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“It’s me, sweetheart.” Though it was better than she’d expected, nevertheless, Marcie cringed as her mother’s overly bright voice grated along her nerves, prickling like a thousand tiny daggers. “Just checking in to say hi and see if you’ve found out when I’m going to get to meet my granddaughter.”
All the tension from the day returned, and anger Marcie hadn’t known she possessed burst from its hiding place. It was all well and good for her mother to be so interested in her granddaughter since Marcie had confronted her with the letter. But if she’d been a little more interested thirteen years ago, this nightmare wouldn’t be happening. If she hadn’t schemed and conspired and lied to get rid of that granddaughter, she’d have her today. Marcie wouldn’t have had to go through the grief of thinking her child had died. Kyla wouldn’t have spent the past thirteen years living a lie with a stranger who thought he was her father. Marcie wouldn’t now be faced with battling that stranger, hurting him and her daughter and herself.
She jabbed at the button to forward to the next message, to rid herself of her mother’s voice, her interference.
“End of messages,” the machine’s computerized voice announced.
Sam hadn’t called. The police hadn’t called.
The next move was hers.
She sank onto one of the stools. It had only been a short time ago that she sat at that bar, poring over pictures of a blonde girl, afraid to hope, afraid to let herself be happy, afraid to believe this could really be her child. Now it would seem she’d found her child and lost her in a remarkably short space of time, shorter than before. She’d had nine months before she lost her last time.
Briefly she wondered whether she should take Sam’s advice, leave her daughter alone, knowing she was happy. Would that be the loving thing to do? She and her child both had lives...good lives...without each other. For almost thirteen years, each of them had been unaware of the other’s existence.
Moving woodenly, she rose and went to the refrigerator to get a glass of iced tea.
When she lifted it to her lips, the taste recalled the glass of tea Kyla had given her, the thrill of sitting on the porch, looking at and listening to the child she’d thought dead.
She sipped the drink slowly, wanting to draw out the taste, the flavor of the memories it evoked.
There was no going back. Now she knew her daughter was out there. She’d seen her, talked to her, drunk tea with her. Maybe Sam would do whatever it took to keep her from her daughter, but she’d do whatever it took to get to her. Kyla had the right to know the truth, and only Kyla had the right to order her to stay away.
She stood silently in the kitchen, running her fingers over the smooth, polished wood of the breakfast bar, looking around, trying to find the secure, content feeling her home usually gave her.
Soft silvery carpet stretched across the living room, interrupted by the muted pastels of her sofa and chairs and the rich wood of her coffee and lamp tables. When she moved in four years ago, she’d decorated with comfort and serenity in mind. Since that time, she hadn’t changed anything, hadn’t added a picture or moved a piece of furniture.
Every time she opened the door, she knew exactly what to expect.
She’d organized her entire life that way—dependable and safe.
Except suddenly that safety was slipping away.
Her home looked different, somehow. Or maybe it only felt different.
On Monday she’d go to work in the same office with the same people she saw five days a week...seven during tax season. She’d dress the same way she always dressed. She’d tie her hair back the way she always did. She’d get a cup of coffee and go to her desk and turn on her computer... and nobody would know that her whole world had changed.
Marcie crossed her living room to her bedroom, then stopped and looked back at the faint footprints in her carpet. Just walking through the room had changed it. How much more of an effect would her daughter and Sam have on her life?
It was too late. She wouldn’t go back even if she could.
But going forward was damn scary.
Sam sat in his van, elbow on the open window, directly in front of the entrance to the Little Dixie Cinema. His gaze darted back and forth as he alternately checked the door for his daughter, and every car that went past, every movement in the shadows where the streetlights didn’t reach.
He’d arrived half an hour early to wait for the movie to end, for Kyla and Rachel to come out.
That woman had him on his guard, edgy, afraid to take any chances that the girls might leave early and she or someone she’d hired might kidnap them. He’d been lucky when she returned for her pictures and letter. Kyla and Rachel had been off somewhere riding their bikes.
But he couldn’t count on that kind of luck every time.
He drummed his fingers nervously on the side of his van. Man, the crazies were everywhere, even here in this town he’d always thought of as a refuge from such things. That woman, Marcie Turner—if that was really her name—must be a loony. At first, she’d seemed normal, except for being a little shaken up over the accident. He’d even liked her—been attracted to her, as a matter of fact.
But it wasn’t normal to fixate on a kid to the point where she probably really believed that kid—his kid—was her daughter.
