by Heidi Betts
Her tightly clenched fingers loosened from Matthew's dressing gown and she retreated a step. “Fine. You watch him while I'm away, then. He last ate about an hour ago, and I just changed him. You'll likely have to feed and change him again, though, and see him down for his nap.” She fixed him with a doubtful glance. “Is that something you think you can manage?"
The expression he cast back at her was scathing. “I think I can handle caring for a young child, Callie. I know where everything is."
Oh, yes, but he'd never been alone with a three-month-old, rather demanding baby boy before. If Matthew took it into his head to throw one of his famed tantrums, Wade would be climbing the walls.
Then again, maybe being alone with Matthew was just what Wade needed. He wanted to be a real father, take Matthew away from her to raise on his own. . .. Perhaps getting a true taste of what it took to care for a child by one's self would actually work in her favor.
She couldn't say she was completely confident with the idea of leaving the two of them alone, but it seemed like her only plan of action at the moment.
"All right,” she said, trying not to sound reluctant. “I won't be long."
Walking away from Wade, standing there cradling a happily gurgling Matthew, was one of the hardest things she'd ever done in her life.
She wasn't even quite sure why, except that it reminded her a little too vividly of Wade's grand scheme of clearing his name and taking Matthew away to live with him. Permanently. When that happened—if that happened—images like the one behind her, still burned into her brain like a brand, would be commonplace. And Callie would be visible nowhere in that picture.
That thought caused her fingers to tighten on the brass knob in her hand and her breathing to shorten painfully.
Without looking back, too much of a coward to face the tender father-son tableau again, she opened the front door and stepped out onto the wide, whitewashed porch.
The morning sun was bright overhead, and Callie knew she had a hot day ahead of her. As she made her way down the steps and across the yard, she popped open the parasol and lifted it over her head to shade her from the powerful rays, and then started off toward town at a brisk pace.
The sooner she got there, the sooner she could get back.
Her next thought—and the less time Wade and Matthew would be alone together—flashed through her mind before she could stop it.
She planned to go to the Triple Y and talk to Brady Young, but first a quick stop at the Purgatory Home for Adoptive Children was in order.
Chapter Eleven
"Senorita Quinn, what a lovely surprise.” Father Ignacio crossed the wide yard where dozens of children ran and played, reaching for Callie's hands. He squeezed them lightly and gifted her with a bright smile. “Where is our little nino Mateo this morning, eh?"
Of course Father Ignacio would notice that Matthew wasn't with her. She shouldn't be surprised. She'd be lucky if everyone she met today didn't ask, considering she never came into town without him.
"He's . . . staying with a friend while I run a few errands.” She created the lie quickly, and prayed God wouldn't strike her dead for telling a falsehood to a priest on holy ground.
"Ah, I see. It is good that you have some time for yourself. You take such excellent care of that boy. A better madre he could not ask for."
Callie couldn't help but be warmed by his effusive compliment. “Thank you. He's a very easy child to love."
Her gaze moved to the full yard behind him. “How are the children today?"
Glancing back over his shoulder, his pleased expression remained as he said, “Oh, bien. Very well indeed. This is a much happier place now that many of Purgatory's fine citizens come by to visit so often. To bring new clothes and gifts and sweets for the children. And many little ones have found wonderful homes, with Senora and Senor Walker working so hard to place them."
"I'm glad,” Callie responded, and meant it.
She had always felt sorry for the children consigned to the orphanage, and though many times she'd considered offering her assistance, she never had for fear it would hurt too much to see all of those parentless and homeless children in one place. Or worse, that Nathan's oft-spoken fear would become a reality, and she would end up dragging them all home with her.
But she slipped a few dollars into the church's poor box whenever she was able, and had been pleased when Regan Doyle—now Mrs. Clayton Walker, the new sheriff's wife—had begun to show such an interest in the home and gotten the other townspeople interested, as well.
Callie herself had even begun to get involved—until Lily asked her to become Matthew's guardian and she'd suddenly been immersed in caring for the newborn baby all on her own.
Nathan had already been in California by then, though she would have dearly appreciated his help in those first few hair-raising weeks of unexpected motherhood. As it was, she'd cursed his absence many a time in those days.
Drawing her attention away from the playing children, Father Ignacio asked, “You look troubled, my child. Is there anything I can do to help?"
Her mind shifted immediately to her reason for being there. “As a matter of fact, Father Ignacio, there is. Is there somewhere we could speak privately?"
"Si'. Of course, of course. Come with me, my dear."
Turning, he led her through a nearby door of the orphanage and down a short hall leading to the vestibule of the church. They moved to a small room at the back of the church where the priest changed his vestments before mass and spoke with parishioners who required counsel, but not necessarily confession.
Callie fell into the latter grouping.
When Father Ignacio waved her toward a chair, she smoothed her skirts and lowered herself carefully to the hard seat. Her closed parasol leaned against one leg as she removed her bonnet and laid it safely on her lap.
"Now, Callie, dear, tell me what it is that puts such a shadow in your eyes."
