With This Child...

“We’ll have the tests done soon.” Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication SALLY CARLEEN Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Epilogue Copyright

“We’ll have the tests done soon.”

Sam glared at Marcie as he prepared to leave. “And in the meantime, I don’t want you anywhere near my daughter.”

Marcie nodded. She understood Sam’s anger for what it was...fear of losing the child he loved.

She studied his broad back as he walked away. His stride was still determined if not quite as confident as when he’d arrived. She could imagine him teaching her daughter—his daughter—Kyla to play softball, fighting anyone who tried to harm heir, comforting her after a bad dream...yet he was helpless now. She could imagine his frustration and dread.

As if he felt her gaze, Sam turned.

Across the room, against all logic, she felt a bond flow between them. Irrationally she wanted to go to him, take him into her arms and comfort him, let him comfort her.

For their fears were the same.

Dear Reader,

Silhouette Romance is celebrating the month of valentines with six very special love stories—and three brand-new miniseries you don’t want to miss. On Baby Patrol, our BUNDLE OF JOY selection, by bestselling author Sharon De Vita, is book one of her wonderful series, LULLABIES AND LOVE, about a legendary cradle that brings love to three brothers who are officers of the law.

In Granted: Big Sky Groom, Carol Grace begins her sparkling new series, BEST-KEPT WISHES, in which three high school friends’ prom-night wishes are finally about to be granted. Author Julianna Morris tells the delightful story of a handsome doctor whose life is turned topsy-turvy when he becomes the guardian of his orphaned niece in Dr. Dad. And in Cathleen Galitz’s spirited tale, 100% Pure Cowboy, a woman returns home from a mother-daughter bonding trip with the husband of her dreams.

Next is Corporate Groom, which starts Linda Varner’s terrific new miniseries, THREE WEDDINGS AND A FAMILY, about long-lost relatives who find a family. And finally, in With This Child..., Sally Carleen tells the compelling story of a woman whose baby was switched at birth—and the single father who will do anything to keep his child.

I hope you enjoy all six of Silhouette Romance’s love stories this month. And next month, in March, be sure to look for The Princess Bride by bestselling author Diana Palmer, which launches Silhouette Romance’s new monthly promotional miniseries, VIRGIN BRIDES.

Regards,

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To MHS Class of ’63.

SALLY CARLEEN

For as long as she can remember, Sally planned to be a writer when she grew up. Finally one day, after more years than she cares to admit, she realized she was as grown-up as she was likely to become, and began to write romance novels. In the years prior to her epiphany, Sally supported her writing habit by working as a legal secretary, a real-estate agent, a legal assistant, a leasing agent, an executive secretary and in various other occupations.

She now writes full time and looks upon her previous careers as research and/or torture. A native of McAlester, Oklahoma, and naturalized citizen of Dallas, Texas, Sally now lives in Lee’s Summit, Missouri, with her husband, Max, their very large cat, Leo, and a very small dog, Cricket. Her interests, besides writing, are chocolate and Coca-Cola Classic.

Readers can write to Sally at P.O. Box 6614, Lee’s Summit, MO 64086.

Prologue

I switched your baby for theirs. You buried their child. Your baby is alive.

Cars zipped past on the street in front of Marcie Turner. A locust chirruped from a nearby tree. A dog barked in the distance. The world around her continued, while Marcie stood frozen in the heat of Tulsa in July, staring uncomprehendingly at the last two lines of the letter.

A neighbor approached the mailboxes where Marcie stood, and she knew she had to move. She had to get inside, before anyone else came by, before anyone else saw her so completely out of control.

Moving like a robot, she unlocked the security door, entered the air-conditioned lobby of the building and took the elevator to the fifth floor, to the security and privacy of her condo.

She went inside, closed the door behind her, turned the dead bolt and put on the chain, as if she could lock out the sorrow and fear that lurked just over her shoulder, the way she’d locked them out.for years.