The whole damned thing scared him.
Losing somebody you loved could happen so fast, like a giant sword suddenly flashing down and cutting away part of your soul. Like Lisa. One day she was alive and happy, and then she was gone.
He wasn’t going to lose Kyla, certainly not to some sick woman, not after his daughter had overcome such gigantic odds to be with him in the first place. After the initial fatal diagnosis on the night she was born, subsequent tests had shown Kyla’s heart to be strong and healthy. She was a miracle.
A miracle he’d never questioned.
Before tonight.
He shivered, even as the hot, muggy evening squeezed against him. With a hand that shook slightly, he wiped perspiration from his upper lip.
Of course, miracles weren’t logical, he assured himself. That was why they were called miracles. You didn’t question them; you just accepted them and gave thanks.
The doors of the theater opened, and the Saturday-night crowd of couples and kids burst out.
When he finally spotted Kyla and Rachel, he realized he had lifted himself off the seat in his anxiety to locate them. One hand clutched the steering wheel, the other arm pressed painfully on the open window.
He forced himself to relax. He couldn’t let Kyla or Rachel see him this stressed.
Giggling and talking, the girls dashed over. Kyla yanked open the side door, and they climbed into the back.
And Sam’s heart stopped. An Oklahoma panhandle dust storm seemed to pound through his brain, obscuring reason, turning ordinary objects and people into unrecognizable, nightmare figures.
Kyla had loosened her hair from her usual ponytail, and for just a moment he saw Marcie Turner’s hair, Marcie Turner’s face, superimposed over Kyla’s. For a stark, terrifying moment, he knew why Marcie had looked so familiar. She was an older version of Kyla, right down to the small, almost unnoticeable dimple in her chin.
He faced forward, refusing to look at the frightening phenomenon, focusing instead on Kyla’s familiar voice, her familiar laughter.
“Dad, are you listening to me?”
“What? Of course I am.”
Kyla heaved a dramatic sigh. “No, you’re not. You’re still thinking about that blond babe I crashed into this afternoon, aren’t you?”
She’d called that one right.
“I guess I’m going to have to find him a girlfriend. I mean, it’s like the man’s a monk.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll pick my own girlfriends.” Preferably someone sane. “At the moment, you’re the only woman I have room in my life for.” “Well, okay, but you’re not getting any younger, and I don’t know how much longer I can be responsible for taking care of you.” She and Rachel giggled at that comment.
Smiling to himself, Sam turned the key and started the van. Of course Kyla was his and Lisa’s daughter.
What was the matter with him, letting himself buy into Marcie Turner’s fantasy?
“Can we get pizza?” Kyla asked as he pulled into traffic. “That’s what I asked you when you were ignoring me. Not answering counts the same as if you’d said yes, you know.”
It was Sam’s turn to heave a dramatic sigh. “Like I ever refuse you anything. I think there may be a law against spoiling a kid as badly as you’re spoiled.”
Kyla leaned forward between the seats and gave him a loud kiss on the cheek. “I promise not to turn you in if we can have an extra large double-pepperoni pizza.”
“Oh, that’s great! My kid’s learned how to blackmail! That’ll look so good on your résumé.” He dared a glance at her impish face in the rearview mirror, searching desperately and vainly for Lisa’s features, not Marcie Turner’s.
Lisa had been a short brunette with dark hair and brown eyes. His coloring was dark, also, but blond hair and blue eyes were recessive traits. They could have sprung from some long-forgotten ancestor. Coloring didn’t prove a thing.
When Kyla was a baby, Lisa’s family had said she looked like Lisa, and his family had said she looked like him. He and Lisa had agreed that she looked like a baby, period.
Now she looked like a blond twelve-year-old, period. Not like Lisa, but not like Marcie. Okay, so Marcie Turner had the same silky hair, though the shade was a little darker, as if she didn’t get out in the sun much. So she had the same thin, straight nose, perfect oval face, wide blue eyes. None of that proved a thing. Lots of people had those traits.
Blood type. That was what mattered. With all the medical tests, he knew Kyla’s blood type. O positive, the same as Lisa’s.
His world shifted back into focus. The familiar highway, lined with stores, restaurants and gas stations, suddenly became a thing of beauty. The neon signs were works of art.
Let that woman try to take them to court. If by some fluke she succeeded, he’d explain to Kyla that Marcie Turner was a disturbed person and it would be easiest to submit to the genetic blood testing and get it over with. Prove to her that Kyla was not her daughter. Maybe then she’d go away.
