SOMEBODY'S BABY

by Marilyn Pappano

  "It's not a bad splinter," she said as he sat down in front of her, "but I'm right-handed, and I can't seem to get hold of it, and I'm afraid I might have pushed it in deeper than it already was."

  He took the tweezers, then her hand. It was warm. Soft. Dainty. The palm was marred by little red pricked areas where she had removed other splinters, but there were no calluses, no roughness. Whatever work she had done in Nashville, if she had worked at all, hadn't left any marks.

  It wasn't a splinter in the meaty part of her hand near the base of her thumb, but a good-sized chunk of wood. Old wood and soft skin, he thought with a silent sigh. Removing it was going to be painful, and he would just as soon not do it himself. "Maybe you should see the doctor."

  "No." She said it quietly, with a faint shrug, but she meant it. She had spent the better part of the past three years in doctors' offices and hospitals, and, God help her, she was never going near either one again.

  "It will hurt," he warned.

  She looked at it for a moment. "What will happen if I leave it alone?"

  "It'll fester, swell. It may break open and expel the wood, but, most likely, it will get infected, and you'll still have to go to the doctor."

  "Then you take it out."

  The look in her eyes made him cold inside with sharp-edged panic. She shouldn't do that, shouldn't look at him with trust in her soft doe's eyes, shouldn't trust him not to hurt her any more than necessary. Didn't she understand by now that he despised her, that he didn't want anything to do with her, didn't even want to live in the same county with her?

  But here he sat, in her house, willingly holding her hand, hesitant to start the task because he didn't want to cause her pain. With a dismayed sigh, he laid her hand on his leg, holding her wrist to steady it, and began probing in the open flesh with the tweezers. He heard her gasp, felt the muscles in her hand go taut, but he kept searching, ignoring the trickle of blood from the injury.

  She concentrated on his hands, blocking out the pain in her own. They were twice the size of hers, big and strong and capable. They were callused from years of hard work, and his fingers were nicked and scarred in a dozen places. And they were gentle. Even though he hated her, he touched her so gently.

  "There." He eased the wood from her flash. Once it was out, the blood flowed more freely, and he held her hand, watching it.

  As reluctant as he had been to touch her, now he didn't want to let her go. But he did, slowly, sliding his hand away from hers, his fingertips trailing over her skin. He set the tweezers on the floor, went into the kitchen to get a towel and returned to wrap it around her hand. "Do you have firewood?" he asked, his voice still low, still deep, but uncomfortable now.

  "No," she murmured. "But I'll take care of it."

  "I'll bring some—"

  "No," she repeated. She had to tilt her head way back to see him standing over her. Awkwardly she got to her feet and faced him stubbornly. "I know you feel obligated to do these things because you're a man and I'm a woman and Katherine's mother. But I didn't come here to impose on you. I've been taking care of myself for a long time, and I can do it now. I appreciate your offer, but it's not necessary."

  Stubborn and proud, he thought, gazing down at her. It was an admirable combination, but one that could keep her pretty damn cold through the night. If she couldn't afford to have Terry Simmons check the fireplace, then she couldn't afford to buy firewood, either, and she certainly wasn't capable of cutting it herself.

  Well, he had plenty of wood, and it would cost him nothing to share it with her, because she was right. He was a man, and in his corner of the world, men took care of women as much as they could. Besides, in years to come, when Katie looked at him with her sweet blue eyes and asked about him and her mother, he didn't want to have to tell her that he'd treated Sarah badly.

  She lifted the towel and looked at her hand. The blood was clotting, thick and dark. She replaced the makeshift bandage, then met his eyes. "Do you have a picture of Katherine?"

  He did, in the worn wallet out in the truck, and dozens more at the house. But he didn't offer to show her any of them. "Why do you call her Katherine?" he asked instead.

  "Because that's her name."

  "It's too big a name for a tiny little girl."

  She smiled faintly. "Daniel was too big a name for a tiny little boy, but your mother never called you Danny, did she?"

