Mother's Day Miracle and Blessed Baby: Mother's Day Miracle / Blessed Baby

“You mean Wade Featherhawk? Yes, I met him.” Clarissa blushed, recalling that prayer. “I don’t think he’s interested in me, Millie.” Belatedly she remembered he was married.

“Nonsense! Of course he’s interested. Just doesn’t want to seem too eager is all. A man in his condition needs a good woman.” Millie thumped her purse as if that settled the matter.

In his condition? Clarissa’s radar went on high alert. She didn’t want to fix anyone else’s problems. She’d had enough of that with Billy Stuart and Lester Short, two men she’d once agreed to date. She still regretted those hastily made encounters.

“He said he was looking for a book for his son.” Clarissa half-whispered it, wondering how long it would take the older woman to spill the beans she was obviously so anxious to share.

The day had been long. Clarissa was tired and hungry and she wanted to go home. She wouldn’t tell a soul that what she really wanted was to spend some time thinking about that tall, dark man she’d met this afternoon. Instead, she prepared to hear the local’s lowdown on one Wade Featherhawk.

“You’ve been away so I’ll fill you in. Came to town the day after you left. Seems Jerry Crane is a friend of his, and Wade put a bid in on that country club Jerry’s building.” Millie stopped just long enough to gulp for air. “Jerry announced the winners last week, and first thing you know we have a new resident.” She nodded smugly, as if she’d done her share of arranging that.

“So he’s a carpenter. That’s nice.” Clarissa pushed away the thought of those big, rough hands.

“Apparently a good one, too. Or so Jerry says.” Millie huffed once more and continued. “He didn’t come alone. No, sir. He’s got a passel of kids. Not his, though. And no wife. Myrna Mahoney over at Sally’s Café told me that. The bunch of ’em were living at the motel for a while. Must have been terrible expensive. Heard they moved. She couldn’t find out where. He doesn’t talk much. The strong, silent type.”

Millie hitched up her purse, adjusted the snug skirt surrounding her burgeoning hips and shoved her hat farther down on her freshly permed hair. “I’ve gotta go, hon. Burt doesn’t like for me to be away too long when they’re seeding.”

“Yes, of course. Bye, Millie.” Clarissa, embarrassed to find herself so interested in a perfect stranger, waved politely and started toward home once more, quickly jaywalking across to the fire hall to avoid Betty Fields, whom she saw waiting on the next corner.

She opened the white picket gate that led to her yard and stepped inside, appreciating the lovely old house as she went.

“It needs a coat of paint and some work on the roof, but it’s still a great house,” she assured herself. “A perfect house for a family. With a little work.”

Dinner didn’t take long. She’d set out her pork chop to thaw that morning. As she waited for her potato to boil, she wished again for a microwave. Better yet, a family to cook for! Making food for one was so boring. Baking one potato in the oven meant heating up the whole house, and it seemed foolish to do that with electricity so high. As she pulled a bottle of blue cheese dressing out of the fridge, she caught sight of the chocolate Valentine she’d given herself.

“Should have thrown that out.” Instead, she closed the door on it, just as she’d shut down her hopes and dreams. There was no point wishing for something that was never going to happen.

Since it was still light outside after her meal and the silence inside the house was somehow depressing, Clarissa decided to finish working her flower bed. She’d always been one of the first to have pansies and petunias blooming. This year wouldn’t be any different.

It is a silly dream, she lectured herself, kneeling to insert the delicate bedding plants. Lots of people would say I’m too old to keep daydreaming about kids. Even if I had a husband who wanted them. Which I don’t.

She sighed at the hopelessness of it all and transplanted another flat of flowers.

“Can I see your birds?” A little boy with freckles on his nose and a spot of dirt on his cheek, peered through the pickets of her backyard fence. “They’re goldfinches, aren’t they?”

Clarissa thrust the dream of cherubic babies out of her mind and stared at the chubby little boy who stood impatiently waiting to enter her yard.

“No one ever uses that gate,” she murmured, frowning. “I keep it oiled, of course. But still, it’s very difficult to open.”

“I can climb over.” In a matter of seconds the little boy hiked himself over the fence. He stood before her, panting as he studied her birds. One bit of his jeans still clung to the top of the fence, but he ignored that. “How many do you got?”

“What? Oh, the birds. I’m not sure. Eight, I think. I don’t keep them caged, but they always come here for the seeds.”

“That’s ‘cause they like livin’ in the woods over there.” The child inclined his head to the wild growth of trees and shrubs that occupied the land next to hers. “Finches prefer to build their nests in low bushes or trees.”

