For The Twins' Sake

Does he love her enough to raise another man’s children?

“She’s your baby, Noah Dawson. She’s your responsibility now.”

But is she? Noah is willing enough to believe the adorable newborn left on his doorstep is his child. And then his ex, Sara Mayhew, turns up, claiming the baby is hers—a twin to her infant son—and Noah realizes he’s not the father. Even so, the cowboy has already turned his life around and swapped his spurs for a baby carrier. Despite their still-powerful attraction, Sara isn’t ready to trust the “new” Noah. But he’s already fighting for their future as a family...

MELISSA SENATE has written many novels for Mills & Boon and other publishers, including her debut, See Jane Date, which was made into a TV movie. She also wrote seven books for Mills & Boon’s Special Edition line under the pen name Meg Maxwell. Her novels have been published in over twenty-five countries. Melissa lives on the coast of Maine with her teenage son; their rescue shepherd mix, Flash; and a lap cat named Cleo. For more information, please visit her website, melissasenate.com

Also by Melissa Senate

The Baby Switch!

Detective Barelli’s Legendary Triplets

Wyoming Christmas Surprise

To Keep Her Baby

A Promise for the Twins

A New Leash on Love

A Cowboy in the Kitchen

The Detective’s 8 lb, 10 oz Surprise

The Cowboy’s Big Family Tree

The Cook’s Secret Ingredient Charm

School for Cowboys

Santa’s Seven-Day Baby Tutorial

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

For the Twins’ Sake

Melissa Senate

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90322-0

FOR THE TWINS’ SAKE

© 2020 Melissa Senate

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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For my wonderful aunt and uncle,

Rick and Arlene D’Alli, who came to visit me way up

in Maine just as I was finishing writing this novel.

XOXO

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

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

Chapter Thirteen

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

Was that a baby crying?

Nah.

Noah Dawson turned over in bed and tried to go back to sleep, but he heard the sound again. A crying baby. Impossible on this isolated ranch in the Wyoming wilderness, but unmistakable. Yesterday, Noah had gone to Bear Ridge Groceries to stock up for the impending rainstorm that threatened flash flooding, and a woman in front of him on the long checkout line had had a baby in her shopping cart, wailing just like he was hearing now. A round of peekaboo had helped quiet the screecher. But, man, did he know a crying baby when he heard one.

Still, right now? He glanced at his phone on the bedside table—at 1:52 a.m.? He had to be hearing things. Dreaming. Imagining it.

“Waaaah!”

Noah sat up. The crying was getting louder—and coming through the window on the early April breeze.

Did he have a middle-of-the-night visitor and he’d missed the doorbell ringing or something? Did he even know anyone with a baby?

“Waaah-waaah!”

Noah bolted out of bed. That was a baby crying. And it was coming from just outside the window of his cabin, below which was the front porch. He grabbed his jeans from where he’d slung them over his desk chair, pulled them on and hurried downstairs.

The crying got louder. He pulled the front door open.

Then he looked down—and gasped.

A baby—a girl, guessing from the pink blanket covering most of her in an infant car seat, a white cotton cap on her head—was crying up a storm. A small black tote bag was beside the carrier.

What the hell? Who would leave a baby here? He glanced around for a car, for someone, anyone, but all he saw were the distant evergreens in the moonlight. The ranch was silent otherwise.

“Hello?” he called out, looking in every direction. No one. “Hello?” he shouted.

No response. No person. Nothing but the breeze through the trees.

How long has she been out here? he wondered as he snatched up the carrier and bag and brought them inside, his heart starting to pound, his brain trying to make some sort of sense of this. A baby. Left on his porch at two in the morning.

He set the carrier on the big wood coffee table in the living room. He carefully moved aside the blanket.

Whoa. Noah didn’t know much about babies, but this tiny creature had to be a newborn. He wouldn’t be surprised if the baby had been born today. That’s how small she was. Her pink footie pajamas were way too big for her little body.

Call the police. Call an ambulance. Call social services. So many thoughts ran through his head at once that he had to just stop, stand still and breathe.

