Daddy by Accident

by Paula Detmer Riggs

Prudy pretended to take offense. "Hey, you sound as though you don't like our deluxe accommodations."

  "I can't afford deluxe, or even economy class. I'm not even sure I can afford the cost of that box of tissues."

  The nurse looked startled and then embarrassed. "If there's a problem, I could contact Social Services for you."

  Stacy felt a sudden heat scalding her cheeks. The thought of having to apply for public assistance made her uncomfortable. "Don't mind me," she said with a laugh to show she wasn't really concerned. "I'm addicted to worrying. It's my drug of choice."

  "Sounds like my mother," Prudy said with a wry grimace. Settling back, she propped her feet against the bottom railing of the bed and yawned. "Sorry, it's the rotating shifts, not the company."

  An ambulance was approaching below, its siren's wail growing steadily louder. Down the hall, a baby cried and a woman crooned. According to the aid who'd served her breakfast, the birthing rooms were full. Five rooms, five moms in labor.

  "Nice flowers," Prudy said with a nod toward the hydrangeas. "I've got some just like that in my yard." Her eyes narrowed, then turned quizzical. "At least I did when I left this morning."

  Stacy adjusted the head of the bed and tried to ignore the sudden craving for a pastrami sandwich and a kosher pickle. "My Good Samaritan brought them by earlier. You remember him? The man who came with me in the ambulance."

  Prudy stretched out her legs and frowned. "Oh yeah, I remember him, all right. Boyd MacAuley, the flower-poaching rat."

  Stacy frowned. "You know him?"

  "He's my neighbor, and I'm going to kill him for stealing my pampered darlings, that's what I'm going to do." She sighed, then offered Stacy a look. "Not that I wouldn't have given him permission to pick them, mind you, but it would have been nice if he'd asked. Fat chance, though, since Boyd was never one for polite niceties."

  Stacy fought a fast battle with herself—and lost. Curiosity might kill a cat, but she'd always considered herself more bulldog than feline. Besides, she had to know. "I … suppose he doesn't live alone."

  "No, he lives with a ghost."

  Stacy blinked. "Pardon?"

  Prudy sat up and arched her back, as though working out a few kinks. "Boyd's a widower. For more than three years now, but to all intents and purposes, Karen's still in that house."

  "Karen is—was his wife?"

  The nurse nodded. "She was a Waverly. Her family owns mills. The complex where Boyd and I live used to belong to her grandfather—along with half of Portland."

  "What happened to her?"

  "An auto accident, what else?" Prudy shook her head, her brown eyes sad. "Karen was seven months pregnant. Luke Jarrod tried to save the baby, a beautiful little girl who looked exactly like her daddy, but the poor little angel only lived a few minutes longer than her mother. After that, Boyd just shut down emotionally. For a long time I thought we might lose him, too."

  Stacy thought back to the conversation she and Boyd had shared that morning—and the change that had come over him when she'd started gushing about the baby. No wonder he'd turned to stone.

  A wave of embarrassment ran through her, followed closely by empathy for a man who'd lost so much and yet had been so quick to comfort a stranger.

  "He's a nice man," she murmured, her voice thick.

  "You like him, don't you?" Stacy heard sympathy in the other woman's voice and looked up slowly.

  "Very much," she admitted, because there didn't seem to be a point in denying it. "I think I would have liked him even if he hadn't come racing to my rescue."

  "Stacy—"

  "Don't worry, I'm not mooning over the man," she assured the other woman whose clouded eyes and worried expression seemed to signal genuine concern. "Whatever romantic illusions I might have had about white knights and happily-ever-after endings faded a long time ago."

  "Ain't that the truth?" A piercing sadness came and went in the other woman's eyes an instant before she curved her lips into a smile and stood up.

  "Much as I hate to, I'd better get back down to the zoo. By this time the animals should be good and restless."

  Ever conscious of the tenderness lurking in her skull, Stacy offered a restrained laugh and a look of commiseration that Prudy returned before slapping her palm gently against her forehead.

  "For Pete's sake, I almost forgot the reason I came up in the first place," she muttered, shaking her head. "Yesterday, when I called the principal at the school where you're subbing, she said to give you her best regards and to tell you not to be in a stew about getting straight back to work. Something about a permanent position she thought might be opening up next September? I guess it fell through, so you're off the hook. I thought you'd like to know. There's nothing worse than being strapped to a bed when you think your world may be falling apart because you're on hiatus."

  Off the hook? More like, out in the streets, Stacy thought. She gulped down a wave of disappointment and wondered why she always felt like laughing when disaster struck. Hysteria, no doubt. To say the least, it was not good news that the permanent position at the school had not come through.

  "When it rains, it pours," she muttered, feeling suddenly battered on the inside, too.

  "Bad news?" the coppery-haired nurse asked. "Geez, I'm sorry. I thought—" She waved a hand. "Well, it's obvious what I thought. Getting back to work is usually a major concern. I kind of hoped the news would ease your mind." She shot a disgruntled glance at the ceiling. "Good going, Prudy, old girl. Traumatize the patient with bulletins of disaster." She brought her gaze back down to Stacy. "Jarrod will have my hide."

