Keeping Katie (A Mother's Heart #1) (26 page)

“Of course.” Rita took Katie’s hand and squatted down until she was eye-level with the child. “We’ll make cookies for Tod’s birthday party tomorrow. How does that sound, Katie?”

Katie grinned. “Can I paint the faces?”

“You bet.” Rita gave the child a hug and then stood. “Go on, dear,” she said, waving Maureen out of the room. “Go lie down.”

Maureen smiled her thanks and headed for the stairs. She was halfway up when Rita came bustling into the hall after her. “Just a minute, Maureen. Something came for you today.”

Rita moved to the table where she kept the incoming mail and picked up a large manila envelope. “A man came by this morning and left this for you.”

“A man?” Maureen met Rita at the bottom of the steps and reluctantly took the envelope.

“Yes. He said he was a friend of yours from Chicago. He was really disappointed he missed you.”

“Chicago.” Maureen’s hands trembled. “Did he give you his name?”

“Let’s see.” Rita wrinkled her brow. “Something starting with the letter
J.
John or Jason …” She shook her head. “I knew I should have written it down.”

“Jacob?”

“That’s it. Jacob.”

Maureen’s legs nearly gave way beneath her, and she grabbed the railing for support.

“Are you okay?” Rita, evidently alarmed, reached for Maureen.

“Fine,” Maureen said, pulling herself together with an effort. Could her father be here? “I guess I just feel worse than I thought.”

“Let me help you upstairs.”

“No. That’s not necessary.” Maureen started to move away. “Just watch Katie for me.”

“Are you sure? Maybe I should call Doc Readon.”

“I just need some rest.” Maureen took a few more steps, the envelope clutched in her hand, then stopped. It couldn’t be him. “Did the man tell you his last name?”

Rita shook his head. “No. Just his first name. And then he left the envelope.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was a big man. Blond. Good-looking.”

“Young?”

“He is a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

“Was he young?” Maureen repeated.

Rita shrugged. “Mid-thirties.”

Maureen let out her breath and forced a smile. “Yes, I know him,” she lied. “Thanks.” It couldn’t be her father.

Somehow she managed to climb the remaining stairs, though her legs threatened to give out beneath her. In her room, she collapsed on the bed.

She didn’t want to open the envelope.

She told herself that she wasn’t interested in knowing who had sent it. So she just sat staring at it, the blood pounding behind her eyes. She knew no tall blond man from Chicago. No one named Jacob other than her father. Except …

As if her hands belonged to someone else, she watched them tear open the flap. Inside was another envelope, cream-colored and legal-size, which she drew out with trembling fingers. She saw the insignia in the upper left-hand corner and the bold hand-printed name across the front. For a moment, she froze, unable to move. Then the letters swam in front of her eyes and she fought back the sudden nausea.

He’d found her.

Her father. She would recognize his handwriting anywhere. She dropped the envelope as if it had the power to burn and fell back on the bed, covering her face with her hands.

How long had she waited, hoped to hear from him after he’d shut her out? How many nights, while David still lived, had she lain awake wondering how her own father could turn his back on her? She’d needed him then. And it would have been so easy for him to help her. Instead, he’d refused. He wouldn’t take her calls, and her letters had come back unopened.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears came anyway.

Now this envelope. A lone message delivered by a stranger. What would she find inside? Accusations? Smugness? A reprimand? And then would he offer his help?

Now that it was too late.

She rolled over on her side, burying her face in her hands, and surrendered to tears. She cried for her father, who had sent a note after years of silence. She cried for Katie, who knew nothing of the legal system threatening to give her to strangers. She cried for David, whom she’d lost. And she cried for herself, because on top of everything else, she’d fallen hopelessly in love with a man who could destroy her.

When she opened her eyes sometime later, long shadows filled the room. She must have fallen asleep.

Her head felt somewhat better, though her eyes were gritty from crying.

