SOMEBODY'S BABY

by Marilyn Pappano

  "Sarah—"

  "Not Sair," Katie interrupted, waving her baby-sized spoon for emphasis. "Mama."

  "Hush," he ordered without looking at their daughter. "Sarah, if you need help…"

  She should have lied to him. She should have told him that she'd left her coat at home because she hadn't realized how cool it was. Maybe he would have believed her, or maybe he wouldn't. But it probably would have avoided this conversation about her finances. She just wasn't used to anybody caring about her, she admitted to herself.

  "I don't," she replied quietly, firmly. "A year ago, two years ago … I did. But now I don't." Now all she needed was Katie. Everything else would be all right then.

  He wondered about those dates, when she'd asked him to take Katie and when they'd had their affair. What else had been going on in her life at those times? Whatever it was, had it led her to have an affair with a stranger? Had it caused her to give up their daughter?

  For a moment Sarah thought he was going to ask her for an explanation, and she was going to have to easily, politely refuse. But the moment passed, and he didn't ask. He didn't want to know, she thought, and the idea both relieved and saddened her—relieved her because she was spared the refusal, saddened her because maybe he simply didn't care.

  They talked little through the rest of the meal. Katie welcomed all the attention they could give, so she was the buffer between them. After lunch Daniel cleaned up Katie and changed her diaper while Sarah rinsed the dishes and put away the remaining food. When they got ready to go out again, Sarah fastened Katie's jacket, then stood up to find Daniel offering one of his own jackets.

  "It's obviously way too big for you," he said awkwardly, "but it'll keep you warm."

  Pride prompted her to refuse, but good sense made her accept it. "Thank you." She put the jacket on, snuggled into it, smelled his scent as it settled around her and smiled impishly. "You're a good man, Daniel Ryan."

  October 14

  Sarah woke with a yawn and a stretch on Sunday morning, then quickly dove beneath the covers again. Once again the fire had gone out, and the room was so cold that her yawn had formed a frosty cloud. She had always taken central heating for granted, had known that with the twist of a dial she could keep the house comfortably warm. It wasn't that simple with a fire. When the logs burned brightly, the room was warm, sometimes even hot, but as the logs burned down, the temperature dropped, too. That meant adding more logs from her rapidly dwindling supply.

  She rubbed her cold nose with her warm hand, then slid lower under the covers. As she saw it, she had only two choices: either she asked Daniel to give her more wood, or she rationed what was left to make it last until the end of the month. Of course he would be more than willing to deliver another load of wood. He might not give graciously—he'd been stubborn, curt and insistent when he'd brought the first load—but he gave freely, willingly.

  It was a shame he wasn't married and raising a big family, Sarah mused, because he was a natural caretaker. He had been born to take care of things, of animals, of people.

  She'd seen it in his work, with the few cows and horses he still kept, with Katie, and even with herself. He didn't love her the way he loved everything else, but he was willing to take care of her.

  But if he was married, there would be no place in his life for her. Another woman would claim his time, his attention, his kisses, and he would never even look at Sarah. She found herself suddenly, selfishly glad that he'd never found someone to share his life.

  What did he do on Sundays? she wondered, slowly working her feet free of the blankets. If she got used to the cold gradually, her theory went, it wouldn't be such a shock to get up. Did he take Katie to church, or was it just another workday, as yesterday had been? Surely he took one day off to rest, to play with Katie, to do nothing except what he wanted to do. When she was up and dressed and warm again, she would make the walk up the hill and find out.

  She let the covers slide up to her knees. The muscles in her legs clenched and tightened, then slowly relaxed.

  She worried that he was getting tired of her. He hadn't said or done anything to make her think that—no, once he'd decided to let her see Katie, he'd given her unlimited access. In the past four days he hadn't complained when she arrived right after breakfast and stayed until dinner. In fact, he'd seemed, in a reluctant, grudging sort of way, to enjoy her company himself. He had occasionally talked to her, explaining his work, telling her a little about the Ryan family, recounting stories about Katie's time with him. And once he had kissed her. Well, kissed her back, she was forced to admit.

