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Fugitive Mom
Lynn Erickson
A woman in a bindFor four years Grace Bennett has lavished care on her foster son, ever since his mother gave him up. Now his birth mother wants him back, and under the law, she can have him.Grace has two choices–obey a court order and hand the child over or go underground with her little boy and become a fugitive mom.The man who could help herLuke Sarkov may no longer be working Vice for the San Francisco P.D., but he's lost none of his edge. He could help Grace flee–and get the goods on just how unfit a parent the biological mother of Grace's little boy really is.If he and Grace can control what has started to happen between them…
“Grace, I’m still mad,” Luke said. “I only hope you won’t pull another stunt like that.”
She heard him take a deep breath.
“Right now you can tell the FBI you had a breakdown and lost touch with reality, and that’s why you took off with the boy. I know that’s bull, but at least the law would have to consider it. But if the feds get wind that you were out trying to destroy his birth mother’s credibility, you can kiss the nervous breakdown story goodbye. They’ll throw the book at you. For the time being you’re the innocent victim in the public’s view. You don’t want to fall from…grace,” he said, “If you’ll forgive the pun.”
“That isn’t funny,” she said with a catch in her voice.
He frowned. “I can’t take it when a woman cries.”
“I’m not crying.”
“It’s okay. You tried to help. I overreacted. Come on, Grace.”
She let him enfold her in his arms, and suddenly nothing mattered. There was only Luke and pure sensation flowing through her veins. She tried to focus on the hurt he’d caused her, on how close they were to their goal. Her little boy…soon, soon, her little boy would be safely back with her.
But at the moment there was only Luke and her hopeless, spiraling need….
Dear Reader,
We first learned about a situation identical to the one in Fugitive Mom from an article in a newsmagazine. However, in real life the story had an unhappy ending when the foster parent was required by the courts to return her baby to the biological mother. A year later, one of our close friends underwent a similar ordeal, and our hearts were touched.
This is why we write books—we can solve these thorny problems and create happy endings. But we certainly do enjoy putting our protagonists through the wringer on the route to success. And wouldn’t it be wonderful if the heroine fell in love on her journey?
We hope you enjoy Fugitive Mom, and please visit us on the Harlequin Web site.
Best wishes,
Carla and Molly
(Lynn Erickson)
Fugitive Mom
Lynn Erickson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u0ba93e83-9a63-59cd-adc8-db5944dbcc36)
CHAPTER TWO (#u2c7c121b-7450-5367-8936-8c312e5b7c6b)
CHAPTER THREE (#ub659c6ef-0554-5d21-8326-943cea97df5a)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u1972dce3-512c-5566-aa39-1b5aa5fc881e)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u833ae007-7a57-5132-997b-9a3d3ec14ed2)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
COURTROOM C OF THE Boulder County Justice Center looked just like the other courtrooms in the sprawling building: blond wood, industrial blue carpet, judge’s podium, jury box and spectators’ benches in a kind of faux Danish modern style. But to Grace Bennett, sitting at a prosecution table in front, Courtroom C was the worst hell on earth.
“‘In the case of minor Charles L. Pope, he is remanded to the permanent custody of his biological mother, Kerry Ann Pope,’” the Juvenile magistrate intoned, reading his decision. “‘He is to be removed from the care of his foster mother, Sally Grace Bennett, in four days’ time. The State of Colorado and the County of Boulder thank you, Ms. Bennett.”’ His gavel thudded dully on its block.
Grace heard the young woman at the other table say something: “Oh, wow! Thank you, Your Honor.”
The words were spoken by Kerry Pope, in her early twenties, thin and pale, wearing worn jeans and a sweatshirt that said CU, out of prison six months ago, out of her halfway house only two months ago. Rehabilitated, according to the legal system. Charley’s biological mother. A joke! It must all be a stupendous joke, a bad dream. Kerry had never taken care of Charley. Never!
Grace put her head in her hands, elbows leaning on the blond wood table. She fought tears, felt desperation fill her to the brim and spill over.
The clerk of the court scribbled busily; the court stenographer tapped the judge’s last words into her machine. There was no jury to comment upon the decision, to murmur or gasp, but there were onlookers, mumbling in a monotone behind Grace, probably talking about their own cases, not hearing or knowing or caring….
No, Grace wanted to scream. You can’t do this. Charley, handed back to his so-called mother. Her Charley, whom she had cared for since he was three months old. Her son, for God’s sake.
“Grace,” her lawyer was saying, “come on, Grace, we have to go.”
She raised her face up to the woman who’d represented her at this hearing. “They can’t do this, Natalie. They can’t just—”
Natalie Woodruff took Grace’s arm gently. “We have to leave. The judge has ruled.”
“But can’t you…can’t we appeal this? There must be something we can do.”
Natalie’s eyes were full of sympathy—not that it would do Grace or Charley any good. “Not now, Grace. It’s over. We have to go.”
Slowly, Grace stood up. Her knees felt weak, her stomach knotted. Her heart pounded sickeningly in her ears. Charley, Charley. Automatically, she reached for her handbag and stepped away from the table. She glanced at the Juvenile judge again; he was reading a file the clerk had handed him, peering at it over half glasses. He’d already forgotten Grace and Charley—he was dealing with another case. Oh, God.
“Grace,” Natalie said again.
She moved shakily toward the double doors at the back of the courtroom, following Natalie. She prayed Kerry Pope wouldn’t say anything to her.