Her footsteps made no sound as she crossed the plushly carpeted living room, and for one crazy moment, she wondered if this was all a dream, if she even existed at all.

She slid onto a stool at the polished walnut breakfast bar and studied the envelope again, the ominous message that had prompted her to rip open the letter the moment she pulled it from the mailbox.

To be delivered to Marcie Turner at my death.

It had Dr. Franklin’s return address, and Marcie had known immediately that it could only relate to one thing.

Her hands trembled as she forced herself to read the two typewritten pages again, to see if she’d imagined the insane story they had to tell:

Dear Marcie:

I must be dead or you wouldn’t be reading this.

I can’t go to meet my Maker with this secret on my soul, but I don’t have the guts to tell you face-to-face.

You know I’ve always wanted the best for you, and so has your mama.

It wasn’t easy on her raising you alone after your daddy died when you were just a little thing. It hit her hard when you got pregnant your junior year in high school. Raising that baby would have made it tough for you to get a good education and have a better life than she did.

You were always so easy-going, and your mama thought at first she could talk you into giving your baby up for adoption, but I knew you’d never agree to that. When I gave you the news, your whole face lit up with love, and I knew this would be the first time you defied your mama.

I guess you think I’m taking my time getting to the point, but to tell the truth, I’m not all that anxious to get there. My head thinks I did the right thing, but my heart’s not so sure.

To get on with it, right after you had your baby, I did an emergency C-section on another woman. Did you know Lisa Kramer? She was a few years older than you, and her folks lived a little ways outside of town, so you might not have. Anyway, she was a real nice girl. Married a fellow named Sam Woodward that she met at college, and they moved to McAlester so he could coach football at the high school. But she came back home to have her baby. That baby had a defective heart, only lived a few hours. Lisa had problems, and I had to do a hysterectomy.

Your baby, however, was born alive and kicking. Your mama was there, of course, and while you were resting and Lisa was in the recovery room, we went down to the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee. I was pretty upset, knowing Lisa’s baby was dying and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. I’d already told Sam, and he was all broken up. I dreaded telling Lisa when she came out of the anaesthetic. I knew how much she wanted children, what a good mother she would have been, what a nice fellow Sam seemed like.

Your mama said it was a shame Lisa’s baby wouldn’t live when it would have had such a good life, and it was a shame your baby, precious as she was, would ruin your life and have a tough time growing up with a single mother. She sat there in the hospital cafeteria and looked at me, and I knew what she was thinking even before she said it.

Marcie, I want you to know this wasn’t an easy decision for either of us. We both wanted to do what was best for you and for your baby. I falsified all the records, and only your mama, my nurse and I know the truth. Lisa and Sam never knew their baby died.

May God forgive me because you probably never will, I switched your baby for theirs.

You buried their child. Your daughter is alive.

Marcie lowered the pages to the wooden surface of the bar. She needed a drink... iced tea, wine, a soft drink, water, anything wet. But she couldn’t seem to move.

It wasn’t possible. She’d have known if her baby was alive.

She’d dreamed about her every night that first year, but surely that was normal, didn’t mean anything.

After she managed to lock away the pain, the dreams had stopped.

Now this letter, almost thirteen years later, was asking her to unlock that pain, to think about her baby again, to hope and pray and dream that she was alive, that she’d be able to see her and hold her.

She couldn’t do that.

Dr. Franklin had been old, probably senile. She’d pitch this insane letter and get on with the life she’d so painstakingly built for herself.

But she couldn’t do that, either. It was too late.

Even this glimmer of hope had revived the old pain, the old love.

If there was even the slightest chance her child was alive, she had to know.

Chapter One

Marcie drove slowly down the small neighborhood streets of McAlester, Oklahoma. As she stared out the window, carefully following the directions given her by the detective she’d hired to find her daughter, her fingers fidgeted with the envelope containing everything she had of her baby—the letter from Dr. Franklin, the detective’s report, and pictures of Kyla and Sam Woodward.

