Finding Her Dad

Lucy smiled at Jon’s words. As she climbed the porch steps, his hand came to rest on the small of her back, as if she needed guidance. She was dismayed by how very good that large hand felt touching her.

“I did, too.” So much it scared her. They hadn’t talked about anything that special, they hadn’t gone dancing, he hadn’t kissed her yet, but she liked looking at him and listening to him. That was dangerous. She couldn’t imagine that an ambitious man willing to run for public office to get what he wanted would find she suited his public image.

His knuckles stroked her cheek. She looked up at the shadows and planes of his face, at his crystalline eyes, narrowed now, and finally at the mouth she’d thought to be hard even when he smiled politely.

She wanted, quite desperately, for him to kiss her.

Dear Reader,

I loved the idea for Finding Her Dad the minute I had it. Who doesn’t enjoy the whole secret baby theme? Although in this case, the baby is a kid…well, a teenager. And I really like teenagers at that age when they’re a wonderful mix of vulnerable and surly, feeling a huge need to pull away even as they need just as desperately to feel confident someone is holding tight on to them.

This is a secret baby who isn’t found by chance, or because Dad goes looking for Mom, or Mom for Dad. No, sixteen-year-old Sierra is the one who finds her dad—because with her mom dead, the only other person she has in the world is her foster mother, Lucy, who has good reason for being suspicious of men who aren’t around to raise their own children.

And yes, Sierra has a teensy bit in common with my own two girls, now safely past those teenage years (whew!), but still needing (as all of us do) to know that their parents are always there when needed.

Happy reading,

Janice Kay Johnson

P.S. I enjoy hearing from readers! Please contact me c/o Harlequin Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, ON, M3B 3K9, Canada.

Finding Her Dad

Janice Kay Johnson

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The author of more than sixty books for children and adults, Janice Kay Johnson writes Harlequin Superromance novels about love and family—about the way generations connect and the power our earliest experiences have on us throughout life. Her 2007 novel Snowbound won a RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America for Best Contemporary Series Romance. A former librarian, Janice raised two daughters in a small rural town north of Seattle, Washington. She loves to read and is an active volunteer and board member for Purrfect Pals, a no-kill cat shelter.

For my own,

much loved daughters, Sarah and Katie.

May they always find what they seek.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

“SEE, I DIDN’T WANT TO just, like, email him or something. I thought I should really go talk to him. In person. You know?” Earnest and wide-eyed, Sierra twirled one lock of indigo-blue hair around her finger. Elaborately casual, she finished, “It would be cooler if I had my driver’s license, but since I can’t drive myself with only a permit…”

Permit. Driver’s license. Email him. Him who? Lucy Malone realized, as she stared at her foster daughter in bewilderment, that her mind seemed to be scrolling backward through what had been a fairly lengthy recitation. Back to the beginning, which had been…

“I found my dad.” Perfectly timed, the sixteen-year-old said it again, hugged herself and did a small end-zone dance. “Is that amazing or what?”

Lucy pressed her fingertips to her suddenly aching temples. “Wait. No. You don’t have a father.”

Sierra rolled her eyes as only a teenager could. “Of course I have a father. What do you think? Mom managed an immaculate conception? I mean, sure, it was close, but…”

Oh, Lord, Lucy didn’t want to believe Sierra knew anything at all about conception, especially the kind that wasn’t immaculate. Which was foolish in the extreme. What else did girls—and boys—her age think about, if it wasn’t sex?

Fathers, apparently.

What Lucy did know was that Sierra’s mother had never married and had decided to have a child on her own. She’d gone to a sperm bank; yes, the closest thing to an immaculate conception that a woman could achieve. From what Sierra said, all her mother had ever known about Sierra’s father was what he’d chosen to share about himself for the women shopping for sperm. Catalog copy. And how accurate was that likely to be? No guy selling sperm was likely to admit that his IQ was really eighty-five and his best skill was belching louder than his buddies.

Lucy sank onto the stool behind the cash register. “Explain,” she ordered.

