With This Child.... Sally Carleen
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he couldn’t quite place. He was positive that he didn’t know her, but just as positive that he should.
“And how about when you called her by her first name?” he shouted after Kyla.
Kyla stopped, turned back to look at him and tilted her head to one side. Her face, soft with the remnants of childhood yet edged with the approach of maturity, mirrored his confusion about the woman. “I didn’t think about it. It was like I’d known her a real long time or something.” She shrugged, grinned and trotted the rest of the way to retrieve her ball.
So Kyla had noticed the odd familiarity about the woman, too.
Well, they’d probably seen her somewhere, at the grocery store or one of Kyla’s softball games or the school’s football games.
Except she lived in Tulsa.
Heck, she probably resembled some television star. She was a babe, that was for sure.
Sam shoved his hands into the pockets of his cutoffs and turned to walk back to the house.
Directly in front of him, where it must have fallen from Marcie Turner’s car, was a large manila envelope.
He picked it up, hoping it contained an address, so that he could return it. She hadn’t seemed too likely to contact him again.
Not that he was looking for an excuse to contact her, no matter how much of a babe she was. Okay, maybe he had taken her hand and put his arm around her waist to help her out of the car when it probably wasn’t necessary. And he’d certainly enjoyed the contact.
He smiled at himself and his daughter and life in general as he opened the envelope...
...and found a letter-size envelope inside, along with several typewritten pages and pictures of his house, himself and Kyla.
A cold hand wrapped around and squeezed his heart.
What the hell was going on? Why did this woman have pictures of his home and his daughter? Was she stalking them? Was that why she’d seemed familiar? Had he seen her in crowds, watching them?
Her assertion that she didn’t need his address replayed itself in his head.
No wonder she hadn’t needed it.
She already had it.
“What’s that, Pops?”
Sam fumbled the pictures and letter back into the envelope. “Nothing.” He wasn’t going to have Kyla frightened.
“Looks like something to me.” Tossing the ball into the air and catching it, she walked beside him as he strode back to the house.
“Papers. Marcie Turner’s papers.”
“Kyla!” The familiar shout came from across the street. “Wanna ride bikes for a while?”
“Sure, Rachel! Be right there.” She handed Sam the ball. “You don’t mind, do you, Dad? Rachel’s having a tough time since her mom and dad split up.”
He looked into his daughter’s beautiful, concerned face. Maybe because she had no mother, she’d taken on the role of caring for any of her friends who had problems. Or maybe she did it just because she was a wonderful, caring kid, his own personal angel.
“Of course I don’t mind. I’ll be glad to get a little rest from playing ball with you!” He grinned, trying to maintain their usual banter, hoping his grin wasn’t as shaky as it felt.
She ran toward the garage to get her bike, long legs flying in the gracefully awkward manner of fawns and twelve-year-olds, and he loved her so much it hurt.
They’d almost lost her the night she was born. He still remembered the agony when Dr. Franklin had told him she had a fatal heart defect and wouldn’t live through the night.
And he still remembered the incredible joy when she had survived the night, in defiance of the doctor’s death sentence.
Knowing they could have no more children, he and Lisa had spoiled Kyla shamelessly from that day forward. In fact, Lisa had devoted herself totally to Kyla, even to the extent of ignoring him. But he’d accepted that. He’d understood how much she hurt when the doctor told her about the hysterectomy, how frightened she was each day that the doctor’s prophecy about Kyla’s death would come true.
Kyla had been Lisa’s priority, and five years later, as she lay dying from the same heart disease the doctor had diagnosed in Kyla, she’d made Sam promise to take care of their child.
Not that such a promise was necessary. He’d gladly lay down his life for his daughter.
Whatever Marcie Turner was up to, he’d stop her. Whatever it took, he’d protect his daughter.
He carried the envelope inside, sat down at the kitchen table and dumped out the contents. The smaller envelope was a letter addressed to Marcie in Tulsa. So at least he had the woman’s address, he thought grimly. And he would take this to the police.
But then he noticed the return address—Elton Franklin, the doctor who’d delivered Kyla. Suffocating heat flushed his body, prickling his skin, making breathing difficult.
He’d worried about Kyla for the past twelve—almost thirteen—years, terrified every time she caught cold or had a childhood disease. And he’d berated himself for that worrying, telling himself it didn’t accomplish a blasted thing, but unable to stop doing it.
Now...today...into his life came Marcie Turner with her pictures of the two of them and a letter addressed to her from Lisa’s doctor. Were all his concerns being validated? Did this letter contain a death sentence for Kyla?
But if it did, why was it addressed to Marcie Turner?
He had to open that letter and read it.
Sam stared at the envelope for several minutes. He regularly bench-pressed two-hundred-pound weights, but he couldn’t seem to find the strength to lift that little bit of paper weighing less than an ounce.
He wiped his sweaty palms on his cutoffs, then drew a shaky hand across his mouth and chin. His face was damp with perspiration.
Moving rapidly, so that he wouldn’t have a chance to chicken out, he yanked the letter from inside the envelope and unfolded the two pages.
Chapter Two
Marcie clutched the steering wheel with damp, sticky hands and made herself focus on the task of driving, on actions that normally came automatically. But not today. Today, leaving Sam’s house, she had to concentrate, to remind herself which pedal to use, to stop at red lights, go on green, turn the wheel at corners.
Her brain, her heart, her entire body, screamed in protest at the overload of emotions. She’d found her daughter alive, talked to her, met the man who’d inadvertently stolen her daughter. And then she’d had to walk quietly away.
Reaching the highway that led to the turnpike, she pulled into a convenience store and parked at the side. Out of the main traffic area, she finally let loose, laid her head in her hands and allowed earthquake tremors to shake her body, while tears spilled between her fingers.
In a minute she’d pull herself together, go into the store and get a cola, then get home as fast as she could. Once in her safe haven, she’d think about everything, about Kyla and what she ought to do next. Right now, she couldn’t face it, couldn’t deal with the huge explosions of happiness and anger and disbelief and sheer terror.
Finally, the tremors subsided, as some of the unbearable tension dissipated. She snatched a handful of tissues from the box in the back seat and dried her eyes.
This wasn’t like her, she thought, to completely lose control. But these were not usual circumstances.
She pushed her hair back from her face. She had to get home and figure out what to do next.
Needing to reassure herself that everything that had just happened was real,