  The covers were up to her waist now. Since everything above that was covered by her nightgown, she threw back the blankets, sat up and swung her feet to the floor. The wood was like ice, and she worked out the morning stiffness in her joints quickly as she hurried to the bathroom to change.

  She had done laundry last night, washing her clothes in the kitchen sink rather than making the long drive into town to a Laundromat. Now her jeans and shirts hung semi frozen over the bathtub. If it remained sunny today she would hang them outside, then bring them in by the fire tonight, she decided as she tugged on her last clean pair of faded jeans.

  Getting ready to go was a simple matter of running a comb through her hair. She didn't wear makeup—hadn't even owned any since her supply had run out long ago—and all her jewelry had been sold. Even if she'd wanted to, there was nothing she could do to make herself look more attractive. This, she thought with a faint frown, was as good as it got.

  Daniel's jacket was much too big for her. Where it probably reached his hips, the hem came closer to her knees. The sleeves extended several inches past her fingertips, and there was practically enough fabric for her to wrap it around herself twice. But Sarah liked it. She liked that when she breathed deeply she could smell his scent. She liked knowing that it was his.

  After locking the house she slid the key into the coat pocket, then rolled back the sleeves as, she walked across the field and into the woods. She scuffed her feet through piles of brown crackly leaves, kicked occasional pinecones and climbed over rocks and fallen trees that blocked her path.

  She'd been born and raised in the city and had never spent any time in the mountains before this. She envied Daniel the pleasure of growing up surrounded by such beauty. It would be a wonderful place to raise their daughter so that she could learn to appreciate nature the way her father did. Sarah would bet that Daniel knew the name of every tree, plant and flower that grew on his mountain. Maybe he would teach her and Katie together. Maybe, even after November first came and she and Katie went to live in town, he would still let Sarah share their time together.

  She gave a forlorn sigh. Maybes—they characterized her entire life. Maybe Brent was a wonderful man, the one she'd been dreaming of all her life. Maybe they would live happily ever after. Maybe he would change his mind about not wanting a baby once it was born. Maybe the doctors were wrong about Tony. Maybe he would be the exception, the one who would live. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to spend the weekend with this sweet, gentle stranger from Sweetwater. Maybe she could take care of a baby and a dying child. Maybe Daniel would let her see Katie early. Maybe he would share their lives with her. Maybe he would learn to care for her. Maybe he would even learn to love her.

  Was there no end to her dreams? How many times did she have to be disappointed before she gave them up? Brent had been a selfish bastard, Tony had died, she'd had to send Katie away, and Daniel wasn't going to fall in love with her. It was that simple.

  Then she thought about that kiss. It had affected him as much as her. She hadn't had vast experience in that area, but she had been kissed by a few other men, and none of them, not even Brent, even in the beginning, had been like this. And there had been their weekend in Nashville. Daniel had no more been in the habit of picking up strangers than she had. There had been something special between them from the start, something that couldn't be explained by hormones, loneliness or lax morals.
Maybe they could find that bond again. Maybe they could strengthen it into something lasting.

  She grinned, an easy, carefree grin. More maybes. Maybe, after thirty-one years of dreaming, it was too late to change.

  Daniel glanced at the clock above his desk, then his eyes dropped to the calendar beneath it. Eighteen days before Sarah came not to visit but to claim her daughter. Eighteen days before Zachary filed the lawsuit that would take Katie away from her. Eighteen days to be friends.

  He wasn't sure when he'd begun to think of her that way. There were people in town whom he knew well, people he exchanged small talk with, but that wasn't being friends—it was part of living in a small town. Zachary was the only friend he'd had in years … and now Sarah. For eighteen more days.

