Little Girl Lost. Marisa Carroll
a great deal like his sister had at that age, the same elfin shape to her face, the gossamer fine hair. But Caitlin’s eyes were not blue, like Beth’s, like his. They were green-gold and changeable, exactly the same color as the woman who called herself her mother. Otherwise there was little resemblance between them. Faith Carson’s hair was brown, her face more rounded. Her figure, too, was rounded. In all the right places he had to admit, but her body type was not the same as Caitlin’s, who would grow up as slender and petite as Beth. But if he commented on that fact Faith Carson would say her daughter took after her dead father, not her mother, and her suspicions would be aroused.
She was Caitlin’s mother according to all the laws of the land. He’d seen a copy of the child’s birth certificate. Everything about it seemed to be in order. But still he knew his hunch was right. Even though the accident that had killed Jamie Sheldon and taken Beth’s memory, had occurred a hundred miles away in another state, he was convinced she had been in this place. Here she’d given birth. And for some reason she’d left her child behind. Despite all the damage to her body and her mind, that memory had not been completely erased. She remembered the baby crying in the snow. And she remembered butterflies.
It was the slightest of hunches that had brought him here. A baby born to a woman alone, during a terrible ice storm. A woman who was a nurse. A woman who could have delivered a frightened teenager’s baby. A woman who raised butterflies. A young widow who, perhaps, despaired of ever having a child of her own and who would take the desperate risk of keeping another woman’s baby.
He didn’t know the details, but nothing he had learned led him to believe that Faith Carson was a cold-blooded baby snatcher. He was determined to find the truth for Beth’s sake but he had to proceed carefully. He didn’t want to bring the law down on his sister for abandoning her baby, anymore than he wanted to see Faith Carson jailed for kidnapping—at least not yet. The whole situation was a minefield. One misstep on his part could spell disaster for all of them.
Faith Carson was wary of him, and he would have to be careful to earn her trust before he brought Beth here. He was convinced his sister’s well-being, and certainly her happiness, depended on learning the truth of the events that were the basis of her nightmares.
But he wasn’t the only one searching for Beth’s baby. Jamie’s parents were determined to learn the fate of their lost grandchild. And they would not stop with merely learning that truth. They wanted the baby. And they were rich and powerful enough to take her from Beth, from Faith Carson. From him. If they discovered where she was.
CHAPTER THREE
“CAITLIN SEEMS TAKEN with your renter,” Peg said, peering out the window above the kitchen sink. Hugh Damon had been staying in the cottage for several days now, over the long Memorial Day weekend, and the third anniversary of Mark’s death.
“She’s taken with anyone who spends time swinging her.” Faith was standing in front of the open refrigerator, enjoying the blast of cool air as much as searching for juice for Caitlin’s afternoon snack. It was 85 degrees, and the still air was heavy with humidity and the threat of approaching storms.
Faith snared the plastic bottle of apple juice from behind the milk where it had been hidden and shut the refrigerator door, coming to stand beside her sister. She had made up her mind to ignore her first disquieting reaction to Hugh Damon, but it didn’t mean she was comfortable talking about him.
Faith watched him push Caitlin in her tire swing, as Addy lolled in the shade beneath the picnic table. The muscles in his back and shoulders moved smoothly beneath the light fabric of his shirt. His thick, dark-gold hair lay heavy and straight against his forehead. He wore no jewelry except a serviceable-looking wristwatch. That was another direction she didn’t want her thoughts to take. He was a good-looking man, who didn’t wear a wedding ring.
“She’s usually a little shy around strangers,” Peg observed, running cold water into a glass she’d taken from the cupboard. Peg had started a wallpapering and painting business when she’d moved to Bartonsville and it was doing well. She was on her way home from a job and was wearing paint-splattered jeans and an old, long-sleeved white shirt of her husband’s. Her hair was tucked up under a ball cap and the smell of solvent and paint scented the air around her.
“She likes him,” Faith admitted. She rubbed the back of her neck with her hand. A storm coming always affected her that way, a tightness in her muscles, pressure behind her eyes.
“She’s female. Even a two-year-old woman can spot a stud like that one.”
Faith laughed. “Hey, you’ve only been married five months. You aren’t supposed to be ogling other men already.”
“I’m married, not blind. Steve’s a dear but not fantasy material. Put a leather kilt on that guy, give him a sword and he’d give Russell Crowe a run for his money any day.”
“Does this mean you’re taking back your warning about renting the cabins to single men?”
Peg drained her glass and shook her head as she set it in the sink. “Nope.” She tilted her head in Hugh’s direction. “Men as good-looking as that one are trouble. I ought to know—I married one the first time around, remember.”
“Men like that one are engineers,” Faith said, putting two Oreos on a paper plate for Caitlin.
“Engineer? I admit that sounds respectable enough.” If Peg had been a grasshopper her antennae would be quivering. “What kind of engineer?”
“The kind who build shopping malls, I guess. He’s working on that fancy new complex they did a feature on in the Cincinnati Enquirer a couple of months ago. You know, the one with all the high-end stores.” He’d told her that much the afternoon he’d inquired about continuing to rent the cottage for the month of June, since his work on the project would last several weeks.
“Has he asked you out yet?”
“No. Of course not.”
Her sister didn’t look convinced but she didn’t say any more. Faith had perfected the talent of sounding very sincere when she lied. And this was just a little white lie, not a universe-size one, like taking another woman’s child to raise as your own. Hugh Damon hadn’t asked her out on a date. Not officially, so her conscience was clear.
But he had offered to take her and Caitlin out to eat. It was while he was helping to rehang the baskets the day after he’d arrived. They had talked as he worked and she tallied the day’s receipts. She was alone in the greenhouse and it would have seemed churlish to refuse his offer of help. Or so she told herself.
He’d been wearing an old University of Texas T-shirt that stretched tight across his chest and shoulders, she remembered, and faded jeans that hugged his long legs. “Where do you find a good meal in Bartonsville?” he had asked. She brought out muffins and bagels, orange and grapefruit juice, and made coffee in the greenhouse every morning for herself and Steve and Peg, or whoever was around. Guests at the cabins were welcome to them, as well. Painted Lady Farm was as close to a bed-and-breakfast as you got in Bartonsville.
She had replied without hesitation. “The Golden Sheaf. It’s run by a family of old order Mennonites who make everything from scratch. The mashed potatoes are my daughter’s favorite. I’m surprised you haven’t found it already. All you have to do is follow your nose down Main Street.”
Caitlin had been sitting at the small table Faith kept for her behind the counter coloring in a SpongeBob SquarePants book. “Eat,” she’d said at the mention of food.
“Maybe the two of you could join me for dinner there this evening?” Hugh had said as he tested the strength of the chain extension before rehanging the planters. The invitation was offhand, but it caught Faith by surprise and she immediately said no. The refusal hung harsh and unfriendly in the air between them and she hurried to soften its uncompromising sound. “I mean, thanks, but I already have dinner started.”
“Some other time then. Do you recommend the meat loaf?”
“It’s