DADDY BY CHOICE

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  Madelyn felt her insides trembling as she tried to memorize every expression, every curve and line. Dearest Jenny, you were only four days old and I kissed every inch of your dear funny little face. And I held you until my arms were numb…

  Madelyn's stomach clenched as she saw hints of her own face in the spatter of freckles across the delicate cheekbones and the shape of her chin. But the sooty brows and determined mouth were feminine versions of Luke's. Her daddy's little girl, she thought as her heart wept.

  "I … my mother told me that a woman named Tricia had stopped by my house." She laughed nervously. "But you already know that." She realized her hands had grown slippery and she wiped them on her shorts. "Can I get you some juice or a soda? Or something to eat? I have some leftover meat loaf or I can fry some chicken. It's my grandmother's recipe. Your great-grandma, honey."

  At the mention of their family tie, those thin shoulders stiffened. "No thank you, ma'am. I ate at a truck stop on the interstate a few miles back." There was pride in the angle of her jaw. So much pride. The kind she'd seen in too many neglected teenagers over the years. Her heart contracted.

  "You drove?" she asked, careful to keep her tone even. "All the way from Texas alone?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Madelyn bit her lip, so eager to hug her child it hurt. But first they needed to get past the resentment and anger she sensed beneath the pride. She understood of course. But still, she hoped. "Would you like to sit down?"

  "Can't stay but a minute." Both hands clasped tightly around the cheap denim purse, Tricia looked around warily. "Is all this yours?"

  "No, it belongs to the woman who owns this house. I'm only renting it until the baby is born."

  "Are you going to throw this baby away like you did me?"

  Madelyn gasped softly, her hands instinctively cupping her belly. "I didn't throw you away, Tricia," she rushed to assure her child. "I wanted you desperately. Every night when I rubbed lotion on my tummy, I told you all the things we would do together and how much I loved you."

  Tricia stared at her in stony silence. This was the child she'd carried in her body for eight long months. There should be a connection, shouldn't there? A subliminal memory of their hearts beating with one rhythm. But those bluer-than-blue eyes never wavered, never warmed. Protecting herself from more hurt, Madelyn thought. Like her daddy at eighteen.

  Still, Luke's hard shell had vulnerable places. Maybe his daughter's did, as well. She took a step closer, then froze when Tricia's gaze darted toward the door as if she was getting ready to bolt.

  "I know it sounds trite, but I was only seventeen. Not even out of high school. My parents are good people, Tricia, but Daddy's business was in trouble and Mama was sick a lot. I would have found a place of my own, but I had no money, no job. I couldn't even buy diapers for you." She took a breath and worked to steady her voice. "I had no choice."

  "What about the guy who provided stud service? Or didn't he want me, either?" The hurt was sharper now, riding just behind that hard cynical shell.

  "Your … father didn't know about you until after I'd … given you up."

  "Yeah? What was he—a one-night stand or something?"

  "We knew each other for four days actually, but yes, I can't lie to you, you weren't planned. But that doesn't mean I didn't love you from the first moment I felt you move."

  Tricia's shrug was so terribly casual, like a little girl facing her worst fear alone because she had no one to hold her hand or hug her tight. Is this what her life has been like? Madelyn thought on a wave of renewed anguish.

  "He … lives right here in Portland, your father," she said, choosing her words with care. "His name is Lucas Oliver Jarrod. He grew up on a ranch in Arizona, and for a while he competed on the rodeo circuit, until he had a bad accident. Now he's a doctor, an obstetrician. And a wonderful loving man. You … you look just like him."

  Her daughter's eyes narrowed, then took on a calculating glint. "Is he rich?"

  Madelyn was nonplussed. "To tell you the truth, I don't know. I suppose he's comfortable, although his house is modest and he drives a Jeep and he … he wears old work shirts and jeans most of the time."

  Tricia gave her a considering look before wandering over to the ornate player piano tucked against one wall. She reached out to run her fingers over the yellowed keys. It wasn't quite a caress, but there were memories crossing her face now. Pleasant ones, Madelyn realized on a flare of hope.

  "Do you play?"

