His Secret Child

by Lee Tobin McClain

  She tucked her head down, but heard his soft exclamation.

  He moved away and the space where he’d been felt cold, as cold as the icicles that hung outside the windows, sparkling and dripping in the sunlight.

  And then he was back with a dish towel. He took her ever so gently by the elbows and pulled her away from the sink. Turned her around as if she were a child—and she was, size-wise, compared to him—and dried her hands. “Come on,” he said, pulling her toward the table. “Sit down. I have to talk to you.”

  She didn’t want this, didn’t want to get into some long discussion of her own inadequacies. Clearly, he felt bad. “It’s... I have a lot to do before the plows come. And you do, too. You have to get your stuff together.”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I know, but I think we’ve got ten minutes for a conversation, right?”

  She looked at the clock on the wall, an absurd teakettle with a face. “I’m not going to get out of this, am I?”

  “No, Fern. We need to talk.”

  She jerked out a kitchen chair and sat down. “So talk.” She was behaving like a sulky teenager, but it was better than being a lovesick idiot.

  He raised an eyebrow and spun another chair around so he could straddle it, leaning his arms on the chair’s back as he faced her. “I’m sorry I let those romantic feelings build last night. Is that what you’re upset about?”

  Let him think so. Let him think the mousy librarian was offended by his miserable joke of a pass. “Sure.”

  “I...I try to live a good Christian life, but of course I fail a lot, like every other human. You’re pretty and real and warm. I got attracted to you, and I let it show.”

  She nodded without looking at him. He hadn’t gotten all that attracted, apparently; he hadn’t even kissed her.

  He ran a hand over his hair. “In that kind of situation, when I’m feeling stressed or pressured or tempted, I try to grab on to God. He helps me, but it’s not always pretty.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m sure you’ve been in that kind of situation a lot.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Lots of emergencies, yeah.”

  “Lots of women, too, I’m sure.” Why was she talking about this? She sounded like a jealous fool.

  He shook his head slowly. “Not so many women. I was thinking more of other kinds of danger. You get good at those battlefield prayers.” He studied her. “No, I haven’t felt like that about a woman in... Well, ever.”

  “Right.”

  “It’s true. There’s a, I don’t know, some kind of spiritual dimension to what I—”

  “Look, why are you trying to flatter me? It was crystal clear that you didn’t want to kiss me, and I understand that. There’s no need to pretend otherwise. In fact, it’s kind of insulting.”

  He reached out and put a hand on either side of her face, forcing her to look at him. “I’m not lying. I really wanted to kiss you.”

  Was it true? Could it be true?

  “I wish...” He broke off, shaking his head.

  “What?” He looked so concerned and so vulnerable that her hurt feelings floated away. Borne by that line he’d started to say... What was it? That there was a spiritual dimension to what he felt for her?

  Could a librarian and a mercenary be soul mates?

  He flashed a smile that just about devastated her. “I wish we could stay here awhile longer. Just the three of us.”

  And then he unstraddled the chair, stood and pulled her into a hug.

  She wanted to protest. Needed to protest, needed to stop this. But the truth was his touch felt wonderful. The careful and respectful way he cradled her against his chest made her feel safe, safe in a way she never had felt before in her life.

  She remembered seeing other kids held by their parents like this, cuddled lovingly but with nothing malicious in the intention, no worries that things were going to go in a wrong direction. The only times she’d been hugged or held, that she could remember anyway, there’d been an accompanying smell of liquor on the breath and hands where they shouldn’t have been. Those times, she’d struggled to get away.

  And she’d learned to cross her arms and look away and keep her distance. She’d learned that getting close only led to something that felt ugly, a mockery of closeness. With a flash she understood why nobody ever asked her out: she’d learned to put out the “go away” signal, and she’d forgotten to let go of it after she was an adult and safe.