  Slowly he shook his head, then pointed out the flaw in her argument. "But I was never tiny."

  No, she agreed silently. A tiny baby couldn't have grown into such a big man. What a sense of security he must give Katherine and the women in his life. "Have you ever been married?" she asked curiously before she could stop the question.

  For a moment the tension that held his face in a perpetual scowl had eased, but now it was back, and his eyes were as dark as a stormy winter sky. "No. I have no need for a wife. I don't need anyone."

  Sarah folded her arms over her chest, hugging herself for warmth against the sudden chill that had come from inside her. "Then you're a lucky man, Daniel Ryan," she said with a soft sigh. "A very lucky man."

  October 4

  Twenty-eight days, counting today

  Daniel tried to ignore the clock ticking in his head, counting down every minute of every hour left with Katie. He tried, too, to ignore the guilt inside him, but it was just as relentless as the passing of time.

  It was his own fault for going back down the mountain Tuesday afternoon with a load of firewood. Sarah had tried to refuse it, but he had ignored her protests and continued unloading it, stacking it neatly near the shed. The problem—and the guilt—had started when she'd walked back to the truck with him. Perched in Katie's empty car seat had been a ragged-eared teddy bear, her favorite toy—the only toy she had brought with her from Nashville and her mother. Sarah had reached through the open window and picked it up with trembling hands, then had hugged the bear, hiding her face in its baby-powder-scented fur, and sobbed.

  He had never been comfortable with women, and, like many strong men, a crying woman made him feel helpless and foolish. He had stood there, his hands at his sides, staring dumbly at her, an unwilling witness to her grief. She had regained control quickly, had thrust the bear into his arms and dried her cheeks, then apologized and thanked him for the wood and the help, and practically run into the house.

  He had told himself to forget the incident, but he couldn't. The image of her tear-streaked face and swollen eyes, of her slim body shuddering with sorrow, refused to leave his mind. She was desperately unhappy, and he was responsible. He was the only one who could give her what she wanted: time with her baby.

  Letting her see Katie was the decent thing to do, the compassionate thing, and he had always been a decent, compassionate man, hadn't he? What would it hurt? It would mean the world to her, but he told himself that to Katie, Sarah would be no different than Bonnie or Alicia Adams, just a sweet-smelling woman with soft hands and a soft voice, just another woman who loved children. As long as he stayed with them, never left them alone together, wouldn't it be all right?

  He didn't like playing the bastard, he admitted, didn't like the guilt that was eating him up inside. As much as he wanted to hold out, he wanted to give in more. He wanted to be fair—to Sarah and especially to Katie—and there was only one way he could do that.

  He finished his coffee and rinsed the cup in the sink. Katie would be waking from her nap soon. If she was in a good mood, he would dress her and take her for a visit. She would like that, even though she wouldn't understand the significance of it. Even though she wouldn't know how much it cost her father, or how much it meant to her mother.

  Sarah sat on the sofa, her knees drawn up to her chest, her chin resting on them. The three rooms of the house that she was using were so clean that they sparkled, and now she had nothing to do. There was no television or radio to distract her, no books to read, no work to be done. Nothing to do but relax.

  Unfortunately, in the mont
hs she'd spent nursing Tony, she had forgotten how to relax. She had forgotten how it felt to have an hour or two for doing absolutely nothing, and now she had twenty-four of them every day. How was she going to stand this for the next twenty-eight days?

  It was a beautiful fall day, the kind that drew travelers from all over to this part of Tennessee to admire the weather and the glorious colors of the changing leaves. She considered going out to the porch, where she could do the same thing she was doing now, only surrounded by beauty. But maybe she had forgotten how to appreciate beauty, too, she thought wistfully, because the only beauty she had any interest in seeing was that of her little girl's face.

  She had driven into town that morning and placed a call to Beth. Her friend hadn't been surprised by the way things had gone at the meeting with Daniel and Zachary, but at least she hadn't said, "I told you so." She had confirmed everything Zachary had said and told Sarah once again to do nothing until she could get there herself. "I'll be there next Tuesday," she had promised, "and we'll talk about what action to take then."