  "I used to play a lot—until Felicity sold my piano."

  "Felicity?"

  "The wicked stepmother." She turned to give Madelyn a mocking look. "My real mother died when I was nine. Breast cancer." Her voice thinned, but held steady. The girl had courage, Madelyn thought with a jolt of pride. "Daddy kept saying how his heart was in the grave, and then he up and married his secretary six months later."

  "Perhaps he was lonely," Madelyn suggested cautiously.

  "Horny as a randy old goat is more like it. And Felicity, she knew just how to play him, too. Gushed all over me, like she couldn't wait to be my mama. Until after the wedding—then I was just a nuisance she shipped off to boarding school."

  "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. That must have hurt."

  Again that shrug. That sad stiff vulnerable movement. This time Madelyn saw the helpless pain it was meant to conceal. "I got over it."

  "Your daddy lost his mother when he was nine, too."

  "Like I care."

  Madelyn winced at a sudden kick just below the third button of her sleeveless shirt. "Whoa, that was a good one."

  Alarm flared in Tricia's eyes. "Are you all right?"

  Smiling ruefully, she smoothed both hands over her belly. "I think your baby brother is getting bored with his little nest."

  Tricia's mouth tightened. "Don't call it that! I don't have a brother and you're not my mother."

  "Yes, Tricia, I am. You're angry at me for giving you up for adoption, and I can understand that. Maybe you even think your life would have been better if I hadn't, but I promise you, it would have been miserable at best. All I had to give you was my love, but a baby needs warm blankets and good food and … and so many other things I couldn't give you." Shaky now, she braced one hand on the arm of the couch and lowered her bulky body to the plush seat. "I didn't have a choice. Jen—Tricia. I swear."

  "Oh, yeah, right, it was for my own good." Her voice dripped sarcasm and her eyes seethed. Witnessing her daughter's pain had Madelyn's eyes filling with helpless anguish.

  "It was! I wish you'd believe me."

  Tricia jerked around to stare at the fireplace. "Well, guess what, Mama. I have a son, too. He's almost three. I was nineteen when I had him. The state said I was an unfit mother because I danced in a bar, but I scratched and lied and cheated to keep him."

  Her child had a child of her own? A little boy? For an instant Madelyn couldn't breathe. "What's his name?"

  "Mason Philip Wilson. I call him Mace."

  "Mace. I like it." Madelyn smiled. "Do you have a picture?"

  Tricia reached into her purse and pulled out a thin wallet. From one of the pockets she took out a snapshot and then crossed to the couch. "This was taken a few months ago."

  Madelyn's hand shook as she stared at the laughing little boy who was the image of his mother. "He's adorable," she said when she could speak. "He looks happy."

  "He is now. He was sick right after he was born because Chuck beat me while I was pregnant. The doctors thought Mace might be brain-damaged, but he's smart as a whip." A look like guilt crossed her face. "He's also deaf."

  "Oh, my God," Madelyn breathed. "Did they put the man who did that in jail?"

  "I didn't tell anyone. Chuck told me he'd kill my son if I said anything."

  "But the police would have protected you."

  Tricia gave her a look that questioned her sanity. "As soon as they released Mace from the hospital, I took him and left town." Her mouth flattened. It was the same expression she
saw on Luke when he was struggling not to feel too deeply.

  "Looks like you and me both picked losers," Tricia drawled, her tone flippant.

  Madelyn swallowed. There was so much hurt in the girl, so much bitterness. It was like looking at herself for so many lost years. "Your daddy isn't a loser, Tricia. He would have married me if he'd known about you."

  "Lucky you."

  Swallowing the sharp words that rose to her throat, Madelyn studied the face of her grandson. Here was love and hope. And perhaps healing. "May I keep this?"

  "Sorry, it's the only one I have."

  After taking one last look, Madelyn handed her the photo. "I hope you'll bring him with you the next time."

  Ignoring the tacit plea, Tricia tucked the photo carefully into her wallet again. "I came here because I want to go to college to become a teacher, but I need money. I've got it all figured out how much I'll need." She named a figure, her gaze defiant.

