Baby Love
Catherine Anderson
Baby Love
To my dad, George S. Son, who taught me two of life’s sweetest secrets: that the human heart has a limitless capacity for love and that the bond between father and daughter has nothing to do with genetics. You’re living proof that the biggest and the best things truly do come from Texas.
Contents
Dear Readers
Prologue
An icy Idaho night wind whistled along the dark, deserted…
Chapter One
Drifting in the misty unreality of dreams, Rafe Kendrick surrendered…
Chapter Two
Freezing his ass off was a great way to sober…
Chapter Three
Now that the train had stopped, the boxcar was eerily…
Chapter Four
Wind buffeted Rafe as he strode along the sidewalk toward…
Chapter Five
Sometime around midnight, people rented the cottage next to theirs,…
Chapter Six
Rafe stood in the hospital hall and stared at the…
Chapter Seven
After Boyle made his exit, the hospital room went deathly…
Chapter Eight
Nightmares plagued Maggie as she drifted in a sedative-induced sleep.
Chapter Nine
Head resting against the back of the chair, Rafe sat…
Chapter Ten
By the time Ryan Kendrick landed the Cessna 340 on…
Chapter Eleven
Rafe tapped his pen on the desk and then tossed…
Chapter Twelve
Late the following afternoon, Maggie became Rafe Kendrick’s wife, with…
Chapter Thirteen
Maggie’s heart leaped when she heard the doorknob turn. An…
Chapter Fourteen
Rafe usually enjoyed chess, but after three games, he found…
Chapter Fifteen
Everything will be all right.
Chapter Sixteen
For a frozen instant, Rafe was so taken aback that…
Chapter Seventeen
Her feet braced on protrusions of granite, Maggie clung to…
Chapter Eighteen
A beeping noise woke Maggie. As she rolled onto her…
Chapter Ninteen
Thirty minutes later when Rafe reentered the cabin, Maggie was…
Chapter Twenty
Maggie had barely begun kissing Rafe when she realized he…
Chapter Twenty-one
Maggie awakened to the crackling of the fire in the…
Chapter Twenty-two
It was ten-thirty that night when Rafe’s parents left for…
Chapter Twenty-three
Watching Rafe drive away was the hardest thing Maggie had…
Chapter Twenty-four
“We just got a break!”
Epilogue
Sunlight glanced off the water, making the calm lake look…
About the Author
Other Books by Catherine Anderson
Copyright
About the Publisher
Dear Readers:
I was delighted to learn that Baby Love will be more readily available to all of you in bookstores. For those of you who are avid fans of my Kendrick/Coulter series and have never had the opportunity to read Baby Love, this is exciting news indeed. This is the book that started it all, written before anyone knew there would even be a series.
The idea came to me from a country-western song by Hal Ketchum. If you have ever listened to “Swing Low,” you know it is a hauntingly beautiful song about a hardened drifter who encounters an impoverished young woman and infant in a train station on a cold winter night. The drifter opens his overcoat and invites them inside, and until the train comes, he protects them from the cold. The drifter has nothing to offer except his body heat, but in the young woman’s face, he sees such pain and innocence, and his heart is touched. Then the train comes and they part, but he always wonders what happened to that lovely young woman—and the baby in her arms.
Well, hello! I couldn’t stand not knowing what happened to that girl and her baby! And I absolutely couldn’t understand why the drifter allowed them to disappear into the night. So I wrote my own version of the story. Now we know why the drifter was riding on boxcars in the dead of winter, and we also know why a shivering young woman with an infant in her arms found herself in such a horrible spot.
And we also know the rest of the story—what happened after they met. No, the drifter doesn’t allow her to vanish into the darkness. A beautiful love story unfolds. I hope it is a story that you greatly enjoy and never forget.
Hugs to all of you,
Catherine Anderson
Prologue
An icy Idaho night wind whistled along the dark, deserted sidewalk, carrying with it the snow-crisp scents of mountain pine and fir. The gusts pushed at Maggie Stanley from behind, tossing her long dark hair over her eyes and cutting through her thin nylon jacket. Shuddering with the cold, she hugged her bundled baby close and forced herself to keep moving. Her feet felt as if they weighed a thousand pounds, and she worried that she might slip on the treacherous black ice that coated the cracked cement.
A flash of automobile headlights from somewhere behind made her heart do a flip. She flattened herself against a building, praying that the shadows cast by the eaves might hide her. The car moved on through the intersection. Not Lonnie. Going limp against the wet siding, Maggie gulped back a sob, the jolt of fear so numbing that she could no longer feel her legs. Oh, God. Off the street I have to get off the street.
She lurched into a plodding run, clutching Jaimie protectively against her. With every step she took, the heavy diaper bag slammed into her bruised leg. As her fear moved away and feeling returned to her extremities, the pain of the blows became so excruciating that nausea rolled up her burning throat.
Up ahead, she saw an unlighted sign through the shadowy gloom. The boldly painted letters beckoned to her like a beacon. Pacific Northern. She’d done it. She was almost there. Only a few more steps now.