  The only problem was that Sarah didn't want to take any action against Daniel. He was simply trying to protect his daughter, their daughter, in the only way he knew how. Taking him to court wasn't the right way to handle things. What she needed was to convince him that Katherine didn't need to be protected from her. She would never take their daughter away from him, would never cut him out of her life, but how could she make him believe that? He thought she was selfish and cheap, a terrible person and a worse mother. Without knowing all the facts, why should he believe anything she told him?

  All the facts. She sighed bleakly. Should she relive the pain and the sorrow for him, so that he might think better of her? Was his opinion so important? Yes, of course it was—he was Katie's father. But was it more important than her desire to be accepted as she was—without excuses, without explanations, without opening her heart and her soul for his inspection? She didn't know.

  The sound of an engine in her driveway drew her out of her hopeless thoughts. Maybe Mr. Peters had come to fix that broken window. She had covered it with plastic, taped securely to the frame, but nothing would fix it like a new pane of glass. She rose from the sofa, the wood floor cool on her bare feet, and went to the door to look out.

  It was Daniel's truck. Slowly she stepped onto the porch, stopping at the top of the steps. Just as slowly, he climbed out of the truck and came to a stop in front of it. He stared at her for a long time, never moving, never speaking. He had done that that night in Nashville, Sarah remembered, and a faint smile touched her lips. But that night his eyes had been warm and gentle, and there had been a definite degree of male interest in them. Today they were hard and steely, measuring, judging.

  Her sigh was heavy and weary. She was tired of being judged, of being condemned by people who didn't know what she'd been through. Maybe if she told Daniel about Tony, about the constant care his illness had demanded, about the lack of money and a decent place to live, about the emotional strain of watching him die bit by bit—maybe it would make a difference. Maybe it would erase the derision from his eyes.

  Or maybe he still wouldn't understand, she admitted grimly, remembering his words in Zachary's office. There are always choices, Sarah. You were just too selfish to make the right one. Maybe she would give him everything, and it still wouldn't be enough. Maybe he would still blame her, still condemn her, still hate her. Could she risk that?

  Not yet, she decided. Not until he knew her. Not until he could see her as a loving mother, a caring person, and not some horrible creature who gave away her baby.

  She moved down the steps, stopping on the bottom one. "Hello, Daniel," she said quietly.

  Abruptly he moved, returning to his truck. Sarah watched, her face lined with bewilderment, until he returned. In his arms was Katherine.

  Her heart pounding, Sarah started toward them, unmindful of the rough ground beneath her tender feet. Her eyes were damp with tears when she reached them, and her hands were clasped tightly together. She wanted to laugh and cry, to thank God and Daniel, to hug and kiss him and offer him anything in the world, but most of all she wanted to hold her daughter, wanted to feel that small sturdy body in her arms, wanted to smell the baby-sweet scent of her, wanted to memorize every detail of her chubby little face.

  "Katherine." The name came out on a breath, a soft, insubstantial prayer. She held out her hands to the little girl, who studied her solemnly with eyes as dark and as blue as her father's.

  "No," Katie said softly after a moment, then laid her head against Daniel's chest, her fingers curling around the open collar of his shirt.

  Sarah knew it was foolish to feel hurt—the child didn't know her, couldn't remember her—but there was a pang deep inside anyway. Blinking away the tears, she raised her hand to stroke Katie's soft curls. "Oh, Daniel, she's beautiful," she whispered. "She looks just like you."

  The gaze he turned on her was disbelieving. No one in his lifetime had ever mentioned beauty in the same breath with him. "She's not usually shy with strangers," he said gruffly, then winced. He shouldn't be calling his daughter's mother a stranger, even if it was true. "She just woke from her nap." He shifted her to his other arm, then tickled her chin. "Katie, this is Sarah. Let her carry you while I get some stuff out of the truck."

  "No," Katie murmured, clinging tighter to him.

