Nobody's Child (24 page)

“You posted her bond,” Sheriff Harris said, not making eye contact with Laura Ann or Ian. “So she's all yours.” The sheriff opened the jail door adding, “I don't know what you see in this little witch.”

Ian jammed a hand between Sheriff Harris and the jail bars, staring him down for a long moment. Harris started to protest, then thought better of it.

“Whatever,” Harris said. “Just get her outta here.”

Ian extended his hand to Laura Ann with an encouraging wink. She needed no coaxing. A step ahead of her all the way, decked out in his official jacket and tie with a warden's badge on his chest, Ian led her out of the county jail. At the main door he pointed in silence toward his old farm truck waiting at the curb.

Yearning for some sign of affection, she turned and got in the pickup, not a word between them. She sat still, headed out of town across the bridge toward Sistersville, the wrong way if they were to return to the farm and to baby James. He took the
first left, onto a country road that led to the tiny community of Next, then pulled off the lane to park beyond the sight of Route 18. When the truck stopped, he shifted on the bench seat to face her and his stern face melted, tears in his eyes.

“James is fine, Laura Ann. A little hungry, but doing well. I took some bottles of formula to the foster home half an hour ago.”

“Foster home?” Laura Ann collapsed, her head in her hands. Ian freed the seat belt and pulled her into his arms.

“Somebody's watching us,” Ian said after a time. “That's why we didn't return to the farm.” She could feel him shake his head. “I'd have never guessed Jack would pull something like this.”

“Uncle Jack?” she asked, sitting up straight to face him. She wiped at her eyes with a sleeve, until Ian produced a fresh napkin.

He nodded. “You were headed to the jail before I found out about the assault.”

“It wasn't assault. They trumped that up.”

“I know. But remind me not to cross you,” he said, throwing a playful punch her way. “One of guys at the jail gave me a holler on the radio, but Jeremy wouldn't let me in to see you. So I took the rest of the afternoon off and headed for the farm. As soon as Rodale hauled you off the porch and brought you to town, Phyllis ran back to her office and filed a motion with Child Protective Services claiming endangerment. Granny was with James when I got there. Wasn't long before Phyllis showed up to get him, backed up by two deputies.” He chuckled. “I don't think they wanted to tangle with Granny Apple. And they didn't count on me being there.”

“But why?”

“Hold on. So, Granny and I gave ‘em a hard time. Wouldn't let Phyllis touch the baby until after we'd carried him across the creek. I followed her all the way to town, then to the foster care home, and finally back to her office. That's when I saw him.”

“Uncle Jack?” she asked, images of her uncle with his hands on James.

“She met him at her office after hours. I watched them through the window at the front of her building. They shook hands, Jack handed her some kind of envelope, and then he left.” Ian shrugged. “I'd bet my badge he's behind that parental rights suit and that he paid Phyllis to file the petition of endangerment.”

Laura Ann leaned toward him, about to say something, but Ian cut her off.

“There's more. I dug around in state records with the office computer last night. Turns out, Phyllis used to work for your uncle, as a clerk and notary for his crop insurance business. She got a job with Child Protective Services last December.” For the first time, he smiled.

“When you search for her name and Jack's in the state records, you find lots of insurance claims.
Lots
of claims. But when you search for her name and yours together, there's only one entry — and it might interest you.”

“Nothing about Uncle Jack interests me.”

“This will. Seems that your dad bought a federal tobacco crop insurance policy in August — notarized by Phyllis.”

“Daddy never bought crop insurance.” She raised an eyebrow. “We couldn't afford it.”

Ian smiled again. “That's what I thought, but it's got your dad's signature on it. Looks legit. And that's not all.”

Laura Ann tilted her head.

“Someone filed a tobacco claim after the barn burned. And it was paid. To you.”

“But I never did that!” she gasped.

“Precisely. They're running a scam, Laura Ann. Insurance fraud. So if they try to take baby James from you, we have just the ammunition we need to bring them down.”

He gripped her left hand for a long quiet spell, twisting the diamond ring about her finger. He patted her knee after a time and spoke up. “We need to fight this as a couple. Mr. and Mrs. Ian Stewart.”

“You won't hear any objections from me,” she replied, a lump in her throat.

“Didn't think so. We have an appointment with Granny Apple, Pastor Culpeper, and his wife in Pursley.” His smile grew from ear to ear. “Three weeks from today. At five.” He motioned to the backseat of his truck, pulling a blanket free from atop a surprise. “I think you'll need this.”

