From Megan Maitland’s Diary

Dear Diary,

Tonight I’m feeling particularly emotional. My life is filled with family and close friends who love me, and I love them. They help sustain me, especially during my trials. But I have to admit that right now, Chase’s disappearance has brought me to a very low ebb. To add to my pain, I just heard that Max Jamison and Chelsea Markum, of all people, are trying to rescue a toddler who crawled into a pipe and can’t get out. Two innocent, precious babies in danger!

All I can do is pray that they are still alive, that one day soon I’ll hold Chase in my arms again. I have to have more faith. Why does it seem so hard tonight?

Dear Reader,

There’s never a dull moment at Maitland Maternity! This unique and now world-renowned clinic was founded twenty-five years ago by Megan Maitland, widow of William Maitland, of the prominent Austin, Texas, Maitlands. Megan is also matriarch of an impressive family of seven children, many of whom are active participants in the everyday miracles that bring children into the world.

When our series began, the family was stunned by the unexpected arrival of an unidentified baby at the clinic—unidentified, except for the claim that the child is a Maitland. Who are the parents of this child? Is the claim legitimate? Will the media’s tenacious grip on this news damage the clinic’s reputation? Suddenly, rumors and counterclaims abound. Women claiming to be the child’s mother materialize out of the woodwork! How will Megan get at the truth? And how will the media circus affect the lives and loves of the Maitland children—Abby, the head of gynecology, Ellie, the hospital administrator, her twin sister, Beth, who runs the day care center, Mitchell, the fertility specialist, R.J., the vice president of operations—even Anna, who has nothing to do with the clinic, and Jake, the black sheep of the family?

We’re thrilled to bring you yet another exciting, dramatic installment of the Maitland Maternity saga, The Toddler’s Tale, by popular author Rebecca Winters.

Marsha Zinberg,

Senior Editor and Editorial Co-ordinator, Special Projects

The Toddler’s Tale
Rebecca Winters

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Rebecca Winters loves a great many things: her children, her extended family and her friends. Besides teaching young people at her church, she travels to Laguna Beach, her favorite spot in California, and makes frequent visits to Denver, Colorado, to visit one of her married sons and his wife. An active genealogist, she’s always busy tracing her family lines. Creating an ambience of French country in her home is an ongoing project. An avid fan of her hometown basketball team, the Utah Jazz, she has now discovered another sport—golf. At least when Tiger Woods is playing. Around 10 p.m. she turns on the TV to watch her favorite British comedies. When all is said and done, she leads a very rich, full life. But she does concede that writing novels adds the extra spice that makes every moment exciting.

This book is dedicated to my one and only grandson

Billy B., the joy of his nana’s life, and the inspiration

for the adorable little toddler in my story.

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

CHAPTER ONE

“DAMN YOU, Max Jamison! Enough is enough!” Chelsea Markum cried furiously as the dark-haired male at her side drove them deeper into the hill country outside Austin, Texas.

She’d come up against the audacious ex-cop many times before while covering important news events. But he’d gone too far this time. He’d smashed her camcorder, then, to add insult to injury, he’d thrown her inside his blue half-ton pickup, dashing any hope of her getting a breaking story that included pictures.

Thanks to Captain Dangerous here, she didn’t have her cell phone because she’d left it in her car. Now another television station would get the plum story of the month! Damn, damn, damn.

“Your manhandling techniques seem to have worsened since you resigned from the police department,” Chelsea accused. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you were advised to quit before they had to fire you.”

For a response, he gunned the accelerator, making her more livid than ever.

“Keep this up and I’m warning you that your days as a PI are going to be numbered.”

“But I’ve got you now, so it will have been worth it.” The rejoinder was mocking.

Her cheeks filled with heat. “Turn the truck around this instant! Do you hear me?”

“Not on your life!” The wicked smile on Max Jamison’s rugged face made him more attractive than ever. It was the last straw.

Taking a deep breath, Chelsea reached for the front passenger door handle, ready to jump out and hitchhike to Garrett Lord’s ranch. But an arm of steel shot past her, blocking her effort with almost superhuman strength.

“You brute!”

In retaliation she tried pulling on the steering wheel with both hands so he would have to slow down. To her shock, it didn’t budge beneath his rock-hard grip.

This was how her whole day had been going. He’d thwarted her chance to get live video of Camille Eckart and her baby. They’d been in hiding for the past six months at the ranch, where Camille’s ex had traced her and then been killed himself. It would have been one of Chelsea’s best segments yet for her weekly show, “Tattle Today TV.”

When Max pressed on the gas, she had an idea he was laughing at her. Worse, her ineffectual jerking motion had managed to strain the muscle in her upper arm and tear the stitching beneath the jacket sleeve of her new Balenciaga suit. This was the first time she’d worn the French blue two-piece linen outfit, classy yet light enough for the summer heat.

With so many injustices, she felt like howling. So far no tactic in her repertoire had duped that razor-sharp brain of his, which always appeared to be two steps ahead of her.

Be more creative, Chelsea. If you can get on his good side, he might return you in time to write a follow-up story for the seven o’clock show.

According to her watch it was ten after four, though the overcast sky made it seem much later in the day.

In a resigned tone, she said, “All right. You’ve made your point. Unlike you, who enjoys kidnapping defenseless women and destroying company property, I actually work for a living. If you would be so kind as to allow me to get back to my job, I’ll overlook this crime like I have your others and tell my boss not to press charges.”

He darted her what she thought at first was an amused glance. But his narrowed gaze held a certain glitter she found uncomfortable. The rumble of thunder in the distance added to her sense of unease.

Though she knew Max Jamison wasn’t anything like Anthony Dorset, one of her mother’s many live-in lovers, the hostile look in his eyes took her back to a time when, as a fifteen-year-old living in Hollywood, California, she had learned the meaning of terror.

Anthony, a muscular, out-of-work actor who displayed a controlling personality and cruel streak her mother chose to ignore, had moved into the mansion that was Chelsea’s home.

The leering looks he gave her were so indecent they made her skin crawl. Soon she was doing everything in her power to avoid him. But the more she tried to keep out of his way, the more he behaved like a guard dog, always lurking, always lying in wait for her to arrive home from school.

She didn’t want to think about those hellish years. They were long since behind her. She was a different person now. From the moment she’d gone to work in television journalism in the Los Angeles area until she’d carved out her career as a talk show host for “Tattle Today TV” in Austin, she made certain the men she met gave her a wide berth. But Max Jamison wasn’t intimidated by her. Worse, she resented him for reminding her of her nightmarish past.

Suddenly he made an unexpected turn onto an unfamiliar country road. Good! Her noncombative tone must have soothed the savage breast. It appeared he’d relented enough to circle and head back the way they’d come.

As she relaxed against the seat, she saw a run in her hose that hadn’t been there when she’d driven to the Lord ranch earlier. She hoped her assailant choked on the growing bill “Tattle Today TV” would present him for lost and damaged goods.

With fabricated nonchalance she crossed her left leg over her right to hide the run from view. If she smoked, this would have been the perfect moment to light up.

Not for the first time did Max notice those elegant legs out of his periphery, but right now he was still reacting to her implication that he had been let go from the police force.

Nothing could have been further from the truth!

He’d become a PI by choice, but he wasn’t about to explain his reasons for resigning from the police department in order to satisfy Chelsea Markum’s insatiable curiosity.

Before he’d taken on Maitland Maternity Clinic as a client, and found himself chasing Ms. Markum off the premises, the relentless reporter had caused Max grief on the Bobbie Stryder case, which was still pending with the courts. The woman’s mere presence spelled disaster.

Now that she was his captive audience, he could deliver the long-overdue lecture he’d been saving for a moment such as this.

“Are you aware that some of the good citizens of Austin call you the black widow of television?”

The bluntness of the message, delivered in his deep, compelling voice, caught Chelsea unaware.

She blinked. Black widow?

“There’s no question the female is one of the most beautiful spiders in existence. She performs her deadly work by making several punctures in her victims, then proceeds to suck out their lifeblood. She lets nothing stand in her way, not even her partner, whom she eats after they’ve mated.”

The unflattering analogy would have hurt at any time. To hear it from a man Chelsea couldn’t intimidate made it all the more devastating.

“No. I didn’t know that.” She stared straight ahead, dry-eyed. Another clap of thunder cannonaded across the rolling hills. “Thank you for letting me in on that fascinating piece of unsolicited information. I’ll file it away for future reference.

“In the meantime, if we want to reach the Lord ranch before the storm catches up to us, may I remind you we’re headed in the wrong direction? No one dislikes back-seat drivers more than I do, but in your righteous zeal to keep me apprised of public opinion, you seem to have forgotten our destination. Before this day is out, I still have a story to put together for my show.”

