SOMEBODY'S BABY

by Marilyn Pappano

  The house was beautiful, its hand-hewn logs blending into the rustic setting. The first Ryan had built the central portion, which was obviously the oldest, even to Sarah's untrained eye. Succeeding generations had added rooms as necessary, using the same native wood and stone, resulting in a rambling, welcoming structure.

  A dusty dark blue pickup was parked at one side, between the house and the small cluster of outbuildings, but there was no sign of life. Sarah didn't know how long she stood there, watching, waiting, wishing for just a glimpse of her daughter, before aching muscles demanded that she move.

  She would return to her house, she decided, and clean the bathroom, clean herself up and give her nerves a chance to settle. She wanted to be calm and in control when she saw Daniel Ryan again. She wanted to make a good impression on the man who legally had custody of her daughter for another thirty-one days.

  She wanted to make a good impression on her daughter.

  Daniel settled Katie into bed for a late-afternoon nap, then went outside to the porch. There were two rockers there, one on each side of the door. Both were large, handmade of pine, with a rich honey finish to protect the wood from the weather. He sat down in one and propped his booted feet on the rail in front.

  It was already five o'clock, and he had accomplished next to nothing. The trip to see Zachary, followed by lunch and shopping, had taken up the better part of the day, and when they had returned home, Katie had demanded his attention. It wasn't easy being a single parent, especially with a baby—especially with a baby girl. He needed a woman around the place to do the womanly things—cook, clean, watch the baby—giving him a few free hours to work. The garden that kept their cabinets full and the small furniture business that paid their bills took a lot of time. So did Katie.

  When this business with Sarah Lawson was settled once and for all, maybe he would hire a housekeeper. Or maybe he'd find himself a wife. Marcy, one of the waitresses at the diner, had made it clear that she was interested, and she didn't mind the fact that he had the baby, either. Of course, Marcy was interested in every man under the age of forty who walked through the door.

  Who else was single in Sweetwater? He had never considered it before, because he had never considered getting married before. He had been totally self-sufficient since he was sixteen. He gardened and hunted and fished, cooked and cleaned, made his own repairs around the house, mended his own clothes, could even bake his own bread. He'd never wanted a woman except to satisfy his occasional physical needs, and that had never seemed reason enough to marry.

  Sarah Lawson had more than adequately satisfied those physical needs.

  He scowled at the thought of her. He'd never been able to completely forget her, not with Katie occupying every waking hour for the past eleven months, but he hadn't thought as much about her in those eleven months combined as he had today. It was natural, he supposed, with the deadline coming up. She would be on his mind for the next thirty-one days.

  Would she come? He hoped not. In eleven months she hadn't contacted them or tried to see Katie, not even on her first birthday. It was logical to assume that she'd forgotten the daughter she'd given away. Although he hated to think that Katie's mother could be so cold, so cruel, that was what he wanted to believe—needed to believe. It would certainly benefit his case when he went to court.

  The quiet of the afternoon was interrupted by the chug of a poorly tuned engine. Daniel's feet hit the floor with a thump as he leaned forward in the rocker. Trees obscured the driveway until it reached the clearing, but he caught a glimpse of yellow through the leaves.

  Who would be visiting all the way out here? He hadn't had company since Zachary had brought his mother up, the day after Katie had arrived, to teach Daniel how to care for the tiny infant. He had no friends, no family close enough to drop in, and knew no one who drove a lemon-yellow car.

  The car came to a sputtering stop some distance behind his pickup. Slowly rising to his feet, Daniel watched the driver get out. She removed her sunglasses, clenching them tightly in one hand, and started toward him. He muttered a low, violent, angry curse.

  It was Sarah Lawson.

  She stopped several feet away. Standing five steps above her, Daniel towered like a menacing giant and wore a fierce expression to match. Nearly eleven inches taller than Sarah, he had dark brown hair and darker blue eyes that radiated hostility. The lines of his face were harsh, rough angles that gave not a hint of the gentleness that she recalled.