Kyla Woodward...twelve years old...thirteen next month... Going into eighth grade...active in sports... Lisa Woodward died seven years ago...congenital heart problems... Sam Woodward, coach of high school football team...coaches Kyla’s softball team... Neighbors say they’re a happy, well-adjusted family.

She’d read the report until she knew it by heart, looked at those photographs a thousand times, memorizing every detail, searching for her features in Kyla Woodward’s face.

Her mother, embarrassed at being caught but unrepentant, had verified Dr. Franklin’s story, but still Marcie had held back. She couldn’t face the possibility of holding her daughter, only to have that child yanked away because her mother and Dr. Franklin were wrong.

Over the past couple of days, she’d swung wildly from guarded certainty one minute to doubt and confusion the next.

She had no idea what to do now.

She had no idea why she was searching for their house.

What would she do if she saw Kyla? What would she say to her? To Sam?

She turned onto Maple Street, one hand clutching the envelope in her lap. According to the directions, Sam Woodward’s house was at the end of the third block down. Even though she couldn’t see it from this distance, she could feel its presence.

Claustrophobia suddenly overwhelmed her, making her feel trapped in her small car, propelled by forces beyond her control into a scary unknown world. She wasn’t ready for this, to know for sure whether her baby was alive, to risk seeing her only to lose her again.

Marcie lowered the windows, breathing deeply, focusing on everything around her except that house three blocks away.

It was an older, established neighborhood. Huge trees formed a canopy over the street and colorful flower bloomed everywhere.

Scents she’d almost forgotten assailed her—freshly cut grass, honeysuckle, roses, and all the other fragrances that never reached her fifth-floor condo in Tulsa.

A small boy in a blue sunsuit pedaled his tricycle across the street in front of her.

A young couple diligently painted a house they appeared to be restoring.

An elderly woman puttered in her flower beds.

A tiny Yorkie darted to the end of a sidewalk to bark frantically as Marcie drove past.

Saturday morning in a small town.

Several cars were parked in the street—a common problem with houses too old to have garages—but other than that, the area seemed well cared-for. The detective had told her that much; had assured her that while Sam Woodward might not be getting rich working as a high school football coach, he appeared to be providing well for his daughter. Her daughter.

There was absolutely nothing in this well-kept, comfortable neighborhood to send nervous chills down Marcie’s spine, to cause her palms to sweat, her hands to tremble as they clutched the steering wheel.

Nothing except the two-story white house that seemed to be approaching her, rather than vice versa.

Seeing the picture of the house hadn’t prepared her for the sense of isolation the actual structure made her feel, the sense of total separation from everything inside it.

From Sam and Kyla Woodward.

She drove past, her gaze skimming over the detached garage to scan the front porch, the open windows and doors, searching for a glimpse of the blond girl in the pictures.

She turned the corner to go around the side of the house—

And a baseball slammed onto the hood of her car, followed by a young girl and then a dull thud. Marcie swerved to the side of the road, crushing the brake to the floor, while adrenaline exploded through her body.

Oh, God! She’d just run down her daughter!

Her breath caught in her chest as she shifted into park. The trees and houses and everything else around her blurred as mat moment in time locked on itself, filling her vision with the sight of the girl slamming against her car.

“I’m sorry, lady!”

Marcie jumped at the sound of the words coming from the passenger window.

The beautiful child from the pictures, now distressed instead of laughing, peered at her from wide blue eyes.

From the same blue eyes Marcie saw in the mirror every morning.

In that instant, she knew, and in spite of the black fear that hovered around the edges of her soul, happiness burst over Marcie like sunrise after a night filled with terrors.

Her baby wasn’t dead. She was alive, breathing, speaking.

A thousand words and a thousand emotions lumped in Marcie’s throat, and she had to blink back sudden tears as she gazed at her child in the flesh only a few feet away. She wanted to fly across the distance, grab her and hold her in her arms, tightly enough to make up for all the years she hadn’t been able to hold her. She wanted to laugh, to cry, to live the thirteen years separating them in one burst... to reclaim her baby.