The truck continued to distance them from Austin. “Nothing fazes you, does it.”

She fought to get past the asperity of that remark. “A good journalist tries to deliver despite any obstacles.”

“You think that’s what you are? A good journalist?”

A tight band constricted her breathing. “My boss tells me my show has the highest ratings in Austin as well as many other parts of Texas. Can all of the people be fooled all of the time?”

“High ratings don’t necessarily have a hell of a lot to do with the kind of worthy reporting the majority of people are hungering for.”

“But are they?” Though deep inside she agreed with him—another reason for her perturbation—she enjoyed throwing out a challenge. No man of her acquaintance frustrated her quite the way he did. That was because she’d seen him in action as a cop and a PI. He was tough. If he had a vulnerable spot, she hadn’t found it yet.

“When you’re not busy abducting someone else, Mr. Jamison, I’ll be happy to show you the disparity in the ratings between the sensational coverage of Princess Diana’s death and the grassroots footage on that of Mother Teresa.”

She heard his sharp intake of breath and rejoiced. He’d had it all his way since he’d carried her off the ranch in that humiliating firefighter’s lift in front of an audience. No amount of twisting had effected her release.

“Having said that, you think it excuses you from blame?” Max bit the question out. “Do you have any idea the grief you’ve caused, not only to the Maitland family, but to countless other people in this town who shrink in fear when Chelsea Markum gets wind of a possible scandal?

“The voracious gossipmonger of Tattle Today who manages to be in ten places at once, bribing people to the tune of fifty thousand dollars, creating chaos out of something private and painful, something never meant for public consumption.”

Thank heaven she hadn’t heard about the kidnapping of Connor O’Hara’s son, Chase, from the clinic day care! Max thought. By now Janelle and her partner, Petey—the man Max and the others referred to as the fake Connor—were probably long gone from Austin with the cute little guy.

It was likely the only news story Ms. Markum had ever missed out on since working for Tattle Today. As soon as Max had delivered his ultimatum, he’d drive her to her car, then follow her into town to make sure she went straight home before he met with Michael Lord, head of security at Maitland Maternity, to help pick up the con artists’ trail.

Heat stormed her face once more. “Well, well. Now I’m Medusa as well as the black widow. Make up your mind.”

“I haven’t even started yet.”

Another stiletto stab to the wound he’d inflicted earlier. Chelsea could taste blood.

“I think I’ll take it as a compliment that you’ve managed to make me sound bigger than life. But in case you’ve forgotten, I have a boss who gives me orders, and I’m not the only one on stage. Let’s be generous, shall we, and give the other networks, including the cable channels, at least a modicum of credit for the part they play in what you view as the whole nefarious business of reporting the news.”

Without warning he stood on the brakes. His action killed the engine. Wonderful! They were out in the middle of nowhere.

On her side of the truck lay miles of ranch land. On the other side of the road, beyond his broad shoulders, she could see a dilapidated construction site, but there weren’t any workmen about. No vehicles.

Next door to the site she spied a small ranch-style house set among a stand of pecan and cottonwood trees. In the dead grass stood a For Sale sign. Both the excavation site and the house stood about a hundred feet away from the road and appeared uncared for. It never occurred to her he might be cruel enough to make her get out here and find her own way home.

She dared a glance in his direction.

When he turned his powerful male physique toward her, she noticed a nerve throbbing at one corner of his mouth. His handsome features had hardened into a grim facsimile of the flesh-and-blood man who made her pulse race faster than she deemed healthy.

She struggled for composure under the fierce accusation of eyes more black than brown in the semidark interior of the truck. They matched the angry sky.

“You call it responsible reporting when you trespass on the Lord ranch, interfere with police and FBI business, cause grief to everyone who helped bring down Vince Eckart, just so you could get some damn photos of Camille and her baby? After the incident at the Bobbie Stryder concert, this is like déjà vu. For a woman as highly intelligent and sophisticated as you are, I fail to understand this obsession you have for invasive manipulation of the news. Dare I hope that one day you’ll find you’re a victim of someone like yourself? It could be an enlightening experience.”

Though they’d skirmished many times in the past, he’d never yelled at her to make a point. Another trait she grudgingly respected in Max Jamison. Well-chosen words, not noise, were his scalpel. Like a great surgeon, he knew the precise place to cut, how deep to penetrate to get at that vulnerable core inside her.

Willing tears not to form, she averted her eyes. “Don’t you know anything is possible in this world—”

“What’s that?” He cut her off without preamble. In an abrupt move he shifted in the seat, turning his head away from her. “Listen! There it is again. Do you hear it?”

Chelsea assumed he’d heard the wind, which had been buffeting the truck, but she rolled down her window all the same. Gust-driven raindrops pelted her face.

She shivered from the wet cold and started to roll it up again when she heard crying. At first she thought it must be a cat in distress, but the more she listened, the more human it sounded.

“That’s a little child’s voice!”

“You’re right,” he murmured, “but where?”

Sensing a mystery, Chelsea opened the door to investigate. Before her new Italian leather heels touched the ground, she could see a woman beckoning to them from across the road, shouting frantic cries for help. Her body was nothing more than a silhouette in the downpour.

Max levered himself from the cab, their personal war put on hold in the face of this unexpected crisis. Chelsea chased after him. In case she couldn’t get to the station in time to report the story on Camille and the baby, maybe she’d find nuggets of a new drama unfolding here.

Arms flailing, a panic-stricken young woman no more than twenty-one, twenty-two, met Max halfway. Water ran down her pretty features and dripped off her dark blond braids. The rain had plastered the corduroy jumper against her thin body, revealing every shiver.

“Thank heaven y-you heard me!” she cried. “I need h-help!” Her hands gripped his hard-muscled forearms. “My baby wandered away from me and f-fell through some boards. I tried to go after her, but the framework is c-crumbling. I’m afraid to make a move or everything m-might cave in on top of her!”

Another trapped child.

As the sickness welled up in his gut, Max closed his eyes tightly for a moment.

Chelsea watched his reaction, stunned by the distinct pallor of his complexion and the way his body had tautened. Something earthshaking was going on inside him. But what?

“It’s going to be all right,” she heard him murmur at last. “What’s your name?”

The mother seemed to hesitate for a moment before she said, “Traci Beal.”

“Traci? How long has your daughter been down there?”

“I d-don’t know. A half hour m-maybe. You’re the first p-person to stop.”

The poor woman’s teeth were chattering. This was the perfect heartbreaking child-in-distress story, but a lot of good it was going to do Chelsea without a camcorder. She flashed him a look of outrage for destroying her camera. But his attention was focused on the mother.

“You haven’t phoned for help yet?”

The young woman shook her head. “I don’t h-have a phone and didn’t dare leave the baby to run to a neighbor’s house. Please…you’ve g-got to help me!” She sounded on the verge of hysterics. “If anything happens to Betsy…”

In the next instant Max left them to climb inside the excavation, where the child’s incessant crying was louder. Chelsea noticed that no matter how much care he took, more material caved in.

As she watched him move around and lift debris, Chelsea held her breath. She couldn’t think of another man who would dive into a precarious situation like this with no thought for his own life.

When she reflected on the constant stream of disgusting men who had flowed in and out of her mother’s world, living off her money, she couldn’t imagine one of them putting a child’s crisis ahead of his own selfish needs.

After a few minutes Max climbed back to them, his face grim as he addressed Traci. “She’s crawled into a main drainage pipe for the subdivision. It’ll take a team of experts to help me reach her. But your daughter has a powerful set of lungs. As long as she’s crying like that, you know she’s all right, just frightened. I’ll call for help from the cell phone in my truck. We’ll get your daughter out safely.”

Of course! Chelsea could phone her office and ask her boss, Howard Percell, to send someone out here on the double with a camcorder. They could still get the exclusive scoop if she acted fast!

Unmindful of the rain, she wheeled around and hurried across the road. Max called to her, but she ignored him. It was vital she tip off her boss before Max tied up the phone. She had an idea he probably kept it in his glove compartment.

No sooner had she opened the passenger door to reach inside it than Max flung open the door on the driver’s side. After sending her a murderous glance, he pulled the phone from the top of the sun visor and started punching buttons.

His mouth had formed into a tight line of anger. Despite the heavy tension between them, she observed that even in the rain his brown hair, dark as rich loam, stayed in place. Like James Bond, he managed to look quite splendid no matter how harrowing the moment.

“Spare me the lie that you were going to call nine-one-one.” His voice grated.

She stood her ground. “With your links to the police department, I planned to leave that up to you. I only intended to take a few seconds to let my office know where I am.”

Lines darkened his face before he let go with a string of colorful swear words. “It’s shot!” The phone landed on the seat between them. “I’ll have to find another one. While I’m gone, you’re going to do something unselfish for once in your life and offer support to Traci until help arrives.”

