With This Child...

Your mama said it was a shame Lisa’s baby wouldn’t live when it would have had such a good life, and it was a shame your baby, precious as she was, would ruin your life and have a tough time growing up with a single mother. She sat there in the hospital cafeteria and looked at me, and I knew what she was thinking even before she said it.

Marcie, I want you to know this wasn’t an easy decision for either of us. We both wanted to do what was best for you and for your baby. I falsified all the records, and only your mama, my nurse and I know the truth. Lisa and Sam never knew their baby died.

May God forgive me because you probably never will, I switched your baby for theirs.

You buried their child. Your daughter is alive.

Marcie lowered the pages to the wooden surface of the bar. She needed a drink... iced tea, wine, a soft drink, water, anything wet. But she couldn’t seem to move.

It wasn’t possible. She’d have known if her baby was alive.

She’d dreamed about her every night that first year, but surely that was normal, didn’t mean anything.

After she managed to lock away the pain, the dreams had stopped.

Now this letter, almost thirteen years later, was asking her to unlock that pain, to think about her baby again, to hope and pray and dream that she was alive, that she’d be able to see her and hold her.

She couldn’t do that.

Dr. Franklin had been old, probably senile. She’d pitch this insane letter and get on with the life she’d so painstakingly built for herself.

But she couldn’t do that, either. It was too late.

Even this glimmer of hope had revived the old pain, the old love.

If there was even the slightest chance her child was alive, she had to know.

Chapter One

Marcie drove slowly down the small neighborhood streets of McAlester, Oklahoma. As she stared out the window, carefully following the directions given her by the detective she’d hired to find her daughter, her fingers fidgeted with the envelope containing everything she had of her baby—the letter from Dr. Franklin, the detective’s report, and pictures of Kyla and Sam Woodward.

Kyla Woodward...twelve years old...thirteen next month... Going into eighth grade...active in sports... Lisa Woodward died seven years ago...congenital heart problems... Sam Woodward, coach of high school football team...coaches Kyla’s softball team... Neighbors say they’re a happy, well-adjusted family.

She’d read the report until she knew it by heart, looked at those photographs a thousand times, memorizing every detail, searching for her features in Kyla Woodward’s face.

Her mother, embarrassed at being caught but unrepentant, had verified Dr. Franklin’s story, but still Marcie had held back. She couldn’t face the possibility of holding her daughter, only to have that child yanked away because her mother and Dr. Franklin were wrong.

Over the past couple of days, she’d swung wildly from guarded certainty one minute to doubt and confusion the next.

She had no idea what to do now.

She had no idea why she was searching for their house.

What would she do if she saw Kyla? What would she say to her? To Sam?

She turned onto Maple Street, one hand clutching the envelope in her lap. According to the directions, Sam Woodward’s house was at the end of the third block down. Even though she couldn’t see it from this distance, she could feel its presence.

Claustrophobia suddenly overwhelmed her, making her feel trapped in her small car, propelled by forces beyond her control into a scary unknown world. She wasn’t ready for this, to know for sure whether her baby was alive, to risk seeing her only to lose her again.

Marcie lowered the windows, breathing deeply, focusing on everything around her except that house three blocks away.

It was an older, established neighborhood. Huge trees formed a canopy over the street and colorful flower bloomed everywhere.

Scents she’d almost forgotten assailed her—freshly cut grass, honeysuckle, roses, and all the other fragrances that never reached her fifth-floor condo in Tulsa.

A small boy in a blue sunsuit pedaled his tricycle across the street in front of her.

A young couple diligently painted a house they appeared to be restoring.

An elderly woman puttered in her flower beds.

A tiny Yorkie darted to the end of a sidewalk to bark frantically as Marcie drove past.

Saturday morning in a small town.

Several cars were parked in the street—a common problem with houses too old to have garages—but other than that, the area seemed well cared-for. The detective had told her that much; had assured her that while Sam Woodward might not be getting rich working as a high school football coach, he appeared to be providing well for his daughter. Her daughter.

There was absolutely nothing in this well-kept, comfortable neighborhood to send nervous chills down Marcie’s spine, to cause her palms to sweat, her hands to tremble as they clutched the steering wheel.

Nothing except the two-story white house that seemed to be approaching her, rather than vice versa.

Seeing the picture of the house hadn’t prepared her for the sense of isolation the actual structure made her feel, the sense of total separation from everything inside it.

From Sam and Kyla Woodward.

She drove past, her gaze skimming over the detached garage to scan the front porch, the open windows and doors, searching for a glimpse of the blond girl in the pictures.

She turned the corner to go around the side of the house—

And a baseball slammed onto the hood of her car, followed by a young girl and then a dull thud. Marcie swerved to the side of the road, crushing the brake to the floor, while adrenaline exploded through her body.

Oh, God! She’d just run down her daughter!

Her breath caught in her chest as she shifted into park. The trees and houses and everything else around her blurred as mat moment in time locked on itself, filling her vision with the sight of the girl slamming against her car.

“I’m sorry, lady!”

Marcie jumped at the sound of the words coming from the passenger window.

The beautiful child from the pictures, now distressed instead of laughing, peered at her from wide blue eyes.

From the same blue eyes Marcie saw in the mirror every morning.

In that instant, she knew, and in spite of the black fear that hovered around the edges of her soul, happiness burst over Marcie like sunrise after a night filled with terrors.

Her baby wasn’t dead. She was alive, breathing, speaking.

A thousand words and a thousand emotions lumped in Marcie’s throat, and she had to blink back sudden tears as she gazed at her child in the flesh only a few feet away. She wanted to fly across the distance, grab her and hold her in her arms, tightly enough to make up for all the years she hadn’t been able to hold her. She wanted to laugh, to cry, to live the thirteen years separating them in one burst... to reclaim her baby.