Sitting up slowly, she saw the envelope on the floor where she’d dropped it. Once again, the name Maura, written in bold letters across the front, seemed to beckon from some other time and place. Leaning over, she picked it up. Nothing had really changed. She didn’t want to open it, but she really had no choice. She needed to know what her father wanted from her. What he expected.

And there was only one way to find out.

She carefully slit open the seal. Inside was a piece of her father’s stationery. The sight no longer had the power to surprise her. Sometime in the last few hours, she had come to accept the fact that he knew where she was. Now she felt only curiosity and fear. How had he found her? And who else knew about her?

The note itself was a disappointment. There was none of the frigid prose she expected. No condemnation or accusations. No threats. Only three short sentences, written in Jacob’s unique bold script.

“Maura. Contact me. I can help.”

A
lan parked the Jeep under the shadow of trees at the edge of the Simmons yard. Shutting off the engine, he turned toward Maureen. Neither of them had spoken on the way here, and an uncomfortable silence lay between them. Alan wished he could reach out and pull her into his arms. Maybe then they could talk, really talk. Maybe then she would stop lying to him.

Maureen started to get out, but stopped when he said, “I ran into someone Friday night whom you might know.” He hadn’t meant to bring up his encounter with Sam Cooper, though it had been on his mind.

Maureen visibly stiffened, then turned to meet his gaze. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Tall blond man.” When she didn’t respond he added, “Said his name was Sam Cooper.
Do
you know him?”

Maureen hesitated, and Alan saw the indecision in her eyes. “Sure,” she said. “I know him.”

“Where from?”

“Chicago. He’s a friend.” She lifted her shoulders in a gesture of nonchalance. “He stopped by Rita’s to see me, but I was working.”

“Funny.” Alan shifted his hat to shield his eyes. “I wonder why he said he didn’t know you.”

Maureen flinched but recovered quickly. “You must have misunderstood.”

Alan held her gaze for a moment longer and then shrugged. “Sure. I must have misunderstood.” He didn’t believe her. Not for a moment. But he didn’t know what to do about it.

“Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” he asked, nodding toward the barn. No matter what else was going on, he didn’t like her being out here. “We could just leave.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m not changing my mind. Besides, you’re forgetting I’ve been out here before—without an escort.”

“I’m not forgetting a thing.” Alan pulled off his hat and tossed it on the dashboard. “In particular, I’m not forgetting Bud Simmons.”

“Bud’s not here. And besides, you’re the one who told me he wasn’t dangerous.”

Exasperated, Alan ran a hand through his hair. “I said he didn’t abuse his boys. Make no mistake, the man is dangerous. I would think you’d understand that after his little display at Lynn’s the other day.”

“I’m just here to see Tommy—”

“Which Bud particularly warned you against doing.”

Irritation spread across her features. “Am I going to have to listen to you lecture me all over again?”

Sighing, Alan shook his head. “Would it do any good?”

“No.” Maureen got out of the Jeep and reached in the back to retrieve the bag she’d brought along. “Besides, if anyone gets Bud Simmons riled, it’ll be you.”

He just looked at her and shook his head. The woman was deluding herself. If Bud caught her out here again, there would be hell to pay.

“Remember,” she said, “you promised to stay put. And if Bud does show, don’t go stirring up things with him.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Alan propped one foot on the dashboard as if to emphasize the fact that he would wait. “Now, go on. Get this over with.”

He watched her walk toward the barn, wondering what he was going to do. She had him so tied up in knots he couldn’t think straight anymore. He hadn’t forgotten about her hair, nor did he believe her explanation. Not about the hair. And not about Cooper. That’s why he’d stayed away from her yesterday. He couldn’t decide what to do. He knew she was lying. He couldn’t say how, but deep down, he knew. Yet he also knew his feelings for her ran deep, and he wanted to think there was a logical explanation for her secrets.

She was halfway across the yard when he heard the shot, followed by an ear-splitting howl. Coming from the barn, the sounds echoed through the yard, shattering the mountain stillness. He sprang from the Jeep before the din died and raced across the yard.