So many stab wounds in one day had cut Chelsea wide open.

Using her superior tone she said, “When there’s a breaking story right here, why would I want to go with you?”

His head reared. “Why, indeed.”

She enjoyed shutting the door in his good-looking face. But when she came around from the back of the truck, she received a surprise. He shoved a folded camper-green tarp into her arms.

“There! That should give you some protection while you’re both waiting.”

“How thoughtful! Thank you.”

Though she almost staggered from the weight of it, she refused to let him witness her struggle as she crossed the road.

MAX PUT his truck in gear and barreled down the road in search of a house or a business of some kind. Whatever came first. With a tiny child’s life at stake, there was no time to lose.

Haunted by Betsy’s cries, which still resounded in his head, he increased his speed on the isolated road. To his relief the rain had turned to drizzle. The idea of a frightened little girl caught and possibly lying injured in cold water plus who knew what else left a pit the size of a boulder in his gut.

Was it asking too much to come across a road crew with a phone? Maybe plane radar would pick him up and put a patrol car on his tail.

Tears smarted in his eyes as he remembered the little boy who’d died inside a laundry chute last year. Neither Max nor his partner, who’d been on duty with him, had been able to save the toddler. Since then, the joy had gone out of his life.

The media had sensationalized the tragedy. As usual, Chelsea Markum had been one of many TV reporters who’d criticized the police department’s response time in getting to the scene of the accident.

Though he and his partner had been cleared of any wrongdoing, the horrific incident had caused a blackness to creep into Max’s existence until he’d doubted his ability to be a good cop. Once his confidence had deserted him, he’d felt immobilized and took a leave of absence from his job.

During the time off, he’d gone for professional counseling to deal with his grief. Though it was pointed out to him there was nothing he could have done to prevent the boy’s death, Max didn’t believe it. A little child had died under his watch. He couldn’t handle it.

After a month, he’d still been too shaken by the experience to go back on active duty. Despite the urgings from his superiors to remain with the department and take a desk job for a while, he couldn’t see himself sitting at a computer eight hours a day. Not when it was his nature to live life on the edge.

Eventually he resigned from the force and went to work as a PI. It meant he could handpick cases in which children weren’t involved. Or so he’d thought.

He pressed on the gas, realizing he might have to drive all the way to Reiser to find a phone. The unincorporated hamlet of less than two hundred people had a German pub. On more than one occasion, he and his best friend, Michael Lord, had driven out here for a beer on their off-duty time as police officers—before Michael had gone to work for Maitland Maternity Clinic. It had been a great place to kick back, shoot a little pool.

At moments like that they’d shared a few laughs and talked shop. The subject of women was taboo. Michael was a confirmed bachelor. As for Max, the high school sweetheart he’d planned to marry had been killed in a car accident.

That painful period eventually passed, but it had left him changed. Though he enjoyed women as much as the next man, he had no desire to settle down. After working so hard to save the little boy who’d died despite all efforts to save him, Max had been running on automatic pilot.

As the memory of that failed rescue attempt assailed him once more, he broke out in a cold sweat. He still suffered nightmares because he’d reached the child too late.

Evidence of civilization ahead jerked his torturous thoughts to the present. A tiny general store with one lone gas pump materialized on his right, and he pulled in.

With the motor still running, he leaped from the cab. God willing, he wasn’t about to lose Betsy!

“TWINKLE, TWINKLE, Little Star,” was a tune Chelsea hadn’t heard for years. “Do you like the song Mommy just sang to you? I’m right here, Betsy, honey, and I’m not going to go away. You’re being such a brave girl, Mommy’s going to sing you another song. Would you like to hear ‘Jumbo Elephant?’”

Huddled with Traci beneath the dry side of the tarp, Chelsea listened to the young woman’s tireless efforts to comfort her baby. As long as she sang, the little girl didn’t cry as much. The connection between the two of them was strong and touched Chelsea deeply. She’d never experienced that kind of bonding with her own mother. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to ward off more painful memories.

It seemed as if Max had been gone forever. Though the rain had stopped, it was cold enough that the tarp created much-needed warmth. Chelsea was grateful Max had provided them with this much protection against the elements, even if she had been furious with him at the time.

And hurt.

But she refused to think about the pain he’d inflicted. Right now both the mother and child were frightened. Hunkered down as they were directly above the place where they heard Betsy crying, Chelsea could observe Traci Beal at close range. What she saw disturbed her.

The extreme pallor of the young mother’s skin, stretched tautly over sharp cheekbones, and the heavy circles beneath her lusterless blue eyes convinced Chelsea she had been suffering long before the accident had happened. She looked exhausted and ill-nourished.

Chelsea shuddered to think of Traci’s innocent, helpless little child caught down there beneath all that old lumber. Some of the boards had creaked and settled more during the worst of the downpour, making her realize how unstable everything was. No wonder Max had gone for help before he attempted any kind of a rescue.

Wanting to be useful, Chelsea took off her jacket and placed it around Traci’s thin shoulders, hoping to infuse her with some of her own warmth and strength. If only the other woman would stop shivering.

At first Traci stiffened, then relaxed a little. Encouraged because she didn’t try to pull away, Chelsea kept an arm around her and rocked her back and forth, singing to Betsy herself. Anything she could think of.

Since Traci had exhausted every English nursery rhyme, perhaps something different would distract Betsy for a while. Chelsea started out with “Frère Jacques,” one of a dozen little French songs she’d learned in her youth at her boarding school in Switzerland.

“Those were pretty,” Traci whispered as Chelsea ended with “Sous le pont d’Avignon.” “You like that, don’t you, Betsy!” she called to her child. They couldn’t hear any baby noises. “Betsy?” she cried louder.

Chelsea clasped her a little tighter. “I’m sure she fell asleep for a few minutes.” I pray that’s all it means. Max, where are you?

“Traci? I have an idea. Why don’t you run home for a coat and get something to eat. I promise I’ll stay right here and keep singing to Betsy.”

“No! I’m not leaving my baby!” Terrified blue eyes stared into hers.

Chelsea heard—felt—Traci’s fear.

How foolish of her to suggest the other woman leave the site when it was obvious this child was her very life! But then Chelsea had to remember that not every child had Rita Maxwell for a mother.

“You don’t have to go anywhere. I’ll go up to the house and fix you some food and bring it back along with a jacket or a blanket. It’s probably going to rain some more.”

“No!” she cried again. To Chelsea’s surprise she felt the younger woman clutch her hands in a death grip. “Stay with me!”

“But I’ll only be gone a few minutes. You need help, Traci.”

“I’m f-fine.”

The more Traci protested, the more Chelsea knew the woman’s fear wasn’t only about her child. Something else was going on here.

Traci’s behavior reminded Chelsea a lot of herself back in Hollywood when she’d had to keep quiet about her fear of the men who lived with her mother. Especially Anthony.

Chelsea’s horrific experiences had given her uncanny instincts about people, and right now they were telling her Traci needed rescuing every bit as badly as her child.

Playing a long shot, she said, “Will your husband be getting home from work soon so you can take turns watching over Betsy?”

Traci’s features froze before she shook her head.

“A boyfriend then?”

“No. There’s just Betsy and me.”

The definitive response sounded like fighting words. But there was a tragic forlornness in her voice that reached a secret place in Chelsea’s heart.

“I’m here for you.” She felt compelled to assure Traci, then gave her another squeeze. “Max will get your baby out of here soon.”

“Max?” The younger woman sounded abnormally jittery. Almost paranoid.

“Mr. Jamison. The man who went to call for help. He used to be a police officer. Now he’s a very fine private investigator here in Austin, and a friend of mine,” Chelsea added, afraid to alarm this anxious young mother any more than necessary.

Not by any stretch of the imagination did Max consider Chelsea a friend or anything close to it, but Traci wasn’t to know that.

“He and I had just come from a case he was working on when we saw you.”

Traci’s frightened gaze found Chelsea’s. “Who are you?”

The tremulous question meant the other woman hadn’t recognized her from her television show. It proved her fright stemmed from something or someone else.

“I’m Chelsea Markum, a television journalist here in town.”

Like a wounded animal emerging from the forest who’d been blinded by headlights, the woman stared at Chelsea while her thin body shook helplessly.

Chelsea recognized the look of fear well enough. Throughout her life she’d seen its reflection in her own mirror often enough before she put on another face to meet the world.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Traci,” she vowed in a firm tone. “If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll prove to you I can be trusted.” Grasping the other woman’s hand, she said, “Shall we sing another song? I think I can hear Betsy. She must have wakened again.”

