“You mean—”
“When I get out of here, I’d like to see about making my dream come true. I’d like us all to be together. I know that’s asking a lot. You’ve never even met her.”
“Oh, Matthew.” Emily’s beautiful eyes were liquid with emotion. “Do you know how long I’ve been praying for a family of my own? It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. “Will you marry me, Matthew?”
He grinned, reaching up to run his fingers through her dark hair. “How like you to go about this unconventionally,” he said. “But if you’re willing to take a chance on a decrepit federal marshal with an uncertain future, then my answer is yes. I’ll marry you, Emily Townsend. You just say when.”
“When,” she murmured, before she bent and kissed him again.
A BABY’S CRY
Amanda Stevens
Dear Reader,
When I went into the hospital fourteen years ago to have my twins, my only instructions to my husband in the delivery room were: “Whatever you do, don’t take your eyes off the babies once they’re born. You know they’re going to be so adorable, someone will want to take them.” I was joking, of course, but there was also an edge of underlying fear in my words. A mother’s worst nightmare is to have her baby or child stolen.
Such is the nightmare faced by my heroine in A Baby’s Cry. I hope you enjoy reading her story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Best wishes,
DEDICATION
For Steven
Prologue
Taylor Robinson gasped in pain. The contractions were coming fast and furious.
Outside the Westcott Clinic, thunder crashed and torrents of rain pelted the windows. Memphis was in the throes of the worst storm all season, and the severe weather seemed to mirror the anxiety on the nurse’s face as she hovered over Taylor.
“Not much longer now, Mrs. Robinson,” she said with a Spanish accent. “Don’t give up. We need you to keep pushing.”
“No more,” Taylor pleaded. Her tongue flicked out to moisten her dry lips. “Please. I…can’t.”
Wiping the sweat from Taylor’s brow, the nurse murmured words of encouragement. “Sure you can. Come on, honey. You’re doing fine.”
A wave of pain swept over Taylor, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out Dillon’s name. But Dillon wasn’t here. He’d left her. He was never coming back to her. She had to forget him. She was a married woman now.
Tears streamed out of her eyes. “Where’s my husband? Why isn’t Brad here?”
“Dr. Robinson will be here soon. The storm probably held him up. Try not to worry. Just concentrate on your breathing.”
Something was wrong. Taylor had been in labor all night. The baby should have been here by now.
And Brad—where in God’s name was Brad? He’d been called away on an emergency at the hospital, but that was hours ago. Why hadn’t he come back?
Taylor had never felt so alone. So frightened.
With an effort, she lifted herself on her elbows, but she couldn’t see anything. A screen had been situated across her bed, shielding the other nurse and the doctor who worked to deliver her baby.
Exhausted, Taylor fell back against the pillow. “Why is that screen there?” she asked the nurse at her bedside. “What’s wrong? Why can’t I see?”
“Doctor’s orders. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“But I—” Taylor started to protest when another contraction swept over her, and the pain intensified to an almost unbearable level.
The nurse left Taylor’s side and scurried behind the screen to consult with the others. The murmured voices sounded ominous. Panic exploded inside Taylor.
“My baby!” she screamed. “What’s wrong with my baby?”
The nurse came back and clasped Taylor’s hands, trying to quiet her. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”
The other nurse appeared at Taylor’s side. “Hold her,” she ordered, and then Taylor felt the sharp prick of a needle in her hip.
“No! Don’t put me under. My baby—” She had to make sure her baby was all right. “Oh, Dillon, help me,” she whispered as the room blurred and noises receded.
As if from a distance, she heard the sound of a baby’s cry and then everything else faded to black.
Chapter One
Nine years later…
The day dawned warm and sunny with snowy clouds floating across a Memphis sky as clear and fragile as blown glass. A mild breeze drifted through the trees, carrying the sweet scent of honeysuckle and, more faintly, the earthy aroma of the Mississippi.