  For a moment her courage faltered. She had come to compromise, to bargain and, if necessary, to plead with him, but she hadn't remembered his being so hard looking. He probably didn't know the meaning of compromise, and her pleas would never touch him. Good Lord, what had she done in sending Katherine to live with this man?

  "What do you want?"

  His voice was a deep unfriendly rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. Calling on all her courage, she responded quietly. "Hello, Daniel."

  The instant he heard her voice, he realized that he'd forgotten how it sounded—low, velvety, soothing, with a hint of a Tennessee drawl. Although she was a pretty woman, it was her voice that had attracted him most in the bar that night. Its slow smooth flow had reminded him of long summer nights, of heat and sweetness and need. Her voice had seduced him, as surely as he had seduced her.

  His eyes narrowed at the memory, making him look fiercer, harsher. "You're a month early," he said flatly.

  "I know. Can I see her?"

  He shook his head.

  She had expected a refusal, but it hurt just the same. Who was he to tell her that she couldn't see her own daughter? she silently lamented, and her conscience answered the question; he was Katherine's father. He was the man who had taken her in when Sarah couldn't keep her, who had raised her practically since birth. "Why not?"

  He moved to the center of the top step, his legs wide, his arms folded over his broad chest. "She's not your daughter anymore. She's mine. You gave up your rights to her eleven months ago."

  Stubbornly she shook her head. "No, Daniel, I didn't. Our agreement was for one year—nothing else."

  "The year's not up yet."

  "I just want to see her." Wanted to see her solemn blue eyes, to watch her smile crinkle up her entire face, to touch her baby-powder soft skin. She wanted to wrap her arms around Katherine's sturdy little body and know that losing Tony hadn't been the end of her world. She wanted to tell her daughter that she loved her, wanted to see proof that Katherine could love her, too.

  "Come back next month," Daniel said callously, knowing that he wouldn't let her see Katie then, either. She would see his daughter only if and when the court said she could.

  Sarah wanted to argue, to storm past him and into the house. But arguments would make him angry, and trying to storm past him would be like trying to shift an immovable object. He was big and solid and had no intention of letting her get close to Katherine. "Is she all right?" she asked softly.

  "She's fine."

  "She's walking? Talking?"

  He nodded.

  "Can she say much?"

  Her eager questions stirred an unfamiliar sensation in his belly that he thought must be guilt. Zachary had warned him that they would have to accuse Sarah of being an unfit mother if they went to court, and Daniel had easily accepted that. But the woman standing before him now wasn't the cold, selfish, heartless creature he wanted to see. She was simply a woman anxious to hear about her child.

  She gave away her baby, he reminded himself. Without the slightest regret, she handed her baby over to her lawyer to give to a complete stranger. She hadn't known that he would want Katie, that he would care for her or love her, and she hadn't cared. All she had cared about was getting rid of the child until a more convenient time.

  "Yes, she talks," he said, his voice even and hard and cold. "She says 'daddy, Katie, baby, eat, drink and go.'" Deliberately he added, "She doesn't say 'mama' because she doesn't have the vaguest idea what it means. Do you?"


  Sarah's face burned with a hot flush. She could tell him more than he ever wanted to know about what being a mother meant—about the sacrifices, the sorrows, the grief. It was the hardest job a woman could take on—a job too hard for many men. "When can I see her?" she asked in a voice that trembled only a little.

  Daniel shrugged. "Not in the next four weeks. Go back to Nashville. You're not wanted here."

  She took a step closer, resting one hand flat against the wood rail. "I'll go back when I have my daughter. Until then I'm staying here. I've rented the Peters place down the road."

  He hadn't expected that, she saw with satisfaction. He hadn't expected her to come back for her daughter, and he certainly hadn't expected her to move in until she got her.

  She started toward her car, then glanced back at him. "I'll be back."

  "I'll have you arrested for trespassing."

  She seemed to consider that for a moment before shaking her head. "I don't think so." She didn't believe that he would have the mother of his child arrested. It would lead to gossip and rumors that would most certainly center around Katherine. No matter what he thought of Sarah herself, he wouldn't expose their daughter to that.