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN JANELLE SAW PETEY come out of one of the dozens of farmacias along the busy, noisy street, she reached across the seat and undid the car door’s electric lock.

“Get in quick!”

As he slid behind the wheel, Janelle glared at the small sack. “You were supposed to buy enough baby food and diapers to last us a couple of weeks! What happened?”

“We’re in a lousy border town full of scalpers, honey. Our funds are going to have to last for a long time. There’s no way I’m paying the prices they’re charging. I got us enough stuff until we come to another town farther inland to do our shopping.”

“We’d better find one soon!” she shouted, then turned her head to the back seat to see if she’d wakened Chase. Relieved he was such a sound sleeper, she darted Petey another glance. “By now Megan has the FBI on our tail. We step one foot on Texas soil and that’s the end for both of us.”

He revved the engine before moving into the mainstream of traffic. “Then you shouldn’t have brought the kid along.”

“I stole him for us, you stupid idiot! Megan wants him back. She’ll pay any price we name. What we need to do is hide out for a few weeks. That ought to up the ante. When she’s at her most vulnerable, that’s the time we’ll make contact.”

“Well, we sure as hell aren’t sleeping in this car another night. I figure if we drive a hundred miles south, we can find us a nice little hacienda to hole up with maid service and all the tequila we can drink.”

“First we’ve got to get more baby food and diapers!”

“Hold your horses, Janelle. Before we do anything else I figure we should get the car painted. Then we’ll find a town where we can buy the things we want dirt cheap.”

Sometimes Petey surprised her. “That’s the first good idea you’ve had since we crossed the border.”

“Damn it, Janelle! Aren’t you forgetting those license plates I stole off that junk car last night? I thought that was pretty good thinking on my part if I say so myself.”

“They make me nervous. Now the Mexican authorities are going to get suspicious.”

“No, they won’t. They’re looking for drugs at the border. We’ll be out of this town before nightfall. Besides, as soon as our vehicle is a different color, we’ll get lost in the woodwork.”

“It’s too bad we didn’t figure out a way to get a lot more money out of the account Megan set up for us.”

“Stop complaining and make the most of it!” Petey said, squeezing her thigh. “Right now I’d like to pull up to a nice motel with a freezing-cold room, a six-pack of beer on ice and you in my bed.”

“You’ve got a one-track mind, Petey.”

Their whole scheme had been working so well. Megan Maitland had bought into the story that Petey was Connor O’Hara, returned to the family fold, and Janelle the loving mother of their son, Chase. They had her hook, line and sinker—until the real Connor showed up. And if only that blasted Lacy—the kid’s real mother—had cooperated and died after Janelle knocked her on the head and left her in the alley.

“Yeah? Well, I can recall at least one time this week when you couldn’t think about anything else, either, Janelle,” he teased.

“That’s not the point. Chase is with us, remember?”

“Relax. I told you I got enough stuff for him to last until tomorrow. First we get the car camouflaged.”

“I thought it took a long time to do a paint job!”

“Not when you’re on the run. A quick spray is all we need. Keep your eye out for a body shop. Then we’ll get out of here and find us a town where they won’t charge us an arm and a leg for what we need. Once we find ourselves the right pad, we can have some fun and start to plan how to get our hands on the rest of Megan’s money.” He hit his fist against the steering wheel. “Damn that Connor for showing up and ruining our plans!”

“I don’t know, Petey. The family was starting to get real suspicious when I kept stalling about the birth certificate. I just wish we’d had time to load up on the things we needed for Chase before we left Austin.”

“I’m just glad I didn’t need to knock out anybody to get to Chase. I might have done too good a job. Thank God he was at the day care. That was smart of you to ask Megan if you could take him for a walk in the park. Man, she must be kicking herself. I figure we did a first-rate job.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you say we enjoy life for a while now?”

“I don’t see how we can do that when we’re driving around in one of Megan’s cars.”

“In a couple of hours no one’s going to recognize it. We’ll tell the body shop to rip off all the chrome and trim.”

“Let’s paint it a faded dark blue like all the local cars around here. Nothing shiny. Maybe they ought to put on some rust spots just to make it look a little more beat up.”

“Smart thinking, Janelle. Hey—what’s that you’ve got there?”

“A quilting kit. I picked it up at Lana Lord’s baby shop.”

“Why?”

“To prove I was being a good mother. She showed me what to do. Do you know she thought it was real sweet of me to make a quilt for my baby? You should have heard her go on and on about the precious heirloom it would be someday.”

“That’s a laugh. So what are you doing with it now?”

“What do you think I’m doing? I’m looking at it because I’m bored!”

He flashed her a knowing glance. “I plan to keep you plenty busy for the next few weeks, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

“I’m talking about while we’re in the car.”

“Then I’ll turn on the radio for you.”

“No! It’ll wake Chase.”

“Janelle, honey, in case you didn’t notice, he’s already making noises and I can’t drive with a howling kid in the car.”

“All right. Don’t get in a panic.” She tossed the kit aside, then undid the seat belt and turned to give Chase a fresh bottle of apple juice from the sack. What a pain this trip was turning out to be.

BETSY STARTED to whimper again. Traci cocked her head to listen. Like Max Jamison had said, as long as Betsy was making any noise at all, Traci should be thankful her daughter hadn’t become unconscious.

“Please,” she urged Chelsea, gripping her hand tighter. “I can tell Betsy’s been responding to you. Try another one of those French songs. Betsy? It’s Mommy! Chelsea’s with me and she’s going to sing some more.”

As the other woman began the tune “Dominique,” Traci marveled at the television reporter who seemed as beautiful on the inside as she looked on the outside. Could this woman who was singing her heart out to Traci’s little girl in that lovely voice be a person capable of betrayal?

I don’t know if I dare trust her. I don’t know. I’m so scared. I’m so tired. Please, God, if You’re there, if You’re listening, tell me what to do. Give me some sign that this woman really wants to help me. Save my baby.

The singing continued, bringing Traci the first comfort she’d felt in days.

You trusted that nice elderly couple when you first got away from Nate, an inner voice whispered.

But this time it was different. Even though the PI had gone for help, he’d once been a police officer and could decide to take matters into his own hands by making Traci go back to her husband under the threat of the law.

She would rather kill herself and her baby than ever face Nate again, which meant sticking to her plan to get away from here. But until Betsy was freed from that pipe, neither of them could go anywhere.

Since it didn’t look as if Chelsea was going to leave her alone, Traci had two choices—say nothing and disappear as soon as she could with Betsy. Or risk trusting the other woman enough to enlist her help once Betsy was free. If only she knew she could trust the other woman…

After a few more rounds Chelsea stopped so they could listen for Betsy’s voice. That’s when Traci asked, “Where did you learn to speak French like that?”

“In Switzerland. I think it’s a beautiful language. Even if she doesn’t understand the words, I hope Betsy likes the songs.”

“I know she does. How come you went there?”

“It—it’s a long story, Traci. Suffice it to say I was sent to Neuchâtel to get an education in a place where I would be safe.”

Her head lifted. “Safe? From what?”

She heard Chelsea suck in her breath. “From certain dangers at home. The happiest day of my life was the moment I boarded the plane and flew far away. That’s when my whole world turned around.”

Traci blinked in surprise. “Do you feel safe now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“I wish Betsy and I could fly away like that.” Traci’s voice shook.

“You’re in trouble, aren’t you.”

Her hands twisted together. “Yes.”

“A long time ago someone helped me so I could get away. Maybe if you told me what’s wrong, I could help you.”

Traci could feel the other woman’s sincerity. Chelsea would never know how much Traci wanted to trust her.

“T-there’s a man after me.”

“Your husband?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Because no man can frighten a woman quite like an abusive lover or spouse. Is he dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“Is he in the house? Is that why you won’t go over there and don’t want me going over there, either?”

Traci struggled. If this woman turned out to be an enemy…

“It’s all right, Traci. Because I was so helpless when I was younger, I learned how to use a firearm in college. Since then I’ve worn a concealed weapon on the job and can defend myself if necessary.”

With a sob Traci muttered, “I wish I’d had one of those a long time ago. Where do you wear it?”

“On my thigh.” She pulled up her dress to reveal the feminine-looking holster strapped to her leg. “I go to the police firing range all the time to stay in practice,” she said before pulling the material down to her knees.

“I would never have guessed.”

“That’s the whole idea. Traci, does your husband blame you for letting Betsy fall down in the excavation? If that’s the case and he comes over here to harm you in any way, he’ll have to deal with me!” Chelsea vowed.

Traci believed her.

“He won’t be coming out of the house b-because I don’t live there.”

“What?” Chelsea sounded incredulous. “Then what are you doing out here on this deserted road?”

