. Sometimes, she felt it was all too revealing, but she was so driven to do it.

She could do her children’s books and raise a family just fine. But to have a handsome man looking through her stuff, making fun of it maybe, asking questions—that she couldn’t deal with. No way.

The wall phone’s ringing was a welcome respite. She tucked the cover over her easel and hurried over to it.

“Hello?”

“Fern, it’s Lou Ann Miller. From church?”

Fern vaguely remembered a tart, smiling, gray-haired woman who often sat with Troy and Angelica. “Hi, Lou Ann.”

“Listen, I had an email from Angelica waiting for me this morning, and she let me know you have some unexpected company. Are you all right? How’s Mercy?”

“We’re doing fine.” Fern looked at Mercedes. Carlo had found a clean dishcloth, wetted it and was washing off the child’s messy face and hands, making silly faces to keep her from fussing about it.

“That’s great. And don’t worry about your new helper. He has a good heart.”

“You know him?” She heard her own voice squeak.

“Oh, yes. I’ve known that boy most of his life.” Lou Ann chuckled. “Pretty rough around the edges, isn’t he?”

Fern looked at the man who’d invaded her safe haven. Even playing with an innocent little child in front of the fire, he looked every inch a mercenary: thick stubble, bulging biceps, shadowy, watchful eyes. “Yes,” she said, swallowing. “Yes, he is.”

* * *

Carlo sat on the floor building a block tower with the child he was almost certain was his daughter. He studied her small hands, her messy curls, her sweet, round cheeks.

His daughter’s foster mother was talking to someone named Lou Ann on the phone. Probably Lou Ann Miller, who had to be getting old these days. He remembered stealing pumpkins from her front porch with a big gang of his friends. She’d chased after them and called all of their parents.

All the other boys had gotten punished. Not him, though. His parents had thought it was funny.

As he’d grown up, he’d realized that their neglect wasn’t a good thing, especially when he’d seen how it affected his younger sister. When he’d had to take up their slack. He’d judged his folks pretty harshly.

But they’d been there at least some of the time. Unlike him, for his own daughter. How had it never occurred to him that Kath could have gotten pregnant during their brief reconciliation?

He wanted to clasp Mercedes tight and make up for the previous four years of her life. He wished he could rewind time and see her first smile, her first step.

But no. He left his wife pregnant and alone, and even though she’d kicked him out without telling him the truth about the baby she carried, had pressured him into signing the divorce papers, he should have tried harder. A lot harder.

Kath’s letter, which had apparently languished for a couple of months before reaching him, had just about broken his heart. She’d found the Lord, and moved to Rescue River because she’d liked the way he’d described it and wanted to raise their daughter there.

Apparently, she’d even thought there was a chance they could remarry and raise Mercedes together. Sometime later, after he’d sown his wild oats and come back home to the States.

But it had turned out they didn’t have the time for that. Kath had found out she was dying, and that was when she’d written to him, telling him about Mercedes and urging him to come home and take care of his daughter. She’d kept his identity secret from her social worker in case he wasn’t able to come home—warped Kath logic if he’d ever heard of it. So until the social worker received the copy of Kath’s letter he’d mailed and verified the information, even she wouldn’t know there was an interested, responsible father in the picture.

Which was how Mercedes had ended up with Fern, apparently.

Carlo ran his hand through his hair and almost groaned aloud. He shouldn’t have given up on their marriage so readily, but the truth was, he’d realized there was no more love or connection between them. Kath had been deep into a partying lifestyle she hadn’t wanted to change. Reuniting would have been such an uphill battle that he hadn’t minded when she’d kicked him out after just a week.

He was no good at relationships, never had been. But he hated that he’d left her to struggle alone. And even more, he hated that he’d left this innocent child to be raised by an unstable mother.

So now he was going to try to fix what had gone wrong. Maybe he’d failed as a husband. He’d failed at getting Kath into rehab. Failed as a father, so far.

But now that he knew about her existence, he was determined not to fail Mercedes. No, sir, never again. Though he was horrible at intimate relationships, he got along okay with kids. Even had a gift for working with them, according to his friends in the missionary field. Ironic that he, the guy who scared off most women and a lot of men, seemed to connect effortlessly with kids.

When Fern got off the phone, he stuffed down his feelings and made his face and voice bland. The first step in getting his daughter back was to find out what had been going on in her life. “Everything okay?”

Fern nodded, biting her lip. That was a habit of hers, he noticed. And it was really distracting, because she had full, pretty lips.

“Who was that?”

She gave him a look that said he’d overstepped his boundaries.

“Miss Lou Ann, from church,” Mercedes said. “She gave me a toothbrush. Want to see?”

“Sure,” Carlo said, and watched the child run toward the stairs, his heart squeezing in his chest.