  She got in her car, starting the engine on the second try, and drove down the steep, winding road to her own house. The living room and kitchen were still filthy, but the bathroom gleamed. Tomorrow she would tackle the other rooms, but she had no plans to touch the empty room down the hall and the four bedrooms upstairs. After all, she would be here only one month, until she had Katherine back.

  Katherine. She had chosen that name because it was beautiful, strong but feminine. All these months when she had cried for Tony and for her daughter, she had called her Katherine. But he called her Katie. Her baby wouldn't recognize the mother who had sent her away so long ago, and now she wouldn't recognize the name that mother had given her. For that, Sarah could thank Daniel Ryan.

  She fixed a sandwich for dinner, took it outside and sat on the front porch to eat. She sat there until the sun had gone down, until yellow lights appeared in the woods to mark Daniel's house, until the night chill made her shiver uncontrollably and drove her inside.

  In the bathroom she changed into a faded cotton nightgown that ended inches above her knees and glanced at herself in the full-length mirror mounted on the bathroom door. Three years ago her nightgowns had been silk and satin and lace. Her skin had been smooth and unlined, her hands soft and adorned with rings—diamonds and an emerald. Her hair, now short and untamed, had hung past her shoulders in glorious waves that had required twice-weekly visits to the stylist.

  Then Tony had gotten sick, and Brent had disappeared from their lives. He had been ordered in their divorce agreement to help with their living expenses and Tony's medical care, but he had chosen instead to leave the state. He'd known that the Nashville district attorney's office didn't have the time or manpower to track him down and force him to pay, and Sarah certainly hadn't been able to. He had started a new, comfortable life for himself someplace else, forgetting his ex-wife. Forgetting his dying son.

  Sarah sighed deeply. She wouldn't be able to give Katherine a life rich in material goods, as Tony had once briefly had, but she could provide the necessities, and she could love her. God, she had so much love to give her!

  Shivering in the night chill, she returned to the living room. That afternoon she had given the sofa a good beating with the broom, stirring up clouds of dust. The sofa was still filthy and sagged dangerously in the middle, but, covered with every sheet and blanket she owned, it would be an adequate bed, if she could only stay warm enough.

  There was no electric light in the room, but moonlight streamed through the uncurtained windows. Sarah tried to pretend that was the reason she couldn't sleep, that or the cold, but she knew it wasn't so. It was the loneliness, the disappointment at being so close to Katherine yet not being able to see her. Less than a mile away her daughter had eaten her dinner, had played and had a bath, and was now curled up in her crib, sound asleep beneath a warm blanket, but Daniel had deliberately kept Sarah from sharing those small daily pleasures with her.

  She had known that he would be difficult, had known that he wouldn't want to part with the daughter who had counted solely on him for most of her life. She had been prepared to deal with that, to make offers. She could settle in Sweetwater, or wherever she could find a job nearby. She didn't want to cut him out of Katherine's life; he would still be her father, still be able to see her every day.

  But he couldn't keep her.

  Sometimes she was so jealous of him that she hated him. Katherine was her baby—she was the one who had spent nine months pregnant, who had endured the long, painful delivery, who was still paying the hospital and doctor bills, a few dollars a month.

  But he was the one who had willingly taken in a daughter that he hadn't known existed, the one who had fed and clothed and raised her, the one who had rearranged his life to make room for a baby. The one who obviously loved her.

  She owed Daniel a great deal. Without his help, she would have been forced to give Katherine up permanently. Keeping the baby would have been a full-time job, would have meant precious time away from Tony who had had so little time left. She hated that Daniel had been the one to soothe Katherine's tears, had been the one to watch her first steps and hear her first words, had been the one to receive her love, but she didn't regret what she had done. It had come down to a question of need. Katherine had a mother and a father, both of whom loved and wanted her. But Sarah was all Tony had. There had been no one else to be there for him, no one else to spend the long miserable days and longer agonizing nights with him. There had been no one else to love him. No one else to watch him die.