Somewhere hidden in the branches of the mimosa tree shading the freshly dug grave, a mockingbird trilled its morning song. The notes were as lovely and lyrical as a wind chime, but for some strange reason, the sound made Taylor want to weep as she had not been able to do since she’d learned of her husband’s death two days ago.
Why did you do it, Brad? she cried inwardly. What could I have done to stop you?
She could almost hear Brad’s accusing voice answering her. You could have loved me. You could have been a real wife to me. In all those years we were married, you never loved me, Taylor. It was always him….
Taylor put trembling fingertips to her lips, gazing at the grave in despair. Not the open grave in which Brad’s casket now rested, but the tiny grave beside it. The one marked with a simple headstone that bore the inscription: Patrick Robinson. Beloved Son.
A tear rolled down her cheek, and Taylor palmed it away. Now was not the time to lose control. She’d lived with her silent grief for nine long years. Now was not the time to mourn for a baby she’d never even held in her arms. Today was Brad’s day.
But even as she stood there and recalled the good times in their marriage, the deep friendship the two of them had once shared, the positive memories were all nudged away by the jealousy and guilt.
Her guilt for having loved another man.
As Taylor stared at the grave, an overwhelming sense of being watched stole over her, as if Brad himself were there, gazing over her shoulder.
Taylor tried to ignore the sensation, but the feeling only grew stronger. Shivering, she turned her head, her gaze sweeping across the dozens of mourners standing behind her. Some of them she recognized as Brad’s colleagues from the hospital, others she’d never seen before. Some caught her eye and nodded, while others looked away. But no one seemed to be paying any undue attention to her.
Then, as she started to turn back to the grave, Taylor’s gaze lit on a woman standing apart from the crowd. Dressed all in black, she was tall and slender with long auburn hair swept back from a pale, oval face more striking than it was beautiful.
Something about the woman arrested Taylor’s attention. She wasn’t grieving. Her face showed no particular emotion at all, and it crossed Taylor’s mind that the woman might be just a curious onlooker, one of those people attracted to tragedy.
But there was something disturbing about her calmness. Her detachment. Something that made a chill course up Taylor’s spine as the woman slowly lifted her gaze.
Her stare was electrifying, her green eyes blazing with emotion that was in direct contradiction to the tranquil expression on her face. And at the moment, all that emotion seemed to be focused on Taylor.
With an effort, Taylor tore her own gaze away and forced her attention back to the service. But the feeling of being watched persisted. She could feel those green eyes boring into her back, and she had to resist the urge to keep looking over her shoulder. When the service finally ended, and she did allow herself to glance back, the woman had vanished.
Taylor had little time to wonder about her, however, as the mourners began to file by, extending their condolences. Dr. Elliot Westcott and his wife were among the first to approach.
“We were very distressed to hear of Brad’s death. He was a…talented physician,” Dr. Westcott said in an obliging, almost grudging tone as he offered Taylor his hand. Her own hand was dwar
fed by his, and his skin felt cold and smooth.
As soon as she could, Taylor pulled away. She had never really liked Dr. Westcott, even when Brad had been his protégé and she had been his patient. He was too arrogant and egotistical.
Taylor had always thought he wore his God complex like a merit badge, but the man knew his stuff. He was a world-renowned obstetrician who had saved the lives of countless women and their babies.
Taylor’s baby just hadn’t been one of them.
Beside him his wife, a lovely, delicate, Southern belle of a creature, murmured her condolences in a voice so soft Taylor had to bend closer to hear her.
The woman instantly retreated and Taylor knew why. Lorraine Westcott’s breath reeked of alcohol, and as she and her husband moved on, Taylor saw her stumble. Elliot grasped his wife’s elbow and propelled her toward their car.
Poor Alisha, Taylor thought. No wonder the Westcotts’ nine-year-old daughter, who attended Claymore Academy where Taylor worked as a guidance counselor, had so many problems. With parents like that—a cold father, a drinking mother—the child had started life with too many strikes against her. And Alisha was such a sweet little girl. She certainly deserved better.