  Only Carlo had cared enough to push past that barrier, and he’d done it last night. He’d gotten her to talk, and touch, and feel. He’d told her of his admiration for her and he’d listened closely to how she felt.

  And when the time came for them to make a decision about where to go next, he’d backed off respectfully, choosing the wiser route for both of them.

  Fern was an independent woman and she never, ever relied on anyone except herself. But maybe, just maybe, Carlo was someone else she could rely on a little bit.

  He brushed back her hair and touched the corner of her mouth and looked into her eyes without smiling. “I still want to kiss you.”

  From a place inside her that she hadn’t known existed came a half smile and a warm feeling. “Why don’t you do it, then?” The words came out in a husky whisper, not sounding like a prim, shy librarian at all.

  His eyes went dark and he looked at her lips, then back at her eyes. “You’re sure?”

  She only nodded, staring at him.

  “Whatever else happens,” he said, “whatever you see or hear or think in the future, just remember one thing.”

  “What’s that?” Her voice came out a breathy whisper and she was warm, so warm. She leaned toward him, her tongue wetting her dry lips. She’d never kissed anyone before, not except for a quick peck at the end of a bad date, but for some reason she had no fear at all. She knew Carlo could guide her through this.

  She let her hand tighten on his arm, feeling the muscle bulge beneath his thermal shirt, and drew in her breath with a gasp.

  “I want you to remember, this is what’s real.” He touched her cheek with the tenderness she’d longed for her whole life.

  And then he proceeded to kiss her thoroughly.

  * * *

  Now, why had he done that? As soon as Fern got up and walked wobbly across the room, leaned back against the counter and stared at him, hand to her mouth, Carlo started yelling at himself inside his head.

  You’re an idiot!

  She’s gonna be even more upset when she finds out the truth!

  Should have stuck with the program from last night!

  But kissing her had felt so very good. So perfectly right, and that was something he’d never experienced before. Kissing her, and not just that, but being here with her, felt like coming home. To a home he’d never had.

  He was feeling an urge to pull Fern and Mercedes to him and never let go, to stay on a snowy farm with them forever.

  And to do that, he needed to tell her the truth before the plows broke through. The idea of letting her know that he was almost for sure Mercedes’s father made him break out sweating.

  “We need to talk,” he said before he could chicken out. “There’s something I—”

  “Let’s play a game!” Mercedes came racing in, her hair a messy tangle of curls, still in her princess nightgown. She flung herself against Fern, looking up. “Please?”

  So adorable, and Carlo felt a surge of love for her that was qualitatively different from anything he’d ever felt in his life. He’d lived to protect kids—that was half of what he’d been doing, fighting in Central America—but his own child multiplied anything he’d ever felt before by a number too big to name.

  Even more important that he tell Fern, so that the two of them could work it out and figure it out, could do this right, in
a way that made it good for Mercedes. “We’ll play in a minute, honey,” he said as Fern scooped the child up. “I have to talk to Mama Fern first.”

  Fern snuggled her face into Mercedes’s hair and then cut her eyes at him. “But sometimes Mama Fern doesn’t like to talk. Right, Mercedes?”

  “That’s right,” Mercedes explained to Carlo, her face serious. “Sometimes Mama Fern’s ears hurt from listening and her mouth hurts from talking, and we have to be quiet.”

  Fern’s cheeks went the most perfect shade of pink. “And that’s because...” she prompted.

  “It’s not anything bad about you,” Mercedes said, reaching out to pat Carlo’s arm reassuringly. “It’s just the way Mama is made.”

  Carlo’s heart expanded enough to hold a little more love. God bless a woman who could explain instead of yelling or shutting down, who could make a talkative little girl feel supportive and understanding about her mama’s need for quiet time.

  Fern was an amazing mother. And an amazing woman. And he really, really needed to find a way to tell her the truth.

  “What game should we play, sweets?” she asked.

