Nine months pregnant with his baby. And something had happened to Liza.
Most of Wedlock Creek had lost power that night, and the clinic’s backup generator had blinked out twice. There had been so many accidents in town—from tree limbs falling on houses to car wrecks and pickups in ditches. Liza had made it to the clinic in one piece but had not survived childbirth. A tragedy that had had nothing to do with the storm or the clinic.
Liam closed his eyes again, then shook his head to clear it. He had to call his lawyer, reorganize his morning and get to the clinic.
He headed back inside the nursery for Alexander. At least he’d have some unexpected extra time with his son this morning, after all.
* * *
Shelby Ingalls sat in an uncomfortable folding chair in the Wedlock Creek Clinic’s administrator’s office, holding her baby son against her chest in the sling he was fast asleep in. She glanced at the doorway, hoping the woman would come back and get this meeting—whatever it was about—underway. Opening time at Treasures, her secondhand shop, was ten o’clock, and Shelby wanted to display the gorgeous antique frames she’d found at an estate sale the other day and the cute new mugs with napping beagles on them. She knew several of her regular customers would love those.
She’d been about to head down to the shop when Anne Parcells had called, asking Shelby to come in and “bring the minor child” and her attorney. The phrasing and the word attorney had freaked her out, but the administrator had refused to say anything else. Shelby had been so panicked that it had something to do with Shane’s blood test, that he was terribly ill after all. A week ago she’d brought him into the clinic for a stomach virus and had been waiting for the results, which she’d been sure would reveal nothing since the virus had cleared up and Shane was back to his regular happy little self. But despite the director assuring her that Shane was perfectly healthy, Anne Parcells again requested that she come immediately to the clinic—and to bring an attorney.
First of all, Shelby didn’t have an attorney, and despite the size of her extended family, there wasn’t a lawyer in the bunch. Nor did she want this weird request from the director to become family fodder until she herself knew what it was all about. Her sister, her mother, her aunt Cheyenne and a bunch of cousins would be crowded in the back of this room if she’d let anyone know. So she’d called her sister, Norah, who despite being a chatterbox who knew everyone and all the town gossip, could keep a secret like no one else. Turned out, Norah was newly dating a lawyer, an ambulance-chasing type, and so much of a shark that she was thinking of breaking up with him because of it. A few minutes later Norah had called back and assured Shelby that David Dirk, attorney at law, would meet Shelby at the clinic by 9:10—and that the meeting was probably about some lawsuit from the night Shane was born because of the storm and the generator failing twice. In any case, Norah had promised to keep mum about the meeting and texted:
I get to know what it’s about, though, right? Call me the minute you’re out of there!
Shane stirred against her chest, and she glanced down at her dear little son, caressing his fine brown wisps. A moment later, an attractive guy in his early thirties appeared in the doorway. He had a baby face and tousled hair, but he wore a sharp suit and had intelligent eyes behind black-framed glasses. Not Norah’s typical brawny rancher type.
“David Dirk,” he said, extending a hand and sitting down beside her. “When the administrator arrives and says her spiel, don’t comment, don’t agree to anything, don’t answer anything with yes or no. In fact, let me speak for you.”
“I always speak for myself,” Shelby said. “But I’ll listen to your advice and we’ll go from there.”
Before he could respond, two other men appeared in the doorway, and at the sight of the one holding a baby wearing a brown cowboy hat, Shelby almost gasped.
She knew him. Well, she’d seen him before. And she’d never forget his face. Not just because he was incredibly good-looking—six feet one or two and leanly muscular with thick, dark hair and gorgeous blue eyes, a dimple curving into the left side of his mouth. It was that she’d never forget the combination of fear and worry that had been etched into his features, in those eyes. The night she’d given birth, he’d been sitting in the crowded waiting room of this clinic, his head in hands, when the ambulance EMTs had rushed her inside on a gurney. He’d looked up and they’d locked eyes, and despite the fact that she was already in labor and breathing and moaning like a madwoman, the complex combination of emotions on the man’s face had so arrested her that for one single moment, she’d been aware of nothing else but him. Given the pain she was in, the contractions coming just a minute and a half apart, that was saying something. A second later she’d let out a wail that had even her covering her ears, and the EMT had hurried into a delivery room.
