His Secret Child

No, she was happy.

Two whole weeks to herself. Two whole weeks to work on her children’s book in blessed peace.

As soon as she’d gotten home from the library, she’d shucked her sensible slacks and professional shirt and let her hair out of its usual tidy bun. Threw on her softest jeans and a comfortable fleece top. Next, she’d set up her drawing table in the living room of her friends’ house.

House-sitting was awesome, because out here on the farm, no one would bother her.

Out here, she had a chance to fulfill her dream.

From the back room, her four-year-old daughter crowed with laughter over the antics of the animated mice and squirrels on the TV screen. Her daughter. Some days, Fern couldn’t believe her good fortune.

She’d fed Bull, the ancient, three-legged bulldog she was babysitting as a part of the house-sitting deal. Puttering around like this, feeding an animal, taking care of her sweet child, was what she wanted, and determination rose in her to make it happen full-time.

She’d create a fantasy world with her books, and in her life, too. She wouldn’t have to deal with the public or trust people who’d inevitably let her down. She wouldn’t have to come out of her shell, listen to people telling her to smile and speak up. She wasn’t really shy, she was just quiet, because there was a whole world in her head that needed attention and expression. And now, for two weeks, she got to live in that world, with a wonderful little girl and a loving old dog to keep her company.

She practically rubbed her hands together with glee as she poured herself a cup of herbal tea and headed toward her paints.

Knock, knock, knock.

She jerked at the unexpected sound, and worry flashed through her.

“Hey, Angie, I know you’re in there!”

Fern felt her nose wrinkle with distaste. Some friend of the homeowners. Some male friend. Should she answer it?

More knocking, another shout.

Yeah, she had to answer. Anyone who’d driven all the way out here in a snowstorm deserved at least a polite word from her before she sent them away.

She opened the door to a giant.

He wore a heavy jacket and cargo pants. His face was made of hard lines and planes, only partly masked by heavy stubble. Intense, unsmiling, bloodshot eyes stared her down. “Who are you?”

Whoa! She took a step backward and was about to slam the door in this unkempt muscleman’s face—she had her daughter’s safety to think about, as well as her own—when Bull, the dog, launched his barrel-shaped body at the door, barking joyously, his stub of a tail wagging.

“Hey, old guy, you’re getting around pretty good!” The man opened the door, leaned down.

“Hey!” Fern stepped back, then put her hands on her hips. “You can’t come in here!”

The guy didn’t listen; he was squatting down just inside the door to pet the thrilled bulldog.

Fern’s heart pounded as she realized just how isolated she was. Never taking her eyes off him, she backed over to her phone and turned it on.

“Where’s Troy and Angelica?” The man looked up at her. “And who’re you?” His voice was raspy. Dark lines under his eyes.

“Who are you?”

He cocked his head to one side, frowning. “I’m Carlo. Angie’s brother?”

Her jaw about dropped, because she’d heard the stories. “You’re the missionary soldier guy!” She set her phone back down. “Really? What are you doing here?”

His eyes grew hooded. “Got some business to conduct here in the States. And I’m sick.”

“Oh.” She studied him. Maybe illness was the reason for his disheveled look.

“Your turn. Who are you? You supposed to be here?”

“My name’s Fern. I’m house-sitting.”

“Okay.” He nodded and flashed an unexpected smile. “I didn’t think you looked real dangerous.”

The appeal of a smile on that rugged face left Fern momentarily speechless, warming her heart toward the big man.

“Thought I could bed down with my sister and get myself together before I get started with my...legal work. Where is she?”

“She’s at Disneyland Paris.” She said it reluctantly. “For two weeks.”

“She’s in Paris?” His face fell. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

She studied him. “Didn’t you think to, like, call and check with her? When did you last talk?”

“It’s been months. I don’t...live a normal life. And like I said, I’ve been sick.” He swayed slightly and unzipped his jacket. “Still have a little fever, but it’s not catching.”

“Hey. You don’t look so good.” In fact, he looked as though he was going to pass out, and then how would she ever get him out of here? She took his arm gingerly and guided him toward the couch. “You’d better sit down.” She helped him out of his heavy, hooded, military-style jacket.

“I don’t want to bother you...” He swayed again and sat down abruptly.

So now she had some giant guy who claimed to be Angelica’s brother, smack dab in the middle of her living room. She studied him skeptically as she picked up her phone again. Dark gray sweater that didn’t look any too new, heavy combat boots melting snow on the floor. Hmm.

Could he be acting this whole thing out in order to get in here and...what? Steal everything Troy and Angelica had? They were plenty comfortable, as evidenced by the Euro-Disney vacation, but they didn’t put their money on display in expensive possessions, at least as far as she’d been able to tell in the few months she’d known Angelica.

What else could he want? Had someone told him she was going to be out here alone? She normally wasn’t a skittish person, but this was different. This wasn’t safe.

She was about to dial 911 when he said, “Let me call Ang. I have to figure out what to do next.”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out an ancient-looking flip phone.

Fern walked to the back room to glance in on Mercedes. The child was fully immersed in her princess movie, a Friday-night treat Fern allowed reluctantly. For one thing, she wasn’t overly fond of the princess phenomenon for little girls, and for another, she’d rather read Mercy storybooks than have her watch TV.

But those were preferences. Mercedes had watched princess movies with her mom, and it comforted her to watch them now.

Even one day with Mercedes was a blessing, but now she had the potential, even the likelihood, of adopting her permanently and for real. That was truly exciting. That was a dream much bigger than her dream of writing and illustrating children’s books.

If she could create a nest for herself and a child—or six—who needed a home, and write on the side, she’d be the happiest woman on earth.

And maybe, just maybe, that was what God had in mind for her. Because she obviously wasn’t suited to relating to other people, right? She wasn’t cut out for marriage, nor couples entertaining, nor a singles life with a big close-knit group of friends.

But kids! Kids and books. And a dog or two, she thought, walking back out to the front room followed by the loyal Bull. She rubbed his graying head and let him give her a sloppy kiss. This was the life.