Diana Whitney - Who's That Baby?

“Don’t you worry, little one. You have people who love you, who will take care of you always.”

Lucy looked up, blinked and burped. For some reason, that tickled Claire immensely. “I swear, you are the sweetest baby I’ve ever seen in my life. Trust me, I’ve seen more than my share of sweet babies.”

Claire laid the infant in the middle of her bed. At two months old, Lucy was just learning to arch her little body, and might be able to turn over, so Claire placed a couple of pillows on each side of the child to keep her safe.

“We’re going to have a lovely time, you and I.”

Bright baby eyes blinked up, struggling to focus on Claire’s movements as she slipped off her skirt and blouse and tossed them over a nearby chair.

“Tomorrow morning we’ll go shopping,” Claire told the infant. “Your wardrobe leaves a bit to be desired, don’t you think?” She shimmied into a frumpy but practical flannel nightgown, traded her dried-out contacts for a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses and stretched out on the bed beside the squirming infant. “Red would be a smashing color on you. Something in gingham, maybe, with a few well-placed ruffles. Nothing garish, of course. All in the best of taste.” She finger combed the peculiar thatch of dark baby hair, unsuccessfully attempted to curl the straight strand around her finger. “Maybe we can find one of those adorable elastic head bows. You’ll be so beautiful your daddy will be putty in your tiny hands.”

Lucy cooed, whacked her tummy. Claire’s heart gave a lurch, and her biological clock suddenly issued an irresistible tick. All her life, Claire had wanted children, had simply presumed that someday she’d have them. She’d always wanted to be a doctor, too. It had never occurred to her that the two longings would be incompatible.

Never until now.

It hit Claire with sudden clarity that she was thirty-two years old, single and sliding toward the middle of her life without having ever looked up from her first goal long enough to realize that she may have jeopardized the second.

She’d worked hard to get where she was today. There had been little time for relationships, and those few she’d attempted had been less than satisfactory. Most men had expected sex. Claire had not been inclined to offer that. She’d possessed the same urges as any woman, of course, but had been leery of committing herself either physically or emotionally ever since her best friend had become pregnant in high school. Giving in to those urges, she’d decided, was not for her, not until her life was in order and her future assured.

So Claire had thrown herself into her work, and she’d waited for the right time, the right man, the ring on her finger. Well, her finger was still bare, and she’d yet to experience lovemaking. Now she wondered what it would be like to be held by Johnny Winter-hawk, to be loved by him, to have borne him this beautiful child.

The image made her shiver with delight. It was fantasy, of course. Claire had her secret yearnings, but she was above all a pragmatist. She understood that about herself, just as she understood that simply having children could never be enough for her. She wanted a family, a real family, with two loving parents who would cherish each other as much as they cherished the issue of their union, the precious lives they had created.

It was that lack of intimacy, of love and family, that left a nagging void deep inside, a cold emptiness in a place she never searched too carefully.

Tonight that void had suddenly become full and vibrant, throbbing with a sensation that had first exploded when Johnny Winterhawk stared into her eyes, and had settled into sweet reality when she’d gazed upon Lucy’s precious little face.

This is merely temporary. Johnny’s words echoed in her mind.

Claire sighed. “This is dangerous territory,” she murmured. “I can’t afford to fall in love with you, sweetie.” Even as she spoke, she knew it was too late.

Two years ago, Claire had come to Buttonwood looking for something indefinable, something she hadn’t even recognized. Now she finally understood why she was here, why she’d plucked one particular professional-opportunity flyer off a Cincinnati hospital bulletin board at the end of her residency and found herself in the one place on earth where she’d instinctively known that her destiny awaited her.

Now she’d found that destiny.

In the dark, innocent eyes of this beautiful abandoned babe, she saw the reflection of another discarded child, one who had grown up loved and cared for yet had never escaped the secret heartache of having been given away by her birth parents.

Claire saw herself in Lucy. Perhaps that’s why the pain of this infant’s abandonment sliced so deeply into her own heart.

A scrap of pink fabric peeked from beneath the sofa. Johnny scooped it up, spread the tiny shirt in his palm. His chest constricted with a peculiar ache. He had a daughter. He had a child.

Dear God, how had this happened? How could he not have known?

“Samantha,” he murmured. “Why?”

In a wave of emotion, he crushed the shirt in his fist, pressed the soft cotton to his throat. A sweet scent wafted up, powdery and cloying. Silence suffocated him, a loneliness in the gut as sharp as a blade. He turned on the television, cranking the volume up, then hit the stereo switch as he paced. Noise flooded the house, shaking the walls. Good noise. Distracting noise. Music drowned out the wail of a used-car salesman, weather reports mingled with the stilted dialogue of old movies, headline news segued from the cheery jingle of a cereal commercial.

Night surrounded him. Fatigue weakened his muscles, but sleep was the enemy, a place haunted by secret loneliness and memories he couldn’t control. Emotions could be bottled during the chaos of waking hours; pain could be ignored through the focus of work.