Instead, she sat behind the wheel of her car, paralyzed, unable even to speak.

And the child she’d carried inside her body, given birth to, shared the same hair and eyes with, that child looked at her as if she were a stranger.

Which she was.

Cold darkness pressed against her, throwing a shadow over her joy.

“Don’t cry, ma’am. We’ll pay to have your car fixed.” The girl inclined her head toward the hood. “It didn’t make much of a dent, anyway. You hardly notice it.” She smiled tentatively. “And I didn’t even make a dent at all when I ran into you.”

A tall, muscular man wearing cut-offs and a T-shirt jogged over from the yard and put an arm possessively about her daughter’s shoulders.

Sam Woodward.

The man who’d raised her baby and given her the laughter she’d seen in the photographs her detective took.

The man she was grateful to and resentful of. The man she envied and feared beyond all reason.

He leaned over and peered in the window, his face beside her daughter’s. “Are you all right?”

She forced herself to nod, though she was as far from all right as it was possible to be.

He went around to the hood of the car, peered closely at a spot and traced a small circle with one finger of a large hand, a hand big enough to catch footballs.

She didn’t want to look at him. She wanted to focus on her daughter, to never let her out of her sight again, to never risk losing her again.

But her gaze involuntarily followed him, her mind racing, as she tried to think of what she should say.

With a scowl, he walked around to the driver’s side window. He had a kind face, tanned, with laugh lines like sunbursts accenting his clear hazel eyes. Unruly brown hair tumbled over his forehead, imbuing him with a rakish innocence.

“My daughter’s right,” he said. “The ball didn’t leave a very big dent at all. I have a friend who works on cars. He can probably pop it out for you today without even hurting the paint.”

My daughter?

No! she wanted to scream. She’s my daughter! You can’t have her!

She lifted a shaky hand to her forehead.

“Of course, you can take your car wherever you want and get it fixed, and I’ll pay for it,” Sam continued, apparently mistaking the reason for her confusion.

She had to say something, she had to tell them.

“Why don’t you get out and come sit on the porch for a few minutes?” Sam asked in a concerned voice. “You seem kind of shaken up. Kyla—that’s my daughter—she’ll fix you a glass of iced tea and you can catch your breath.”

Kyla.

Not Jenny, but Kyla.

She hadn’t even been able to choose her daughter’s name. She’d given her baby’s name to Sam and Lisa Woodward’s baby. She’d buried their child with her daughter’s name.

Sam opened her car door and extended his hand to help her, as if she were an invalid.

It was an accurate assumption. Her brain and body had shut down, ceased to function. She had no idea what to say, and wasn’t sure she’d be able to speak if she did know.

She shut off the engine and accepted Sam’s hand. It was big and competent and gave her a protected feeling. As she slid from the car and stood, he placed his other hand at the small of her back, steadying her, as if she were fragile and likely to stumble.

She squelched a nervous giggle at the irony. Sam Wood-ward was helping her, making her feel protected and secure. Sam Woodward, whose life she’d come to destroy.

Kyla bounced up beside her as they came around the car. “Dad was teaching me to catch pop flies, and that one got away. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Marcie said, the words coming out barely above a whisper. “I thought I hit you. I thought you were hurt.”

“Nah. I ran into your car ’cause I wasn’t watching where I was going. Hardly anybody ever comes down that street, but Dad’s always yelling at me for running out.” She grinned at Sam. “Guess he’s right once in a while. I’ll go fix you some tea. You want sugar and lemon?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “Yes, please. I’d like that.” She didn’t usually take sugar and lemon, but she’d have taken salt if her daughter offered it.

Her baby was there, in person, real, alive.

Kyla sprinted up the walk and into the house ahead of them, a happy, secure, obviously loved child, with no clue that she’d just met her mother.