“I ran away from my husband ten days ago. Betsy and I have been hitchhiking ever since. I got dropped off here this morning. While I waited for another truck to give us a ride, it started to get overcast and cold. I put Betsy down just long enough to peek in the window of that house and see if there was someone who might give us something to eat. But the place was vacant. When I turned around, I—I couldn’t find my baby!”

Tears gushed from her puffy eyes, and she buried her face in her hands.

“I know he’s after us and won’t stop until he finds us. But I figure he’ll have a harder time if we get lost somewhere in Mexico.”

The shocking revelations left Chelsea gasping. “Where are you from?” She needed to know how big a headstart Traci had on this monster husband of hers. Anyone driven to these extremes had to be running from a living nightmare. Chelsea could relate. The desire to help this woman at any cost almost overwhelmed her.

“Bellevue, Washington.”

The poor thing had come such a long way alone. It was a miracle she and the baby had made it this far without something tragic happening to them before now.

“Does your husband have a car?”

“Yes.”

“What about a gun?”

“He has an arsenal of them, plus thousands of rounds of ammunition.”

The man sounded like a hunter, but he could also be one of those paranoiacs who believed doomsday was coming soon and had the right to be a one-man army for the final standoff.

“Didn’t you have a neighbor who could have helped you?”

She shook her head. “We live in a cabin in the woods outside the city. Nate doesn’t trust people.”

Chelsea didn’t need a picture to figure out Traci had gotten involved with an introverted survivalist. The dangerous kind who lived by one set of rules. His own.

“Listen to me, Traci.” She’d get the rest of the details later. “I have a plan to help you, but you have to trust me.”

The young mother stared at her for a long moment. “I’m going to have to, seeing as I’m trapped here until we get Betsy out.”

“I know exactly how you feel, but I swear I’ll be your friend if you’ll let me. You know that man who went for help?”

“No! Please don’t involve him. Please. He’ll turn me in or make me go back to Nate!”

“No, he won’t! He likes me and will do what I say.”

The irony of that statement would have made Chelsea laugh out loud if this weren’t a life-and-death situation. “We’re going to need his expertise, not only to rescue Betsy, but to hide you and keep you safe from your husband.”

Traci averted her eyes.

“You can trust him the same way you trust me. You have my word.”

“I’m afraid. How do I know he’ll listen to you?”

“I guess you don’t know—it’s a question of faith,” Chelsea asserted. “But I’d trust Max with my life.” It was only the truth, despite the problems between them. “He’s dealt with men like your husband before. He has resources and connections. Look—maybe your husband stopped learning to trust a long time ago, but I know you’re not like that. I know you’d do anything to help your baby. When Max gets back, do I have your permission to tell him the truth?”

She waited for the words to sink in, then murmured a sigh of relief when she felt Traci’s rigid body go limp. “I wish he didn’t have to know anything. I just want to die. If it weren’t for Betsy…”

“I know how you feel because I’ve been there, remember?”

Traci slowly nodded. “You promise he won’t turn me in to the authorities?”

“I can do better than that. I’ll make certain he keeps everyone away from you.” Please don’t let me down, Max.

The little girl began crying again, and the sound of her baby’s distress must have gotten to Traci. “All right,” she whispered.

WITH HOT COFFEE and sandwiches in hand, Max climbed out of the truck, which he’d parked in front of the excavation site.

The storm had passed. He was thankful for that blessing, at least. But with night fast approaching, darkness, not rain, would be their enemy. He’d been promised all the help possible, including an air-med helicopter when the moment came to transport the child to a hospital. Unfortunately, not enough time had passed for the police and paramedics to arrive yet.

As he drew closer to the women huddled beneath the tarp, he could hear singing. The words sounded foreign. So far he hadn’t heard any cries coming from the little girl. The pit in his gut enlarged.

He picked up his pace, then came to a standstill when he saw something he would never forget. Chelsea Markum sitting on the ground, holding a tearful young mother in her arms while she sang to the child in a lovely, musical voice.

She’d given up her jacket to keep the other woman warm. Most amazing of all was the fervent expression on Chelsea’s face. With her eyes closed, she reminded him of a woman at prayer, reflecting an inner beauty he hadn’t expected.

Astonished by the sight, he hunkered down next to them. Chelsea must have felt his leg brush against the edge of the tarp because she opened her eyes. The second her singing stopped, the other woman raised her head.

“Help is on the way,” he explained. “We’ll have your little girl out of here as soon as we can. I brought something to sustain you both while you wait.”

He noticed the way Chelsea took one of the coffee cups and put it in the other woman’s hands, as if the mother were a little child who couldn’t do it by herself.

Max handed Chelsea a sandwich.

“It’s chicken salad,” she said, peeling off the wrapper and passing it to the woman. “It looks good. Please, eat something while I talk to Max for a minute. All right?”

The other woman eyed her hesitantly before nodding.

Chelsea darted an anxious glance in his direction. If he read her message correctly, she wanted a private conversation with him. Intrigued by her solicitous behavior with the other woman, he helped her arrange the tarp over the mother’s head and shoulders.

When they had walked a few feet away he whispered, “I can’t hear Betsy.”

“She cries on and off. It’s killing me to think of that precious infant alone down there, so I can only imagine how Traci must be feeling.” The wobble in Chelsea’s voice sounded real. It appeared she had blood in her veins, after all. Who would have believed it?

“The thing is, I can’t tell if her daughter keeps falling asleep then waking up, or if she’s been drifting in and out of consciousness. But there’s another problem just as serious.” He heard a slight hesitation. “You have to help me with it before the search and rescue people get here. I—I promised Traci.”

His brows knit in a frown. “What other problem? What are you talking about?”

“After the history between us, I realize you pretty well despise me. I can handle that. But I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t back me up in this one thing.”

“Go on.”

She shivered from the lack of warmth in his tone. “I— I need a favor from you. For Traci’s sake, do you think we could put our differences aside long enough to discuss it like two civilized adults?”

His gaze roved over her features. “It depends.”

“Please, Max. This isn’t easy for me.”

Try as he might, he couldn’t remain immune to the throb of emotion punctuating her speech. She might be playacting, but if that was the case, she was doing a damn good job of it.

“Traci’s terrified about something.”

“I am, too,” he admitted. “Betsy’s in a lot of trouble.”

“So is Traci.”

“All right. Tell me what’s going on.”

Finally she felt she had his attention.

“For one thing, I don’t believe Traci is her real name. Max, she doesn’t live next door. The truth is, she’s from Bellevue, Washington, and has been running away from a life-and-death situation.” Without wasting words, Chelsea told him as many facts as she could.

He doubted she was aware that her hands had gripped his arm with surprising strength. Imploring green eyes lifted to his.

“We have to hide her before the media people hear about this over the police band and come to video the rescue. If her real name is mentioned, or pictures are shown over the news, her husband will know exactly where to find her.

“I was thinking if you could break into that vacant house, we could hide her inside and pretend she lives there. As soon as you get access to a phone, you could contact the realtor and tell them you need the place for police business. I’ll pay the rent for the use of the house.”

Max was stunned.

It wasn’t the wild story as much as the fact that it was Chelsea Markum, of all people, begging him to help her hide Traci from the television crew she worked with. Hell. She was even willing to use her own money to cover the expense of breaking into the vacated premises next door.

None of it added up. The star of “Tattle Today TV” he’d locked horns with for over a year had to be pulling something.

THE LONGER she was forced to wait for a response, the greater Chelsea’s fear grew that Max wasn’t going to cooperate. If he refused to help, then she would have to protect Traci herself.

“Forget I asked,” she murmured in a dull voice, and started to turn away, but he grasped her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him.

“Tell me about the rest of your plan.”

Relieved that he was still willing to talk about it, she let out the breath she’d been holding.

“You could give the police phony names and ages. Tell everyone she’s a widow who’s so upset over her daughter’s predicament, she’s too overcome with grief to be interviewed. I’ll do my part by explaining that the mother asked me to stay by the little girl and try to keep up her spirits.”

“What else?” He bit out the question. “I might as well hear the rest of it.”

“Well, there are several things. You need to ask a couple of police officers you trust to supply food and bedding and sneak it into the house. They’ll have to guard the entrances so that no reporters will be able to get inside to film her. I’ll pay for all the expenses and any hospital bills.”

Lord.

Max released her arms to rake a hand through his hair while he digested the unexpected twists and turns of a situation Chelsea Markum normally relished exploiting.

It was incredible enough that she would put her own selfish interests aside in an effort to protect Traci from her deranged husband.

But for Chelsea to inveigle Max’s help in deliberately shielding the terrified young mother from the press, when Chelsea was probably its most ardent, relentless proponent, was so far out of character as to be ludicrous.

In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that if she was willing to pay money from her own bank account to accomplish her objective, she had to have a hidden agenda somewhere.