  "Katie—"

  Sarah laid her hand on Daniel's arm. "That's okay. She's forgotten me. Don't make her come if she doesn't want to. Why don't you come inside?"

  He gave a shake of his head. "I brought some wood to patch the floor."

  "But Mr. Peters—"

  "Leon Peters is seventy years old and slower than molasses. By the time he gets out here, the whole porch will be gone." He climbed the steps, skirted the hole and set Katie down. She toddled to the rail and immediately plopped down on her padded bottom. "Watch her, will you?"

  Sarah nodded, taking a seat nearby but not close enough to threaten the girl. While Daniel unloaded tools and boards, Sarah watched Katie, and Katie stubbornly ignored her, picking up a dried leaf, crumbling it between her fingers, then reaching for another. When she tired of that, she leaned back against the rail, wrapped her hands around one bare foot and studied Sarah.

  "Where are her shoes?" Sarah asked, glancing at Daniel when he returned.

  "She doesn't like to wear shoes—clothes, either, if she can help it. It's a game we play. I put them on, and she takes them off." He looked pointedly at her own bare feet. "Where are your shoes?"

  "I don't like them, either."

  Her smile made her look years younger. Daniel grew still, saw in hand, and watched until it faded. She was so lovely, so fragile looking. What had the last year been like for her? he wondered, searching her face for some clue. Why had she given away her baby for a whole year when she had so obviously wanted her?

  With a scowl, he turned to his job. He was getting soft, letting a pretty face affect his thinking, his judgment. The reasons why Sarah had given him Katie didn't matter. Nothing could excuse what she'd done. Nothing.

  While he removed the broken boards, then measured and sawed the new ones to fit, Katie and Sarah continued to study each other. Finally Katie scooted closely enough to touch Sarah's foot. After a moment, she laid her foot, sole to sole, against Sarah's. "Katie," she murmured.

  "You're a pretty baby," Sarah responded.

  The toddler emphatically shook her head. "No. Katie."

  "She doesn't like to be called 'baby,'" Daniel said, fishing a hammer from the toolbox he'd brought. "Can you steady this?"

  Sarah knelt across from him, holding the board still while he hammered in the first nail. There was a rustle behind her; then a fat little hand appeared on the board beside hers.

  Sarah turned her head to see Katie on her knees next to her, smiling brightly. "Hi," Katie said in her sweet little voice.

  This was her daughter, Sarah thought, feeling the ache deep inside. The last time
she'd seen her, Katherine had been three months old, able to do little but smile and cry and occasionally laugh. Now she was walking and talking, dressing herself—or at least undressing herself. She was friendly and happy and probably more than a little stubborn. She was growing up, and Sarah had missed so much of it.

  Lord, she wanted to hold her, wanted to wrap her arms around her and let Katherine's warmth fill all the empty places inside her. But she forced herself to keep her hands flat on the board. When her daughter was ready to be touched, she would let her know.

  "What do you do with her while you work?" she asked, turning to look at Daniel.

  He was bent over, his face only inches from hers. Knowing that he would see right into her eyes if he looked up, he kept his gaze on the board he was nailing down. "I keep her with me."

  "Doesn't that make it kind of hard?"

  "Why should it?" he asked, his tone defensive. "You don't even know what I do."

  She smiled. "You make furniture, mostly pine but some oak. Tables, desks, chairs, rockers—things like that."

  Then he did look, and all he saw were her eyes, soft, brown, gentle. "Did you have your lady lawyer check me out?" he asked snidely, reacting against the corresponding gentleness that she stirred within him.

  "No. You told me yourself. In Nashville." He had been willing to talk—uncharacteristically, she had guessed, for he seemed a man of few words—and she remembered it all. "You're thirty-four, you've lived in Sweetwater all your life, you don't like the city even though you occasionally have to do business there, you have a workshop at your house, and your work sells in expensive shops all over the South. Your father is dead, and your mother remarried when you were sixteen and moved to Florida, where she lives with her husband and their three children. You like working with your hands, like living alone, you like these mountains, and … you love children."