“Lou Ann Miller gives all the children toothbrushes. Musical ones. She doesn’t believe in candy.”

“That figures. I remember her.”

Fern cocked her head to one side. “She remembers you, too.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He studied Fern and risked a question. “How’d you end up taking care of Mercedes anyway?”

She hesitated.

Easy, easy. “No need to tell me if you don’t want to. I’m just curious.”

Fern perched on the hearth and started stacking blocks absently. “It’s okay. I need to get used to talking about it. But it’s a sad story.”

Carlo’s stomach twisted with shame. He was, at least in part, responsible for the sadness.

“She’s my friend Kath’s little girl. Kath wasn’t in town that long, but she made a huge difference in my life. We got...super close. And then she died.” Fern’s voice cracked just as Mercedes came trotting back down the stairs, musical toothbrush in hand.

“Look, mister! It makes a song!” She shook it vigorously and then looked up and touched Fern’s face. “Why you sad, Mama Fern?”

“Just thinking about your mama.”

“Oh.” Mercedes nodded. “Bye!” she said suddenly, and ran across the room to a pink case full of dolls and doll clothes.

Fern chuckled. “Kids. When they don’t want to talk about something, you know it.”

Carlo had to know. “What...what did she say about Mercedes’s dad? Was he ever in the picture?”

“She didn’t talk much about him. Said he had issues. But what kind of guy would leave a terminally ill woman to cope with their little daughter alone?”

That was the question.

He had a lot to make up for, and it started with helping his daughter right now, stranded in the storm.

Given how fiercely protective Fern seemed, he didn’t think he could explain his role in the situation without arousing her ire and getting kicked out. And then how would the pair cope, given that the snow was starting up again?

No, better to wait out the storm without revealing his identity. Once it was over, he could see about paternity tests and get advice from a lawyer about how to proceed.

Meanwhile, he could help out a vulnerable child and foster mom. Maybe start to absolve himself of some of his misdeeds. Get to know little Mercedes.

Redeem himself. If that was even possible.


Chapter Four (#ulink_173fa87a-56e8-5553-8abf-47e55ec1919d)

For Carlo the late-morning trip out to the kennels was completely different from the night before.

It was daylight, and snowing hard.

And he was carrying Mercedes.

Just the feel of those little arms curled trustingly around his neck as he fought his way through thigh-high snowdrifts made his heart swell. He wasn’t worthy, he didn’t deserve it, but God had given him this moment, a blessing to cherish.

“You doing okay, sweets?” came Fern’s voice from behind him.

Was she calling him sweets?

“I’m fine, Mama Fern,” Mercedes piped up, and Carlo realized his mistake. Oh, well, it had felt nice for that one second. He shook his head and kept moving steadily toward the barns.

As soon as they got inside, Mercedes struggled to get down and ran to see the dogs. Carlo sank down on the bench beside the door, panting. Mercedes was tiny, but carrying her while breaking a trail had just about done him in.

“You’re still sick,” Fern scolded, standing in front of him. “You should probably be resting, not working.”

“I’m fine, I just need a minute.” Carlo wiped perspiration from his brow and staggered to his feet, calling to mind all the time he’d spent in battle under less than ideal physical circumstances. “What’s the drill? Same as last night?”

Fern put a hand on her hip. Man, was she cute! “The drill is, you sit there and rest. Mercedes and I will feed the dogs.”

“I’m a good helper,” Mercedes called over from where she was squatting in front of a kennel, fingers poking in at the puppies inside.

“That’s right, honey. But we never put our fingers in unless we’re sure of our welcome.”

Mercedes’s lower lip poked out. “These ones are fine. You said.”

“That’s right. You’re doing it just right.”

Sunshine returned to the little girl’s face and Carlo marveled at her mood shifts. Was that normal, or a product of losing her mom and changing homes? Or of whatever lifestyle Kath had put her through?

In any case, Fern seemed to handle his daughter beautifully. He wondered if he could do half as well.

“Oh, before I forget.” Fern snapped her fingers and hurried over to the cage just next to the one where Mercedes was squatting. “We’re supposed to check on this one mama dog. I got a text this morning.”

“Pregnant?” Carlo asked. He was starting to catch his breath. Man, his stamina was totally gone after just a couple of weeks of this wretched tropical fever. But he needed to pull himself together and show he was a hard worker, a man who could protect and care for others. That was how he’d get custody of his daughter, not by wheezing on a bench like a ninety-year-old with lung disease.

“No, she’s not pregnant. She had puppies and all but one died, so they put the one in with another litter to socialize it and...aw, Mama, you’re lonely, aren’t you?”

Carlo walked over to where Fern was kneeling and peered into the kennel. A large chocolate-brown dog lay in the back corner, head on paws.