No doubt when the crisis was over and, God willing, Betsy was safely rescued, Chelsea would do one of her sensational reports on “Tattle Today TV.”

It would be a real scoop, all right, revealing the true names and events in a situation no one else in the press had caught wind of. Her ratings would skyrocket, a coup Max was loath to aid.

What better way for her to get back at him for kidnapping her from the Lord ranch so she couldn’t get Camille and the baby on film.

On the other hand, if everything Chelsea had told him about Traci’s situation were true, then he shared her fear. The rescue attempt would be dangerous enough without the threat of an out-of-control husband arriving on the scene, capable of blowing everyone away. Domestic violence ending in murder happened every day somewhere in America. Chelsea hadn’t exaggerated about that.

But before he decided to go along with the rather devious yet brilliant scheme only a mind like Chelsea’s could have conceived, he needed verification from Traci that Chelsea hadn’t lied to him.

She grasped his arm. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but this is one time when I’m begging you to listen. Forget who I am and think of Traci’s pain. She’s so terrified, I didn’t think I would ever get her to open up to me. Now that she has, we can’t destroy her fragile faith in us, not when she has nothing to live for but her little girl.”

He took a deep breath. If he didn’t know better, he would swear she wanted to help and had no ulterior motive. But this wasn’t the time to try to analyze her psyche.

While he’d been talking to Chelsea, he hadn’t heard a peep come out of the child. If hypothermia were to set in now, the chances of the little girl surviving much longer were slim at best.

“If I do help her, I’m going to need a lot more information.”

He saw the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the becoming sleeveless dress before she let go of his arm, visible evidence of emotions held barely in check. Again he questioned what was at the bottom of this unprecedented display of concern.

Still reacting to the feel of her hands on his body, he walked to the other woman and got down on his haunches once more.

Traci cowered when he drew close to her. Her reaction was similar to the kind he’d encountered with other female victims in abusive relationships of one sort or another when he’d been on the police force.

Now that Traci knew he’d been told the truth, he could see she was frightened of his reaction. Chelsea hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said Betsy’s mother was fragile.

“Traci? You heard Chelsea discussing your situation with me. She’s told me enough that I want to help you.”

The younger woman lifted tear-filled eyes to him. “You won’t tell the police where I am and force me to go back to my husband?”

He swallowed with difficulty. “No. But first I need more background information. Is Traci Beal your real name?”

After a long hesitation she shook her head. “I made it up.”

“Then I need to know your legal name.”

“Why?”

“It’s important if I’m going to protect you.”

“I was Anne Morrison before my marriage.”

“All right. For the time being, we’ll continue to call you Traci.”

Chelsea gave her an encouraging smile, which Traci returned.

“Now, what’s your husband’s full name?”

“Nathan Stanhope. But he’s always gone by Nate.”

“Age?”

“Forty.”

“Tell me about his background, how he earns his living, that sort of thing.”

She kneaded her hands. “He was an only child. His mother died of cancer when he was twelve, and after his father was killed in a bus accident, he received an inheritance. As soon as the estate was settled, he bought a cabin outside Bellevue.

“We met while I was attending Washington State University. He was my political science teacher. After we married, he resigned from the faculty and said we were going to live at his cabin. At least that’s what I thought it was.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s built a secret bunker underneath it where he stores everything. When I questioned him, he got angry and told me it was just a basement. But since he’s always talking about a nuclear holocaust, I realized he’d made a bomb shelter.”

“Does he have other extended family or close friends who would be helping him look for you?”

She shook her head. “No. After we got married, I found out he didn’t like to associate with other people. He said they lied about everything, so we were going to have to live on our own and have nothing to do with them.”

Judging by the look of horror he saw reflected in Chelsea’s eyes, she felt as sickened by that revelation as he was.

“Give me a full description of him.”

“Nate’s six feet tall…lean, with dark blond hair that comes just down to below his ears. He has a short beard and mustache, and light blue eyes.”

“What about glasses?”

“He wears them for reading. They’re steel-rimmed.”

“Any distinctive birthmarks or tattoos?”

“No.”

“What about his car?”

“He drives an eighty-nine light green Chevy van.”

“When did he start keeping you a prisoner?”

“The day we got married.”

Max didn’t like the profile emerging on Traci’s husband.

“Where was your baby born?”

“At the cabin.”

“No doctor to help?”

“No. He said we were going to do everything the natural way.”

Little by little the color had left Chelsea’s face.

“How did you get away from him?”

“Last week some people in a truck camped near our cabin. It was late at night. Nate got so angry, he took his rifle and went outside to warn them off the property without remembering to lock the door. I’d been waiting for a chance like that. As soon as he was out of sight, I grabbed the baby from her crib and ran. When I got tired, I hid in some thick bushes.

“As soon as it was light, I started running again and met this nice old couple who were out camping. They fed us and drove us as far as Portland. We’ve been hitchhiking ever since.”

Max didn’t have to ask her why she hadn’t gone to the police for assistance. Women like Traci never did. Her husband had tyrannized her for too long. She had no faith that anyone could help.

“What about your family?”

“The aunt who raised me died before I got married.”

“Is there anyone you were close to before your wedding? A good friend your husband might have reason to suspect is helping you now?”

“Not really. He didn’t like my friends, so I didn’t see them anymore.”

“I still want their names and addresses. It’s for their protection. I’m going to need directions to find your cabin, too.”

He pulled his little notebook out of a back pocket. When she’d given him the information, he helped her to her feet. “Now comes the hard part, Traci. That siren in the distance means the police and paramedics will be driving up any minute to begin Betsy’s rescue. They’ll be followed by television reporters who want to take pictures and interview you.

“We’re going to have to hide you in order to keep your identity a secret so your husband can’t track you down. The best place for that would be the house next door. The only thing is, you won’t be able to talk to your little girl while we’re getting her out of the pipe.”

As Traci’s face started to crumple, Chelsea clasped the young woman’s hands. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay here every second and talk to her, sing to her, just as if I were her mother. She won’t be alone. I swear it. Will you let me do this favor for you, Traci? I want to do it.”

Max gritted his teeth. Why do you want to do this, Chelsea Markum?

The other woman bit her lip, then nodded.

Chelsea embraced her. “Quick! Go with Max.”

“Betsy? It’s Mommy!” Traci cried. “Chelsea’s going to stay with you for a little while, but I’ll be right next door, honey. I love you, baby!”

When the child made a whimpering noise, Max felt exquisite relief. The sirens were getting louder. He pulled Chelsea aside.

“You and I are going to have to tell the same story. When you’re questioned, just say that we were both leaving the Lord ranch when you discovered you were having car problems. I offered to give you a lift to a garage, and en route to Reiser we came across Traci.”

“That sounds perfect. But what shall I call the baby? I can’t use her real name without giving everything away.”

“I’m not worried,” he muttered. “The Chelsea Markum I know has always landed on her feet.” Turning to Traci, he held out a hand. “Come on. Let’s make a run for it while we can.”

CHAPTER THREE

IF MAX hadn’t referred to Chelsea as the black widow of television earlier, she might have taken those words as a backhanded compliment.

Forcing herself not to watch his hard-muscled frame as he pulled Traci toward the house, she reached for the cup of coffee he’d brought her. The liquid had cooled enough to drink the contents in a few swallows.

By the time the siren had stopped and she could hear doors opening and closing behind her, she’d arranged the tarp around her head and shoulders to provide a little more warmth. With night coming on, she could tell the temperature had already dropped a degree or two.

She hated to think of Traci’s little girl down there in the dark. She was only fourteen months old. What if she’d broken an arm or leg in the fall? Maybe she was bleeding. Chelsea felt sick in the pit of her stomach.

When footsteps sounded, she whirled. Four uniformed policemen and a similar number of firefighters in full gear approached her at a vigorous pace.

“Thank goodness you’ve arrived! Over two hours ago a toddler fell down in the excavation right below me. She’s trapped in a pipe. You’ve got to get her out!”

Chelsea didn’t recognize any of the men staring at her, but the malignant glance the police captain flashed her sent a message that needed no translation.

“Ms. Markum. How is it you arrived here first? Where’s Max Jamison? The dispatcher told us he called it in.”

Don’t let this man’s rudeness get to you, Chelsea.

She pulled the edges of the tarp a little tighter, as if to cloak herself with an invisible shield. “He’s next door with the mother and needs two policemen over there right away. I was asked to wait here so I could show you where to start looking for her daughter.

“Mr. Jamison and I were both leaving the Lord ranch when my car wouldn’t start. He offered to give me a lift into Reiser for help. When we turned down this road, the mother ran out to us. Look, Captain, he’s already been down there and says everything’s ready to collapse. If the little girl has crawled somewhere else, she could be killed by falling debris!”