  “I’ll go get one of Xavier’s!” Mercedes ran into the living room. He heard cupboard doors flung open, boxes rattling as they crashed to the ground. “Sorry,” Mercedes sang as she banged the boxes around.

  “Fern—”

  “Looks as if John Allen just started on the farm road,” she said, flitting away from him, hurrying through the door and into the living room to peer out the picture window. “It’ll be a while until he digs our vehicles out.”

  He followed. “But just real quick—”

  “It’s an introvert thing.” She put a hand on her hip and mock glared up at him. “Don’t you get it? I need time to process things before I can talk about them.”

  “Let’s play this one!” Mercedes produced a game from the stack and hurried to the fire. “You come sit here,” she ordered, tugging at Carlo until he caved in and sat where she was pointing. “And, Mama, you sit here.”

  She’d positioned the adults on either side of herself, and they formed a little semicircle facing the fire. Facing away from the window, from the outside world.

  Carlo drew in a breath and tasted a mix of happiness and fear, more intense than anything he’d felt in the worst jungle firefight.

  “Come on, let’s play!”

  Obviously, Fern wasn’t going to let him have the conversation he needed to have right now. And obviously, they couldn’t have that conversation in front of Mercedes. So he did what he’d done in battle: forced himself to stay in the moment.

  You did that by focusing on sensations, not thoughts. So Carlo took deep breaths, catching the whiff of baby shampoo from Mercedes’s hair and something muskier from Fern’s. He looked at the colorful children’s game and stretched out his hand to the warmth of the flickering fire. Felt the soft fur of the rug beneath them, their little island.

  “Your turn!” Mercedes nudged him, and he tried to understand the game. “What do I do?” he asked.

  Fern chuckled. “It’s for ages three and up,” she said, holding up the box lid to show him. “It’s not that complicated.”

  “You have to take your guy through the maze without waking up the daddy,” Mercedes explained. “If you land on the ones where you have to push the button, you might wake him up.”

  Carlo obediently rolled the dice and took a card.

  When Mercedes was done with her turn and Fern was taking hers, Mercedes looked at him seriously. “I don’t have this game at home,” she explained, “because I don’t have a daddy.”

  “Oh, really?” His heart thudded in a sick way.

  “Xavier has a daddy,” she said thoughtfully. “So he has this game about daddies.”

  “I see.” He glanced over at Fern, feeling that his guilt was written all over his face. But she was checking her texts, not paying any attention to their conversation.

  “Xavier got a daddy,” Mercedes said, studying him. “He didn’t have one, but then he got one.”

  Was this his cue to speak? He stared into the brown eyes so like his little sister’s. Lord? A little help here?

  “Right, Mama?” Mercedes leaned against Fern.

  “What, sweets?”

  “Xavier didn’t have a daddy, but he got one,” Mercedes explained patiently. “Maybe he—” she pointed at Carlo “—maybe he could be my daddy.”

  Carlo’s heart just about exploded out of his chest, worse than that time a land mine had gone off six paces away from him and his buddy.

  And just like then, he had the urge to preserve the person at risk. Had to protect Mercedes from finding out wrong, had to keep Fern from saying something negative about Mercedes’s absentee daddy that would come back to haunt him.

  He opened his mouth and closed it again. What could he say? Where did he start?

  “Every family is different, honey,” Fern said, stroking Mercedes’s hair. She didn’t look at Carlo, and he saw that her cheeks were pink. “It’s hard not to have a daddy sometimes, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Mercedes scrunched her nose. “It would be fun to have a real daddy to wake up for real, not just in a game. And for Donuts with Dad at school.”

  Relief flooded him, a cowardly relief as he realized the moment of absolutely having to tell Mercedes the truth was passing, thanks to Fern’s tactful words.

  Right behind the relief, the enormity of what he’d done by not being there crashed into Carlo all over again. Mercedes had been going through life without a dad. Seeing other kids whose dads were there for them and knowing she wasn’t protected like that. Of thinking her daddy knew about her and didn’t care enough to show up.