But so many people deserved better than the hand that had been dealt them. Brad had certainly deserved a wife who loved him.
The line of people walking passed her seemed endless. Just when Taylor thought she could endure no more, a woman dressed incongruously in black wool stepped up. She wore a hat with a heavy veil that disguised her features, but Taylor thought the woman looked vaguely familiar.
“I’m very sorry about your husband, Mrs. Robinson.” Her voice held the merest trace of a Spanish accent. “But remember this. Things often seem darkest before the dawn.”
She extended a gloved hand to Taylor, and when Taylor accepted it, the woman pressed a newspaper clipping into her palm, then quickly turned and melted back into the crowd.
Curious, Taylor opened the clipping, but before she could read it, she heard a soft gasp from the crowd. As she looked up, she saw Deirdre Robinson, Brad’s mother, heading toward her.
The look of uncontrolled rage on Deirdre’s face stopped Taylor’s heart. Charles Robinson, Brad’s father, reached for Deirdre’s arm, but she shook him off. She was hell-bent on her mission.
“This is all your fault!” she screamed, lunging at Taylor.
With a loud crack, Deirdre’s palm connected with Taylor’s cheek, and she stumbled backward, putting a hand to her stinging face as Charles grabbed Deirdre and held her forcibly in his grip. The mourners who hadn’t already left stood gaping at the scene in stunned silence.
Taylor couldn’t move. She stood paralyzed by shock.
“You may as well have pulled the trigger yourself. You drove him to this, you bitch!” Deirdre struggled against her husband’s restraint. She was not a small woman. Like Brad had been, she was tall and wiry and surprisingly strong.
She pulled loose from Charles’s grip and faced Taylor like an avenging angel. Strands of gray hair sprang free from the clasp at her nape and hung limp around her pale face, giving her an almost demented look.
She pointed an accusing finger in Taylor’s face. “You were always thinking about that other man. Always wanting him. How do you think that made my son feel?”
Taylor had never felt so helpless. She put a trembling hand to her throat. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Deirdre glared at her in fury. “Sorry! You don’t know what sorry is. But you will. You’ll pay for this. If it’s the last thing I do, I swear I’ll make you pay for taking my son away from me!”
Drained, Deirdre collapsed against her husband as hysterical sobs racked her body. Charles ushered her toward their car and helped her inside.
Even after the limo had sped away, Taylor stood rooted to the spot, the grieving woman’s accusations echoing in her ears.
Miranda Walsh, Taylor’s mother, put a comforting arm around her daughter’s shoulder. “The woman’s distressed, darling. Beside herself with grief. Don’t let her get to you.”
Taylor nodded, but she had seen the look in Deirdre’s eyes. It was more than grief. More than just anger. What she’d seen in her mother-in-law’s eyes was hatred. Cold, black hatred.
SGT. DILLON REEVES SAT in his car and watched the bizarre scene unfold across the street in the cemetery. What the hell was going on over there? Since when did the crème of Memphis society turn on one another? Outsiders were the ones who usually faced their wrath.
Dillon turned away, muttering a curse as he rubbed his burning eyes. He hadn’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours. He and his partner had been pounding the streets, trying to get a lead on the murder of a young woman whose body had been pulled from the Mississippi River two days ago.
He told himself he should be back on the street right now, regardless of his lieutenant’s orders. Dillon didn’t need rest and he sure as hell didn’t need sleep. The last thing he wanted to do was go home to an empty, silent apartment.
But no matter how much it galled him, he’d had no choice but to comply with Lieutenant McCardy’s orders. Since the shooting four months ago and the ensuing hearing, Dillon had been relegated to a desk. He hadn’t yet been restored to full active duty, and the helplessness of his situation made him furious.
So what the hell are you doing here? Dillon asked himself grimly. He might not want to face an empty apartment, but Dr. Brad Robinson’s funeral was the last place he should be.