  Stacy couldn't help but chuckle, even though the gesture sent a pain lancing through her skull. "Hey, don't worry about it. Under normal circumstances, it would have eased my mind knowing I wasn't needed desperately at my workplace."

  "Only your circumstances aren't normal?"

  "And whose are?" Stacy asked with a tone of levity she was far from feeling. "We women are the stronger gender, remember. I'll survive."

  The question, at the moment, was how, she thought after she exchanged goodbyes with Prudy and watched her walk from the room. She'd been desperately hoping for the regular paycheck offered by a permanent position—and medical insurance for both her and the baby. At the moment she had neither. Every moment she spent in this hospital bed was costing her a fortune she didn't have, didn't even hope to have.

  Wearily she closed her eyes, but the desperate worry that had been her constant companion for six long months was still there, hovering, reminding her that she had another life to consider, another soul to nurture.

  Gently she pressed her hand against her womb and tried to imagine the face of the baby inside. Len had been an extremely striking man, with jet-black hair and startling blue eyes. Her own eyes were mostly hazel, unless she happened to be wearing green, and then they darkened to the color of moss.

  All her life people had been marveling at her eyes and the thick dark lashes framing them. Her best feature, they'd invariably declared, the only physical attribute of hers she cared to pass along to her daughter. The rest of her was little better than average, except her height, which was a good three inches below the national mean of five-six.

  No, Victoria would be tall and slender, with the grace of a ballerina, not saddled with her mother's two left feet and pear-shaped figure. Not if there was a God in heaven.

  The smile that always formed when Stacy thought of her daughter faded, replaced by a frown that tugged painfully at the bruised parts of her face. She had exactly $226 in her checking account, a tiny studio apartment that was paid for through the end of the month only and one suitcase of clothes for both herself and the baby. Everything else had been left in the house in Wenatchee Falls. It was all gone now, burned up in the fire that Len had started in a rage over the separation.

  Oh Tory, what are we going to do? she cried silently, feathering her fingers over the soft bulge where the baby lay. Even if she healed fast, it would be at least a w
eek before she was presentable enough to enter a classroom without frightening the children half to death. Worse, the school year would soon be ending, leaving her without even the meager earnings she'd been earning as a sub.

  Did McDonald's hire expectant moms? she wondered. Did anyone?

  The thought of having to swallow her pride and apply for welfare was disturbing. But what else could she do if she couldn't find work? She was an only child. Her parents were both dead, and Len's parents had written her off.

  She felt tears collecting in her eyes and blinked them away. What she needed now was a plan of action, a strategy to see her through the next three months until the baby was born and for at least six weeks after that. But what?

  Think, Stace, she urged silently. Use that brilliant intellect you're supposed to have to come up with something … brilliant. Okay, forget brilliant, she amended after a moment's consideration. Just come up with something that will work.

  Ten minutes later she was still trying when she heard a rap on the door. Wearily she opened her eyes to find a uniformed policeman standing in the doorway, looking ill at ease. For a frozen moment she thought it was Len standing there, returned from the dead to mock her.

  "Mrs. Patterson? I'm Officer Klein from Portland P.D. traffic investigations. Do you feel up to giving me a statement about the accident yesterday?"

  Shaking in relief, she cleared her throat and tried to marshal her thoughts. "There's not much to tell, Officer. My ex-husband was driving too fast and the car went out of control. We hit a tree and … and Len was killed. Leonard Patterson. He was a retired policeman, from the Wenatchee Falls, Washington, P.D."

  The officer approached slowly, his gaze giving the room and her an instinctive inspection. "Yes, ma'am. I got an ID from the DMV and a description of the accident from the witness, Dr. MacAuley, but—"

  "Oh no, Officer, Mr. MacAuley's a carpenter, not a doctor." Once again, she saw the hard, lean contours of Boyd's massive chest as he'd leaned over her. Muscles like those had been built up over a long stretch of hours spent in punishing physical labor.

  "If you say so, ma'am, only the ID he showed me said he was an M.D."

  Stacy furrowed her brow and thought about the steady note of confidence in his voice and the words he'd used. In utero, he'd said. At the time she hadn't noted the incongruity of the clinical usage and the sawdust frosting his massive shoulders.

  "Perhaps I was mistaken," she murmured.

  The officer shifted his feet and glanced down at the yellow sheet of paper in his hand. "Ma'am, according to the registration we found in the glove box, the Trans Am is in your name as well as your ex-husband's. Is that correct?"

  "I don't know. To tell you the truth I just assumed that Len had changed that when the divorce was final."

  Officer Klein nodded before consulting his notes once more. "There are charges for towing," he said when he glanced up again. "Since the insurance has lapsed, the owner is liable."

  Stacy stared, her mouth open, her breath stilled, unwilling to take in the words. When the officer began to look acutely uncomfortable, she realized that she was expected to respond. "How … much for towing?" she said.