  Madelyn took a breath. "I don't have anywhere near that amount, Tricia. I'm a high-school guidance counselor in a small district. I have some savings, yes, but my … my ex-husband is being difficult about the divorce settlement."

  Her daughter's chin came up and she looked Madelyn squarely in the eye. "I'm not proud, Mrs. Foster. I'll take what you can spare. Even enough for one semester would help."

  "What school?" Madelyn said as she pushed herself to her feet.

  "I don't know yet. I haven't even applied."

  "I went to El Paso State. Your daddy went to Arizona State, then Stanford."

  Tricia's gaze flickered. Madelyn sensed that she was impressed, though trying hard not to show it. A small step perhaps.

  Her checkbook was in the kitchen. Excusing herself, she went to fetch it. While she was there, she thought about calling Luke so he'd have this precious chance to see his daughter, maybe for the only time. Because she sensed Tricia would consider it some kind of emotional ambush, she decided to ask her permission first.

  When she returned to the living room, her daughter was standing in front of the bookcase built into the wall to one side of the fireplace, studying the titles. "Do you like to read?" Madelyn asked as she sat down to write out the check.

  "Yes. Sometimes I think it saved my life." Tricia didn't turn until she heard Madelyn tear the check from the pad.

  "I wish it were more," Madelyn told her as she handed her the check.

  Tricia's expression was wooden as she glanced at the amount. Though she tried to hide it, Madelyn could see she was surprised. "I'll pay you back someday," she said in a taut voice before folding the check and tucking it into her purse.

  "I know your father would—"

  "No!" Tricia's voice was as loud as a lash. A jagged fear flashed in her eyes as she hurried to the door.

  "Tricia, wait!" Madelyn cried, struggling awkwardly to her feet. "Please don't go! Stay here tonight. I'd like to hear about Mason and you."

  But Tricia had already fumbled the door open.

  "Thank you for the money."

  "At least give me an address!" Madelyn cried, terrified that she was losing her child all over again.

  "I can't! If Chuck should find us…"

  "I won't tell anyone," Madelyn promised, reaching out to touch her.

  Tricia flinched away, her momentum carrying her to the porch. "Goodbye, Mrs. Foster."

  Madelyn's eyes filled with tears. "Tricia, please, don't go. I've waited so long to see you. Please stay."

  "I can't. I'm sorry. Maybe someday." She spun around, taking the steps quickly, then running down the walk to the beat-up old truck.

  "The license plate," Madelyn thought aloud before turning quickly to retrieve her pen and checkbook. It was only an instant, but even as she grabbed up her pen from the coffee table she heard the truck roar to life.

  By the time she reached the door, her daughter was gone.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  « ^ »

  Luke was on the freeway when his beeper went off. It took his tired brain an extra few seconds to recognize the number.

  Raw fear shot adrenaline into his bloodstream before reason took over. If Maddy was in labor, she'd call Winslow, not him. No doubt she was calling about tonight. To remind him to wear a tie, most likely, to the ballet.

  By his way of thinking a man who willingly agreed to encase his gullet in a starched collar and necktie for three hours just so's he could stare at a bunch of skinny ladies and muscle-bound boys in tights had to be touched in the head—or hopelessly in love.

  A grin split his tired face as he flipped on the radio, Vintage Hank Williams boomed from the speakers, his kind of music. Not that damn slow stuff with too many violins that made him restless. As soon as he got home, he'd call her. Maybe rag her a little, but even as he let the anticipation build, he found himself reaching for his cell phone.

  She answered on the first ring. As soon as he heard her voice, he knew he'd been right not to wait. "Maddy, what's wrong? Is it the baby?"

  "I couldn't make her stay." Her voice wobbled. "I tried, but she was scared, and … and … oh, Luke, he beat her."

  He went dead calm. His mind narrowed focus. "Take a deep breath, okay? Now tell me who 'she' is."

  He heard her gulp. "Jenny."

  This time emotion pumped along with the adrenaline. "Our Jenny?"

  "Yes, our baby, only her name is Tricia Wilson. She got my name from the database and … just showed up."