She’d wondered about the man in the waiting room ever since, if whomever he’d been waiting on had been okay. There had been one hell of a storm that night, so much blinding snow that a ten-minute ride to the clinic from her apartment above her shop had taken almost an hour.
Because she was now staring at the man with the baby cowboy, he glanced at her, and she could see he was trying to place her.
“Good morning,” a woman said, her voice serious as she appeared behind the two men in the doorway. “I’m Anne Parcells, administrator of the Wedlock Creek Clinic. All parties are here so let’s begin. Please,” she said, gesturing for the men to enter and to sit in the two chairs positioned to the left of her desk. Shelby and her attorney were seated to the right. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Ingalls and Mr. Mercer.” Introductions were made between attorneys and parties, the door was closed and everyone was now seated.
Please get to the lawsuit or whatever this is about so that I can get back to the store, Shelby thought. Three of her favorite regular customers, the elderly Minnow sisters, came in every Friday morning at the shop’s opening time of ten o’clock to see what she might have added to the shop for the weekend rush. She hated to keep them and any new customers waiting. Wedlock Creek was a small town, but had its own rodeo on the outskirts and a bustling downtown because of it, so folks came from all over the county to enjoy a bit of the Wild West, then walk the mile-long Main Street with its shops and restaurants and movie theater with the reclining seats. Business was semi-booming.
The administrator cleared her throat, her expression almost grim. Shelby felt for the woman. The Wedlock Creek Clinic, a nonprofit that included an urgent care center, was a godsend for so many in the county, since the county hospital was forty-five minutes away. A lawsuit had the potential to close the clinic.
“I’m going to just say this outright,” Anne said, looking up from some paperwork. “A week ago, Ms. Ingalls—” she gestured to Shelby “—brought her six-month-old son, Shane, to the clinic with a stomach virus. A standard blood test was run. This morning our lab returned the results, noting a discrepancy with Ms. Ingalls’s blood type and Shane Ingalls’s blood type.”
A discrepancy? Huh? Shelby leaned forward a bit, staring at the woman, who glanced at her for a moment, the expression in her eyes so compassionate that the hairs rose on the back of Shelby’s neck.
Anne Parcells looked down at the papers in her hands, then back up. “Based on the results, it would be impossible for Ms. Ingalls to be Shane’s biological mother.”
What the ever-loving hell? Shelby bolted up, her arms around Shane in the sling. “That’s impossible! Of course he’s my son! I gave birth to him!”
The administrator’s expression turned grim again. “The test was run three times. I’m afraid that Shane Ingalls cannot be your biological son, Ms. Ingalls.”
Shelby’s legs shook and she dropped down on her chair, her head spinning. She tried to make sense of the words. Not your son. Discrepancy. Impossible.
This had to be a mistake—that was the only explanation. Of course Shane was her son!
“Jesus,” David mutter-whispered.
Shelby closed her eyes, trying to keep hold of herself despite the feeling coming over her that sh∆e was going to black out. She felt herself wobble a bit and grabbed David’s chair to steady herself.
He put a bracing arm around her. “We’ll have your and Shane’s blood drawn again and retested in a different lab,” he said.
She sucked in a breath and nodded. Yes. Redone. A different lab. It was a mistake. Just a mistake. The results would prove she was Shane’s mother. She was!
“Excuse me,” Liam Mercer’s lawyer said, darting a compassionate glance at Shelby. “But what does this have to do with my client?”
The administrator took a deep breath. “Based on the results and a discussion with a night-shift nurse who retired three months ago, we believe your babies—Shane Ingalls and Alexander Mercer—born within minutes of each other in the early-morning hours of November 5, were accidentally switched at birth.”
Chapter Two
Shelby gasped.