Thank God there were no customers in the store at the moment, a fact that wouldn’t normally make her grateful. She’d opened her gourmet pet food supply store only a year before, and although business had been steadily climbing, she still sweated through paying the bills every month. But this was definitely not a conversation she wanted overheard.

“I told you!” Sierra complained. “Weren’t you listening?”

“You know me. My idea of high-tech is ultrasonic teeth-cleaning equipment. I know zilch about DNA.” Lucy was a licensed veterinary technician who’d gotten tired of taking orders from other people. But if there was one thing she knew, it was animals, so her choice of business made sense.

“I sent in a swab from the inside of my cheek to a lab for DNA testing,” the teenager said with exaggerated patience.

“Isn’t that expensive?”

“Not that much. Anyway, I was saving all the money I made babysitting and working for you.”

“Okay.” Lucy closed her eyes briefly. “Then what?”

Then, Sierra said, she had compared her DNA results to millions of others on a variety of online databases.

Lucy frowned. “Surely you couldn’t get on— I don’t know. Whatever one law enforcement uses. Isn’t that the main one?”

Sierra’s sky-blue eyes gave a betraying flicker. Lucy recognized it. Aghast, she whispered, “You didn’t.”

Her foster daughter was going through a Goth phase. Currently her hair, shoulder length and blunt cut, was dyed blue, a change from last year’s jet-black. A tattoo of a dragon twined around one slender ankle. Her nose and one eyebrow were pierced. More piercings climbed the rim of each ear. Lucy had nixed the idea of a tongue piercing until, at a minimum, Sierra turned eighteen. Fortunately, she’d taken the refusal in good humor.

The thing was, she was brilliant. Scary smart. At home she was rarely without her fingers on a computer keyboard. She carried her laptop everywhere. Screens constantly popped up as friends sent instant messages. They didn’t seem ever to talk; they communicated in a sort of bizarre shorthand via the internet. Lucy knew that Sierra was very, very good at hacking in to forbidden websites; she’d gotten into big trouble while in eighth grade for changing a friend’s marks in the school records. When telling Lucy about it recently, she’d said blithely, “It was easy. Hey, I did them a favor! They’ve at least made it a little harder now.”

Lucy had not pursued the subject. Had there been more recent incursions into the school district personnel or student records, she didn’t really want to know about it. What worried her were Sierra’s exact capabilities now, almost three years later.

Now gazing sunnily back at Lucy, Sierra said, “Um…I didn’t have to. I bet I could, though. It’s called CODIS. Combined DNA Index System. You can do partial-match searches in it, too. Haven’t you read about it? The American Civil Liberties Union doesn’t think cops should be able to compare, like, some guy’s brother’s DNA to the sperm taken from a raped woman.”

Lucy grappled with that. “You mean, if I had a brother who’d raped a woman, my DNA could be matched to his sperm?” She heard her voice rising.

“Sure. I mean, it wouldn’t be a perfect match. That’s what a partial match is. See, that’s what I did.”

She went on to explain that there were DNA databases for all kinds of reasons. Some were medical, for people trying to find a match who might donate an organ, or bone marrow. Others were for people into genealogy. DNA was a new way to track family and ancestors.

“So I found this woman in Seattle.” Her pretty face was aglow with enthusiasm. “She’s a really close match. Then I did more research, and I found out she and her husband had two kids. One was a girl, one a boy. He’s the right age, and he went to college at the UW.”

Lucy found herself nodding numbly. The University of Washington was in Seattle, less than an hour northwest of Kanaskat, where Lucy had her home and business. Sierra’s mother had grown up in the Seattle area and never left, and had presumably used a local fertility clinic.

“And…this man. He’s still around here.”

“Yes!” The teenager indulged in another delighted dance. “It’s just got to be him. I know it is.”

Lucy couldn’t argue on a factual basis, given her relative ignorance of DNA testing and profiling and online databases. And, heck, genealogy.

Maybe I could find my father.

A little shocked that the thought had even flitted through her mind, she almost snorted. Like she’d want to find him.

“Sierra,” she said, “this man gave sperm with the understanding he’d remain anonymous. The deal was never that he’d actually take any kind of parental responsibility.”

