His Secret Child

He reached out and brought the teacup to his lips, trying hard to hold it steady. Forced himself to drink. Staying hydrated was key.

“So you don’t know anyone in town you could stay with?” she asked skeptically. “From growing up here, I mean?”

Well, let’s see. He could stay with the family he’d bummed off when his parents had been too drunk or stoned to unlock the trailer door. Or maybe the teacher he’d lifted money from when his little sister had needed medicine they couldn’t afford.

Or, who knew? Maybe some of the guys with whom he’d chugged six-packs in the woods had made good and would take him in. Trouble was, he’d lost touch during his years in the jungle.

“I’m not sure. I can work something out. Stay with my grandfather, maybe.” Although Angelica had said something about new rules at the Senior Towers, maybe they’d make an exception for an ailing veteran, if he and Gramps could resolve their differences long enough for him to ask nicely.

He tried to stand and the world spun.

“Sit down!” She sounded alarmed.

He did, wishing for a cold cloth to cover his eyes.

“Let me call the emergency room in Mansfield. You need a doctor.”

He waved a hand. “Not really. All they can do is tell me to rest and wait it out.”

“Oh.” She bit at her lower lip. Whoever she was, she was real pretty. Long brown hair and fine bones and big eyes behind those glasses. The kind of woman he’d like to sit down and have a conversation with, sometime when he wasn’t delirious. “Well,” she continued, “do you think some food would make you feel better? Chicken soup?”

Something hot and salty sounded delicious. He’d slept through the meals on the plane and hadn’t stopped for food on the drive from the airport. Maybe that was why he felt so low. “Yeah, food would be great.”

“Be right back. C’mon, Mercy.”

“Is he staying all night, Mama Fern?” The little girl didn’t sound worried about it.

Somehow this Fern didn’t strike him as the type who’d have men overnight casually. She looked way too guarded and buttoned up. But her little girl seemed perfectly comfortable with the notion of a man spending the night.

“No, he’s not staying. But we’re going to fix him a snack before he goes. Come on, you can help.”

“Yay!” The little girl followed her mother and Carlo watched them go, feeling bemused.

How old was this little girl—maybe three or four?

Not far off from his own daughter’s age, so he ought to pay attention, see what she did, what she liked. He needed to make a good first impression on the child he was coming to raise.

More than that, for now, he needed to figure out what to do. It was a blow that his sister wasn’t here, and of course he should have called, had tried to call, but when he hadn’t reached them, he’d figured she and her new husband would be here. They were newlyweds, practically, though Angelica’s last note had let him know she was expecting a baby. And they also had a kid who was in full recovery from leukemia, his beloved nephew, Xavier. Not to mention that they ran a dog rescue. Shouldn’t they be staying close to home?

It wasn’t the first time he’d miscalculated. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. So he’d eat whatever this pretty lady brought him, drink a lot of water. He’d hold off on those pain pills the doctor had given him, the ones with the mild narcotic, until he’d bedded down for the night. After his years in South and Central America, Carlo wasn’t a fan of drugs in any form, and the last thing he needed was to feel any foggier. He needed to get himself strong enough to leave and find a place to stay. Tomorrow he’d talk to the lawyers and to his daughter’s social worker and soon, very soon, he’d have his daughter. And he could start making amends for not trying hard enough to make his marriage work and for not considering that Kath could’ve been pregnant when she kicked him out that last time.

The woman—what had she said her name was? Fern?—came back out carrying a crockery bowl. She set it on a tray beside him, and the smell of soup tickled his nose, made him hungry for the first time in days. Behind her, the little girl carefully carried a plastic plate with a couple of buttered rolls on it.

It all looked delicious.

“I’ll eat up and then be on my way,” he promised, tasting the soup. Wow. Perfect. “This is fantastic,” he said as he scooped another spoonful.

“Mama Fern always has good food.”

Something about the way the little girl talked about her mother was off, but Carlo was too ecstatic about the chicken soup to figure out what it was.

“So...” The woman, Fern, perched on the other edge of the couch, watching him eat. “What are you going to do?”

He swallowed another spoonful. “As soon as I finish this soup—which is amazing—I’m going to head into Rescue River and see if I can find a place to stay.”

“There’s that little motel right on the edge of town. It tends to fill up during storms, though. Travelers coming through don’t have a lot of choices.”

“There’s a few doors I can knock on.” Not really, but she didn’t need to know that. He could sleep in his truck. He’d slept in worse places.

Although usually, the problem was being too hot, not too cold. He’d have to find an all-night store and buy a couple of blankets.

“So what brought you out of the jungle?”

He paused in the act of lifting a spoon to his mouth. She was being nosy and he hated that. But on the other hand, she was providing him with soup and bread and a place to sit down.

“You’re nicer than my mommy’s boyfriends.” The little girl leaned on the couch and stared up at him.

He couldn’t help raising an eyebrow at Fern.

Fern’s cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink. “She’s not talking about me. I’m kind of her foster mom.”

“And she’s gonna ’dopt me!”

“After all the grown-up stuff gets done, sweets.”

They went on talking while Carlo slowly put down his spoon into his almost empty bowl of soup and stared at the two of them.

It couldn’t be.

Could it?

It had to be a coincidence. Except, how many four-year-old girls were in need of being adopted in Rescue River, Ohio?

Could Fern have changed her name from Mercedes to Mercy?

No, not likely, but he’d learned during battle to consider all possibilities, however remote.

He rubbed his hand over his suddenly feverish face and tried to think. If this girl, by some weird set of circumstances, was Mercedes—his own kid, whom he hadn’t known about until two weeks ago—then he needed to get out of here right away. He was making a terrible impression on someone who’d be sure to report every detail to the social workers.

Not only that, but his lawyer friend had advised him not to contact the child himself.

The child. Surely she wasn’t his? The hair color was his own, but light brown hair was common. He studied her, amazed at her beauty, her curls hanging down her back, at her round, dark eyes. She was gorgeous. And obviously smart.

And obviously close with this woman who wanted to adopt her.

If this was foster care, then it was different from anything he’d imagined. He’d expected to find his daughter staying in a dirty old house filled to the brim with kids. No doubt that stereotype was from his own single bad experience years ago, but it was the reason he’d dropped everything, not waited to recover from his illness, and hopped a plane as soon as he realized he was a father and that his child’s mother was dead.

He didn’t want a child of his to suffer in foster care. He wanted to take care of her. And he would, because surely this beautiful child in this idyllic life was no relation to him.