“C’mere, come on, Brownie, I’ll give you a biscuit,” Fern coaxed, but the dog stayed down, emitting a low whine.

“That’s not good. They said she needs to eat.” Fern frowned. “I wonder if it’s good for her to be right next to her puppy like this. Where she can see her, but not be with her. That would be hard.”

No kidding. Carlo found himself identifying with the mama dog. “Is she feeding the pup?”

“Apparently not.” Fern nodded toward the next kennel, where five or six puppies played and rolled and nipped each other. “I guess that mama dog over there is feeding all of them. And they say it’s better for a puppy to be with other pups, but I feel bad for poor Brownie.”

“Mama Fern, look! The little one is hurt!” Mercedes’s voice sounded distressed.

Both Fern and Carlo stepped over to where Mercedes knelt by the cage full of puppies. “Over there, Mama! Help him!”

In the corner of the cage, a small brown-and-white-spotted puppy lay alone. Carlo felt his heart constricting, looking at Mercedes’s face, wondering if the little guy was dead and if so, how that would affect Mercedes. “Is there a flashlight?”

“Mercedes, run get our flashlight from the desk,” Fern urged, kneeling to see the little dog. “He’s not moving,” she said to Carlo in a low voice.

“Here, Mama!” Mercedes handed the flashlight to Fern and she shone it on the puppy. Its eyes were closed, its breathing rapid, but at least there was breathing.

There were also a couple of open wounds on his side and back.

“Oh, wow, I don’t know what to do,” Fern said. “That’s the one that doesn’t belong. It looks like either the mama dog or the other pups have turned on him.”

As if on cue, the chocolate-colored dog began to whine from the next kennel.

“Should we put him back with his mama?” Carlo asked.

“I don’t know. Let me text the people who normally take care of them,” Fern said. “And meanwhile, I’ll get the others fed.”

“I’ll stay and watch over him,” Mercedes offered.

“Okay, that will be great. I think Carlo will stay with you and help. Right?” Fern gave him a stern, meaningful stare.

“Um...okay.” Man, this diminutive, shy librarian had a spine of steel. There was no disagreeing with her.

This time, Fern didn’t linger with each dog, but moved rapidly from kennel to kennel, letting dogs out into the runs if they’d go, pouring food from large canisters. Carlo marveled at how hard she was capable of working, and he handled the dogs two or three kennels to either side of the problem dogs, trying to lighten her load while also keeping an eye on Mercedes, making sure she wasn’t seeing something upsetting.

When Mercedes cried out, he was glad he’d stuck close. He rushed back over in time to see one of the other puppies jump on top of the spotted pup and nip at it. “He’s hurting the little puppy,” Mercedes cried. “Stop him!”

Carlo didn’t know if it was normal puppy play or something more aggressive, but he could see that the little guy wasn’t in any shape to play rough. “Step back, and I’ll pull him out,” he told Mercedes, and then he went in and picked up the puppy.

“Oh, no, oh, no, is he okay?”

“I don’t know.” He needed to keep Mercedes calm as well as help the pup. Which meant keeping her busy. “Can you find a towel we can wrap him in?”

Fern was all the way down at the other end of the kennel, so Carlo got Mercedes to help him wrap the puppy in the towel she’d found. “We’ll be really careful,” he said, watching Mercedes. His daughter. Wow.

“Mama Fern said kids can only touch a dog with two fingers, so you better hold him,” Mercedes told Carlo gravely.

So he sat cross-legged on the floor and held the dog, and Mercedes petted the pup with two fingers, and somehow she ended up sitting in his lap, leaning her head against his chest and chattering every thought that came into her four-year-old brain.

Just keep breathing, Carlo told himself.

No matter what happened, he’d have these moments with his daughter to cherish forever. He could enjoy the fruity smell of her hair and the pink of her cheeks and the confiding, sweet tone of her voice. He could look at her dark eyes and realize that those came from Kath, but her strong chin probably came from his side of the family. He got a sudden memory of his sister, Angelica, when she was small, and realized that Mercedes had her flat cheekbones and cute nose.

Fern came up behind them, a heavy bag of dog food in her arms, breathing hard. “Oh, man,” she said, “you took him out. Is he okay?”

“I think he’s going to be.” Carlo looked up and tried to communicate with his eyes that he had no idea, but was putting a positive spin on things for Mercedes’s sake. He felt like a cad for just sitting here while she worked, but on the other hand, he could clearly see that Mercedes needed nurturing. So maybe this was how you managed it with two parents—you dumped gender stereotypes and played whichever role needed playing at the time.

Fern was studying her phone. “They said to take him out if he’s being bullied, that sometimes the rest of the litter turns on a puppy.”

The sad mama dog came up to the front of the cage and sniffed and whined her agitation.

“Do you think she knows it’s hers?” Angelica asked.