Work was Johnny’s life, had always been his life, first to achieve the success that was so important to him, and later to keep him from dwelling on past failures or acknowledging the emptiness of a heart betrayed too often.

Now that heart was in jeopardy again.

The image of his precious daughter floated through his mind. Everyone Johnny had ever loved had been lost to him. His parents, his wife, even the woman who had borne him a child. Love was temporary; people were temporary.

Fatherhood was forever.

The concept gave him chills, made his palms sweat. Johnny had never allowed himself to think in such permanent terms before. Now he must, for no matter when Samantha returned or why she had left in the first place, his life would never be the same.

Part of him whispered that was a good thing. But another part, the largest part, was absolutely terrified.

Myra Bierbaum glanced up from the word-processing keyboard, arched a raspy brow above her tortoise-framed spectacles and eyed Johnny’s fatigued features a bit too acutely for comfort. “Tough night?”

“No worse than usual.” Avoiding his office manager’s knowing gaze, Johnny absently flipped through the stack of messages she handed him. “Call the ranch-association president, and see if you can reschedule the monthly meeting until next Tuesday, then cancel my afternoon appointments and clear my evening schedule for the rest of the week.”

“You got it, boss.” Matronly, motherly and totally irreverent, Myra cocked a knowing eye. “Dare I hope you had a hot date last night, and have finally been convinced that there’s more to life than striking option clauses from corporate personnel contracts?”

“See if Spence can take over the school-board meeting tonight. If he can’t, contact the district administrator and have the busing contracts postponed to next month’s agenda.”

“Blonde, brunette or redhead?”

Johnny refused to make eye contact or lend credence to the woman’s prying. He loved Myra to death, but she drove him nuts. She was a busybody, of course, but so was just about everyone else in Buttonwood. Gossip was the town’s official pastime, which was why Johnny took such pain to keep his personal life personal.

The woman grunted. “You need a life. All work and no play makes Johnny a dull boy.”

“It also makes Johnny your employer.”

“In name only.” She yawned hugely, allowing her glasses to slip from her wrinkled nose and bounce on a garish pearl chain at her bosom. “You and Spence couldn’t survive without me.”

“We wouldn’t even try.” He sorted the phone messages with practiced efficiency. “You can handle this one. Give this to this week’s law clerk to check precedents and give me a list of citations for court next week.” He flipped through the rest of the stack, trashing several, pocketing one, delegating the rest with succinct instructions.

At the end of the routine, he spun on his heel, took two steps toward his large, sunlit office at the end of the hall before hesitating. He spoke without looking. “And Myra, get Hank Miller on the phone for me.”

He heard the squeak of her swivel chair, the soft intake of breath. When she spoke, the sting had evaporated from her voice. “I knew it, knew the minute I laid eyes on you this morning that something was wrong.”

Myra uttered a concerned cluck. He recognized without looking that she’d probably pursed her lips while squeezing her thick hands together the way she did when she was worried about him. She was always worried about him, it seemed. Much as he tried to discourage that, he nonetheless loved her for it.

Squaring his shoulders, he forced an even glance over his shoulder. “Nothing is wrong, Myra. I simply have business to discuss with the sheriff, business that is mine and mine alone. Are we clear on that?”

A prick of regret stung him as he noted the sorrow in her eyes. She nodded briefly, forcefully enough to vibrate the poodle pelt of graying curls on her scalp. He would have turned away, but she extended a hand. The pleading gesture stopped him, forced him to meet her empathetic gaze.

“You can’t keep people from caring about you, Johnny.”

He studied her, softened his voice with a smile. “I can try.”

With that, he strode into his office and closed the door. Ten minutes later, the intercom buzzed as Myra announced that Hank was on line one.

Johnny took a deep breath, pressed the button. “Hank, how’s it going?”

“Can’t complain,” came the jovial reply. “Had me a real lively time at the steak house over on the highway last night. There was a pair of twin beauties there from out of town that couldn’t keep their hands off me. Had to flip a coin just to keep the both of them happy! Now if you’d have been along, I wouldn’t had to wear myself into such a frazzle.”

Johnny smiled, pinched the bridge of his nose. Hank enjoyed bachelorhood to the fullest, and was always trying to entice Johnny into joining his tomcatting forays into the local singles’ scene. “My loss, Hank. I’m sure you took up the slack.”

“Did my best, and that’s a fact.” A hiss of air filtered over the line, as if Hank had heaved a sigh. “So what’s going on, Johnny? Myra sounded like a woman who’d just scraped her favorite cat off the pavement. You got problems?”

“No, no problems.” He spoke quickly, too quickly. Puffing his cheeks, he exhaled slowly, forced himself to lean back in his chair. “Actually, I just need a favor.”

“Name it.”

“Do you remember Samantha Cloud?”

“Sure do. Pretty woman, ran off to Albuquerque a year or so back with that ne’er-do-well boyfriend of hers.”

Johnny flinched. “Yes, well, I need to find her, and I was wondering if you could do a little checking for me.” A nerve-racking silence followed. Johnny felt compelled to break it. “Just a few discreet inquiries…off the record.”