“Because she's his natural mother.”
“Is that really enough?”
“No. But if he were your son, wouldn't you want every chance to keep him, no matter how screwed up you were?”
Samantha sighed into the phone. “What about the good of the child?”
“That's going to be our best argument, Miss Taylor. Now tell me where you are and I'll come and see you tomorrow. Route Twelve, you said? Let's see, how far is that from …”
She gave him the appropriate directions and he appeared the next day at noon. He was driving a dark green Mercedes, wore a pair of dark brown slacks and a beige cashmere jacket, an expensive silk tie, and a very good-looking cream-colored shirt. He was a man clearly in his mid-forties. His watch was Piaget, his hair was iron-gray, and his eyes were steel-blue. His full name was Norman Warren. And Samantha couldn't resist a smile when she saw him. She had worked for too many years among people who looked so much like him. She held out a hand from her wheelchair with a grin.
“Forgive me, but are you from New York?” She had to know. But he laughed right out loud.
“Hell yes. How did you know?”
“So am I. Not that you can tell anymore.” Nonetheless she had worn a soft lilac sweater with her jeans today instead of her usual flannel shirt, and her dark blue cowboy boots were brand-new.
They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, and she led him to the big house, where she had prepared sandwiches and hot coffee, and there was a hot apple pie she had “stolen” from the main hall when she took Timmie to lunch there a few minutes before. He had been very annoyed when she had left him but she had explained that she was expecting a grown-up for lunch at the house.
“Why can't I meet him too?” He had pouted ferociously as she left him with Josh and the handful of kids who weren't in school. They all accepted Timmie as their mascot, he was the youngest in the place and he looked so much like Samantha that somehow they regarded him almost as though he were her son, and of course she did too.
“You'll meet him but I want to talk to him first.”
“What about?”
“Business.” She grinned at him in answer to the question he didn't quite dare ask. “And no, he is not a cop.” Timmie laughed his bright little laugh.
“How did you know that was what I thought?”
“Because I know you, silly, now go eat.” He had gone off with the others, complaining because they were eating leftover stew. She had promised to come and get him when they were finished talking business.
And as she sat over her own lunch with Norman Warren, she told him everything she could about the child. “May I see him?” he finally asked. When they went to find him at the main hall, Warren looked around himself with interest and eyed the dazzlingly beautiful woman in the lilac sweater, perfectly at ease in her chair. Just being there was an experience for Norman Warren, he could see from the way the place was kept, and from the happy people he saw around them, that what Samantha had done was a success. But nothing had prepared him for what he saw when he met Timmie, or when the boy mounted a palomino with Josh's help, or when he saw Sam ride beside him on Pretty Girl, or when the others came home from school and took their lessons. Norman Warren didn't leave until after dinner, and when he did, he did so with regret.
“I want to stay forever.”
“I'm sorry, I can't adopt you too.” Samantha laughed with him. “And fortunately you don't qualify to come here as a student. But anytime you'd like to just come and visit and ride with us, we'd love it.”
He looked sheepish and almost whispered, “I'm scared shitless of horses.”
She whispered back, “We could cure you.”
Another sotto voce, “No, you couldn't. I won't let you.” And then they both laughed and he drove off. They had come to terms on the agreement—she would pay him a fee of ten thousand dollars to represent her in her suit. She liked him very much, and he seemed to like Timmie, and there was every reason to hope that she at least had a chance to win him, and if she didn't, she could appeal it. He stressed once again that it wouldn't be easy, but it wasn't impossible either, and there were a lot of sympathetic factors in her favor, not least among them the way she and Timmie loved each other, and he hoped the fact that they were both in wheelchairs would add drama and sympathy to her side rather than work against them. But that remained to be seen. She had signed papers that afternoon. He would file the complaint in Los Angeles the next morning, and they would get a hearing date as soon as they could.