For a timeless, stricken moment, Sierra’s crystal clear eyes held Lucy’s. Then the girl ducked her head and her blue hair swung down to hide her face. Lucy felt cruel.

“I know,” Sierra said in a small voice. “I just, um, want to meet him. And see. That’s all.” She lifted her face, a pleading expression on it. “He might like to meet me. I mean, wouldn’t you think he’d be curious? It’s not like I expect him to actually want me.”

“I want you,” Lucy said quietly.

Her foster daughter gave her a tremulous smile and her eyes filled with tears. “I know. I know how lucky I am. I love living with you, Lucy. It would just be nice to have family who would, like, call sometimes. Care if I get accepted into college. You know?”

A lump filled Lucy’s throat. She knew.

Sierra’s mother, Rebecca Lind, had died in a head-on car accident eight months ago. She’d never had any other children. She did have a brother, who lived in Albuquerque, New Mexico. When social services contacted him, he’d said there was no way he and his wife could take on a teenage girl. The social worker had privately told Lucy that his exact words had been “For God’s sake, I haven’t seen Becky in twenty-five years. We didn’t even try to stay in touch after Mom died. It’s too bad about the accident, but I can’t take on some kid of hers.”

The last thing a grief-stricken fifteen-year-old had needed was to be rejected by the only relative she had left in the world. At the time, Sierra had begun working on Saturdays for Lucy, cleaning and stocking shelves. After her mom died, she’d stayed temporarily with a friend. She had come by midweek to tell Lucy she wouldn’t be able to make it to work anymore.

Lucy hadn’t seen her since the funeral. She’d looked awful. Her hair had been dyed black at the time, but the pale roots were showing. A tall, skinny girl, she looked as if she’d dropped ten pounds in two weeks. She was gaunt, and her eyes were puffy, and her fingers writhed together while she talked.

“I’m being sent to a foster home in Midford,” she said. Even her voice was dull. Her thin shoulders moved in a listless shrug. “They tried to find one here so I could stay in the same school, but I guess there weren’t any.”

Lucy was still in shock that the aunt and uncle had said no. Hearing that they had refused made her mad. No, worse than that. It made her ache inside for this gawky child-woman who had already been so very vulnerable, even before the only person in the world who loved her had been stolen from her by a drunk driver.

Sierra might have a little barbell through one eyebrow and a ring in one nostril, her hair might be dyed pitch-black, her clothes black and the dog collar she wore around her neck spiked, but she was a sweetheart. She was smart, and funny, and oddly innocent. Lucy had already thought that she would like nothing better than to have a daughter like Sierra.

Which was probably why, that day, her mouth had opened and she heard herself say, with no forethought whatsoever, “Would you like to live with me?”

So now here they were. Although at twenty-eight she was too young to actually be a mother to a girl Sierra’s age, she’d gotten properly licensed as a foster home, and now she was Sierra’s family.

Which meant, of course, that there was no way she could let the girl go by herself to see this man who might or might not be her father. Clearly, stopping her wouldn’t fly. Look at all the effort she’d gone to finding him in the first place. And, face it, the chances were really good that he wouldn’t believe Sierra’s claim, even if he had given—or did the men sell?—sperm when he was in college. If he did believe her, he probably still wouldn’t want to admit he was her father.

Were she honest with herself, Lucy couldn’t even entirely blame him. He probably had a wife and children. It would be more than slightly awkward for him to admit that not only was this teenager who’d appeared out of the blue—and had blue hair—his daughter by a woman he’d never even set eyes on, but he might have other daughters and sons running around. Not might; probably did.

Nightmare city.

She waited until Sierra met her eyes, and then she said very softly, “Are you sure you want to do this, honey? You know he might want nothing to do with you.” Especially after he took in her clothes and her piercings and her tattoo.

In Lucy’s experience, men tended not to look beneath the surface.

Sierra squared her shoulders, held her head high and said, “Yes. I’m sure.”

Lucy nodded. “Then I’ll take you to see him.”

The teenager grinned. “Cool! I already have an appointment with him. Except I made up an excuse.”