Laura Ann turned her head, spying a long deep white box tied with a pink ribbon. She'd never noticed the blanket in the back when they left the jail.

Ian lifted the big box over the seat and set it in her lap, so long it barely fit. “I picked it up this morning.”

She pulled at the bow and lifted the top of the box free. Eyes wide, she brought her hand to her mouth with a gasp, then looked up in shock.

Ian nodded with an impish wink.

“Momma's wedding dress!”

“I picked it up from Mrs. Harper before I came to get you. She'd finished the adjustments. Now all I need is a bride.”

“And here I am,” Laura Ann said, leaning across the gown to kiss him.

Three weeks from tonight he would call the farm his home.

S
EPTEMBER 2

“I found five bottles and a dozen packages of formula,” Ian said, strapping on a backpack. “Was that all?”

“I pumped what I could. The bottles and formula will be more than enough to get James through Saturday morning,” Laura Ann replied from her seat on the steps of the porch. The same place she last saw her son a week ago.

“I'll hike these out to the foster family and see you tomorrow evening,” he continued, pulling his pack straps tight. “You get some sleep, okay?” Ian towered over her, clad in jeans and a T-shirt, his boots muddied from the trip in. He looked up at an angry sky, the evening gone dark with the threat of more thunderstorms. Her eyes followed his to low clouds blowing fast over the ridge, wisps of grey torn from their parents and flying on the wind to some unknown place. Like James.

Laura Ann nodded, no words in response. Every minute she imagined the baby in her arms, the pain of her son's absence growing more intense with each passing hour. She stood and took Ian in a tight hug. “Love on him for me,” she said. Ian nodded, but she knew the truth. He'd struck a deal just to drop off her mother's milk. He'd never be allowed to see the child.

After a light kiss, he struck off up the hill, headed on a mile-long walk out to Route 18, then a short drive into town. Some trustworthy family, vetted by the state, watched over tiny James. No one would tell her where he lay, a secret Ian kept to fulfill his part of a covert deal. At least she knew that the parents who watched her baby also felt her pain.

Laura Ann watched him hike out, arriving just an hour after his work day, slogging through fresh red mud to get the food for James's next day. Job, farm, baby. Job, farm, baby. He made the rounds each afternoon without complaint. Laura Ann turned the engagement ring on her finger, squeezing diamond points into her flesh as a reminder of Ian's commitment … and their wedding two weeks from Saturday.

Half an hour after his departure, fluffy bases of a ragged storm gathered, dark and foreboding. Ragged wisps of clouds clumped together and moved in a slow march toward the farm. The Angus lay down with their noses into the approaching rain.

Without warning, a shattering crash of thunder split the sky. Jolted from her place on the steps, Laura Ann jumped up and dashed through the screen door, latching it behind her.

Like a knife plunged into a bag of water, the sky opened, inundating the barnyard with rain. The storm swept over the house and immersed Laura Ann in darkness. She huddled on the floor in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped about her legs, flashes of lightning her only illumination.

Laura Ann lowered her chin to her knees, the shock of successive bolts rattling windows, rain pelting glass. She prayed for Ian, for his safe passage to the truck. She prayed for James, to be fed, and to be loved.

Thor, the Norse god of thunder, raged his most furious outside her home, determined to torment her. She imagined each blast of light and sound to be a battle in her war. Daddy's sickness.
Four trips to the fertility clinic. Fire. Flood. Sophia's surprise visit. The death of her friend. The mortgage. And now, losing James.

Another bolt crossed the sky, rumbling the valley like a monster timpani. Windows rattled and the door shook in response to the invisible force somewhere above her in the cloud.

Invisible power, but no less real.

“Your momma had a saying,” Daddy whispered, holding Laura Ann in his arms. Together, they huddled in the living room, lightning flashing all about one hot summer's eve.

“What?” Laura Ann whispered in reply, afraid the storm could hear her. Above the house, thunder rolled in dark clouds, and rain pelted the windows like so many pebbles.

“She said that if lightning ever strikes twice, the Thunder Hag is about.”

“Thunder Hag?” Laura Ann's eyes were wide with wonder, staring out at the flashes in the dark, brilliant bolts that momentarily lit the room bright as a camera flash, then plunged the two of them into an even deeper dark.