He glanced out the window, the rain starting. Just drizzling now, but within ten to fifteen minutes the skies would open up. That was a problem. The ranch was forty minutes from town down some winding rural roads, and the storm was forecasted to quickly create flood conditions, which would come before anyone could safely reach the place. Doc Bakerton, who ran the clinic in Bear Ridge, had emergency hours, and his home was only a ten-minute drive from here. Noah could get the baby over to Bakerton’s faster and safer than an ambulance or the sheriff could get here, and he knew these country roads and where the river would rise the worst. He could get back.

Decision made: he’d take her over to Doc Bakerton’s place.

But right now, the baby was crying her head off. Should he comfort her for a few seconds? Noah had no idea what the hell to do. She let out another wail, and he shifted the blanket aside, not surprised she wasn’t even buckled in.

Hand under the neck, he told himself, lifting her out as carefully as he could. He held her alongside his arm, bracketed by his chest, not sure he was doing this right.

He touched a finger to her little cheek. She wasn’t cold or hot, and her color seemed okay.

A hot burst of anger swelled in his gut over whoever had left a newborn to the elements in the middle of the night. What if he hadn’t heard her crying at all? What if she’d been out there all night? In the middle of the Wyoming wilderness, a rainstorm about to pour down. Granted, the large front porch of his foreman’s cabin was covered on three sides as a point of refuge for future guests of the ranch to wait out any bad weather, but still.

He swayed his arms a bit, and the crying stopped. When the baby’s strangely colored eyes—a grayish blueish—closed, his anger dissipated some. The little face looked content, relaxed, the tiny chest rising and falling, rising and falling, the impossibly tiny bow lips giving a quirk.

Whose are you? he wondered. Why would anyone leave you here? The Dawson Family Guest Ranch wasn’t due to open for seven more weeks, on Memorial Day weekend, so the guest cabins were empty. And none of the small staff he’d hired lived on the property.

He glanced at the carrier and tote bag on the coffee table. Maybe there was a note. Or a birth certificate. Something.

He couldn’t reach the bag easily without putting the baby down, and he thought he should hold her a bit—why, exactly, he wasn’t entirely sure. To keep her warm? To comfort her? Make her feel connected to someone and something? His gaze caught on something small and white poking up from underneath the blanket in the car seat. He shoved the blanket aside.

So there was a note. Half a page. Scrawled, crudely, in black pen.

She’s your baby, Noah Dawson. Your responsibility. You won’t hear from me again.

Every cell in his body froze.

What?

My baby? he thought, the idea not penetrating.

Forget the police. Or social services. Until he could think, figure out who the mother was.

His baby? Seriously?

He grabbed the tote bag and rooted around inside it for a birth certificate or envelope or any kind of paperwork. Nothing but a baby bottle, a small container of formula and two tiny diapers.

The infant’s eyes opened just then, then drooped, opened, drooped, then closed again. There was something familiar about the little face, something in the expression, the eyes, that he couldn’t pin down. He knew that face. The baby’s mother, a woman he probably was with one night... Or maybe the little girl looked a bit like him?

Just get her to the doc, he told himself. Now.

He very gently laid her back down in the carrier, one little fist moving, the lips quirking again. He buckled the five-point harness and settled the blanket around her.

From the looks of her, all scrawny and tiny, tinier than your average baby, he was pretty sure she couldn’t be more than a few hours old. So her mother didn’t want to keep her and dropped her off right after giving birth? That hardly made sense. Mothers who’d just delivered a baby didn’t jump in cars and drop off their babies in the middle of the night. Unless they were desperate, maybe.

All he knew was that someone had left a baby on his doorstep. No knock, no explanation. No concern for the infant’s well-being.

No idea who that person could possibly be.

His baby? His brain wasn’t fully firing right now from the shock, but as he lifted the carrier he managed to think back nine months. It was the second week of April now. Who had he been involved with last July?

There were a few possibilities. One of whom he’d seen in passing just last week as he’d parked in front of the coffee shop in town. She certainly hadn’t been nine months pregnant.

Two or three others back then, one-night stands when his life had still been about drinking too much at bars and trying to forget his troubles with women whose last names he didn’t know.

He wasn’t proud of that time in his life.

He’d been a hot mess. Two years ago, the small ranch he’d managed to buy had gone under—like father, like son, he supposed. The woman he’d loved his entire life had told him she’d had enough and was moving on, unless he changed most things about himself. He hadn’t known how, and she’d gotten tired of trying to help when all her advice fell on deaf ears. And so he’d driven her away and she’d married the biggest jerk he’d ever known. The downward spiral had continued.