“I expect so.” She studied him. He was a curious blend. A child, yes, but with intelligent eyes and an obvious thirst for knowledge. She remembered the man at the library. “Do you like birds?” she asked curiously.

“Oh, yes!” His face was a delight to watch, eyes shining, mouth stretched wide in a smile of pure bliss. “I collect pictures of them.” He flopped down on the grass beside her and opened the pad he carried. Inside he’d detailed a carefully organized listing of birds he’d seen, with the odd picture taped here and there. “What’s your name?”

“Clarissa Cartwright,” she told him smiling. “And yours?”

“Pete. Do you have any cookies?” His look beseeched her to say yes. “I sure am hungry.”

He couldn’t have known that was the path straight to her heart, Clarissa decided. He couldn’t possibly know how much she longed to share her special double fudge nut chip cookies with a child who would appreciate the thick chocolate chunks.

“As a matter of fact, I do have cookies. Would you like some?”

He nodded vehemently. “I’m starved! I didn’t eat nothin’ for supper.”

“Why ever not?” She frowned. Children needed good nourishing food. His parents should be more careful. She wondered who they were.

“Supper didn’t taste so good. Tildy made it an’ she burns a lot of stuff.” He glanced behind quickly, then lowered his voice. “But I’m not s’ posed to say nothin’ so’s I don’t hurt her feelings.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Clarissa got to her feet, happy to leave the planting if it meant sharing her cookies. “I’ll bring some milk out too, shall I?”

He trailed along behind her, up the stairs and in through the back door, with nary a hint of indecision.

“Do you live here all by yourself?” he asked, his face filled with curiosity as he looked around.

“Mm-hm. It was my grandmother’s house. She left it for me to live in when she died.” Clarissa set six cookies on a plate, poured two large glasses of milk, then checked to be sure Tabby the cat had some milk in her bowl. “My parents died when I was a little girl. My grandma looked after me.”

“I don’t gots no mother, neither.” Pete took the plate and obediently carried it out onto her veranda behind her. “She died. My dad, too. Me an’ my brother and my dopey sisters are the only ones left.” He took a huge bite of cookie. “I’m getting ‘dopted.”

“That’s nice.” Clarissa smiled to hide the shaft of pain she felt at the sad story. “I’m sure your new parents must love you very much.” She set the milk down and pulled out a chair.

“Enough to confine him to his room for a week if he doesn’t learn to stay in his own yard,” a husky voice informed her sardonically. “There’s something wrong with your back gate.”

Clarissa gasped at the familiar timbre of those low tones. She whirled around, her face draining of color as she met the dark forbidding gaze of the man who’d been in her library that very afternoon.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, noticing that he’d left the front gate open. She hurried to close it. “I don’t allow cats in my yard,” she told him soberly. “They bother the birds.”

“But you got a cat in your house. I seen it.” Pete’s shrill voice burst into the conversation.

“You ‘saw’ it. And Tabby doesn’t go outside.” Clarissa stood where she was, her hands buried in the voluminous pockets of her long skirt. “Are you Pete’s father?”

“His name is Pierce and you know very well that I’m his uncle. I’m sure the entire town has informed you of my existence by now. I have to tell you that I do not appreciate having to scour the neighborhood to find my nephew, Miss Cartwright.”

“Hey, I didn’t steal him!” Clarissa burst out, affronted by the implication in that low voice. “He came to look at the birds.” Another thought occurred and she whirled to face Pete, who was now enjoying his fifth cookie. “Is Pierce your real name?”

“Yeah.” Pierce looked shamefaced, his soft melting eyes begged forgiveness. “But I like people to call me Pete. It’s not so…weird.” He pocketed the last cookie, then stared up at the big man who stood towering over them both. “I’ll go home now, Uncle Wade. I’m sorry I disobeyed.”

Clarissa hadn’t thought it possible, but the stern craggy face softened, just a little.

“It’s all right this time, son. But please stay in the yard. That’s why I rented the place, so there would be room for all of you to run and jump and play without getting into trouble.” His uncle eyed the torn jeans with a rueful smile. “Another pair? How do you manage to do this, Pierce?”

“I dunno. It just happens.” Pierce shuffled down the steps, then raced around to the back of the house for his book. “See ya later,” he called to Clarissa, then vaulted over the fence with a huge leap.

“You’re his uncle?” Somehow the knowledge just now made its way to her brain. “But this afternoon you said you were looking for a book for your son. And Pete, I mean Pierce, said he was adopted.” She frowned, trying to fit it all together.