“That’s impossible,” Liam Mercer said, his gaze narrowed on the administrator, then on Shelby. “Come on.”
The woman glanced from Shelby to Liam, then said, “In the chaos of the storm, the nurse didn’t follow procedure to secure an identifying bracelet around the male babies until the generator kicked back in. She was positive she’d put Ms. Ingalls’s baby in the left bassinet and Ms. Harwood’s in the right. But because we now know that Shane Ingalls can’t be the child Shelby gave birth to, she thinks she must have made a mistake.”
Liam stood up, tightening his hold on the baby in his arms. “That’s ridiculous. Like Mr. Dirk said, the blood test results are a mistake. A mislabeled vial, and voilà, mother and baby are suddenly not related. There was no switching of babies.”
“Mr. Mercer,” Anne Parcells said. “I wish that were the case. However, given that the generator failed at precisely the time when both babies were taken, within minutes of each other, to the pediatric clinic to be weighed and measured and cleaned up, it’s entirely possible that the nurse accidentally switched the babies. I also wish that the blood type issue could be a mistake, but Ms. Ingalls’s blood was drawn twice on prior visits to the clinic during prenatal care—and documented, of course. Her blood type is not compatible with Shane’s.”
Oh, God. There went her last hope.
“Entirely possible isn’t good enough,” Liam said, his voice ice-cold. “Either the nurse did switch the babies or she didn’t. If you don’t know for sure, then...” He shook his head, then stared at Anne Parcells. “Wait a minute. Alexander was born here, so you must have his blood type on record and his mother’s. Are they compatible? I’m sure they are.”
The administrator nodded. “Alexander’s blood type, one of the most common, is a match for Liza Harwood’s. However, it’s also a match for Ms. Ingalls. Which leads to next steps. DNA tests must be conducted.”
“There,” Liam said, “Alexander’s blood type is compatible with his mother’s. And mine, I’m sure. He’s my son.”
“You visited the urgent care center twice in the past five years, Mr. Mercer. Your blood type is on record. Your blood type is compatible with Alexander’s, as well.”
The relief that crossed Liam’s face almost had Shelby happy for him. But she was barely hanging on.
“This is all some mix-up with Ms. Ingalls and her son’s blood type but it has nothing to do with me.” He looked over at Shelby then, his expression a mix of confusion and worry. Just like the night she’d first seen him. “I don’t mean to sound cavalier at your expense, Ms. Ingalls, but this is a mistake,” he said to her. “It has to be.”
“He’s right!” Shelby shouted, panic and bile rising. “It’s all a mistake. It has to be a mistake!”
“There were four babies born the night of November 5,” the director said. “Two boys and two girls. If there was a switch, it was between Shane Ingalls and Alexander Mercer.”
The lawyers began talking, but Shelby’s ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton. As Liam began pacing, she glanced at the baby in his arms—and gasped.
“What?” Liam asked, freezing, his gaze narrowed on her again.
“The little birthmark on his ear,” she whispered, standing up. “I have it, too. So does my grandmother.” Norah didn’t have it. Her mother didn’t have it. But Shelby did.
Everyone peered at the tiny reddish-brown spot on the baby’s earlobe. Then at Shelby’s ear.
“Oh, for God’s sake. It’s nothing,” Liam said, shifting Alexander in his arms so that he was out of view. “It’s a mark that will fade away.”
Shelby’s legs shook to the point that she dropped back down in her chair. She stared at Shane’s dark hair, so unlike her own, which was blond. But Shane’s father, a bronc rider she’d foolishly married after a whirlwind courtship and who’d left town with another woman the moment Shelby told him she was pregnant, had Shane’s same dark hair. He had blue eyes, too, just like Shane.
But the baby in Liam Mercer’s arms was also dark-haired. Also blue-eyed.
In fact, the babies looked a lot alike, except for the shapes of their faces, and Shane’s features were a little sharper than Alexander’s. Did Shane look like Liam Mercer? Okay, yes. But he also looked a little like Shelby. Even if no one ever commented on that. He must look like his daddy, she’d heard someone say a time or two as they’d peered in Shane’s stroller, then at her.