“Think he can help us, Sam?” Timmie looked up at her sadly as she accompanied him back to his room. She had explained to him who Norman Warren was and what he was going to do.
“I hope so, love. We'll see.”
“What if he can't do it?”
“Then I'll kidnap you and we'll hide in the hills.” She was teasing but his eyes sparkled as she pushed open the door to his room and turned on the lights for him.
“Okay.”
Only when she left the room did she begin to wonder the same thing … what if he couldn't… but he had to … he had to win the case for her. She couldn't bear losing Timmie. And by the time she got back to her own room, she convinced herself that she never would.
They shared Christmas in peace, and for the first time in Timmie's life he had the kind of Christmas of which children dream. There were presents stacked high in boxes, things to wear, and games, and puzzles, a bright fire engine with a hat for him to wear, and a sweater for his teddy bear, and even some things Sam had made for him. And in the main hall was a huge tree surrounded by presents. There were toys for all the children currently staying at the ranch. And one of the counselors, at her request, had dressed up as Santa, and it reminded Sam and Josh of the year when Tate Jordan had been Santa. The memory of the man she still so loved placing the angel on the Christmas tree came back to her like a knife stab to her heart. Suddenly she was reminded of so many things about Tate and about John, whom she so seldom thought of now. They had had another baby, she knew, and Liz had finally been fired by the network, because she was so tiresome on the air. John Taylor's career was still booming but once in a great while when Sam watched him she found him plastic and empty and too pretty and terribly boring, and she wondered why she had ever cared. It seemed amazing now to watch eleven years of one's life fly out the window and not even care, but she just didn't. It was different when she thought of Tate.
“Sam … can I ask you a crazy question?” Josh asked her as they stood apart in a corner, watching the kids open their gifts.
“Sure. What?” But she already knew.
“Were you in love with Tate Jordan?” She looked into Josh's eyes and nodded her head slowly.
“Yes, I was.”
“Was that why he left?”
“I suppose. He decided not to work things out, I guess. And I had told him I didn't want to play the same game as Caro and Bill. But he didn't think a lady should love a ranch hand. At least not openly.” She looked sad as she spoke. “So he left.”
“I figured it was something like that.”
“And he had some kind of fit when he found out who my ex-husband was … thought he wasn't good enough for me, or something equally dumb.…”
“Shit.” Josh looked instantly angry. “He was worth ten of that jerk. Oh—” His face flushed bright red. “I'm sorry, Sam.…”
She chuckled. “Don't be. I was just thinking the same thing.”
“And he never wrote you or nothing?”
“No. I think I must have looked for him on every ranch in this country, but I never found him.”
Josh looked sorry again as he glanced at Sam. “It's a damn shame, Sam. He was a good man, and I always thought that he loved you. Maybe he'll turn up someday, just to say hi to Bill or me or Caro, and find you here instead.”
Sam shook her head with a taut expression on her face. “I hope not. He'd be in for one hell of a shock.” She meant her legs, but this time Josh shook his head.
&
nbsp; “You think he'd care?”
“It doesn't matter, Josh. I would. That's all over now. I've got the kids instead.”
“At your age, Sam? Don't be crazy. What are you, twenty-eight, twenty-nine?”
She grinned at the old man. “Josh, I love you. I'm thirty-three.”
“All sounds the same to me. Try fifty-nine and see how you like the feel of that.”
“On you it looks good.”
“Sweet-talker, but I love it.” He grinned at her, and then his face grew serious again. “You're talking bullshit though, you know, about Tate. And it don't matter if it's Tate or someone else, you're too damn young to treat yourself like an old maid.” And then he narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. “The truth is, Sam, you're a damn liar. You spend all your time teaching these kids that they don't have to live or think or act like cripples, and then in your heart you think of yourself as one.” He had hit a nerve but she said nothing and kept her eyes on the kids. “It's true, Sam … dammit, it's true. I saw that lawyer from Los Angeles talking to you the other day. He likes you, like a woman, dammit, and do you pay him any mind? No, hell no, you just act like a happy little old lady and give him iced tea.”
