His Secret Child

by Lee Tobin McClain

  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

  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.