"There's nothing wrong, Father,” she said carefully, as she considered how to go about making this request. “I guess I'm feeling a bit insecure about Matthew. With him growing so fast, and me not being his real mother, you know."
At least she hadn't been forced to concoct another lie. She cast her gaze toward the floor, afraid those very real words would cause equally real tears to pool in her eyes.
Shifting closer, the priest gave her hand a comforting pat. “There is no need to fear, my dear. Mateo adores you. You are the only mother he knows, and you will always be the only mother he loves."
At that, Callie's eyes did begin to prickle painfully, and she blinked several times to keep from embarrassing herself.
"I'm sure you're right, Father Ignacio, but . . . I know that you deal with this sort of thing quite often and was wondering if you might help me adopt Matthew legally. I'd like to be his true mother, have him carry my name. When he gets older, I want to have papers to show him that I became his mother officially and by choice, not just because he was forced on me by his birth mother's death."
She was so focused on getting the priest to agree with her that she'd forgotten to take a breath. Now that she'd reached the end of her plea, she stopped, stared desperately at Father Ignacio, and inhaled deeply.
"You want to adopt him,” the father repeated. “As though you had come here looking for a child and taken him from the orphanage into your own home."
"Yes, exactly.” Relief that he understood her request washed over her. “Can you help me do that, Father?"
For a long moment, the priest merely watched her, and the air hitched in her lungs.
And then a peaceful smile spread across the older man's dark-skinned face. “I do not see why we cannot do this for you, my child. It is a small thing, and if it calms your worries to have a certificate saying such, then I will be happy to comply. When would you like to complete the paperwork?” he asked.
She sat back, somewhat stunned at Father Ignacio's swift acquiescence and almost blissfully relieved that she would
soon have a legal document to hold against Wade's threats to take Matthew away from her.
"Right away,” she answered promptly. “Now, if it's possible."
The father stood and began shuffling through the drawers of the small secretary behind his backwards-turned chair. “I do not see why that should be a problem. We try to keep things simple here at the home, the better to place more children more easily. Ah, here it is."
He returned to his seat, pulling the chair around so that he sat facing the desk. Finding his fountain pen, he tapped the end to his chin, thinking.
"Senora and Senor Walker are kind enough to keep me supplied with the documents we use for adoptions, since each has to be written out by hand. Then I need only fill in a few names and have the new parents sign, and another child has a home."
Father Ignacio beamed with obvious pride at the efficiency of the system. Callie didn't blame him. Every child should have a proper, loving home, and a rather large number had gotten just that, thanks to the efforts of the priest.
"Now, this should not take long at all. We know the child's name, of course. . .. “He slowly sounded out Matthew's name as he wrote the letters, complete with flourishes on the capital M and lowercase ts.
"We do not know the father's name, so shall we use Senorita Lily's last name for the nino, or would you prefer to leave it simply Mateo?"
Callie knew the father's name. In fact, she knew the father. But the entire purpose of having these papers drawn up was to keep Wade Mason from taking Matthew away from her.
"Matthew White would be fine,” she answered, tamping down her guilt.
As Father Ignacio continued to write, he spoke almost to himself. “And we know your name . . . Senorita Callie Quinn. Would you like your brother's name on the document as well?"
Since Nathan hadn't been in Purgatory when she'd taken Matthew in, and she hadn't discussed any of this with him, she didn't think it would be wise to unwittingly make him one of Matthew's legal guardians.
She shook her head.
"Well, then, I will just sign here at the bottom. . .” He scrawled his name in large, looping letters.
"And you will sign here. . .” He slid the papers across the desk toward her, tapping the spot where she was to place her signature.
She did so, and then sat back with an almost audible sigh of relief. That relief lasted for all of three seconds, until even more niggling doubts began to intrude upon her conscience.
The priest handed her the adoption certificate, a wide smile creasing his face.
She took it, letting her fingers run over the thick, yellowish vellum. “This is all I need, then? Matthew is mine?"
The priest smiled gently and patted the back of her hand. “Mateo has always been yours, my dear Callie. But, si, he is yours now, in the eyes of both the law and the church."
"What about. . .” Her voice caught, and she had to take a moment to settle herself. “What about Matthew's father? What if he should come back someday, looking for his child?"
An image of Wade, standing in the middle of her parlor cradling Matthew, flashed through her mind, followed quickly by a spurt of fear.
"We do not know who Mateo's father is,” Father Ignacio said kindly. “Senorita Lily did not tell us that."
But Callie knew. And he was her biggest concern at the moment. She couldn't tell Father Ignacio the truth, however, so she needed to find another way to extract an answer.
Carefully folding the adoption papers, she placed them in her reticule and retied the strings. “But what if Lily did tell someone? What if the father, or even one of the father's relatives, should come to Purgatory looking to claim Matthew? To take him away from me?"
"No one is going to take him away from you, my dear.” The hand covering hers tightened reassuringly. “If someone were to come to town looking to claim little Mateo, they would have to prove they are truly blood relatives of the nino. But you are the one who raised him. You are his mother. Even when he is older, Mateo will not leave you, no matter who comes for him. And now these papers say that the orphanage and church both see you as Mateo's sole guardian."