Natalie was pushing the first set of doors open; they closed behind Grace with a whoosh, then the second set opened and the world rushed back—the crowded corridor of the Justice Center, the front entrance not far away, summer sun spilling through, the security guards on duty.
“Come on, Grace, let’s get out of here,” Natalie was saying, but Grace felt so weak for a moment she slid down onto one of the long benches against the stark white wall.
“Ms. Bennett,” she heard, and looked up. A young woman was standing in front of her. Vaguely familiar. A little heavy, a worried frown between her eyebrows. Wearing a rumpled gray suit that showed her dimpled knees.
“Yes?” Grace said faintly.
“My name is Susan Moore. I’m with Child Protective Services. I…I know about you. I heard the decision.”
Grace adjusted her glasses and gazed at Susan Moore.
“I’m sorry,” Susan said. “I’m so so sorry.”
“Thank you,” Grace whispered.
“Here,” Susan said, pushing something into Grace’s hand. A scrap of paper.
Grace stared at her hand stupidly. “What is this?” she asked.
“Help,” Susan said. “A phone number. Call it.”
Grace raised her eyes. “I…” But Susan was walking away through the crowd.
“Who was that?” Natalie asked.
“Oh, an acquaintance. Telling me how sorry she was.” Instinctively, Grace lied. She had to think, go home and pay the baby-sitter and hug Charley and think. What did Susan Moore mean? Help. What kind of help? Who…?
“Do you want me to drive you back?” Natalie was asking.
“No, no, I’m okay. Honestly. I’ll make it.” Grace tried to smile.
“Sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Thanks, Natalie. I know you did your best.”
“I’m afraid,” her lawyer said, “the courts are prejudiced in favor of the biological parents these days. We knew that going in.”
“Even when the parents are drug addicts or abusive…yes, I know. You warned me.”
“We made a good try,” Natalie said, squeezing Grace’s hand.
“Not good enough,” Grace said sadly.
“I’ll file an appeal,” Natalie said.
“Yes, an appeal.”
“We can try again. If Kerry does something outrageous, if she puts Charley in danger, well, we can bring it to the court’s attention. The judge might review his ruling in that case.” Her voice held little conviction.
Grace stopped short and put her hand on Natalie’s arm. “She will, you know. She’ll do something terrible. You know it and I know it and the judge should have known it. Think of Kerry’s history. Drugs, rehab, more drugs. You think she’s really rehabilitated? For God’s sake, Natalie, she’s going to slip again. She was abused as a child, and you know what that means. You know…” Her voice clicked off.
“Take it easy, Grace. Social Services will send someone to check on her.”
“Oh, please, don’t patronize me.” It was the first flare of anger she’d felt, and it was satisfying. Better than hopelessness.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
Grace ran her hand through her dark-blond hair; it was held back by a clip, causing her bangs to stand up in spikes, but she didn’t care. Glamour was not one of her strong points. “No, I know you didn’t, but you can’t expect me to trust the system, not after what the court just decided was in the best interests of a minor.”
“Calm down, Grace.”
“I’ve always been calm. I’ve always done the right thing. Look where it got me. And Charley.”
“Listen, I’ll go back to the office and work on the appeal. I have all those psychological studies you gave me.”
“The ones they didn’t allow into evidence,” Grace said bitterly.
“I’ll send them to the judge.”
“And maybe he’ll read them. Maybe.” She’d worked so hard, looking up studies on drug addicts with a history of child abuse, recidivism. She was a psychology professor, after all. She knew about addicts. She knew about Kerry Pope. She’d had many therapy sessions with Kerry four years before as a volunteer at the women’s shelter where Kerry was staying while she had her baby.
That was how it had all started. She’d only been trying to help the women in the shelter, the beatendown ones, the hurt and lost and abused ones. Kerry had been one of those refugees, a nice young kid, still a teenager at the time. Kind of innocent, pregnant by a boyfriend turned violent, sort of pretty in a washed-out way. Blue eyes, stringy blond hair. Skinny with an incongruously big belly. In those days Kerry cried a lot and was terribly frightened about caring for a baby. She was just out of high school, for God’s sake. Grace felt sorry for her, and she had broken the therapist’s first rule of thumb; she had become emotionally involved with her patient.
When Kerry had given birth, Grace had visited her in the hospital, brought a present, held the infant.
“Charles Leon Pope,” Kerry had said. “I like that name.”
Grace had stared down at Charley, his waving arms and tiny clenched hands, his pale, vein-etched eyelids, the blond fuzz on his head, and although she hadn’t realized it at the time, she’d fallen in love.
“You okay, Grace?” Natalie was asking.
“No. But I’ll manage. I better go home.” She smiled grimly. “The baby-sitter.”
She drove back carefully, aware that she was distracted. Pulling up in front of the half of the duplex she owned, she turned the car off and sat for a moment, her head resting on the steering wheel. Then she straightened, got out of the car and walked up the path to her front door. Familiar, comforting. Geraniums in pots, Charley’s plastic fat bike on its side on the grass, his old fire truck there, too, a muddy spoon and bowl from the kitchen sitting on the front stoop. What had he been doing with that?
Inside, the television was on—afternoon cartoons. Grace didn’t like Charley watching too much TV, but Ellen had probably been happy to let him. She was a sweet kid, lived down the street, and Charley loved her.