“Sure looks that way. What else did your friends say?”

“Oh, they’re not my friends, they’re just people who help out here. I don’t...” She trailed off, waved a hand, leaving Carlo curious about what she’d been about to say. “Anyway, they said maybe we should take the mama and the pup up to the house, and see if she could still feed him some. Apparently, they just moved him over a day or two ago. She might still have her milk.”

“We can have them at the house?” Mercedes jumped out of Carlo’s lap and threw her arms around Fern. “I always wanted a puppy! What’s his name, Mama Fern?”

“I don’t think he has one yet.” Fern stroked Mercedes’s hair and there was such happiness and tenderness in her face that Carlo had to look away. “We’ll think of something to call him, at least for now.”

“His name is Spots,” Mercedes announced. “’Cause he has spots!”

“Makes sense to me.” Carlo got to his feet, bringing the pup with him. “If you carry the little one and I carry the mama...”

“Can you? She’s huge.”

He gave her a look and then opened the cage. “I can, unless she wants to walk. I don’t know how her health is.”

“And you hafta carry me,” Mercedes reminded him.

“That’s right.” He patted her messy hair as warmth spread through his chest.

So they made their way back to the house in stages. Carlo carried the big dog while Mercedes and Fern worked in the kennel and watched the puppy. Then he went back to carry Mercedes while Fern brought the puppy and a bag of supplies.

By the time they got settled in the house again, he was sweating and dizzy, but he kept it together and brought in a bunch of wood and built a fire. Made sure the mama and puppy were settled, along with Fern and Mercedes. And then he collapsed onto the sofa.

He must have dozed off or even passed out, because Fern touched him and he jerked and then relaxed. Something in her touch was soothing.

“You made yourself sick again, didn’t you?” she scolded. “I heated up more soup. Sit up and eat it.”

Carlo couldn’t let her do this. Couldn’t let himself accept the caretaking, especially when he knew that his only shot at Mercedes was being superman here. If he couldn’t be superman, if he had to be weak, then he needed to hide it away. Along with his strange desire to reach up and touch Fern’s cheek. “I’ll just sleep it off in the den,” he growled, and slunk away from the vulnerability and the weakness and the worry.

* * *

Fern watched him go, and the sense of rejection was enormous. Just like her to mess things up with Carlo. Of course he didn’t want to spend time around her. She’d come on too strong with the nurturing, but what was she supposed to do? She was more used to being around kids and animals than adults. Kids and animals loved being taken care of.

A big manly man like Carlo was different, she supposed, and it was just her own awkwardness that had made her think she could take care of him, or that he’d want her to.

“Mama? What are we gonna do now?”

The plaintive voice pulled Fern out of her funk. It didn’t matter what some strange man thought of her. She squatted down beside Mercedes, who was sitting cross-legged petting the little puppy. “You’re doing just the right thing. I’m proud of you for being so gentle. You just keep doing that while I text the caretakers and find out what to do next.”

Although Fern could see now that Brownie’s ribs showed, her demeanor was much happier. She wasn’t whining anymore, just licking her puppy as if to make up for the time apart.

Minutes later Fern’s phone buzzed and she read the instructions, still sitting with her arm around Mercedes. “Okay, they say we’re supposed to get the mama dog something to eat. Even if she’s nursing, we should put some soft food nearby so she can eat whenever she needs to and get her milk back up.”

“What’s the puppy doing?”

Fern watched as the puppy nuzzled at the mama dog’s teats and took a deep breath. Okay, time for a new mothering challenge. “Mama dogs feed their pups from their bodies. The dog has a nipple like a baby bottle, and milk comes out of it.”

“That’s silly! That’s not where milk comes from.”

“Nope, but our milk comes from cows.”

Mercedes’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t drink from a cow!”

Fern chuckled. “No, but the cow gets milked by the farmer, and then the milk gets sent to the grocery store, and then we buy it and drink it.” She hesitated. “When you were a baby, you drank from your mama just like that little puppy.” She didn’t want to upset Mercedes, but the social worker had told her it was good to refer to her biological mother naturally, in conversation. That way, Mercedes would know that her mother and her experiences with her mother weren’t a taboo subject.

“I drank from my mommy?” Mercedes asked wonderingly.

“Yes, your mommy told me she breast-fed you for a whole year. She loved you so much.”

“Yeah.” Mercedes looked thoughtful for a minute. “Hey, the puppy is biting the mommy!”

Fern was watching, too. The puppy was obviously getting some sustenance, but even to her inexperienced eye, it looked like a struggle. “Tell you what, let’s get Brownie that food. Maybe she needs more to eat before she can feed her pup.” She sincerely hoped Brownie could feed the pup entirely, both because it was better for the little guy, and because she didn’t know exactly how they’d manage the frequent feedings a little puppy would need.




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