  “I know. Donuts with Dad was hard.” Fern side hugged Mercedes and nuzzled her hair. “I didn’t look much like a dad, did I?”

  The pressure on him averted, Carlo stared at Fern. “You went to her Donuts with Dad day?”

  “Well, yeah. She didn’t have anyone else.”

  “There weren’t any other single moms there?”

  “Tommy Tremain had his grandpa there, because his dad’s in a war,” Mercedes explained. “And Sierra doesn’t have a daddy, but her uncle came, and he’s a fireman. Chief...” She looked over at Fern for help.

  “Chief Kenny. Kenny Snyder,” she added for Carlo’s benefit. “Most people around here have extended families who can step in and help at times like that,” Fern explained to Carlo. “But I... Well, I don’t. And Kath’s family isn’t anywhere nearby.”

  “So that left you.” His heart hurt, a little bit for Fern and a lot for Mercedes. And for himself, because he’d have loved to be there, but he hadn’t even known he’d had a child.

  “Yeah, I was the only woman.” Fern wrinkled her nose. “A bit awkward. I’m not too good at talking sports with the daddies, but I can eat doughnuts really well, huh?” She ruffled Mercedes’s hair.

  “And Sierra’s uncle sat by you the whole time!” Mercedes proclaimed. She cocked her head to one side. “Maybe he could be my daddy. Then I’d have a fireman. A chief!”

  “Um, no.” Fern was blushing now, and she snuck a glance at Carlo through her hair.

  Carlo guessed all the dads had liked having Fern there. Especially Kenny Snyder, whom Carlo had known as a kid. Somehow Fern had gotten the idea that she wasn’t attractive, but that was a bunch of hooey. Even her shyness was just...cute. The men had probably fallen all over each other to make her feel comfortable.

  And that was a picture he needed to get out of his head, because it made him want to storm in and claim her in front of the whole town.

  As they turned their attention back to the game, Carlo studied Fern. In all that conversation about fathers—which sounded as though Fern and Mercedes had been over before—Fern hadn’t said one neg
ative word about Mercedes’s missing biological dad. He was grateful for that. And he could see, too, that telling Mercedes the truth about his own identity as her father would have to be handled delicately. She was of an age where she was noticing things, noticing how she fit into the world and how her own family compared with others.

  He needed to get Fern aside and tell her the truth about his connection to Mercedes, but it might not happen today. Even now he could hear the snowplows scraping on the road, bringing the outside world closer.

  He looked at the two heads bent over the game. Both with shiny brown hair, lit by sun, they looked like mother and daughter.

  They looked beautiful, and he wanted to wrap his arms around both of them and protect them from a world that was all too cold and dangerous.

  Treasure this moment. Because everything was going to change all too soon.

  Could they just have one more hot chocolate? One more laugh over a silly mistake Mercedes made in the game? One more shy exchange of glances in front of a roaring fire?

  But now the scraping sound was right outside the door, as if someone was shoveling the sidewalk, and Bull started to bark while the mama dog, Brownie, gave a low-keyed woof, as well.

  When the knock came, Mercedes jumped up while Fern held on to Bull. “Don’t ever open the door without an adult to help you check who’s there,” Fern warned. “Could you get that?” she asked Carlo.

  He strode to the door right behind Mercedes. “Lift me up,” she ordered, and he swung her into his arms so she could look out the high windows on the door.

  And who was he kidding? So he’d get another chance to hold his daughter.

  He looked out, too, and saw a smiling, bundled-up stranger with a shovel in hand. Drew in a breath, took one glance back at their warm, private haven.

  Then he opened the door with his daughter in his arms and a sense of impending doom.

  Chapter Nine

  As the door opened, Fern took one last look around the room where they’d spent much of the past three days. With game boxes scattered across the floor, it looked a little messy, but the fire and the lamp and the mugs they’d used for hot chocolate brought back memories already.