“You’ve what?” Alarm filled Lucy. “What does he do for a living?”

“He’s a cop.” She made a face. “Jeez. My dad the cop. But he’s one of the ones in charge, I think. He’s a captain.”

Alarm metamorphosed into dread. Lucy had this sudden, terrible premonition. Yesterday’s Dispatch had carried a front-page article on the electoral race for county sheriff. The incumbent was retiring. One candidate was the police chief of Willis, the county’s largest city, the other the captain of Investigative Services for the Emmons County Sheriff’s Department. She had stared for a long time at the photo of that candidate, her attention caught for reasons she hadn’t quite been able to pin down.

“Oh, no. Please tell me he’s not…”

Sierra nodded, as if to confirm Lucy’s suspicions. “His name is Jonathan Brenner. He’s running for sheriff. I found tons of pictures of him online. I look like him,” she said simply.

Dear God, she did, Lucy thought. That was why she hadn’t been able to look away from his photo.

Well, it was one of the reasons. The other was the disquieting fact that simply looking at him, even in black and white, had made her heart do an odd little skip and bump.

And she hadn’t been able to help noticing, in the article, that he wasn’t married.

As if, she’d told herself, folding the newspaper up and determinedly depositing it in the recycling bin, she would ever meet him.

“When I’m wrong,” she murmured, once Sierra had wandered away to the pair of cages that held two shelter cats awaiting adoption, “I’m wrong. Really wrong.”

Lucy had a strong suspicion that her role in the upcoming meeting was not going to endear her to the very upright, conservative Captain Jonathan Brenner.

“I’M NOT LETTING HIM BACK on the street until the investigation is complete,” Jon Brenner said flatly.

Eddie Prindle, the police union representative, said, “You don’t have grounds to put Deputy Chen on suspension. At this point, you have no evidence that the incident was his fault.”

They’d already said this. Several times. Jon abruptly lost patience.

“Then file a grievance.” He rose, but stayed behind his desk. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I have another appointment.”

Prindle didn’t like him. The feeling was mutual. Jon didn’t hold out a hand. After a moment the other man stood, too. “You’ve gone too far,” he said. “Are you afraid voters will think you’re colluding to excuse a deputy’s malfeasance if you don’t come down hard enough on Deputy Chen? Whatever the truth of the incident?”

Jon didn’t allow his expression to change. “The election has nothing to do with this. Chen screwed up. I don’t know how badly yet. When I do, I’ll make a decision. I can tell you this. It’s to his benefit for me not to make that decision prematurely. You’re not doing him any favors, Prindle.”

“You’ll be hearing from us,” the union rep said. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the office.

Jon swung away to gaze out the window. On a clear day he had a glimpse of Mount Rainier from here. Today the mountain was wrapped in puffy clouds.

He was pissed off enough to mutter a couple of obscenities. At the very least, the young deputy had been hotdogging. At worst, he’d been criminally careless. No one had died in the incident that had resulted in his suspension, but that wasn’t thanks to him. Right now Jon was inclined to fire him, but there might turn out to be extenuating circumstances. And Chen was, while not a rookie, far from seasoned.

After a minute Jon rubbed the back of his neck and turned to his desk. There was a name on his calendar for three o’clock—Sierra Lind. A high-school kid, apparently. Something about the school newspaper. Which was strange in August, when school wasn’t in session. Probably she was an eager beaver who wanted to have an article on the election ready for the first issue. Jon didn’t have time for this kind of thing and he wasn’t in the mood right now, but it wasn’t optional. Community relations were too important.

Election or no election.

He touched the button on his intercom and said, “Dinah, is my next appointment here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Send her in, please.”

He walked around the desk as the door opened. Two people entered, a girl and a woman. The girl caught his eye first, thanks to hair dyed a ridiculous color and a bunch of piercings. Nothing unusual there, but a shame all the same. She’d be prettier without metal impaled on her face. Unusually tall for a girl, maybe five foot ten or eleven, she was skinny and long legged. Had long arms, too, that hung awkwardly as if she wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. Blue eyes, strangely intense.