“There's nothing wrong with iced tea.” She grinned at him this time.
“No, but there's a lot wrong with pretending you're not a woman anymore at thirty-three.”
“Watch out, Josh,” she said, trying to glare at him, “I may attack you the next time we're alone.” And with that, she blew a kiss in his direction and wheeled herself into the midst of the kids. It was her way of telling him that she didn't want to hear any more. He had come a little too close to home.
It took them all two days to recover from the excitement of Christmas. There weren't even any riding lessons, just some casual groups that rode out over the hills, but neither Timmie nor Sam were among them. They were both spending a lot of time alone, as though they each had a deep need to be together. The hearing was set for December 28.
“You scared?” The night before the hearing, she had put Timmie in her smallest guest room, next door to her own room, and she was just tucking him into bed.
“About tomorrow?” Her face was close to his, and she touched it with one long graceful hand. “A little. Are you?”
“Yeah.” She saw now that the big blue eyes were filled with terror. “A lot. What if she hits me?”
“I won't let her.”
“What if she takes me?”
“She won't.” But what if they let her take him? That was the ghost that haunted Samantha, and she couldn't promise him that that wouldn't happen. She didn't want to lie. She had already told him that if they lost it she would appeal it, if that was what he wanted, and she had also told him that if what he wanted was to be with his mommy then that was okay too. It tore at her heart to give him that option, but she knew she had to. She didn't want to steal him from his own mother. She wanted him to come to her with an open heart. “It'll be all right, sweetheart. You'll see.”
But she didn't look nearly as certain the next day as Josh pushed both their wheelchairs up the ramp at the Los Angeles County Courthouse. She and Timmie were ferociously holding hands, and when they pressed into the elevator in their wheelchairs, they both felt awkward and conspicuous until Josh helped pull them out. Norman Warren was waiting for them just outside the courtroom, in a dark blue suit. He looked eminently respectable, as did Sam. She had worn a pretty pale blue wool dress, which was a remnant of her New York wardrobe, a matching light blue mohair coat, and plain black leather Gucci shoes. She had bought Timmie new clothes especially for the occasion, little navy blue slacks with a matching jacket and a pale blue turtleneck sweater, which accidentally matched Sam's dress. They looked very much like mother and son as they sat there waiting, and Norman once again noticed the striking resemblance of his towhead, her blond hair, and the same enormous blue eyes.
The hearing took place in a small courtroom, and the judge entered, wearing glasses and a quiet smile. He did his best not to intimidate Timmie when he looked at him, and he sat at a desk on a slightly raised platform, which was less impressive than some of the desks he had sat at in other courts. He was a man in his early sixties, and he had been doing child-custody hearings for a great many years. He was admired in Los Angeles for his fairness and his kindness to children—a number of times had saved children from unfortunate adoptions. He had a profound respect for children and natural mothers, and often encouraged the mothers to think over their decisions before they gave away their babies, their faces drenched in tears. Many women had come back to thank him, and it was something he would always carry with him when he retired. And now he looked at Timmie with interest, and at Samantha and her attorney, and a few minutes later at the tiny, fragile-looking young woman who slipped into the courtroom with her attorney. She was wearing a gray skirt and a white blouse and she looked more like a schoolgirl than an addict or a hooker. And Sam learned then for the first time that she was only twenty-two. She had a kind of fragile beauty and looked like the sort of girl who couldn't possibly take care of herself. One wanted instantly to love, cherish, and protect her. It was part of why Timmie had always felt sorry for her after she beat him. Because she looked so hurt and so distraught herself. It always made him forgive her and made him want to help her, instead of expecting her to help him.