  No, she didn't regret letting Katherine live with Daniel, but it had been the second hardest thing she'd ever done. She remembered the day Beth had taken the baby, barely three months old, soft and sweet and precious. Even though Sarah had known that she had no choice, she had felt as if her heart—or what was left of it—was being ripped away. Before it was done, she had suffered over the choice and over her decision. But the situation with Tony had left her no other choice, and the decision had been the only one.

  She felt the familiar wetness fill her eyes and squeezed them shut. When would the tears run out? When would she be able to get through one day without crying? When would she be strong enough to put the past to rest, to let go of the sorrow, to face the future without fear but with hope instead?

  The answer was clear and simple and sleeping less than a mile away. Katherine. When Katherine was back in her arms, back in her life, then she could go on. Then she would have a future. Then she would have a life.

  October 2

  Thirty more days

  Daniel couldn't get that damn calendar out of his mind. He had always been aware of the time limits on the arrangement Sarah Lawson's attorney had offered, but it had been different then. Twelve months with a baby he'd never seen before had seemed like a lifetime. He'd had forever to get to know this new little child with Ryan hair and Ryan eyes, forever to learn to care for her and about her.

  But he had fallen in love with her in about ten seconds. He had begun thinking seriously about lifetimes, about forever. Even then, he suspected now, he had decided not to give her back, not ever. After all, she was his daughter, a child of his blood, probably the only child he would ever have. Then, over the next eleven months, the emphasis had changed. She was his daughter—not Sarah Lawson's, not theirs, but his and his alone. She didn't need a mother—didn't need a damn thing from the mother who had given her away so easily. To Sarah, Katie had been a nuisance, a problem to dispose of until a better time. To Daniel, she was his love and his life.

  He checked on her, playing—quietly for once—in her playpen. She hated the playpen, hated being cooped up, but the workshop was too dangerous to let her roam freely. There were too many sharp edges, and she was too curious.

  Only yesterday he had searched her face for som
e resemblance to her mother and had arrogantly proclaimed that there was none. Since seeing Sarah yesterday afternoon, though, he could find the similarities. Her mouth, which was cute and pouty now, would be sensuous like her mother's when she was grown. The nose, too small and delicate to come from the Ryan side, was practically identical to Sarah's. The bone structure, too, was delicate and fine, unlike the harsh, angular planes of his own face.

  He had deliberately overlooked the resemblance, he admitted, had refused to give Sarah any link to his daughter. As long as he recognized only Ryan features in Katie's face, he could forget about the Lawson blood. He could forget about Sarah's claim on Katie.

  But now that he had seen Sarah again he couldn't forget. She was gently, softly pretty—slender, with small breasts and slim hips, with hair the color of honey, rich and sweet and thick, and eyes the same clear soft brown as a doe's eyes. In another twenty years, men would be looking at Katie the same way he had looked at Sarah. It wasn't a comfortable feeling.

  And it wasn't comfortable knowing that with the slightest provocation he could desire Sarah again. Knowing the kind of woman she was, he could still want her again—which said a hell of a lot, he thought with a scowl, about the kind of man he was.

  In the playpen near the door, Katie tired of her wooden ducks and cows and horses and imperiously swept them aside. "Daddy."

  He absentmindedly answered her.

  "Go," she suggested hopefully.

  "Where do you want to go?"

  "Sach."

  He turned away from the chair leg he'd been sanding to look at her. "Go where?"

  Pleased that she had his attention now, she extended her arms. "Go Sach."

  He swung her up out of the playpen, making her giggle breathlessly. "Say Zach." He stressed the z, and she intently imitated him, sounding like a fat little bee. "That's good," he praised. "Now say Zach."

  "Sach," she repeated with a grin.

  Every new word was a celebration. Before long they would be having real conversations, with complete sentences. And Sarah would miss out on all of it. With a grimace, he pushed her out of his mind. She wouldn't spoil this special moment with his daughter. "Zach will be glad that you learned his name," he said, putting her back in the enclosure, "but we can't go see him right now. I've got to work."