Texan's Baby

As far as Melanie knew, their son was fine. But then, the disease Dawson worried about wouldn’t show up until later. There was genetic testing available but Melanie had been too freaked out to take that step. She would. There’d come a point in the near future when she would need to know. Up until now, she’d been able to bury the thought down deep.

“He’s strong and healthy,” she said for both of their benefits. “His fevers always scare the heck out of me, but he should be good by tomorrow. It’s probably a virus and that’s the reason for the cough.”

“Sounds worse than that.” Dawson stuffed his cell into his pocket. “If you won’t let me call my mother, then we should take him to the emergency room or something. Mercy’s open.”

“He needs rest for now.” She positioned extra pillows around his sides so he wouldn’t roll off the sofa. If she were going to have this conversation or any conversation with Dawson she needed caffeine.

She moved to the fridge, Dawson on her heels, and pulled out a Pepsi. Normally, she fixed a glass with ice and a lime wedge, but this situation called for emergency measures. The cap was off and she’d had her first swallow before Dawson could fire another question.

“Where do the two of you live?” His face was stone and she had no idea what he was thinking.

“Outside of Houston. We have a two-bedroom apartment there in a suburb.”

“What about work? What do you do for a living?”

She didn’t want to tell him. He’d judge her. Maybe even call her an unfit mother. Oh, no, would he try to take Mason away from her? Courts might side with him, given that she’d kept their little boy a secret all these months—a fact that she hadn’t thought about until now. His family had enough money to wage war if they wanted to. Panic washed over her in a tidal wave mixed with other emotions. All her fears pressed down on her like concrete slabs pulling her to the bottom of the ocean. She put her hand to her chest.

“Breathe.” That one word, spoken with authority, was more calming than it should be.

“I need to check on Mason.” She took her Pepsi into the living room where she could keep an eye on her son.

Dawson followed.

“Let’s sit over here so we can talk and keep an eye on him,” she said, pointing to the pair of wingback chairs nestled near the fireplace as she eyed Dawson wearily, praying the caffeine would kick in.

“I’m not going to try to steal him, so you can stop looking at me like that,” Dawson said.

“You want coffee or something?” She’d rehearsed this scenario inside her mind a thousand times. Facing him, seeing the hurt in his eyes planted so much doubt about her actions up until now.

“No, thanks. I’ll take a Pepsi, though.”

She retrieved another bottle and handed it to him as they returned to the wingback chairs near Mason.

Here goes.

Melanie opened her mouth to speak and then clamped it shut. A noise in the other room stopped her cold. “Did you hear that?”

“Get the baby and get ready to run on my word. Don’t wait for me to come back. Just go when I say.” Dawson was already on his feet, moving toward the kitchen so stealthily with his back against the wall that his movement almost didn’t register.

By the second noise, Mason was in her arms and an ominous feeling had settled over her. Her purse was on the foyer table next to the front door, keys inside.

She heard a scuffle and then Dawson shouted, “Go!”

Her need to protect her son warred with her desire to make sure his father was okay.

Dawson had told her to leave.

She dug out her keys from the bottom of her bag, hands shaking, praying Mason would stay asleep on her shoulder.

As she stepped onto the front porch, a shotgun blasted in the other room.

Chapter Three (#ulink_5d68b018-af79-5e87-9bbd-f0d9b0ccf603)

Melanie’s pulse raced as Mason opened his eyes and bawled so loudly there was no covering it. The sound would alert whoever had the gun, and chances were that person wasn’t Dawson. A knife pierced her chest at the thought of him being shot, bleeding. She had very much loved him and the two had been inseparable for most of their childhoods.

She bolted across the porch and down the stairs.

Mason wriggled, working up to release another round.

“It’s okay, baby,” she soothed as she made a run for her car, her legs bogged down by what felt like lead weights as she thought about leaving Dawson behind.

The carport on the side of the house was equal distance from the front and back doors. Anything happened to Dawson—and she prayed that wasn’t the case—and the attacker could get to her and Mason easily.

She couldn’t allow herself to think that anything could happen to Dawson, no matter how heavy her heart was in her chest, trying to convince her otherwise.

The auto unlock caused her sedan’s lights to blink and make a clicking sound. Mason stirred and she feared he was about to wail again giving away their location, but he whimpered instead.

Melanie repeated a protection prayer she’d learned as a child as she tucked Mason into the car seat. She half expected someone to come up from behind and jerk her away from her son. Or another sudden blast to split the air.

No matter how torn she felt between running to safety with her Mason and staying back to help his father, she would go. Dawson had ordered her to take the baby and run, and she had to believe—no, pray—he knew what he was doing.

Getting the key in the ignition was difficult with shaky hands. Adrenaline had kicked in and her insides churned. She finally managed on her fourth attempt. Mason stirred, crying louder, winding up to release a scream. The energy he was expending threw him into another coughing fit. And there was nothing she could do about it, which sent her stress hormones soaring.

Melanie backed out of the carport with blacked-out lights. She turned the car around so that she could better see as she navigated the gravel driveway.

With the windows up Mason’s crying would be muffled to anyone outside the car. Leaving him in the backseat, not being able to comfort him while he cried ripped out another piece of her heart. As soon as she could be sure she’d gotten them out of there and to safety, she’d pull over. No, she’d call 9-1-1 first.

Nearing the end of the driveway, she was almost to the street when a dark figure jumped in front of the car.

Melanie slammed on the brakes and flipped on her headlights.

It was Dawson...covered in blood.

She unlocked the doors, motioning for him to get inside while scanning the darkness for his attacker. Her heart sank. She could get him to Mercy Hospital in twenty minutes.

He darted to the passenger side, opened the door and jumped in. “Go.”

No other word was needed. As soon as his door closed, she gunned it, spinning out in the gravel. She eased her foot off the gas pedal enough for the tires to gain traction, cut a right at the end of the drive and sped toward Mercy.

“Dawson, you’re shot.”

“It’s not that bad,” he said.

Mason’s cries intensified. She glanced in the rearview and saw that his eyes were closed as he tried to shove his fist in his mouth.

“You have blood all over you,” she said to Dawson, not masking the panic in her voice as her heart ached to hold her son.

“It looks worse than it is,” he said, dismissing her concern and focusing on Mason. “What can I do to help him?”