“Aye. The Thunder Hag. One bright day midsummer, when all the highlands were washed in a brilliant warm and the seas were made to sleep, she flew over Scotland in a pitch-black chariot, drawn by horrible red hounds, and flanked by dark heavy clouds.”

Laura Ann's heart beat fast, sure she'd seen this hag headed toward the farm earlier that evening when the first bolts struck up on the ridge.

“Blackness swallowed the land and her chariot wheels rattled fearsome. She rode sea to sea, hurtling fireballs into forests of fir
and silver birch, setting Scotland ablaze from highland to moor.” Daddy squeezed her in his arms, holding her in a protective hug safe from the onslaught of the terrible witch.

“And then Angus, King of Summer, called for the great hero, Conall. Said Conall, ‘I may slay her on the morrow.' “

Laura Ann trembled in Daddy's arms as the next bolt showered them in a pool of light.

“Did Conall kill the hag?” she asked.

“Nay, but he drove her away for a season. Conall stood on a grassy knoll and with a might heave cast his trusty spear into her side. No swallow may dart as fast as his spear fled into her horrible belly. Wounded, she screamed and threw double bolts at heroic Conall, then fled the wrath of his mighty arm. Her wheels cut the dark storm clouds a'twain, showering Scotland with a torrent of rain, and quenching the fires of her rage. Scotland was saved, springing up green as an emerald. And Conall stands up there today — on our ridge — guarding against the fury of the terrible witch.”

Laura Ann stared with wonder out the dark window, another bolt high in the sky lighting up the distant line of poplars on the ridge. Somewhere in that forest waited a tall man, her hero, hurtling spears to protect her from a fearsome enemy who came to steal and destroy.

S
EPTEMBER 3

“Felix Mendoza is the sperm donor,” her fiancé said. “James's biological father.”

Laura Ann squirmed as the words left his mouth. She and Granny Apple sat in the living room on Friday night with Ian, listening to the news he'd gleaned this past week. Like a bard,
Ian roamed far afield, bringing back tidbits from the neighboring village of Middlebourne.

“Mendoza first learned about the pregnancy when Sophia visited him in Cincinnati,” Ian said, perusing some notes on a small pad of paper. “She told me about this in the hospital, Laura Ann. The night you fell asleep while we talked. She was real lonely — and probably depressed. For whatever reason, she thought there might be some special connection with this guy when they met.” He rolled his eyes. “Maybe it was her hormones talking. I don't know.”

“She wanted a child with Hispanic blood,” Laura Ann said. “And she wanted someone to share news of the baby with.”

“How does a woman do that?” Ian asked. “I mean, why him?”

“She picked him off a website,” Granny Apple said with a knowing glance in Laura Ann's direction. “Online baby shopping.”

“It's a little more complex than that,” Laura Ann replied, hanging her head. “But that's the essence of it.”

“So how did he find out about Sophia's death? And locate James?” Granny Apple asked, her hands busied with some knitting.

“This is where it gets interesting,” Ian said, his eyes averted from Laura Ann. “It was your uncle Jack.”

Laura Ann's head snapped up, her mouth wide open. “Him again?”

“Hard to believe, but here's what I found out from the guys at the sheriff's office. Your uncle Jeremy's been shooting off his mouth.” He winked at Laura Ann. “And I've done some sleuthing of my own.”

“Go on.”

“When you brought the baby home, and Jack learned about it, he apparently did some snooping around Wheeling General. He sweet-talked a nurse and learned that Sophia conceived through IVF. That's where a contact in Child Protective Services
came in handy. Phyllis — his prior employee — placed an ‘official call' and submitted paperwork claiming to research a parental rights suit, then found out about Mendoza.”

He paused. “Laura Ann sealed her clinic records right after she met Sophia, so it's unlikely he learned anything about her. But it was no problem learning about Sophia. She's all over the Internet, the founding partner of a successful law firm.” He coughed, and then added, “Or she was.”

Ian put a hand on Laura Ann's shoulder, some quiet solace, and then continued his story. “Jeremy got liquored up at the VFW on Wednesday night and told a friend that Jack was working a deal to share in some kind of big win. Maybe he thinks that stipend from Sophia is worth a bunch of money and he's got an arrangement with Mendoza to split it. But that guess is a long shot.”

“Or maybe he's just plain mean and wants to ruin Laura Ann's life,” Granny Apple said, jabbing an imaginary Jack with her knitting needle.