There was no change of expression. “What’s the tot’s name?”

Some men possessed a surly manner by nature. Chelsea didn’t know if the captain fell in that category or if she was the one who brought out this boorish behavior in him.

“I don’t know. The mother was so hysterical, he couldn’t coax more than a sentence or two out of her.”

“Did he actually see the child?”

“No.” Chelsea struggled to keep her voice level. “But when he climbed down in there, he heard her through the pipe. She cries on and off.”

Petrified because Betsy hadn’t made any sounds for the last couple of minutes, Chelsea moved closer to the edge. “Sweetheart? It’s Chelsea and Mommy! We love you! Do you want me to sing another song? Would you like that? Sweetheart?” she cried louder.

While she listened for a response from the child, she heard the captain give orders to start the rescue operation. Relieved that two of the officers were told to head for the house, she concentrated on maintaining a connection with Betsy.

“Can you say mama? Come on, honey! Say mama for me so the nice men will know where to find you!”

By now the firefighters had been to their truck for equipment. A couple of them had climbed inside the framework with heavy-duty flashlights. Their progress must have disturbed some kind of roost because several free-tailed bats flew out, startling her.

Chelsea had forgotten how prevalent they were in this area. Though the creatures played a role in insect control, she couldn’t abide them, and prayed there weren’t any near Betsy.

“Sweetheart? Come on and talk to Chelsea! Come on! I know you can do it! Say mama! Mama!”

In a minute she heard whimpering, then another round of infant tears, which were enough to break her heart all over again.

The last firefighter to descend saluted Chelsea before he followed his partner into what at this point was a black hole.

Swallowing hard, she listened as the men talked baby talk to Betsy. Their voices sounded kind and loving. No doubt some, if not all of them, were married with families.

Her eyes smarted when she thought how brave they were to risk their lives for someone else’s little girl. Any one of them could easily be at home with a nice, safe day job.

In the background she could hear the captain on the patrol car radio. He was too far away for her to make out actual conversation. The other officer was busy setting up road flares near the vehicles and fire truck.

It wouldn’t be long before every radio and television reporter would be out here, seizing on any angle for a story that would boost their ratings. Without help, Traci and her child couldn’t hope to withstand the media.

For the first time since Chelsea had come to Austin to take the job at Tattle Today, she was seeing this situation from the victim’s perspective. She wasn’t sure she liked what she saw.

COME ON, Michael. Pick up.

On the sixth ring Max was ready to click off when he heard his friend’s voice answer with a rather terse hello.

“Michael?”

“At last! Where are you, Max? I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“My cell phone died on me. I didn’t have a moment to call you until just now. How’s Garrett?” Michael’s brother, Garrett, had been shot the previous night at the remote cabin on his ranch where Vince Eckart had tried to kill his ex-wife, Camille.

“I just talked to him on the phone. He feels like the devil, but he’s going to be okay. Thank God the bullet got him in the shoulder instead of the heart. It’s because of me he was hurt at all. I should never have let him leave the cabin. He’s a rancher, not a former cop.”

Max inhaled sharply. “Don’t do that to yourself, Michael. Everyone’s lives were at stake last night. Any one of us could have taken a bullet. No one is to blame. Do you hear me? Let’s just be glad Eckart died before he could kill anyone else.”

“You’re right. It could have been worse.”

“It could have turned into a bloodbath, and you know it. Since we’ve been assured Garrett’s going to recover, what else matters?”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is.”

“All right,” Michael agreed, though he didn’t sound convinced. “So what about you? What have you done with the menace from Tattle Today? Jake told me he saw you toss her over your shoulder and take off hell-bent for your truck with a wicked smile on your face. I hear her camcorder took a direct hit. Apparently it was a sight forever emblazoned in his memory.”

At the time, no one had enjoyed the experience more than Max. He’d taken particular pleasure in carting her away from the crime scene Neanderthal style. She’d had it coming for a long, long time.

But life had a way of dealing you a double whammy when you were least expecting it. Since they’d discovered Traci at the abandoned excavation, Max knew things had changed. It was possible the black widow had another side to her. For several reasons he was no longer laughing.

“Max?” his friend prodded. “Don’t tell me she jumped out of the truck and got away from you?”

“She tried. I have the claw marks to prove it.” In fact she’d fought him with some moves that made her difficult to subdue. Whoever had trained her had done a good job. But he had no weapon against her feminine grace, which was far too seductive for his liking.

He gritted his teeth. Though she had a glaring flaw he couldn’t abide, it didn’t make him blind to certain truths. Like the fact that Chelsea Markum was a raving beauty.

For a long time now he’d been fighting that image of her. There’d been too many occasions in the last year when they’d tangled with each other, and he’d enjoyed it too much. Every incident had left him a little more affected in ways he didn’t want to explore.

Lately he found himself anticipating their confrontations whenever he had the job of keeping her away from people or places he’d been assigned to guard. But today marked a first—he’d held that breathtaking body in his arms, all five feet nine inches of her.

In truth he admired the immaculate care she took of herself, the elegant clothes she wore. He noticed details like her perfectly manicured nails, the scent of her French perfume, the flowery fragrance of her short, stylishly cut auburn hair.

Just now in the rain, the silky strands had taken on the patina of deep, rich Spanish mahogany. Her matching brows framed dark-lashed crystalline green eyes, and in his opinion, her flawless skin and features made her more beautiful than any movie star.

Since she craved attention, it was too bad she hadn’t pursued a career in film. Instead, she’d offended so many people with her aggressive, indomitable desire to ferret out a story, he wondered if she had many friends.

“What did you do with her?” Michael’s question broke his reverie. “How soon can I expect her to show up at the clinic with a new camcorder, ready to poke her nose into the Maitlands’ business? Does she know about Chase’s disappearance?”

“Not yet.”

“We can be thankful for that, at least,” Michael muttered.

After the gentle, protective, nurturing way she’d been behaving with Traci, Max almost lost it when he thought of her reverting to form once this ordeal was over.

He let out a deep sigh. “Michael, I’m calling for a different reason.”

There was a pause. “Is something wrong? Did Chelsea damage your truck or something? Because if she did—”

“No, no.” He broke in before his friend’s anger took over. At this point Michael had zero tolerance for Chelsea. And who could blame him? Ever since Chase had been found abandoned on the steps of Maitland Maternity Clinic the previous fall, Chelsea had harassed the clinic and the Maitland family, trying to find out who had parented the mysterious baby.

“It’s nothing like that,” Max went on. “While I was driving around on a back country road spelling out a few home truths to Ms. Markum, we met up with a hysterical mother at a deserted excavation site. Her fourteen-month-old daughter is still trapped in a pipe.”

There was a pronounced silence, then Michael breathed the words, “Dear God.” No one in the world understood Max’s pain better than his friend.

“Yeah,” Max whispered. “Ironic, isn’t it, after I quit the force so I wouldn’t have to deal with this kind of situation again.”

“Drive away from there and don’t look back! Let the paramedics handle it.”

“You know me better than that.”

“Unfortunately I do. What a hell of a time to have Chelsea Markum in tow! Give me the location and I’ll get rid of her so fast she won’t know what hit her.”

“Believe it or not, that’s the last thing I want you to do. Chelsea’s been an amazing help so far.”

Michael made a noise that sounded more like a bark. “Come on, Max. It’s me, your closest buddy. We’re talking about the woman who’s been hounding the Maitlands for over a year. She’s poison.”

“I know.”

Max raked a hand through his hair. He couldn’t say he was sorry about kidnapping her. He’d been forced to do something drastic before any more people had gotten hurt. But he’d said some pretty harsh things, and he wasn’t too pleased over his own behavior.

Even if it was true, his reference to the black widow had been unkind. In hindsight he realized he’d gone too far. That was the problem when he got around Chelsea Markum. She was like an inflammation that flared up with increasing frequency despite all the precautions he took to stop it.

Oddly enough, he knew nothing about her private life. If he’d wanted to, he could have used the resources at his disposal as a PI to find out if she was married or single. So far he hadn’t given in to that temptation.

One thing was certain. There’d never been a breath of personal scandal attached to her name, only the scandal she created and exposed on “Tattle Today.”

If she had a husband, it was Austin’s best kept secret. As for Chelsea being romantically involved with someone in town, that would be news to Max, as well. But he couldn’t fathom a female as attractive as she was being without a man. He supposed she could be dating her boss or a colleague.

The idea of Chelsea having a lover put him in a foul enough mood that he preferred not to think about her at all. Unfortunately that was easier said than done. Especially since he’d seen her comforting Traci. He couldn’t forget the pleading in her eyes when she’d begged him to trust her for Traci’s sake.

