The Daddy Dilemma. Karen Smith Rose
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returned to her law firm, working seventy to eighty hours a week. But after two months, she’d decided to use vacation time, and had packed a suitcase, grabbed her laptop and headed to the Wisconsin Dells to think. Two days into her getaway, she’d found herself driving to Rapid Creek, searching for answers.
Now here she was, practically shaking in her sneakers.
“If you’re looking for a room, I’m sorry, but we don’t have any vacancies. This time of year we’re usually full.” Nathan Barclay’s deep voice resonated through Sara, making her anxiety grab a stronger hold.
Straightening her shoulders and taking a breath, she waited only a heartbeat before replying, “I’m not looking for a room.”
At her words his dark brows quirked up. Turning away from her, he lowered the armful of logs onto the hearth. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would burst from her chest.
Finally, he brushed off his hands and crossed to her. Only two feet away, she noticed strands of gray at the temples of his dark brown hair, lines above his brows and around his eyes and mouth.
“If you don’t need a room for the night, how can I help you?” he asked, looking puzzled.
“Mr. Barclay, I’m Sara Hobart.”
He showed no recognition of her name.
State the facts. Make him understand.
“Almost six years ago, on January 23, I donated eggs at the Brighton Fertility Clinic in Minneapolis. I found out your wife benefited from that donation. I’m wondering…I believe…”
His firm jaw set. His stance became defensive.
Forgetting her training as a lawyer, and too personally involved to weigh her words, she plunged in and asked, “Did your wife conceive from that in vitro procedure?”
The man before her was on his guard. His eyes were dark with stormy outrage. “How could you possibly have gotten my name? That information is confidential.”
“Mr. Barclay, I don’t mean you or Kyle any harm—”
“How do you know my son’s name?” Barclay’s voice was rough and he was looking at her as if he should call the police.
More determined than ever to find out if she was Kyle’s mother, if she had a legitimate claim, she stretched out her hand in a pleading gesture. “I’m a lawyer. I have easy access to databases. If you’d let me start at the beginning—”
“I don’t want you to start anywhere. I want you to leave. If it’s true you donated eggs at Brighton, then you also signed a release form relinquishing any rights. So if you think I’m going to pay you another cent, you’re sadly mistaken.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want money. I…I was in an automobile accident and had to have a hysterectomy. I looked you up on the Internet and found out you’re a widower. When I searched public records, I discovered your wife died in childbirth and so did Kyle’s twin brother.”
“You had no right to invade my privacy!”
“I can’t have children, Mr. Barclay. I’d like to meet Kyle. That’s all.” Her voice shook on the last word.
After a long, silent pause and a penetrating search of her eyes, he said firmly, “I’m not going to let a stranger just waltz into our home.”
Trying to keep her composure, reminding herself calm reason could possibly make a dent in Nathan Barclay’s armor, she took a folded sheet of paper from her coat pocket and handed it to him. “Here are my credentials and a brief background. I’ve also provided references. My friends and neighbors don’t know why I’m here, but they can tell you anything you need to know about me.”
He took the sheet of paper and glanced at it, then asked in a low voice, “What do you really want?”
“I want to meet Kyle. Afterward, I’ll return to Minneapolis.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. I give you my word. I know I have no rights here. I just want to meet him.” Because if she did, she’d know, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t instinct tell her if Kyle was hers?
His gaze raked over her shoulder-length blond hair, her jeans, sneakers and rose, cable-knit sweater under her suede jacket. She knew he was trying to assess whether or not she was a danger to him. But his gaze passing over her made her feel self-conscious and…warm.
“Miss Hobart, your word means nothing to me. You said you’re a lawyer. If you are, you know the document you signed was valid.”
Yes, it was. She didn’t need a custody lawyer to tell her that. She motioned to the paper she’d given him. “I’ve written the name of the bed-and-breakfast where I’m staying on the back of my references. I’ll be there until Friday.”
Silence echoed from floor to ceiling in the large room. Finally, he asked, “And after Friday?”
“I’ll be returning to Minneapolis.” When his stone-cold expression gave away none of his thoughts, she added, “Please put yourself in my shoes, Mr. Barclay. Since my accident, my life has been in turmoil. Actually, it’s come to a standstill. I need to meet Kyle to move on.”
After he folded the sheet of paper she’d given him, he shoved it into the pocket of his Western-cut shirt. “I think you should go.”
Sara could see that nothing else she said would move him or change his mind. After a last look into his eyes, dark gray now with the turbulence she’d obviously caused, she gave a slight nod and retraced her steps to the front door. As she left Pine Grove Lodge, she hoped Nathan Barclay would try to put himself in her shoes and call her before Friday.
If he didn’t, she might never meet Kyle and learn whether or not he was her son.
“What did Ben say?” Galen Barclay looked worried as Nathan hung up the phone.
“I have to check on Kyle.” Nathan was still reeling from his encounter with Sara Hobart that afternoon. Calling his brother Ben, who was an assistant district attorney in Albuquerque, had seemed to be a good idea. But Ben’s experience with women had left his brother cynical.
“Kyle will be fine for a few minutes,” his father insisted. “He’s playing with his fire trucks in his room.”
Ever since his son had been born early, at twenty-six weeks, Nathan had been protective of him. When he’d developed asthma, Nathan hadn’t wanted him out of his sight. At his father’s urging he’d relaxed a bit with all of his coddling, but he still kept a close eye on Kyle.
“So what was Ben’s advice?” his dad asked again.
“He told me not to worry. He assured me that if Sara Hobart signed a release form when she donated her eggs—he believes the word donated doesn’t apply, since she received $10,000 in exchange for them—she doesn’t have a parental leg to stand on. He thinks she’s simply a gold digger, and I tend to agree.” Though that’s what Nathan’s head told him, he remembered the pain in the woman’s eyes when she’d spoken of having a hysterectomy.
“You said she’s a lawyer.”
“Yes. I called one of her references, a neighbor. I also checked the roster of attorneys at the firm listed on her credentials. Apparently she is a lawyer in Charles Frank’s firm. When I searched the Internet, there was an account of her accident this summer. A man in his forties who’d taken cold medication fell asleep while he was driving, crossed the highway and hit her head on. From the sound of it, she’s lucky she wasn’t killed. Everything she told me seems to be true.”
After a reflective silence, his dad commented, “If she’s a lawyer in Charles Frank’s law firm—it’s the biggest and best in Minneapolis—I doubt she’s looking for a handout. You know Ben. He believes women are out for whatever they can get. This Hobart woman could be on the