“I could believe that,” Laura Ann chimed in.

“Or,” Ian said, “he figures that if he makes you miserable you'll fold like Rose did, and he'll get his fingers on yet another share of your dad's inheritance.”

“That makes no sense. I own the farm.”

“No. Technically, the bank owns it. You make payments on a debt that they secure with this land.”

“He thinks he can run me out of town bawling? I fail to pay, and then the bank repossesses the land?” She shook her head, a deep scowl crossing her face. “He can't be that stupid.”

“He doesn't know you as well as he should, but he does know business, Laura Ann. If you bail out of the mortgage, the bank gets to set the sale price and they write off any loss. He takes a short-term loan and buys the farm, flips it for his profit, and he's in the money.”

“But he only wins,” Laura Ann said, “if I give up.” Ian flashed a thumbs-up and added, “Close. He only wins if
we
give up.”

S
EPTEMBER 4

“How do we beat someone like my uncle?” Laura Ann asked the next morning, scraping a skillet clean at the kitchen sink. “He's got the sheriff, Child Protective Services, and who-knows-what-else in his back pocket.”

Hungry from a Saturday morning's work, Ian shoveled in another helping of fried ham, his mouth too full to answer her. He nodded like he had something to say, swigging the eggs and meat down with a bolt of hot coffee before he responded.

“You don't fight him,” he said, wiping his mouth. “You keep him off-balance. Outsmart him.” He picked up another slice of fresh-baked bread and smothered it with some of Laura Ann's fresh raspberry jam. Ready to gobble the sweet, he stopped, holding the bread midair, his mouth open in surprise.

“Listen,” he said, turning his head toward the hall and the living room. “D'you hear that?”

“What?” she asked, setting down the pan.

“We left the TV on after you checked the weather. Stefany's show is coming on next. I just heard them announce it.”

“So?”

“We need to watch. Not because of her, but the report she's doing. Come on.” He dropped the bread, pushed away from the table, and sprinted down the hall toward the drone of the television set. Laura Ann folded a dish towel and followed at a slower pace. Since little James left, every movement taxed her.

“In a repeat of our weekly Special Report segment, investigative journalist Stefany Lukeman continues her series on the abuse of government insurance programs in the northwest counties hit hard by June floods.”

Laura Ann joined Ian at the couch, a rare day when the television played. Perhaps it came with having a man in her house. Two weeks from tonight, this would become
his
house. Their home.

Stefany appeared on screen, the same cousin who'd sheltered her for five weeks in Wheeling. Nearly every day they were together, she'd shared some new tidbit she'd gleaned in her world of reporting that proved conspiracies to affect consumer pricing, to cut people out of work, or to move jobs. A woman who loved life, energetic in the extreme, she also had a passion for the little guy. Like a top spinning at high speed, she careened about the community as an investigative reporter, bouncing off one injustice after another.

Her cousin's green eyes and red hair set her apart from the other newscasters, a rebel in her dress and her color. Freckles, prominent cheekbones, and a strong jaw framed her most visible feature — full lips always drawn back in a smile. Her introduction filled the screen until she cut to a special report about Tyler County, their home.

“The impact of the June floods continues in the northwest corner of our state. Cleanup operations have been underway for weeks, and just now communities like Middlebourne, West Union, and Saint Mary's are recovering from what has been termed the worst flooding in this state in a century. But for all the stories of recovery and endurance, there's a dark side to federal and state flood relief programs. Massive fraud, perpetrated by a few, has crept into relief and subsidy efforts. From crop programs to federal flood insurance, ‘entrepreneurs' are cashing in on what some say is easy money. Too easy.”

Ian touched Laura Ann's knee, pointing in silence at the television. Her cousin rarely frowned. Today, Stefany's lips were full, pursed in concern.

“In Tyler County alone, more than four hundred farms reported losses in the June storm. But in our analysis of the flood, we found there were less than three hundred fifty farms located in the flood plain of the Middle Island and its tributaries. So why the discrepancy? Here's another problem. If you total up the flood-related crop losses for farms in our region, it exceeds the total value of any year's agricultural statistics for the past fifty years. To read between the lines, this would have been a banner year for agriculture in our corner of the state. Yet, you might recall, we suffered a devastating four weeks of drought just before the flood. So, which was it? A banner year for crops? Or fraud?”