The court was called to order, the files were handed to the judge, but unnecessarily, as he had already read all the existing documents the day before. He said at the outset that it was an interesting case because of the aspects introduced by Samantha, a handicapped child, a handicapped adopting mother, but they had to keep in mind, all of them there, that what was being looked for by the court, and should remain everyone's goal, was the ultimate good of the child. The judge offered the option to have the child removed, but Sam and Timmie had already discussed it. He said he wanted to be there, he didn't want to be “taken away by the cops.” She assured him that he could wait outside with Josh, but he insisted that he wanted to be with her. She noticed then that he never let his eyes roam toward his mother, as though he were frightened to acknowledge her presence, or even see her, and he kept his hand in Sam's and his eyes toward the judge.
The opposing attorney called Timmie's mother as his first witness, and as Sam sat staring her full in the face, she realized full well what she was up against. A sweet face, a soft voice, a sob story from beginning to end, and the assurance that this time she had learned a lesson and had done nothing but read psychology books to learn more about herself and how she might help her precious son. Timmie's eyes fell into his lap the whole time her testimony was being heard and he didn't raise them again until she'd left the stand. Sam's attorney put on record that he would cross-examine her later, and the next witnesses were called, a psychiatrist who had examined Timmie's mother for the county, declaring her to be a warm, feeling young woman who had had an unfortunate youth. They felt that she had no intention of hurting her child, but had been under enormous pressure financially, but that now that she was about to go to work in a big hotel downtown everything was looking up. Norman Warren made the psychiatrist look foolish, and the implication was made that she would have ample opportunity in the hotel to start picking up Johns. The comment was stricken from the record, Norman was admonished, and the witness was excused from the stand. There were additionally two counselors called, and then a doctor attesting to the mother's health and to the fact that she was in no way addicted to drugs anymore. And last of all, there was a priest who had known her since she was eleven, in fact he had baptized Timmie. He said that he felt absolutely certain that the child belonged with the mother who loved him, and as he said it Sam felt her stomach flip over in her gut. She held tightly to Timmie's hand through the entire proceeding, and when the priest left the stand, they adjourned for lunch. Norman had cross-examined them all except the mother herself and the priest. He was going to call Timmie's mother to the stand after the lunch break, but he explained to Sam tha
t he had no intention of tackling the Catholic Church on the stand.
“Why not?”
“The judge is Catholic, my dear. Besides, what am I going to do to impeach what the man is saying? We're better off not touching that one.” Nonetheless he had made all the others look slightly shady, and he interrogated them almost with an air of amusement and derision, as though their testimony itself was tainted due to association with the woman herself. But none of what he had done to them even came close to what he did to Timmie's mother, and at a sign from Sam, Josh had firmly wheeled Timmie out of the room, protesting in a hoarse whisper, but he wasn't given any choice by Samantha, who blew him a kiss and turned back to watch what was happening on the stand. The girl was shaking in her seat, and almost before she started talking, she started crying. And it was admittedly difficult to envision this frail child as the villain in the piece. But despite what she looked like it was nevertheless made clear that she had discovered drugs at twelve, heroin at thirteen, had been arrested for prostitution at fifteen, gotten pregnant with Timmie at sixteen, had had five abortions to date, had been in seven drug programs, had been arrested nine times as a juvenile, and three as an adult.
“But,” her attorney insisted as he objected, “the court must keep in mind that this woman is no longer addicted, that she has just been through a very arduous state-run drug program, and if we are to say that this woman is not rehabilitated, then we are in fact saying that our entire system of rehabilitation does not work.” The objection was duly noted and sustained. Her arrest record was stricken from the record as per California law, the rest stayed.
Her testimony took well over an hour, she sobbed throughout and talked remorsefully about “my baby” whenever she had the chance, but every time Sam looked at her, she thought of the shots she hadn't gotten for him, which was why he had contracted polio, she thought of the beatings he had had at her hands, the torment, the loneliness, the terror, and all Sam wanted was to rise out of her wheelchair and scream.
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