Hart's Baby

“It’s not my intent to harm anyone, Mr. Hart, least of all Margaret.”

Margaret? Margaret? In the short time she’d been here, Cassandra had managed to move from Mrs. Hart to Margaret, forming a relationship with his mother? The danger doubled. He needed Cassandra gone before she caused any more damage. “In that case, name your price. I’ll meet it.”

Shaking her head, she said, “I won’t go away quietly. I can’t. Not for any amount of money. As I said, I don’t want anyone hurt.” She looked toward the carrier, and her expression softened, all traces of the warrior who’d faced him vanishing. “Especially not Billy.”

Zach’s sigh was bone deep. A confrontation with a stubborn female wasn’t his idea of a good time.

“You should know that I hired a private investigator,” she added.

Weariness clashed with wariness, then disappeared, leaving warning in its wake.

“I have the file in my car.”

“Get it.”

Obviously hesitating near the door, she stopped, her hand curled around the brass doorknob. After looking at Zach, she cut a quick glance toward the sleeping child. Zach struggled to tamp down a torrent of irritation.

“Don’t worry,” he said, no trace of mirth in his tone. “I don’t hurt innocents.”

The remaining, unspoken words hung in the air, resounding with importance equal to the ones he had said. He could and would use any means at his disposal to destroy anyone who threatened his family.

He walked as she slowly opened the door and left it that way. Wanting to make sure she could hear if he didn’t keep his promise?

Zach dropped onto the couch, the stiff cushions suiting his mood perfectly.

He stretched out his legs and crossed well-worn boots at the ankles. Then, leaning forward, he drummed his fingers on the coffee table, impatience swelling, tiredness all but forgotten.

The thought of the woman bringing in a file containing personal information and details about Zach’s family, about his family for God’s sake, chased away any attempt at relaxation. He surged to his feet and paced, stopping, inevitably, in front of the car seat.

It wasn’t possible the child belonged to the Harts.

- Or was it?

And what if Billy truly was a Hart? What, then, were the ramifications? A dozen thoughts crowded into his mind, each struggling for supremacy.

No matter what, a fight loomed, maybe even a court battle. Because if facts revealed Billy was their flesh and blood, the child automatically fell under Zach’s protection, too. He’d make sure Chad fought for custody. Family was the only thing of real importance. It didn’t much matter who stood in the way.

It’d be easier for everyone if she was lying, if she was the fortune hunter his instincts insisted she wasn’t.

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, Zach frowned. When he opened them, she stood there, a vision of femininity.

He hadn’t heard her approach.

She was silhouetted by the morning sun streaming through the window. Her eyes were wide, focused on him and Billy. Her breaths came in short, uneven bursts, and a file was clutched against her chest, her fingers nearly white from the pressure she exerted.

Despite his earlier promise of not hurting innocents, Zach saw the darkness of distrust in her verdant eyes.

Suited him fine. It worked both ways.

Like a gauntlet, she placed the folder on the table. The manila was well-worn, he noticed, as if it had been handled hundreds of times. And what was in there that made her so certain the Harts owed her something? Words. Maybe pictures. Weapons to hurt, maybe destroy?

The baby stirred and Cassandra moved quickly. Her eyes narrowed a bit, reminding him of a mother protecting her young.

Realization hit Zach square in the heart.

He was determined to defend his family from a third attack. But Cassandra possessed powerful resolve to fight for her family, too.

The baby whimpered, and Cassandra unlatched the safety straps, scooping the infant from beneath his blankets, crooning as she studied the baby’s small features.

For a moment Zach stood there, transfixed. He had little experience with children, next to none with babies. But as tiny fingers closed around a long, slender one, an odd feeling, one he had no intention of naming or claiming, assailed him.

Just then a knock sounded on the door and Margaret entered, a smile for her son and another for Cassandra and the child.

“Welcome home, son,” Margaret said.

He wished he could say it was good to be here.

Cassandra looked at his mother, and Zach’s sixth sense raised yet another warning flag. A soft, apparently sincere smile crossed Cassandra’s features. Lord help her if it was fake, though—a front ultimately meant to harm. If that was the case, she’d need all the protection she could find. Because she sure wouldn’t be able to run, and he sure as hell wouldn’t allow her to hide from the swift wrath of his retribution.

“Oh my, is the little one finally awake?”

Cassandra nodded and asked Margaret, “Would you like to hold him?”

“May I?”

In his mother’s two words, Zach heard hope...hope and excitement.

Damn Cassandra Morrison’s hide, anyway, for doing this to him, to Chad, and worse, to their mother.

Margaret Hart had a soft spot inside for any cause, for any stray. Attachment to this new baby would spell emotional tragedy. A tragedy that pride bound him to avert.

Needing action, he grabbed the folder.

He wasn’t going to like what he saw, not if the tightening in his gut served as any indication.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Margaret lower herself into a high-backed wing chair. Cassandra lovingly placed the bundle of blankets and baby in Margaret’s arms.

Focusing his attention away from the all-too-domestic scene, he thumbed back the corner of the file. Then he scowled. On the top, strategically clipped to the secured papers, was a picture of a woman smiling up at Chad. His arm was slung around her shoulder and he grinned at the camera. A cowboy hat rode low over his eyes and a championship rodeo belt buckle hung around his middle, along with the woman’s arm.

Zach’s jaw tightened. “Jeanie?” he asked unnecessarily.

Cassandra moved to stand near him, and he noticed the sheen of tears clouding her eyes. “Yes.”

“Except for the eyes, you don’t look alike.” He wondered if the difference extended to morals, as well.

He flipped the picture, found another beneath. Jeanie and Chad were out to dinner this time, a carafe of wine on the table, a long-neck bottle of beer in front of Chad—his favorite brand. This time their faces were close together and so were their lips.

He was aware of Cassandra’s perfume and another, more subtle scent—her anxiety.