Breathless, she staggered to a stop when she reached the sign and stared incredulously at the chain-link fence. Beyond the sturdy wire mesh lay the railway yard where she hoped to hitch a ride.
Chapter One
Drifting in the misty unreality of dreams, Rafe Kendrick surrendered himself to the images that moved softly through his mind. As he sank deeper into slumber, the details gained clarity and seemed more lifelike. He smiled drowsily. He was down on the lakeshore, he realized, not far from the main ranch house. Through the stands of evergreen trees, he could see the sprawling expanse of ivy-covered brick that was his family home, three of its fireplace chimneys silhouetted against the summer-blue sky. On the gentle breeze, he heard the whinny of a stallion coming from the north pasture behind the stables.
Home. On some level he knew this was only a dream, but it felt wonderfully real, a vivid recollection of all that he’d lost. Small, water-worn rocks shifted under his feet as he followed the sweep of shoreline. The soft lapping of the water soothed him. He took a deep breath, identifying the smells that had once been so commonplace he scarcely noticed them. Fir and pine. Sun-warmed grass and fertile earth. A crisp edge to the breeze, even on a summer day, because the high-elevation basin was ringed by snowcapped peaks.
His footsteps slowed as he crested a slight rise. Ahead of him in a shaded grove, he saw a sorrel mare and a buckskin gelding. They grazed contentedly, their reins loosely draped over the limbs of sapling oaks. Nearby two-blanket-draped saddles rested on the green grass.
A sense of déjà vu filled Rafe. He remembered this day. He and Susan had taken the kids for a short ride through the forest, and then they’d come back here for a picn
ic by the lake. They had enjoyed themselves, singing silly songs they made up as they went along to entertain their three-year-old son, Keefer. It had been a near perfect outing, and they had ended it here because they loved spending time near the water.
He eagerly scanned the clearing, his yearning to catch a glimpse of his family so sharp that it made his breath hitch. Drawn by a red-checkered tea towel that fluttered in the breeze, his gaze came to rest on the wicker picnic basket first. The hinged lid was wedged partially open by the protruding neck of a wine bottle that their nanny-housekeeper, Becca, had slipped inside to accompany their meal.
Oh, yes…he remembered it all so clearly—Susan, in snug faded jeans and a pink cotton blouse, her golden hair caught at the crown with a clip to spill in a silky cascade to her shoulders. He could almost hear the sound of her laughter rippling around him—and smell the little-boy scent of his son, riding double in front of him on the buckskin. After coming here to eat, he had rocked his baby daughter to sleep while Susan set out the food, and he could recall exactly how his little girl’s plump body had felt in his arms.
A slight frown pleated Rafe’s brow. This was too real to be a dream. He could actually hear the water lapping and feel the breeze caressing his skin. With every step he took, the beach pebbles pressed sharply into the soles of his riding boots. Dreams weren’t this vivid.
Oh, God. Could he dare to hope? Maybe a miracle had happened, and somehow he’d been hurtled back in time. Maybe, after all this time, his prayers had finally been answered and God was giving him a second chance.
Oh, yes, please…All he needed was just one more chance. This time, he wouldn’t blow it. He’d put his family first. Nothing had ever mattered more to him than his wife and kids. Nothing. He’d just gotten so caught up in the everyday responsibilities and obligations of being a husband and father that he’d lost sight of what was really important for a while.
He’d never make that mistake again.
Wanting, needing to believe that this was all actually real, he clenched his hands into throbbing fists and eagerly scanned the clearing. Susan and the kids lay only a short distance away from the picnic basket. The three of them were taking a nap on a Navajo blanket he’d spread on the grass for them. Their snuggled forms were dappled with sunlight that filtered through the fir boughs above them. Susan lay on her back with a child on each side of her, her sweet face relaxed in sleep, her lush mouth curved in a slight smile of contentment. His son keefer had fallen asleep with his arms around her neck, and he still clung to her, his baby-soft cheek pressed to her breast. The six-month-old Chastity was cradled in Susan’s other arm, her tawny curls glistening like drizzles of honey.
Rafe walked toward them, a sharp ache stabbing his chest. Dear God, how he loved them, and it had been so long—so very long—since he’d seen them. Thank you, God. He wanted to shout and run to cover the distance more quickly. But no. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this scene from out of his past might exist only in his imagination. A loud sound or sudden movement might shatter it like fragile glass.
As he moved closer to the blanket, Susan’s face grew less distinct. He squinted down at her, wanting to see her more clearly. But no matter how hard he tried, her features remained an elusive blur, framed by a nimbus of golden hair. He came to a stop, staring so hard that his eyes burned. It was like trying to see her through a plate of steam-fogged glass.
“Susan?” he called softly. “Honey, wake up. It’s me, Rafe.”
She didn’t stir at the sound of his voice. He reached a hand toward her, his need to touch her a craving he couldn’t deny. Just as his fingertips nearly grazed her cheek, the ground under his feet shifted and seemed to jerk. In a twinkling, his wife and children vanished, and he found himself surrounded by an endless and horribly empty darkness.
“Susan? Don’t leave again! Susan?”