They reached the porch, and Sam indicated a scattering of wrought-iron chairs with faded green-and-white striped cushions. Marcie sank into the closest one, grateful that she was no longer dependent on her shaky legs to hold her up.

“I’m Sam Woodward.” He offered his hand again, and she clasped it for the second time. His shake was firm and confident, and she was amazed at how much she liked him, in spite of everything.

He was the personification of a high school football coach. His open, friendly smile—the same smile she’d seen in his pictures, but even more potent in person—promised carefree autumn evenings at football games and wiener roasts in the park.

Sam looked at her oddly, and Marcie realized she hadn’t told him who she was. She smiled nervously. “I’m Marcie Turner. I, uh—” I’m Kyla’s mother? No, that probably wasn’t a good way to establish her identity.

Sam took the chair beside her, looking at her expectantly, waiting for her to finish her sentence. She couldn’t think of anything to say except I’m Kyla’s mother. Every crevice in her mind was filled with that thought, leaving no room for coherency.

“I’m an accountant,” she finally blurted, then wondered why she’d said it. An attempt to offer some sort of validation that she existed, that she had an identity and a life, that she wasn’t really as disconnected as she felt right now?

“That must come in handy around April fifteenth,” Sam replied, as if their conversation were perfectly normal. And maybe it was. Right now, she had no idea of what was and wasn’t normal. “I’m the high school football coach,” he continued.

“I know.”

“Then you’re from McAlester,”

“No. I live in Tulsa. I just meant you look like a football coach. All those muscles.” Oh, God! What on earth was she saying? “I don’t make a habit of running into...people.”

“Relax. You didn’t. Kyla ran into you. First I bounced a softball off the hood of your car, then my kid plowed into you.”

“Teenager,” Kyla corrected, pushing open the screen door with her hip and emerging carrying three large glasses of tea on a tray. “I’m almost a teenager, and Dad’s having a hard time accepting that I’m practically grown up.”

Your mother’s having a hard time accepting that, too! Marcie wanted to shout.

“That’s because you’re not practically grown up, missy,” Sam replied. “Not even close.”

Marcie accepted a tall drink from Kyla, trying not to stare at her, to let her eyes feast only in short, hungry glances. Her teeth chattered against the rim of the glass, but she managed to swallow several large gulps of the cold liquid.

Kyla sprawled in another chair. “Pretty soon I’ll be dating, and next thing you know, you’ll be a grandfather.”

Marcie choked on her tea, and Sam leaned over to pat her on the back.

“You okay?” he asked solicitously when she caught her breath.

Marcie nodded and forced a smile. “That was, um, kind of shocking. I mean, I know you were teasing. It’s just that you’re so young, and...” Her voice trailed off, and she took another drink of her tea to cover her confusion.

Sam chuckled. “My impertinent daughter is baiting me. It’s one of her favorite pastimes.”

Kyla grinned mischievously. “Keeps him on his toes. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it, and I’m an only child. Are you married? Do you have any kids?”

Marcie froze at the last question, but Sam saved her from having to figure out how to answer it.

“Kyla!” he exclaimed, but he smiled as he looked at Marcie. “My kid may be totally tactless, but she has no manners.”

“Oh, Dad,” Kyla groaned. “It’s a good thing you can coach football, ’cause you’d sure never make it as a comedian.”

He leaned over and yanked on her blond ponytail, and burning, icy envy washed over Marcie.

Being with her daughter was making her feel impossibly distant from her. Kyla and Sam shared a closeness she wanted desperately, but wasn’t sure she could ever have.

Her daughter was happy and loved, that was obvious. Perhaps she should leave it at that, get up, set down her glass of tea, thank the two of them politely and walk away, out of Kyla’s life. Marcie had dealt with the pain of losing her once, and that pain had been diffused and pointless. Now, if she knew it was for Kyla’s benefit, surely she could do it again. Perhaps that would be the kindest, most loving thing she could do for her daughter.