His Secret Child. Lee McClain Tobin
You look done in.”
“I am. But I’ll do my best not to collapse on you.” He tried to smile.
“At least let me lead this time.”
“No, it’s...”
But she was already out the door. She obviously was a woman who did what she wanted to do, who, despite appearing shy, was very independent. Okay, then. He could respect that.
The storm had grown even worse. His breath froze and the wind whipped his face, and despite the fact that he’d broken a path and had someone walking in front of him, Carlo came close to losing his footing several times. His head was swimming.
Then Fern stumbled and fell into a thigh-deep snowdrift.
He reached for her, braced himself and pulled her out, and as he steadied her, he felt a sudden stunning awareness of her as a woman.
She looked up into his eyes and drew in a sharp breath.
Did she feel what he felt, or was the closeness a distinct displeasure?
Wind squealed around the fence posts, and whiteness was all he could see. Whiteness and her face. “Come on,” he said into her ear. “We’ve got to get inside.”
She pulled away from him and soldiered on toward the house, tossing a mistrustful look over her shoulder.
It was going to be a long night.
Fern woke up to silence, utter silence. The light in the room was amazing. She walked to the window and gazed out into a world of soft white mounds overlaid with a crystalline sparkle. Sunlight peeked through a gap in heavy clouds that suggested the snowstorm wasn’t done with them yet.
When you see the wonder of God’s creation, how can you doubt Him? She smiled as her friend Kath’s words came back to her, even as she marveled at her friend’s faith. Despite Kath’s horrendous past and her illness, she’d been able to praise God and had taught Fern to do the same.
She slipped out of bed and went to her bedroom door.
Locked.
Oh, yeah. The stranger.
As if a locked door could stop a man of Carlo’s skills. But it had made her rest a little easier.
Her feeling of peace shaken, she took a deep breath and headed down the hall into Mercedes’s room. Maybe the stranger would sleep for a long time. He certainly needed to; by the end of the evening last night, he’d looked awful.
She frowned at the intrusion into her safe world. She’d wanted to be out here alone, not hosting a stranger. A disturbing stranger.
Why was he so disturbing?
Because you’re attracted to him, an inner voice said.
She shook her head. She didn’t want to be attracted to him. To anyone, really, but especially to this jock type who was so handsome, so far out of her league. She didn’t need to get her heart broken. She needed to protect it, because she needed to stay sane for Mercedes. Opening herself up to feelings would make all the bad stuff come back in, and she just wasn’t ready for that.
She opened Mercy’s door and walked over to the child’s bed. She was staying in Xavier’s room, so the surroundings were pure boy: race-car sheets, soccer trophies, toy trains and a big container of LEGO blocks.
Even in that setting, Mercedes glowed with girliness in her pink nightgown, her long curls spread across the pillow.
Fern’s heart caught inside her. She’d never loved anyone so much in her life. And if she could save one child, maybe more, from the pain she’d been put through as a ward of the state, she’d have done a lot.
Mercedes was sleeping hard. For better or worse, she was a late riser. Well, Fern would take advantage of the time and the light to do some artwork.
She grabbed a diet soda out of the refrigerator, not wanting to take the time to make coffee, and headed right toward her worktable. Sat down, got out her paints and immersed herself in capturing the snowy scene out the window.
A while later—minutes? Hours? She couldn’t tell—she smelled something that plunged her straight back to her own childhood. The memory was mixed, and she painted awhile longer, taking advantage of her own heightened emotions to evoke more feelings with her art.
“Breakfast’s ready!”
The deep voice startled her, making her smear a stroke of paint. She jumped up and turned around. The sight of Carlo with a spatula in hand disoriented her.
“Whoa,” he said, approaching her with concern. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Fern pressed a hand to her chest. “It’s fine. What’s that smell?”
“Bacon. I hope it’s okay...”
“You got in the fridge and took out bacon and cooked it?” Her voice rose to a squeak. “Really?”
“Yeah, well, I figured Angelica would have some. Actually, it was in the freezer. But I also stole some eggs, which may have been yours. And they’re getting cold. Where’s Mercedes?”
Fern was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that this...this man was cooking in her kitchen. Well, her friend’s kitchen, but still. She’d never had a man in her home. She didn’t know how to handle it. Didn’t want to know.
“Mama Fern?” Mercedes’s plaintive voice from the top of the stairs gave Fern a welcome focus.
She hurried up and wrapped her arms around the child. “Hey there, sleepyhead. What’s going on?”
“What’s cooking? It smells yummy.”
“Um...bacon.” Up until this moment, Fern hadn’t intended to eat any; she wanted to get this man out of the house quickly, not break bread with him.
But if Mercedes liked bacon, then bacon it would be. “Our guest cooked breakfast,” she explained. “Let’s wash your face and hands and you can come on down and eat.”
Minutes later, the three of them sat around the wooden table. Carlo had served up plates of bacon, eggs and toast, and he’d even poured orange juice and set out fruit on the side.
“This is good,” Mercedes said, her mouth full, jam on the side of her face.
“It sure is good, Mercy-Mercedes.” He made a funny face at the little girl, and she burst out in a torrent of giggles.
Fern’s breath caught.
Amazing that Mercedes could still be so happy and trusting, given the difficulties of life with her mother and then the loss of her. Amazing that she, Fern, got to raise this incredible child.
And it was amazing to be sitting here around the table with a child and a handsome, manly man who knew his way around the kitchen and could joke around with a child.
Thing was, Carlo was trouble.
Oh, he’d been questionable when he showed up here on her doorstep, sick and wild looking. But that man, that kind of trouble, she’d been able to handle.
Now, seeing him feeling better and being charming and domestic, she felt the twin weights of longing and despair pressing down on her heart.
She wanted a family.
She’d always wanted a family, wanted it more than anything. She hadn’t had one, even as a child.
But there was no way she could form a family with any man worth the having. She just wasn’t the type. She was shy, and awkward, and unappealing. She wore thick glasses and read books all the time and didn’t know how to flirt or giggle.
So the part of her that looked around the table and wished