He pulled into the pizza parlor parking lot. “One-super-duper giant pizza with double anchovies coming up!” he announced.
“Daaaad...” Kyla groaned.
She was growing up. A few years ago, she’d have argued with him that she hated anchovies and wanted pepperoni.
He slid out of the van and caught up with the girls as they came from the other side of the vehicle. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his blue jeans, resisting an urge to hug his kid in public, an action he knew would embarrass her.
When they reached the door, he held it open with one hand, but succumbed to the urge to drape the other arm over Kyla’s shoulders as she went past him. He needed to touch her, reassure himself that she was still there.
She turned to him briefly, flashing him a quick smile.
And in the light from the pizza parlor, he saw Marcie Turner’s face, clearly and undeniably.
For a moment, he stood frozen in place, unable to move, and Kyla walked away from his embrace, from him.
He’d been kidding himself. O positive blood was the most common type. That simply meant she could be Lisa’s daughter, not that she definitely was.
Only genetic testing could prove parentage for certain.
And he’d changed his mind about allowing that He’d fight Marcie Turner to the death to prevent that test.
Chapter Three
Marcie pulled into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn in McAlester. Sam had called late last night and asked—ordered—her to meet him this morning to talk.
He’d been gruff, angry—frightened? She would be in his position.
I don’t believe you, he’d said. I want you to know that. I just don’t want any trouble for my daughter.
What he’d said didn’t matter. He did believe her, or he wouldn’t have asked her to meet with him.
During the hour-and-a-half drive down, she’d alternated between soaring ecstasy and black, subterranean despair.
It was going to happen. She was going to make contact with her daughter.
Would her daughter like her? Would Kyla hate her for not being determined enough to claim her as a baby?
Would Sam pass along his antagonism to Kyla, make her hate this woman intruding into their lives?
She slid from her car and spotted Sam across the lot. He must have been waiting for her.
He stepped down from the van and strode toward her, his scuffed cowboy boots making firm, determined contact with the solid concrete of the parking lot. His faded jeans were molded to the well-defined muscles of his thighs, and the sleeves of his denim shirt, rolled up to his elbows, accentuated strong forearms.
An unexpected surge of attraction coursed through Marcie, taking her completely by surprise. Astonished and dismayed by her inappropriate reaction, she shoved the feeling aside.
Sam Woodward was handsome, in a rugged sort of way. He definitely had a tantalizing, masculine appeal. But she couldn’t afford to let anything sidetrack her right now.
And Sam had the potential to do that. He was more than a little unsettling. He presented the picture of a man securely in charge. That was the last thing she needed. She was struggling to regain control of her life, to straighten out all the problems that had occurred because she’d lost it. As things stood, she was going to have to fight Sam for that control. She needed every advantage; she didn’t dare lose the slightest edge.
Sam had his own agenda, and it didn’t even come close to matching hers. If she didn’t have so much at stake, she’d run from the man as fast as she could.
She straightened her shoulders and went to meet him instead.
“Thank you for agreeing to talk,” she said, striving for an amicable beginning.
“You didn’t give me much choice.”
“I wasn’t given any choice when my daughter was taken from me.” As soon as she said the words, Marcie bit her lip, wishing she could recall them. So much for an amicable beginning. She’d intended to take charge of the discussion, to be reasonable, to keep things on an intellectual level, and already she’d slipped, let her emotions invade.
Sam didn’t reply, but she knew his guard had gone up.
She swallowed hard and forced herself to speak the appropriate words. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He nodded, unresponsive, his eyes focused straight ahead. Together, but miles apart, they entered the motel lobby.
“Food smells good.” She strove for some sort of conversation to break the thick tension surrounding them as they approached the dining room.
“Yes,” he agreed. “They have good food here.”
But when they were seated at a square, white-clothed table in the middle of the crowded room and the waitress came to take their order, Marcie asked only for coffee, and Sam seconded the request
“My stomach’s in knots,” she admitted, turning her glass of water nervously.
One corner of his mouth quirked upward in a way that almost resembled a weak smile. “Mine, too.”
Her gut unclenched a notch. She had to keep in mind that this was just as traumatic for Sam as it was for her.
She cleared her throat and plunged in. “So where’s...Kyla?” She made herself say the name, not refer to her as my daughter, not throw the issue at Sam the way she’d like to.