“Michael? Just hear me out on this.” In a matter of minutes he’d told his friend everything. “As it stands, I have no idea how soon we’ll pull Betsy from that pipe. Hopefully before tomorrow. The press is going to be converging on every major hospital in Austin trying to learn the whereabouts of the child, so what I need from you is permission to have Betsy flown to Maitland Maternity Clinic. That’ll at least buy us some time.”

“You’ve got it. In fact as soon as we hang up, I’ll alert the necessary staff. Ford Carrington is one of the best pediatricians around. If the child requires surgery, then she’ll be in good hands. What else can I do for you?”

“Traci ought to be seen by a doctor, too.”

“You can count on Abby to give her a thorough physical.”

“Good. Traci’s been a hostage in her own home for a couple of years and I’m thinking maybe psychiatric counseling wouldn’t go amiss, if she’s willing.”

“If anyone can convince her to seek professional help, Abby’s the one to do it. She’ll also know which specialist to refer her to in case there’s a serious problem beyond her expertise as an OB. Anything else?”

“Can you arrange for Traci to be in the same room with her daughter?”

“Of course. And we’ll up the security. We’re getting used to it.”

Max closed his eyes. “Thanks, Michael.”

“You’ve done more for me, so forget it.”

“That’s not possible. Anyway, I’ve got to go. But first, tell me what’s happening with Jake and Connor?”

“Jake’s spending a little private time with Camille.”

“It’s long overdue.” As an FBI agent, Jake Maitland had guarded Camille for the past six months, and finally the two had acknowledged their love.

“That’s for sure. As soon as he’s free, I’ll contact Connor, and the three of us will put our heads together to figure out a plan to find Janelle and that creep who’s been posing as Connor.”

“What’s the FBI’s take on things right now?”

“Nothing we know about yet. But we’re not waiting on them.”

“I hear you.”

“It’s not your worry, either. You’ve got enough on your plate. Just keep me posted. When you arrive in the helicopter, I’ll be waiting for you. Then I can fill you in, and we’ll go from there.”

“Sounds good. You’re one in a million, Michael.”

“The feeling’s mutual. Good luck. And, Max—”

“Yes?”

“I know you’ll get to the little girl in time. I feel it in my bones.”

“I pray to God you’re right.”

“I’ll pray, too.”

“Thanks, bud.”

Max clicked off.

Everything was in place. All they needed now was a miracle.

He handed Officer Keaton the cell phone, then left for the site on a run, pleased to see that the other officers had sealed off the house and the excavation site. Any onlookers or press would have to stand outside the tape, which would keep them a good ten feet from the edge of the pit.

“CHELSEA?”

At the sound of Max’s low, vibrant voice she let out a soft gasp and jerked her head in his direction. The darkness created an intimacy in which she could imagine they were the only two people for miles around.

“Things are under control. The officers at the house know the truth. They’ll do their part to protect Traci. One of them will get hold of the realtor and go for supplies. Is Betsy still making noises?”

“Yes. She just started crying again.”

“What did you tell the police captain?”

You mean the one who can’t stand me? She sucked in her breath. “Exactly what you told me to say. When it came to giving him names, I played dumb. If he asks, you can make up whatever you like,” she added in a quiet voice.

“Good girl.”

Those two unexpected words caused warmth to flood her system.

Perhaps Max didn’t realize what he’d just done, but this was the first time since she’d known him that he’d said something kind to her without hesitation or any hint of censure. Almost as if they were partners. It was a moment to cherish.

Don’t count on there being another one, Chelsea.

His eyes were still searching hers when one of the firefighters walked up to them.

“Hey, Jamison—long time no see.”

“That’s the truth.” The two men shook hands. “Since I arrived on the scene first, I want to help.” The blood was pounding in Max’s ears. “I have to get that little girl out. You know what I mean?”

The two men eyed each other while a stream of unspoken words passed between them. Brent had been one of the firefighters at the scene when the child who’d lost his life in the laundry chute had been pronounced dead.

“Sure. I’ll inform the guys. Grab the equipment you need off the utility truck when it gets here.”

“Thanks. I’ll owe you big-time for this.”

“It’s okay,” Brent said in a subdued voice, and patted Max’s shoulder. “No one walked away from that other case unaffected. This time the outcome’s going to be different.”

That’s what Michael had said. Max was starting to believe it. Realizing introductions were in order, he said, “Chelsea, meet Commander Brent Lewis, the battalion chief. In the past we’ve been on the scene of many a case together. Brent, this is Ms. Markum of ‘Tattle Today TV.’”

The other man broke into a wide smile. “I’ve seen your show plenty of times. You’re the best at what you do.”

“Thank you.” Chelsea supposed his comment could have been taken several ways, but she was too worried about Betsy to analyze the remark.

“Commander, I know it’s not that cold for us, but is there any way to keep the baby warm while you’re trying to get her out?”

“Yes. I’ve already sent for the utility truck. We’ll have floodlights, and fans to blow warm air through the pipe.”

She put a hand to her throat. “Thank goodness she won’t have to shiver down there much longer. Do you think I could fit inside the pipe since I’m smaller than the men? Maybe I could reach her.”

“No. It’s only a twelve incher. If we can’t make her crawl out, then we’ll have to free the blocked end so we can lift the pipe enough for her to slide out. That means getting a backhoe out here to unearth it. If that fails, we’ll have to cut the pipe.”

Chelsea shuddered. “Will you have to use one of those torches?”

“No. That would make it too hot. We’ll probably stick with the rotary saw.”

She bowed her head. “It’ll be dangerous no matter what you do.”

“Not if we’re careful. But that’s why we’d rather try coaxing her out first. We’ll go down there now. When I give the signal, start singing again. Your voice will comfort her,” he said over his shoulder before walking away.

“I’ll try to keep her responding.”

“If you get too cold or need to use the rest room, I told the officers to let you in the house,” Max murmured. “They’ll have plenty of food and drinks on hand.”

His thoughtfulness warmed her. “Thank you, Max. But I’m hoping she’ll be rescued long before I have to break my promise to Traci about leaving the baby alone.”

“Amen to that.”

He was gone in an instant.

Chelsea knew the man cared about people. She’d witnessed that concern and commitment on other cases. But just now the emotional intensity of his response led her to believe he’d been affected on a much deeper level by this crisis with Betsy.

She’d sensed that the circumstances under which Traci’s baby had come into the world had been as horrifying to him as to Chelsea. The fact that Betsy’s mother had been willing to face being murdered to save herself and her child from a fate worse than death proved what a remarkable parent she really was.

Some mothers didn’t have a clue.

Tears trickled down Chelsea’s cheeks as she remembered the wasteland of her own upbringing. Little Betsy had no idea how lucky she was to have a mother who loved her so much she would put her daughter’s welfare before all else, even her own life.

More than anything in the world, Chelsea wanted Traci to have the opportunity to raise her child in an environment of total love, not fear. Max wanted the same thing for them.

If either he or Chelsea had anything to say about it, Traci would be given that chance. Already Chelsea’s mind was filling with plans she would like to put into action once Max had restored Betsy to her mother.

While she waited for him to give her more directions, she ate the sandwich he’d brought her earlier. A few minutes later she noticed another fire truck roll up. Three more firefighters began unloading lights and heating equipment with their matchless expertise.

No matter what it took, Max would make the miracle happen. On that score Chelsea harbored no doubts. He was a man who lit his own fires. When she really allowed herself to think about it, there was no one to compare with him.

From her perch at the edge of the excavation, she followed Max’s progress to the utility truck. Behind it she spied a couple of television vans. It hadn’t taken them long. It never did, she reflected.

Before long the scene would turn into a media frenzy, but all she cared about was Traci’s little girl, who needed to be kept warm throughout her ordeal.

“Chelsea?” Max’s voice called a few minutes later. He had entered the pit. “Try talking to her, and then sing something.”

She spread the tarp on the ground, then lay down on her stomach so she could extend her head over the edge.

“Hello, little darling. It’s Chelsea. Come on out of there. Come on, sweetheart. Come to me and your mommy. That’s a girl. We’re right here. All you have to do is crawl closer. Show us what a big girl you are.”

Another song, “The Happy Wanderer,” came to mind. It was a tune she and her friends used to sing on their excursions into the Jura mountains above the Swiss vineyards.

“Did you like that, honey?”

“She’s imitating some of the sounds! Sing the song again! Maybe she’ll start crawling toward me!”

Encouraged, Chelsea did Max’s bidding. When she ran out of verses, she started again, then switched to “The Lonely Goatherd” from The Sound of Music.

“Well, well, well.” The familiar male voice came from the other side of the tape. “The boss is fuming because he hasn’t heard from you since you left for the Lord ranch ages ago. Unless this is a better story, you’re going to have some explaining to do.”

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