Their Secret Baby Bond. Stephanie Dees
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“Wynn Sheehan. I heard you were back in town. Never thought I’d see the day.”
When he stood to hug her, tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back with a pathetic attempt at a laugh. “Yeah, neither did I.”
Those dark chocolate eyes, which had always been just a little too perceptive, narrowed in on hers.
She stepped away from him, away from the temptation to linger and rest her head on his broad shoulders, and turned to his grandfather. “Hey there, Mr. Grant. Coffee?”
“You know me too well.” The twinkle in his gray eyes matched his grandson’s. “Bertie, how is it that you never get a day older?”
She glanced at Latham, the smile on her face wavering a little bit. He shook his head just slightly.
“Good genes, I guess, Mr. Grant. You ready to order?”
He stuck the menu back in the top of the napkin holder. “I’ll have my regular. You know just how I like it.”
Latham cleared his throat. “We’ll both have grits and biscuits with two eggs, over easy.”
His grandpa scowled at him. “You don’t like your eggs over easy.”
“You’re right, Pop. My mistake. I definitely want mine scrambled instead.”
Wynn made a little note on the order sheet and shot them a smile. “Got it. I’ll be back around with more coffee in a few minutes.”
Wynn stuck the Grants’ order into the wheel and spun it around for Uncle Mickey before grabbing the plates for Mr. Haney and Mr. Donovan. The bell on the door jingled, the first wave of the before-school crowd coming in.
The woman in the door, Wynn’s friend Molly, had a baby drooling on one shoulder and her preschool daughter with a death grip on her hand.
“Oh, Wynn. Thank God. Here.” She shoved the baby at Wynn and ran for the bathroom with the little girl.
“Molly, wai—” Wynn stared wide-eyed at the infant in her arms. The baby stared back, big blue eyes slowly filling with tears. Wynn started swaying. “Oh, no. No, you don’t.”
A loud wail followed the tears. She gave the infant, who was rapidly turning red, an awkward pat on the back. “Come on, baby, please don’t cry. Your mama will be right back, I promise.”
Latham appeared at her side, digging in the diaper bag and coming up with a pacifier. He popped it in the baby’s mouth and she stopped crying, although she continued to stare accusingly at Wynn.
Latham laughed, a deep warm chuckle. “There you go.”
Molly returned from the bathroom, blowing her bangs off her forehead. “Whew. Never let a potty-training three-year-old wear tights. Never.”
Wynn’s pulse raced, her breath catching in her throat. She pushed the baby back into Molly’s arms and tore through the kitchen, pulling off her apron as she went. Lanna was in the office hanging up her purse. She looked up at Wynn, and the welcome on her face changed to concern. “You okay?”
“No. I’ve got to get out of here. You’ll be okay?”
“Yes, go.”
Wynn grabbed her keys off the hook and slammed out the back door, falling back against it after it closed. She dragged air into her lungs, willing herself not to pass out.
Unwanted tears, nausea, panic attack. Lost career, lost love, lost nerve. She closed her eyes, her hands settling over her belly.
The person in high school voted “most likely to change the world” had come home in shame, and now? The only thing she’d be changing was diapers.
* * *
Latham unlocked the door of the sunroom from the outside, his two German shorthair pointers bumping up against his legs. “Okay, fellas, calm down. You got a lot of work to do today, Pop?”
“It’s been kind of slow lately, but there’s always some dusting to be done.” His grandpa patted the newspaper under his arm. “I’ve always got the crossword if I get bored.”
“Okay, then. Some boxes came for you and I stacked them by the door. I’m going to work, but I’ll see you later.”
His grandfather was already pulling open the boxes to unload the same cans he’d unloaded the day before. Every night after Pop was tucked into bed, Latham took a few cans off the shelves he’d made for the sunroom, and every day Pop restocked them. The small thing made Pop feel like he was doing something useful and made Latham feel like he was doing something—anything—to make Pop’s quality of life just a little bit better.
Latham unlocked the door to the main house. The dogs tried to nose their way past him, and he nudged them back with his knee, an unnecessary act as a car in the driveway caught their full attention.
Pop’s caregiver, Fran, slammed the car door shut and shooed the dogs back toward him. “Hooligans, the lot of you. Latham, you need to teach these boys some manners.”
“Agreed,” Latham said mildly. Fran was a whole lot of bluster. “If you’d quit feeding them treats all the time, they might leave you alone. Pop’s in the sunroom, and I’ve just put a pot of coffee on for you. I’ll be in the barn for a little while, and I’ve got a couple of small jobs today. Nothing else until I teach my class at the college at five. I’ll have my cell phone on me if things change.”
“I know the drill. I’ll take him a cup of coffee and visit for a while.”
As Fran entered the kitchen door, Latham headed in the opposite direction for the barn, the dogs at his heels. He’d tucked his work space into a grassy clearing at the back of the property, surrounded by pine trees. It wasn’t unusual to come upon deer nibbling grass around the double-wide doors.
When both doors were wide open and the ceiling fans were on, he ran his hand down the reclaimed wood he was working.
The familiar earthy, pungent smell of the wood soothed his raw edges, the repetitive motions that created something out of nothing giving him a measure of peace for the things he couldn’t control. He couldn’t control Pop’s illness, but he could control this.
He could shape and mold this wood into anything he wanted. This particular piece was turning into a beautiful farm table for some folks in the next county. In the barn, things happened at his whim and will.
He’d gotten Pop appointments with the best specialists in the Southeast, and there was no medical explanation for the elderly man’s confusion, which started when Gran died unexpectedly. Nothing showed up on MRIs or CT scans.
It was as if Pop simply didn’t want to live in a world without Gran. They’d been childhood sweethearts, married at sixteen, and had never been separated. They’d owned the local grocery store and gas station that anchored the town in a gentler, slower time.
Pop and Gran had been the only constant in Latham’s life when he was a kid. His parents weren’t bad people, they just weren’t settlers. They’d moved from place to place in search of, well, Latham wasn’t sure exactly what they were in search of, but whatever it was, they hadn’t found it yet. When he got old enough to understand the gift of a place to call home, he was grateful to them for leaving him in Red Hill Springs with his grandparents.
Because he was a settler. He liked his roots deep.
He leaned in, focusing on the task at hand, not looking up until he heard a car in the drive. He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t unheard of for people to drop by out here, especially since Pop had come to live with him, but it was unusual.
Latham set aside his block of sandpaper and walked to the door of the barn. Wynn Sheehan got out of her car and slammed the door, looking around. For him, he guessed.
He grabbed a rag from the wood worktable beside the door, wiping the dust from his hands as he walked to the center of the clearing. This morning she’d had her hair tied back,