He felt a light touch on his arm, and as he turned, a dizzy feeling came over him. As the sensation subsided, he realized that his surroundings had changed. He was still on the lakeshore, only now it was late evening. Susan sat beside him on the grass, and once again, he couldn’t see her clearly. She was only a shadowy presence, and he knew she would vanish again if he tried to touch her. The knowledge filled him with a sense of hopelessness and pain that ran so deep his bones ached.
Her face was a blurred, pale oval in the darkness as she turned to regard him. “What are you doing, Rafe?” she asked softly. “You promised me you’d find someone else to love, that you wouldn’t spend the rest of your life alone if something ever happened to me. Now, just look at you!”
He clamped his arms around his knees to resist his urge to reach for her. “I can’t, Susan. I know I promised, but I can’t. I’ll never love anyone but you. Never.”
Her voice rang with sadness. “Oh, Rafe, you can’t go on like this. Life is such a precious gift, and you’re wasting it.”
He closed his eyes. “I don’t have a life,” he whispered raggedly. “Without you and the kids, I’m just marking off the days. Why can’t you understand that?”
Silence settled between them, broken only by the gentle sound of lapping water and the night wind whispering in the evergreen trees. Those sounds had once seemed like music to him. Now hearing them only made him hurt, and he wanted to escape. Leaving right then was impossible, though. As long as Susan was there, even in this elusive, heartbreaking way, he couldn’t leave her.
“It’s time, Rafe,” she whispered gently, her voice seeming to fade in and out. “You have to let me and the kids go now and move on.”
Move on to what? He wanted to scream the question, only a lump had lodged in his throat, making it difficult for him to speak.
“You keep praying for one more chance,” she murmured. “Well, dear heart, now you’re getting one. Don’t throw it away or mess it up because you’re still clinging to ghosts.”
“Mess what up?”
“You’ll see.” He heard a smile in her voice. “Just open your heart, Rafe. You’ll see.”
Rafe jerked awake in the middle of a snore. For an instant, he though it was the bad dream that startled him, but as the grogginess cleared from his head, he decided it was something else. After two years of riding the rails, he had learned to sleep lightly even when drunk. Something wasn’t right.
He heard nothing except the constant clank of the train wheels and the clatter of the boxcar. He nudged his Stetson back to regard his four traveling companions, who sat hunched along the rear wall of the boxcar just as they had been earlier, only now they all seemed to be staring at something to his left.
Shaking off the last trace of sleep and the haunting dream along with it, he flicked a glance in that direction and did a double take. A girl? He could scarcely credit his eyes. Pushing with the heel of one boot, he sat more erect and turned the full blast of his gaze on her.
A shaft of moonlight fell over her. He could see she was a beauty, slightly built with a wealth of dark hair and that rare milk-white skin you see in pictures but seldom run across in real life.
A fragile little flower.
Not likely. Fragile little flowers didn’t hitch rides on boxcars. She probably had a switchblade in her hip pocket and was just waiting for some poor bastard to mess with her. Well, judging by the interest she was drawing from his fellow travel mates, she wouldn’t have long to wait.
As if she sensed Rafe’s gaze on her, she turned to look at him, and he found himself staring into the biggest, most vulnerable, and most frightened eyes he’d ever seen. He got the oddest feeling—a tight, achy sensation, dead in the center of his chest.
She ducked her head so fast he had little time to analyze his reaction. Not that it took a genius I.Q. to figure it out. He was drunk, for starters, and it had been a hell of a long time since he’d gazed into eyes that didn’t seem shuttered and shrewd.
“Seem” was the keyword in that observation, he fell sure. First impressions were often deceiving, and women could be consummate actresses, espe
cially the hard-as-nails variety who bummed the rails. The gentle caress of moonlight undoubtedly made her look prettier and more fragile than she actually was. She was probably about as vulnerable as a hedgehog and twice as ornery.
While she gazed fixedly down at the jacket she held clutched to her chest, Rafe studied her. An angelic countenance with delicate features. Long, thick eyelashes that cast shadows on her pale cheeks in the eerie illumination. A cute little turned-up nose and a chin that hinted at a stubborn streak.
Who in her right mind would hug her coat instead of wearing it when the temperature was registering close to zero? The boxcar door was jammed and wouldn’t slide shut, making it far colder and draftier inside than usual. With on protection from the cold, she’d be dead by daylight. Not to mention that no young woman right in the head would climb on a boxcar with five sex-starved men. Correction: four sex-starved men and one uninterested, has-been rancher. Even at that, she was faced with some stiff odds.
Rafe snorted at the unintentional pun and curled his hand over the neck of his whiskey bottle. Thank God she wasn’t his problem. He was to drunk to help her out if things got ugly, and he planned to get drunker yet before the night was finished. If there was a code that a man learned to live by while bumming the rails, it was to mind his own business. The little lady was on her own.
Glancing at the other men, who were still staring at her as if they’d never seen a female before, Rafe decided things were definitely going to turn nasty. He’d give it five minutes—ten at the outside.
Picking up the bottle, he gave a mental shrug. She looked on the high side of twenty-one. That was old enough to know better. Right? Damned straight. If you messed with the bull, you got the horn.