  She was late this morning, but that was all right, because Katie had gone back to sleep as soon as she'd eaten breakfast. Was Sarah sleeping in, too, on that lumpy broken sofa she used as a bed? He could offer her a bed—there were several in the empty rooms upstairs—but instinct told him that her pride would take offense. It was a different matter from the firewood, when he'd insisted, or the coat. She could sleep on a lumpy sofa without endangering her health, but she had to have a warm room to sleep in and warm clothes to wear.

  It was silly of him to worry over her. She was a grown woman, married and divorced—a mother, for heaven's sake. She should be taking care of people, not being taken care of herself. But she was so thin, so slight, so fragile looking. She roused every protective instinct he had, but only because she was Katie's mother. Only because having a child together created ties that couldn't be easily broken.

  He glanced at Katie, sleeping on a quilt in front of the fireplace, then went to the window, laying his hand against the pane. Although the air was still cold, the sun was bright. By afternoon it should be warm enough to take Katie out, maybe to have their lunch outside. She'd loved their summer picnics in a field of wildflowers or the quiet, cool shade of the woods. They could go to the stone wall out back, where there would be room for Katie to play and plenty of sun to warm them. She would like it … and so would Sarah.

  Would Sarah carry out her plans to live in Sweetwater after she'd lost Katie? he wondered somberly. Or would she be so angry, so hurt, that she would want to get as far away from Sweetwater—and him—as possible? One thing was sure; she would hate him. For breaking his word, for lying to her, for deceiving her with every day, every hour, they spent together. But Sarah's hatred was a small price to pay for getting Katie. He could bear that.

  But what if she didn't lose? What if she got Katie and he was left with nothing? Zachary had warned him of the possibility, but it wasn't one he wanted to consider. Life without Katie would be unbearably lonely. Sarah had said that he could see their daughter whenever he wanted, but even daily visits wouldn't make up for the fact that she was living elsewhere. He would still be lonely and miserably empty.

  As Sarah was? his conscience prodded. He'd found it convenient in the past year to create two sets of completely opposite emotions—one that truthfully portrayed his own feelings regarding Katie, another that he was certain described Sarah's feelings. But he had been wrong. Wouldn't losing Katie be just as unbearably lonely and miserably empty for Sarah as it would be for him? There was no way they could survive a custody battle without a great deal of harm on one side or the other or both.

  But they had no choice. There were two parents and only one child. Someone had to lose. And it had to be Sarah.

  He returned to his desk and sorted through the papers there. There were orders to fill, letters to answer, bills to pay. In the past four days, with Sarah there to keep Katie amused, he'd accomplished more work than he had in the previous two weeks. Whatever else the next two weeks were, they should be productive ones.

  The knock at the door pulled him across the room. He let Sarah in, taking the jacket from her and hanging it next to his. Her cheeks were flushed, her smile warm. "Good morning," she greeted him softly, immediately noticing Katie asleep on the floor.

  It had already been a good morning, he thought dryly. Why, then, did it suddenly seem better? "Have you had breakfast?" he asked, watching her move into the center of the room.

  There he went again, Sarah thought, her smile deepening. Taking care. "I don't eat breakfast. It's too early in the day to face food. Were you working?" She gestured to the clutter on his usually neat desk.

  "I was just going through the mail."

  "Go ahead. I won't bother you." She sat down in a nearby rocker, kicked her shoes off, then drew her feet onto the seat. While Daniel hesitantly returned to his desk, she took the time to look around. She had been in this room numerous times since last Wednesday, but she was delighted anew every time.

  The room was large, with exposed beams and rough log-and-mortar walls. On one end a wall of rock rose to the ceiling, framing the fireplace that was the house's primary source of heat. The furniture was of pine, handmade and massive. Gathered in front of the fireplace were a sofa and two rockers, the lines straight and clean, the plump cushions oatmeal colored. There were tables, bookshelves and cabinets, and on the far side of the room, a desk, chair and pine file cabinets. The wide planked floor was bane except for a rug at the door and another in front of the fireplace, where Katie lay.