“Stay here,” he shouted at Maureen, who’d dropped the bag to head toward the barn.

Alan stopped at the door, back against the wall, gun in hand. Maureen fell in next to him. “I thought I told you to stay put,” he said.

She didn’t answer but stood rigidly where she was. He threw her another exasperated look before edging around the door, trying to see into the dim interior of the barn. What he saw tore at his insides.

“Help us!” It was Joey, on the ground cradling his brother’s head in his lap. “Tommy’s shot.”

Alan dashed to the boy’s side.

Blood. There was blood everywhere—on the ground, on Joey’s hands, but mostly on Tommy’s leg. Ripping the boy’s jeans away from the source, Alan checked for the seriousness of the wound. Blood spurted in an all-too-familiar pattern, a pattern he’d seen far too often overseas. Yanking off his shirt, he pressed the fabric hard against the flow.

“What happened?” he asked Joey.

“He grabbed my rifle … and fell …” Joey could hardly get the words out.

“Where’s your pa?”

Joey shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “Don’t know.”

“It’s going to be okay, Joe,” Alan said, trying to reassure him. Then he leaned over the injured boy. “Tommy, can you hear me?” Tommy’s eyelids fluttered open for a brief moment, and Alan thought the boy recognized him. Then they closed again.

“Damn,” Alan muttered. Grabbing Joey’s hand, he guided it toward the shirt he held against Tommy’s leg. “Here, Joe, hold this firmly in place. I need to stop that bleeding.” Unbuckling his belt, he yanked it off.

“No! Wait!” Maureen had followed him into the barn and crouched down on the other side of the injured boy. “Hold his leg, Alan. I need to get his boot off.”

“What are you talking about? His artery’s been severed. He’s going to bleed to death if I don’t stop it.”

“It may be only nicked,” she said, while her fingers probed the area around the bullet wound. “I need to see if there’s circulation in his foot.” She met his gaze, and the calmness in her eyes startled him. “I know what I’m doing,” she added, never taking her eyes from him. “If you want to save this boy’s life
and
his leg, I need to get his boot off.”

He believed her. Later, he couldn’t have said why, but something in her eyes, something in the steadiness of her voice and the way her hands moved so confidently on the boy, convinced him.

“Keep the pressure on, Joey.” Leaning down, he held Tommy’s leg while Maureen worked the boot off. Then he held his breath while she pressed her fingers against the pulse point of the boy’s ankle. Alan prayed she knew what she was doing.

“There’s still circulation,” she finally said. “Most likely, the artery’s only nicked. Alan, take over for Joey and put pressure on that wound. Joey, call for help. Then bring me blankets, clean sheets, and rags—tear up sheets if you have to—and water.”

“I can’t call!” Joey’s voice was near hysteria. “There’s no cell reception out here, and the house phone’s out. Pa ain’t paid—”

Maureen turned to him and grabbed both his hands. “Calm down, Joe.”

Joey nodded, but his eyes were wild, scared.

“I’ll go,” Alan said. “The boy’s—”

“I need you here.” Maureen’s voice remained calm but firm. “Joe’s going to be fine, aren’t you, Joe? And you want to help Tommy, don’t you?”

Taking a deep breath, Joey closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked calmer, steadier.

“Okay,” Maureen said. “What are you going to get for me?”

“Uh … blankets, clean sheets, rags …”

“Clean rags.”

“Yeah, clean rags. And water.”

“Good, now go on. Hurry!” Maureen gave Joey a slight push, and the boy raced out of the barn.

While they waited for Joey to return, Maureen worked over his brother. She loosened Tommy’s shirt, then rechecked his leg and the pulse in his foot.

As he watched her, a sharp realization sliced through Alan. She was too calm, too confident. Her movements too smooth, too efficient. She’d done this before, and it wasn’t something she’d learned in a six-week first-aid class. She knew what she was doing, and she was good at it.