And then five months ago he’d inherited the Dawson Family Guest Ranch with his five siblings, most of whom wanted nothing to do with the place. Suddenly, the man on the edge of the cliff had inched back to solid ground. Purpose. Determination. Heritage.

Before his father passed, before Noah had come back home to the formerly dilapidated guest ranch he’d grown up on, he’d had no idea heritage meant anything to him. But it clearly did. Because here he was. Not that he had anywhere else to go, but still. He wanted to be here.

And if this baby was his, she belonged here too. With him on the Dawson ranch. Until he figured out whose she was—aside from his—he’d keep his siblings out of it. Maybe he’d call his sister, Daisy, in Cheyenne. Maybe she’d come visit for a few days and help him out.

The tiny eyes opened, and her face scrunched.

“I’m taking you to the doc, little buddy.”

It struck him that little girls probably weren’t called “little buddy” the way boys were. He recalled how Sara—the one he’d driven away—hated that her father had called her princess. I’m no princess, she’d say. Furthest thing from it.

“You’re no princess either,” he told the infant. “You certainly did not get the royal treatment on your first day on earth.”

Carrier in hand, he headed toward the door, setting it on the floor to put on his leather jacket. Then he picked her back up and headed out to the truck.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to you,” he said, latching the carrier rear-facing on the back seat, like the little diagram on the side of the carrier wisely showed. “You can count on that.”

Chapter One

Seven weeks later

“I, Willem Michael Perry, in sound mind and body, hereby leave my second-rate wife, Sara Mayhew Perry, absolutely nothing.”

Sara sat in her late husband’s attorney’s office, not surprised by anything in the will. The insults. The disinheritance. She wanted to run out of here, put this—including her marriage to Willem—behind her, and go home with her seven-week-old son. If she even had a home anymore.

The lawyer, Holton Parrington, who’d grimaced through every word of the will as he’d read it aloud, put the document down on his desk and took off his glasses. “Sorry about all this, Sara,” he said, shaking his head. “Willem wasn’t exactly the nicest person, was he?”

Understatement of the year. Decade, maybe. But you make a deal with the devil... “No, he wasn’t.”

Her husband had died in a car accident five days ago. He hadn’t been a good person, but Sara hadn’t married him for his personality. She knew she wasn’t perfect, but doing what needed to be done had always come naturally to her, and she’d hoped she could help Willem change, that she would rub off on him, that impending fatherhood would mean something to him, but he’d actually gotten meaner, more spiteful, more controlling.

She glanced at the stroller to her left; baby Chance slept peacefully. She kept her gaze on him for a moment longer; her son was all that truly mattered. Nothing else.

“Willem also left a letter to you and instructions that I read it aloud in the event of his death,” Holton continued. “It’s sealed, and I have no idea what’s inside. Ready?”

Sara sighed inwardly. “For more bashing? No. But I guess this will be the end of it.”

The lawyer nodded. He put his glasses back on, then slit open the envelope and pulled out one sheet of paper, written in Willem Perry’s unmistakable, perfect handwriting.

“‘Sara, if you’re reading this, I’m dead,’” the lawyer read, pausing as if bracing himself. He cleared his throat and continued. “‘I don’t know what got me in the end, but I hope it was quick and painless and that I lived till at least ninety-three like my father.’”

Willem hadn’t made it to his twenty-ninth birthday. He’d been reckless with the brand-new Porsche, a gift to himself for becoming a father, and had been going more than ninety around the rain-slick curve on the winding service road into town.

“‘I debated about putting what I’m about to say on paper,’” the lawyer continued reading, “‘but decided I couldn’t—make that shouldn’t—take it to the grave with me. Oh yes, I want you to know. You deserve to know. Brace yourself, darlin’.’”

She was already doing that. Who knew what Willem was capable of? She did, actually. She wished she’d known the extent of his cruelty before she’d agreed to marry him. She’d known he was a snob, but he’d been so kind to her before their wedding, and she’d had such faith she’d turn him around. Back then, she’d thought his worst trait was talking down to waitstaff in the nice restaurants he’d taken her to.

She’d never take anything at face value again. That was for damned sure.