  There were few homey touches—a couple of photographs, none of them of Katie, scattered here and there, a half dozen bright-colored pillows, a wicker basket overflowing with toys—and the overall look was strongly masculine, but it was warm and comfortable. It was a welcoming room.

  Daniel considered the orders that he'd received. Some, those received from the retail shops he contracted with, had to be filled. The others, individual orders from people who had seen his work somewhere, went into a separate pile. He would fill them if he had time, but with the court case looming… He glanced at Sarah, contentedly rocking back and forth, and pushed that thought from his mind.

  Sliding his chair back, he asked, "Do you want some coffee?"

  She focused her dreamy gaze on him. "No, thanks, I don't drink it. I'll get it for you, though."

  He started to protest, but she was already on her feet, coming for his cup.

  "I'm the one intruding here," she said when she returned with the refilled cup. "I might as well make myself useful."

  "I told you that you could see Katie," he said gruffly, her remark about intruding pricking edgily at him.

  "But you didn't expect me to be here all day, every day, did you?" she asked matter-of-factly as she pulled the rocker closer to his desk.

  "Yes, I did." He had the satisfaction of surprising her into silence for once. "It's not a problem."

  A week ago he would have thought spending more than ten minutes with her was a problem. She smiled serenely, pleased with the progress they were making. "Are those orders for your furniture?"

  He glanced at the papers he held. "Yeah."

  "Business must be good."

  "Ever since country-style decorating became so popular, everyone who can afford it wants handmade solid wood furniture."

  "Will you do all those?"

  "I don't have time now. I'll fill as many as I can."

  Sarah drew her shoeless feet onto the seat again. Daniel glanced at them and thought of Katie, asleep with one sock on. The other was in the kitchen, and her shoes were somewhere between her room and the dining room. Like mother… The cliché died away unfinished.

  "Why don't you hire someone to help you?"

  "Because then I couldn't truthfully say that the pieces are made by Daniel Ryan."

  She smiled sheepishly. "I suppose people pay for the name, too, don't they? They don't want to buy a chair made by John Smith, Daniel Ryan's assistant. But you could get someone to help with the less important jobs. You could still do the designs and have control and oversee it all."

  He shook his head. "About the only part I'd want help with is this, the paperwork."

  "Well, when you get married, your wife can do that." />
  The innocent remark caused similar reactions in both of them. Daniel looked uncomfortably away and tried to relax the stiffness that had spread through him. Sarah was stiff, too, displeased with the idea of Daniel married … to somebody else.

  Turning back to his work, he said flatly, "I'm not getting married."

  She didn't know what pushed her—the lack of emotion in his voice, the hostility in his manner or her own stubbornness—but she asked the question anyway. "Why not?"

  "I have a daughter. Why would I need a wife?"

  Was that how he saw marriage? she wondered unhappily. As a means of getting a child? "What about love, Daniel? Happiness, satisfaction, understanding, friendship? What about other children—sons, more daughters? A wife can give you all that."

  He swiveled the chair around to face her. His expression was dark, challenging. "Did your husband give you those things? Did he make you happy? Did he satisfy you? What happened to the love and the understanding and the friendship when he divorced you? What about the children, Sarah, the sons and the daughters? Where are they?"

  Daniel watched the color disappear from her face, and she huddled tighter, shrinking away from him. Her eyes were wide with shock and brimming with tears. She looked as if he'd struck her without warning or provocation, and he felt that way too. What right did he have to throw her marriage in her face? He knew nothing about it, didn't know the reasons it had failed, or if she had loved her husband—or if she still loved him.

  He knelt in front of her and reached out, his big hand unsteady, to touch her. "I—I shouldn't have said that." The words came out slow and rusty. It wasn't an apology, exactly, but it was the closest he could come to one.