That wasn't the answer Callie had come here for. She'd wanted the priest to say that with the adoption certificate in her possession, Lily herself couldn't take Matthew away from her, even if she rose from her grave.
But Wade didn't need to know that Father Ignacio's response to her question had been less than satisfying. Callie could still use the documents to convince Wade he could never take the child away from her. And unless he succeeded at clearing his name in the very near future and began asking around—or hired a lawyer to ask the proper questions for him—the papers might be enough to save her.
They would have to be. Callie didn't see any other options open to her, and it was too frightening to consider that Wade might actually be able to take Matthew from her.
She would take the documents home and hide them somewhere safe until she needed them—if she needed them. They would be her ace in the hole, her trump card, should Wade try to remove Matthew from her care.
And if all else failed, she would simply scream bloody murder.
Chapter Twelve
Where the hell was that woman?
And why wouldn't the kid stop screaming?!
Wade clamped his hands over his ears and prayed for Matthew to cease his caterwauling. Or, barring that, for Wade himself to be struck stone cold deaf.
He'd fed his son—twice, and once when Matthew hadn't been too keen on keeping the teat in his mouth. Wade's shirt was already beginning to smell like spoiled milk.
He'd changed him three times—not a job he cared to repeat, thank you very much. The squares of cloth had only been wet two of those times; the third, it'd been brown and kind of runny. He shuddered at the repulsive—not to mention smelly—memory. And if the boy was wet again, he could just sit there soaking in his own juices until Callie got home.
Where the hell was she?
The hands—and now two pillows from the sofa—on either side of his head did little to staunch the high-pitched cries that threatened to shatter his eardrums.
With a less than mild curse, he threw down the tapestry squares and strode to where Matthew lay on his back, squalling like a cat with its tail caught in a meat grinder.
"All right, kid, that's enough.” He raised his voice until he thought Matthew could hear him over his own wailing. “Dammit, this is your father speaking, and I said that's enough."
Bending down, he swooped the baby into his arms and lifted him to one shoulder. “Why are you doing this? Callie's going to be back any time now—” She'd better be back soon, or Wade would say to hell with who might be watching and head out after her. There was only so much a man could take.
"Callie . . . I guess you consider her your mama . . . she doesn't think I can take care of you properly, and if she hears you screeching like this when she gets home, she'll figure she was right all along."
Amazingly, the child seemed to be calming down a bit—just a bit though. He was still sobbing, his little chest hitching, his bottom lip quivering, and tiny tears trailing down from his red and swollen eyes.
Damn, but Matthew looked downright pathetic, and if Callie got a gander at him, she was going to tan Wade's hide.
Wade began to bounce, mimicking a motion he'd witnessed Callie use on more than one occasion to hush Matthew when he'd begun to get worked up. Swaying up and down and from side to side made Wade feel like an idiot, but if he thought it would work, he'd hop on one foot singing “Sweet Betsy from Pike."
The idea of singing hadn't entered his mind before, but now . . . well, he couldn't look more ridiculous than he already did, could he?
Wracking his brain for a decent tune, he began to hum. Then, when he realized he'd begun to sing a song meant to lull cattle to sleep on the trail, he figured it might work just as well on an ornery infant.
As Callie climbed the porch steps and approached the front door, she thought she heard singing. A
lullaby of some sort, it sounded like.
Unless someone had dropped by while she'd been gone, which was highly doubtful, it could only be Wade humming the soft tune. But even though her logical mind processed that information, she still hesitated to believe it. Wade hadn't struck her as the lullaby sort. Frankly—and perhaps a bit cynically of her—she'd expected him to keep Matthew alive, and that was all.
Sleepy winks of light along the far skyline, Time for millin’ cattle to be still, drifted to her as her hand turned on the knob and she stepped into the house.
Yah-ho, a mol-la holiday, So settle down, ye cattle, till the morning.
The sight that greeted her stole her breath. Wade was slouched in a corner of the settee, one of his long, tapered legs crossed over the opposite knee, a peacefully dozing Matthew snuggled belly-down on his chest. Matthew's face was turned toward her, the little mouth pink and slack, a narrow line of baby saliva dribbling down his chin to widen the already wet spot spreading on the breast of Wade's shirt.
When she finally found her voice, all she could think to say was, “You're singing to him about cows?"
Wade raised his head and glanced in her direction, then lifted a finger to his lips. “Shh,” he mouthed. Then, so low she could barely hear him, he said, “It's not a song about cows, it's a song you sing to cows. To settle them on the trail."
Her nose crinkled as she studied the big man cradling the tiny baby. That image bothered her enough, but to think that Wade equated his son with lowing cattle on the way to market was almost too much to bear.
"You're not on the trail, and Matthew is not a cow,” she insisted, marching forward with the intention of tearing the child out of his embrace.
Before she could reach him, however, Wade held out an arm—and stuck out a foot—to keep her back. “I just got him settled down,” he told her calmly. “Don't you go waking him now."