She sucked in a deep breath. Whatever it is, whatever his last laugh is, I can take it, she told herself. I’m stronger than I know. Just keep chanting that and maybe it’ll be true.

The attorney glanced at her, and she nodded.

“‘Our son’s twin sister didn’t die during childbirth,’” the lawyer read on a gasp, his eyes widening.

Sara gasped too. What? They stared at each other, his face as pale as hers must be.

The lawyer sucked in a breath and continued reading. “‘The female twin was frail, much smaller than the male. But very much alive. Thank God I’d insisted on a home birth with a midwife, or I’d never have been able to do what I did.’”

She grabbed the sides of the chair. Her mind went blank, the air whooshing out of her, blackness threatening. What did you do, Willem? What the hell did you do?

The lawyer leaned back, took off his glasses and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Finish the letter,” Sara said, hearing the panic rise in her voice.

What happened to my baby girl?

Holton nodded, his expression grim. “‘I threatened the midwife and paid her off not to call for medical intervention and to back me up when I told you the female didn’t survive the birth. Don’t be too hard on the poor lady. She accepted the bribe for the same reason you married me. She desperately needed the money.’”

The lawyer glanced at her then, and Sara, feeling her face flame, lifted her chin.

“‘I told you the baby died,’” the lawyer continued reading, “‘then while you were sleeping, I drove it out to Noah Dawson’s place—’”

Sara bolted up. “Noah? Noah has my daughter?”

Her head was spinning. Her daughter was alive? And with Noah Dawson?

“Let’s finish the letter,” Holton said. “There’s only one paragraph left.”

Sara nodded, tears brimming as she dropped back on the chair.

The attorney cleared his throat. “‘With my male heir healthy, I had no need for a sickly-looking daughter. To be quite honest, I don’t particularly like girls. They grow up to become conniving users, don’t they? I drove the baby out to Dawson’s cabin and left her on his porch with that starter kit the midwife had on hand and a note saying it was his baby and his responsibility. For all I know, the twins are his. Maybe you were cheating on me with him during our entire marriage. Since I don’t know whether any of that is true, it means it could be. Since it could also not be, I’ll leave my son the bulk of my estate in trust for when he turns twenty-one. The rest will go to the development of a golf course named in my honor. You, as you already know, get nothing. Not a cent.’” The lawyer paused and put down the letter. “That’s the extent of it. It’s signed ‘Willem Michael Perry.’”

My daughter didn’t die. She’s alive.

“For the past seven weeks, Noah Dawson has had my daughter?” she whispered, the blackness threatening again.

She tried to remember back to the moment when the midwife—a gentle woman in her early sixties who’d come highly recommended—placed Chance on her chest. Tears had been brimming in the woman’s eyes over what Sara had assumed was the loss of the baby girl she’d helped deliver. Sara had felt so woozy, despite Willem’s insistence she take no drugs. She must have fallen asleep hard after initially nursing Chance, because she’d woken up hours later, Willem letting her know Chance was sleeping like a champ in the nursery and that the midwife had gone home and that they’d taken care of the details for the loss of the twin.

She’d been so woozy still, her head feeling like it was stuffed with cotton, and she’d been so grateful that she hadn’t lost both babies that she’d made her way to the nursery and held Chance against her. Her precious son had gotten her through the terrible truth that his sister hadn’t survived. Over the next few days, Willem had resumed his usual twelve-hours-per-day work schedule, so she hadn’t had to deal with him controlling her in person, though he’d left detailed emails about how to hold Chance, feed him, his nap schedule, and that no one was to visit until he’d had his shots.

Her baby girl was alive. And Sara wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Willem had slipped something into her water during labor, some kind of drug to keep her off balance and to make her sleep hard afterward.

Why would he take the baby to Noah, though? Willem had hated Noah Dawson.

“Sara, I’m afraid I have to prepare you for the possibility that the female twin didn’t survive Willem’s actions,” the lawyer said, shaking her out of her question. “Left on a doorstep in the middle of the night? The second week of April, when it was still a bit chilly? Who knows when Mr. Dawson discovered the baby? If he was even home at the time? Didn’t he very recently inherit the old Dawson guest ranch? I read that they’re set for a grand opening this weekend, but I can’t imagine how, given how run-down the place was.”