Fugitive Mom. Lynn Erickson
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“Grace, I’m still mad,” Luke said. “I only hope you won’t pull another stunt like that.”
She heard him take a deep breath.
“Right now you can tell the FBI you had a breakdown and lost touch with reality, and that’s why you took off with the boy. I know that’s bull, but at least the law would have to consider it. But if the feds get wind that you were out trying to destroy his birth mother’s credibility, you can kiss the nervous breakdown story goodbye. They’ll throw the book at you. For the time being you’re the innocent victim in the public’s view. You don’t want to fall from…grace,” he said, “If you’ll forgive the pun.”
“That isn’t funny,” she said with a catch in her voice.
He frowned. “I can’t take it when a woman cries.”
“I’m not crying.”
“It’s okay. You tried to help. I overreacted. Come on, Grace.”
She let him enfold her in his arms, and suddenly nothing mattered. There was only Luke and pure sensation flowing through her veins. She tried to focus on the hurt he’d caused her, on how close they were to their goal. Her little boy…soon, soon, her little boy would be safely back with her.
But at the moment there was only Luke and her hopeless, spiraling need….
Dear Reader,
We first learned about a situation identical to the one in Fugitive Mom from an article in a newsmagazine. However, in real life the story had an unhappy ending when the foster parent was required by the courts to return her baby to the biological mother. A year later, one of our close friends underwent a similar ordeal, and our hearts were touched.
This is why we write books—we can solve these thorny problems and create happy endings. But we certainly do enjoy putting our protagonists through the wringer on the route to success. And wouldn’t it be wonderful if the heroine fell in love on her journey?
We hope you enjoy Fugitive Mom, and please visit us on the Harlequin Web site.
Best wishes,
Carla and Molly
(Lynn Erickson)
Fugitive Mom
Lynn Erickson
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
COURTROOM C OF THE Boulder County Justice Center looked just like the other courtrooms in the sprawling building: blond wood, industrial blue carpet, judge’s podium, jury box and spectators’ benches in a kind of faux Danish modern style. But to Grace Bennett, sitting at a prosecution table in front, Courtroom C was the worst hell on earth.
“‘In the case of minor Charles L. Pope, he is remanded to the permanent custody of his biological mother, Kerry Ann Pope,’” the Juvenile magistrate intoned, reading his decision. “‘He is to be removed from the care of his foster mother, Sally Grace Bennett, in four days’ time. The State of Colorado and the County of Boulder thank you, Ms. Bennett.”’ His gavel thudded dully on its block.
Grace heard the young woman at the other table say something: “Oh, wow! Thank you, Your Honor.”
The words were spoken by Kerry Pope, in her early twenties, thin and pale, wearing worn jeans and a sweatshirt that said CU, out of prison six months ago, out of her halfway house only two months ago. Rehabilitated, according to the legal system. Charley’s biological mother. A joke! It must all be a stupendous joke, a bad dream. Kerry had never taken care of Charley. Never!
Grace put her head in her hands, elbows leaning on the blond wood table. She fought tears, felt desperation fill her to the brim and spill over.
The clerk of the court scribbled busily; the court stenographer tapped the judge’s last words into her machine. There was no jury to comment upon the decision, to murmur or gasp, but there were onlookers, mumbling in a monotone behind Grace, probably talking about their own cases, not hearing or knowing or caring….
No, Grace wanted to scream. You can’t do this. Charley, handed back to his so-called mother. Her Charley, whom she had cared for since he was three months old. Her son, for God’s sake.
“Grace,” her lawyer was saying, “come on, Grace, we have to go.”
She raised her face up to the woman who’d represented her at this hearing. “They can’t do this, Natalie. They can’t just—”
Natalie Woodruff took Grace’s arm gently. “We have to leave. The judge has ruled.”
“But can’t you…can’t we appeal this? There must be something we can do.”
Natalie’s eyes were full of sympathy—not that it would do Grace or Charley any good. “Not now, Grace. It’s over. We have to go.”
Slowly, Grace stood up. Her knees felt weak, her stomach knotted. Her heart pounded sickeningly in her ears. Charley, Charley. Automatically, she reached for her handbag and stepped away from the table. She glanced at the Juvenile judge again; he was reading a file the clerk had handed him, peering at it over half glasses. He’d already forgotten Grace and Charley—he was dealing with another case. Oh, God.
“Grace,” Natalie said again.
She moved shakily toward the double doors at the back of the courtroom, following Natalie. She