  The next exit was two miles ahead. He checked his mirrors, then moved right. "You said someone beat her?" Because fury wanted to flash, he iced his mind.

  "Yes, her, well, I guess it was her boyfriend." She gulped air again. "We … we have a grandson." She broke down then and sobbed.

  Oh, God. "I'm on my way, sweetheart. Just hang in, okay?"

  "Okay. Yes."

  In his mind's eye he saw her straightening her spine and lifting her chin. "Maddy?"

  "I'm fine now, Luke. Really. I just needed to vent. Thank you for listening. But now I'm fine, really. I'll see you tonight." His jaw tightened at the formal courtesy. His instinct told him something was very very wrong. One of his hunches, he thought grimly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been mistaken.

  "Not tonight, now. I'm on my way," he repeated before breaking the connection.

  * * *

  It wasn't record time, but close.

  He rang the bell, then tried the door. It was open, and he let himself in. She was curled into one corner of that sissy red couch, a box of tissues on the table next to her and that monster cat curled up beside her. Her face was tearstained and pale, her eyes drenched with unhappiness. His gut twisted into a mean hard knot.

  "Sweetheart, are you all right?"

  She bit her lip, then shook her head. "Doc was wrong. They weren't good people who adopted her. They were cold and selfish and she … her stepmother shipped her off to boarding school when she was only nine. Just a baby."

  Sensing her need to talk, he sat down and took her hand, kissing it before flattening it against his thigh.

  "Now, start from the beginning and tell me what happened."

  Her mouth trembled. "I thought maybe she wanted to connect with her … her birth mother. But she … she just wanted money. That's why she came."

  He breathed a curse that had her shooting him a reproachful look.

  "I don't blame her, Luke, Not in the least. She wants to go to college and she needs help. Who better to ask than her … parents?"

  He thought about his own struggle to finance eight long years. Too many times it had been a choice between eating and paying the electricity bill. His old man might have helped if he'd asked. He'd been too proud to humble himself.

  "I told her about you, Luke." She wiped her cheek with the wad of tissues in her hand. "She wanted to know if you're rich. I told her I didn't know." She gave him a curious look. "Are you?"

  "Guess that depends on your definition. If you're talking money, yeah. If you're talking things that mat
ter, like a wife and a child or two to love and a home where the rooms don't echo when I come home at night, then no, I'm about as poor as poor can be."

  She smiled through her tears. He saw the pity, too, and bit down hard on his lip.

  "His name is Mason, our grandson. He looks like … like Tricia. And like you." She tucked her other hand around his. "I tried to get her to leave the picture, but—"

  She broke off, her startled gaze dropping to her belly. "Ouch! That kick really hurt."

  Something in her face had him going still. "Hurt how, honey?"

  "Just … hurt. It still does."

  Schooling his expression, Luke ran his hand over her belly. It was slab hard. The placenta could be tearing. An abruption. And if that happened, both she and the baby could die. Helpless terror blanked his mind for an instant before discipline kicked in.

  "Maddy, we're going to the hospital now." He stood, then reached down to put an arm around her back.

  "But what … why?"

  "Trust me, Maddy. Trust the man who loves you." With no time to waste, he scooped her up into his arms and headed for the door. He fumbled a little getting it open and then walked as fast as he could down the walk. Her hands wound tightly around his neck as he carried her to the passenger side. He felt her fear now, and the pain she was trying to hide. His mind filled with images of other desperate women, times he'd lost the battle.

  "Open the door, honey," he ordered.

  She fumbled but managed to get the door open. "Luke, it really hurts," she cried as he settled her in the bucket seat. "I mean really." Her eyes were dark now with the pain he knew would only get worse.

  Without wasting time, he snapped her belt in place, slammed the door, and trotted around to the other side, his keys in his hand. He fired the engine, engaged the gears and made a squealing U-turn. He took the corner fast, fishtailing a little before pumping the gas.

  Silently cursing the whimsy that had prompted him to get a Jeep with a manual transmission, he struggled to drive and punch in the number of the maternity wing at the same time.

  "Maternity, Stanley."