She suddenly felt dizzy and put her hand on her lawyer’s chair to brace herself again. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. This could not be happening.
It was a mistake. Shane was her son.
Liam’s lawyer also flipped through the paperwork, then looked up. “As there’s no reason to believe that Alexander West Mercer is not my client’s biological child, based on blood type, we’ll await DNA results before any further discussion.”
Shelby’s lawyer nodded. “We’ll have Shelby’s and Shane’s blood tested for type at a separate facility. Until those results come in, we also will proceed with the understanding that Shane Ingalls is Shelby Ingalls’s biological child.
Thank God Norah was dating a lawyer. Shelby’s mind was in such a state that she’d never have thought of that.
“If that is agreeable to both parties,” the administrator said. “Of course I’ll need you both to sign some documents.”
Shelby stared down at Shane, the voices retreating as everything inside her went numb. She held him as close as she could without squeezing him. He was her son.
“I saw you,” Liam said, a reluctant awareness edging his deep voice.
Shelby looked up. Liam was standing in front of her and staring at her.
“The night Alexander was born,” he said. “I was in the waiting room and you were suddenly wheeled in, but another gurney was blocking the doorway. I was afraid you’d deliver right there in front of me.”
“I remember,” she said. The sight of you, the way our eyes met, gave me something concrete to focus on.
“I’d like to confer with my client,” Liam’s attorney said.
“As would I,” Shelby’s lawyer said.
Liam and his lawyer stepped to the back of the room. Shelby and hers stayed at the front.
“Until we have your blood tested again, Shane is your son same as he was a half hour ago,” David said. “Even if the results indicate that you and Shane can’t be biologically related, operate under the assumption that he is your child under the law until the DNA tests are in.”
He is. He is my son! But she heard herself ask the impossible. “What if he isn’t?” she said, her voice strangled on a sob. “What if he’s not my son?”
“Then the four of us will meet again, Shelby. But until we know for sure, don’t agree to anything Mercer or his attorney asks of you and for God’s sake, don’t sign anything. Do you hear me?”
She nodded. “I hear you.”
The administrator took Shelby and Liam and their attorneys into a room, explained in detail how the DNA test worked, then had a technician swab the inside of their mouths and draw blood for good measure, vials labeled with their names. In addition to their attorneys, two techs served as witnesses and the entire process was videotaped to assure all was handled correctly. Shelby and Liam both watched, eagle-eyed, as the swabs and vials were sealed into separate bags.
“I’ll also have my and Shane’s blood drawn at Cottonwood County Hospital today,” Shelby said. “I’ll ask for the results to be forwarded to all parties.”
Finally, after another clipped speech about how sorry the administrator was and that she’d call the moment the DNA test results reached her desk, the attorneys left, and Shelby and Liam Mercer were alone.
Liam had the same expression on his face that Shelby had to have on hers. Shock. Confusion. And fear. He was looking down but not at his son or at the floor.
“I’m hanging on to useless hope,” she said. “If Shane isn’t my biological son, if the babies were switched, then the baby in your arms is my child?” She shook her head. “This is crazy.”
“Alexander is my son,” Liam practically growled, his expression so fierce she took a step back. “Sorry,” he said. “I know you’re going through the same thing I am. I don’t mean to take this out on you, of all people.”
She bit her lip and let out a breath. Was the baby in Liam’s arms her son? Had she walked out of this clinic six months ago with someone else’s child? And left her own behind? Tears pricked her eyes.
“May I see him?” Shelby asked, blinking back hard on the tears. “Up close?”
Liam hesitated, then stepped toward her. Shelby tried to stifle the gasp. Alexander Mercer did look an awful lot like her. Down to the shape of the eyes, his face, something in his expression and the little Ingalls birthmark. But he had a dimple—like Liam. None of the Ingallses had a dimple.
The Baby Switch! Page 2