The woman who came in behind her didn’t look like any relation. The teacher in charge of the school newspaper, maybe? She was a good six inches or more shorter, with long wavy black hair, chocolate-brown eyes and a curvaceous figure. Plump by modern standards. Just right by his, he couldn’t help thinking, even though lusting after random visitors to his office wasn’t exactly appropriate.

Both of them were looking him over with unusual gravity. The girl seemed nervous, maybe even a little scared. The woman was wary, edging into hostile.

What the hell? he asked himself, even as he held out a hand to the girl, who was in the lead. “Welcome. I’m Captain Brenner. Are you Sierra Lind?”

“Yes.” Her voice squeaked, and she flushed. “Yes,” she repeated. She looked from his hand to his face and then back again before tentatively reaching out.

They shook, her long, slender fingers icy enough that he glanced down in surprise.

She retrieved her hand, and he smiled at the woman. “And you are…?”

“Lucia Malone.” Her voice was pleasantly husky. It didn’t go with a persona that seemed to bristle. “I’m Sierra’s foster mother. And chauffeur.”

“Ah.” He wanted to shake her hand, too, but she was gripping a large purse fiercely enough he had a feeling she might ignore his hand if he proffered it. Instead, he gestured toward the seating area separated from his desk by only a few feet. “Please.”

They sidled that way, not taking their eyes from him. Rather like a cautious doe and fawn unsure whether the other visitor to the water hole was a predator or not. Ruefully amused, he stayed where he was until they’d sat side by side. Then he chose a seat on the far side of the coffee table. No point in panicking them.

His gaze wanted to linger on Lucia Malone’s pretty face. Her first name, brown eyes and black hair suggested that she had Hispanic blood.

He dragged his attention to the teenager. She was the one who’d made the appointment.

“What can I do for you, Sierra?” he asked.

She gulped, then cast a panicky look at her foster mother. When she looked back at him, he thought idly that her eyes were as blue as his. They were several shades lighter than her hair dye.

In a rush she said, “I’m not really here to do an article for my school newspaper.” When he didn’t say anything immediately, she hurried on. “That’s what I said when I called. Because I thought then they’d let me in to see you.”

Feeling considerably more cautious now, he studied her. “All right. Why did you want to talk to me?”

She gnawed on her lower lip. After a moment Ms. Malone reached out and squeezed one of her hands. Jon’s gaze dropped to those clasped hands, one small and competent and warm skinned, the other very white and longer fingered. And yet, from the way those two hands clung, he could feel a connection beyond the physical. Reassurance. Love.

He met the girl’s eyes again and waited.

“The thing is,” she said, so fast the words tumbled over each other, “I think you’re my father.”

He stared. Either she was delusional or his recurring nightmare had just become real. He couldn’t seem to think. To figure how old she was. Whether she could be… But, goddamn it, how would she have found him?

The silence stretched, became painful.

“I know you may not want anything to do with me,” she said hurriedly, “and that’s okay. Really. I just, well, wanted to meet you. And see.”

He cleared his throat. “To say you’ve taken me by surprise is an understatement. Forgive me, but…do I know your mother?”

She shook her head. “No. Mom is— She died.” The girl—Sierra—sucked in a huge breath. “Mom went to a sperm bank.”

God help him.

Voice hoarse, he said, “How old are you?”

“I’m sixteen. I turned sixteen in July.” She paused. “I’ll be a junior this year.”

Sixteen. Jon had quit breathing. Sixteen years ago he was a senior in college. Oh, damn.

He could feel the foster mother watching him. He didn’t let himself look at her.

“What makes you think I’m your father?” he said finally.

“I compared DNA in a whole bunch of databases. I came up with a partial match. To a Linda Brenner. Then I did some research and found out she had one son, who was the right age.”

“Me,” he said slowly.

Her head bobbed.

His mother had become obsessed with tracing her family heritage, lord knows why. He did vaguely recall she’d sent off a DNA sample at one point. Jon had argued against it; once something like that was out there, you lost a piece of your privacy. She’d laughed and said, “What do I have to hide? The only people I’m likely to hear from are relatives. Imagine finding cousins I didn’t know I had.”