Yet for some inexplicable reason, here he was.
And here Taylor was, a widow nearly ten years after their final parting. Almost a decade since she’d dumped him for another man. For one of her own kind.
Ten long years.
Yesterday.
Dillon swore under his breath, his gaze returning to the cemetery in spite of himself. If he were being honest, he’d have to admit that he’d come here to see her, to see what she was like after all these years.
He supposed he’d always been a masochist, otherwise he never would have gotten involved with someone like her in the first place. But it hadn’t taken him long to realize that the son of a Mississippi dirt farmer didn’t stand much of a chance with someone like Taylor Walsh. Not if Miranda Walsh had anything to say about it.
From what he could see, Taylor was still breathtakingly beautiful, still utterly desirable and still just as completely out of his reach as she had been all those years ago.
The rich really are different, he thought bitterly. Dillon had learned that lesson ten years ago from Miranda Walsh, and it was one he didn’t ever plan to forget.
Chapter Two
The next two weeks passed in a blur for Taylor. She spoke with friends and relatives on the telephone, answered all the cards and letters she received and wrote thank-you notes for the donations that were made to Mercy General Hospital in Brad’s memory.
But it was her job that became her real salvation. At school, surrounded by all the fresh, hopeful faces of the students—and even the troubled children Taylor dealt with as a guidance counselor—her guilt over Brad’s death finally receded.
No matter what Deirdre Robinson had said, Taylor knew deep down that Brad’s death wasn’t her fault. There was nothing she could have done to save him. Staying in a marriage that had become a living hell wouldn’t have been healthy for either of them.
That Brad had been unable or unwilling to let go, even after two years of legal separation, had been a tragedy that couldn’t have been averted, no matter what she might have done differently.
And life does go on, Taylor thought as she locked up her office and walked through the empty school building. She just hoped Deirdre would soon find a way to deal with Brad’s death and get on with her own life.
It was after eight, and everyone else had long since gone home, even Mr. Thorndike, the headmaster at Claymore Academy, who always stayed late. The last rays of light glimmering through the hallway windows cast deep shadows along the corridor.
Taylor’s heels echoed eerily in the now-silent hallway, and the back of her neck prickled. Funny how a place that had been humming with life only hours before could now seem so lonely. So abandoned. And yet Taylor had the strangest sensation that she wasn’t alone.
A shiver crept up her spine as she continued down the dim hallway. A scraping noise, like someone bumping into a desk, sounded behind her, and she stopped, listening. She turned her head toward the sound, her pulse accelerating.
The light was off in the headmaster’s office, but the security light outside his window illuminated the interior. A shadow moved passed the frosted-glass door.
Taylor’s heart jolted. The noise hadn’t been her imagination. Someone was in the building with her!
The main entrances would be locked this time of day, but the staff used a side door at the end of the hallway. Taylor hurried toward the exit. She shoved down the bar handle, pressing her shoulder into the door. Nothing happened. She pushed harder, but the door wouldn’t budge. Someone had locked it from the outside.
On the fringes of panic, Taylor shook the handle and beat on the door. Turning, she scanned the dim hallway behind her.
“Is someone in here?” she called.
No answer.
Taylor didn’t know what to do. Go back to her office and phone for help? That would mean walking passed Mr. Thorndike’s office again. And if there was an intruder, he would surely see her.
Her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears that she almost missed the sound of footsteps slowly coming toward her down the hallway. She gasped as a figure—a boy she didn’t recognize—emerged from the shadows. He stared at her with big, round eyes.
Taylor let out a relieved breath, but her heart continued to race. She leaned weakly against the door. “Hello,” she said. “You startled me. Are you locked in, too?”
The boy said nothing, but continued to gaze at her intently. The absorbed expression on his face was beginning to alarm Taylor. Perhaps he was afraid of her, she thought. If he was a new student and he’d somehow gotten himself locked in, he might think he was in trouble.
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