  "One hundred and seventy-five dollars." This time there was no mistaking the apology in his tone. Lord, she must really look pathetic, she thought as she nodded slowly. Two hundred and twenty-six minus one-hundred and seventy-five was … fifty-one? Surely that couldn't be right, she thought desperately. But it was.

  "Leave the bill and I'll send you a check as soon as I get back to my apartment."

  "Yes, ma'am." But instead of handing her the bill, the man continued to stand stiffly, his expression troubled.

  "Is there something else?" she demanded, resigned to taking the bad news stoically, like nasty medicine.

  The officer glanced around, as though looking for backup, and Stacy's heart rate accelerated. "It's okay, Officer. I promise I won't go for your throat."

  That won her a brief smile and an appreciative salute from those cautious blue eyes. "Uh, there's also a storage fee."

  "How much?"

  "Twenty-five dollars a day."

  Stacy couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. She figured the baby would appreciate laughter more than tears, but even as she curved her lips into a smile, she felt the hot press of tears in her throat.

  "Leave that bill, too," she said in a voice that wasn't quite steady.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "And then do me a favor, okay? Blow the darn wreck to kingdom come."

  The young officer dropped the paper onto the bed tray next to the bright, lacy bouquet and fled. It was a long time before Stacy could stop shaking.

  * * *

  Four

  « ^ »

  "Please, please answer," Stacy pleaded silently, but the phone on the other end continued to ring and ring. When the receiver began to feel welded to her ear, she reluctantly gave up and let the receiver drop into the cradle on the table by the bed.

  "Nobody home?"

  The voice was sand over steel and familiar. Her heart was speeding even before she turned her gaze toward the man who'd uttered the words.

  Boyd was standing in the open doorway, looking ill at ease, as though unsure of his welcome. Was it the kiss? she thought suddenly. Had he regretted the impulse to show his support in such an intimate way? Or was he expecting her to be angry and bracing himself to apologize?

  She felt her face warming at the thought of that very controlled mouth relaxing over hers again. His breath had been flavored with strong coffee and restraint, yet for the briefest instant his lips had clung hungrily to hers as though he'd been the one in need.

  Her breath caught, then whooshed out in an embarrassing rush. It was silly to feel all warm and cozy inside at the memory of a single kiss. A kiss she hadn't been able to resent—or forget.

  "Nobody home," she echoed, curving her lips into what she hoped was a composed smile.

  "Someone special?" He raised one thick golden eyebrow. It was the one bisected by a scar and added a hint of wry humor to the rough-hewn face. It was a deadly combination of brooding intensity and hidden sensitivity that tempted a woman to take chances and ignore risks.

  "My downstairs neighbor. I was hoping he could bring me my purse and a change of clothes from my apartment." She waved her hand to show him it wasn't important. "I'll try him again later."

  He nodded and strode closer, bringing the scent of the outdoors into the small room. The rumpled look to his dark blue T-shirt and ragged jeans suggested he'd just come from the job site, as did the lines of weariness around his eyes. He needed a shave, she realized, and the dark blond stubble added rugged texture to an already unyielding jaw.

  "How are you feeling?" he asked as he set a small brown paper bag in front of her on the bed tray.

  "Psychedelic," she said, indicating the multicolored bruises surrounding both of her eyes. "Too bad it's not Halloween. I wouldn't have to rent a costume."

  His mouth softened as though contemplating a smile that never came. "Give it a week and you'll be back to normal."

  "I'll settle for presentable," she countered with a rueful smile that sent a sliver of pain into her right temple. "Ouch," she muttered, pressing two fingers gingerly against the now-throbbing spot, and held her breath until the ache eased.

  Mindful of keeping her head perfectly still, she lifted her lashes and found him watching her. "Everyone keeps telling me I've got to be careful, but who'd think the simple act of smiling would be dangerous?"

  "Depends on who's doing the smiling." His gaze flickered to her mouth and lingered until she felt her lips tingle and then part. He frowned then, and jerked his gaze to the door, as though looking for an escape.

  Surely this intensely masculine man who'd been so utterly cool in an emergency couldn't be shy, she thought. Or could he? The thought both gave her pause and aroused her protective instinct.

  "Would you … um, like to sit down?"

  "Sure, I guess I can st
ay for a few minutes," he said, after taking what seemed like forever to think it over. He glanced around, then pulled the chair closer before settling into the seat.

  "Is this for me?" she asked, touching the bag touting Mac and Joe's Famous Double-deckers. The thought of real food was making her mouth water.

  "Yep. I figured you'd be pretty tired of hospital cuisine by now."

  "You figured right," she admitted with a little laugh. "Four days of bland and boring is about my limit, even if it is good for Tory and me." Without bothering to hide her eagerness, she opened the bag and inhaled the wonderfully sinful aroma of hamburger grease.

  "I hope you ordered it with everything," she said as she reverently lifted the foil-wrapped burger from the bag.