“You gave a child up for adoption, right?”

For the breath of an instant, Rebecca’s heart stopped beating. No one, not even her closest friends, knew about the decision that had been made years ago. How could this man, a total stranger—

“My name is Sam Winslow. I adopted a child fourteen years ago.”

Breathe. Just breathe. This couldn’t be happening. Rebecca waited in vain for the rapid cadence of her heart to slow, but the pounding continued.

“I petitioned the court to open her adoption records. You’re listed as my daughter’s birth mother.”

His words penetrated the fog surrounding her, and she looked at him. A daughter! She had a daughter. She hadn’t even known whether the child had been a boy or a girl.

The room spun. Rebecca clutched the edge of the desk to steady herself. She’d prayed, hoped and dreamed that her child would one day want to meet her. Were her dreams finally coming true?

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Harlequin American Romance. With your search for satisfying reading in mind, every month Harlequin American Romance aims to offer you a stimulating blend of heartwarming, emotional and deeply romantic stories.

Unexpected arrivals lead to the sweetest of surprises as Harlequin American Romance celebrates the love only a baby can bring, in our brand-new promotion, AMERICAN BABY, which begins this month with Jacqueline Diamond’s delightful Surprise, Doc! You’re a Daddy! After months of searching for her missing husband, Meg Avery finally finds him—only, Dr. Hugh Menton doesn’t remember her or their child!

With Valor and Devotion, the latest book in Charlotte Maclay’s exciting MEN OF STATION SIX series, is a must-read about a valorous firefighter who rescues an orphaned boy. Will the steadfast bachelor consider becoming a devoted family man after meeting the little boy’s pretty social worker? JUST FOR KIDS, Mary Anne Wilson’s new miniseries, debuts with Regarding the Tycoon’s Toddler….This trilogy focuses on a corporate day-care center and the lives and loves of those who work there. And don’t miss The Biological Bond by Jamie Denton, the dramatic story of a mother who is reunited with the child she’d been forced to give away, when her daughter’s adoptive single father seeks her help.

Enjoy this month’s offerings, and be sure to return each and every month to Harlequin American Romance!

Wishing you happy reading,

Melissa Jeglinski

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin American Romance

The Biological Bond

Jamie Denton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book can only be dedicated to two very special women…

To Joan—For having the courage to make the tough choices;

and

To Alice—For taking a child into her heart and making that child her own.

I love you both.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ever since she heard her first fairy tale, award-winning Harlequin author Jamie Denton always believed in happily-ever-after and the power of love. In her opinion, there’s nothing quite as heartwarming as the happy ending for a hero and heroine who overcome the odds. Always one to seek out a challenge, Jamie embraced her first challenge at the age of sixteen when she married her high school sweetheart. A whole lot of years later, she still fondly recalls the first time she saw her own personal hero and knew, even at that tender age, that he was the one for her. With a history like that, what else could she write except romances?

Books by Jamie Denton

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

892—THE BIOLOGICAL BOND

Dear Reader,

I’ve always been one to look for challenges and have always enjoyed tackling them. Writing The Biological Bond was one such challenge, and one that was close to my own heart for a number of reasons. For as long as I can remember, I knew I was adopted. Even though I grew up with this knowledge and never had a single moment of doubt about the love of my adoptive parents, it didn’t stop me from embarking upon the same fantasies that nearly every adopted child has about their biological parents. At the age of nineteen, the opportunity arose and I was able to live out that fantasy by locating my birth mother. Not only am I blessed with parents who love me, but I also have a whole new family to share in my life.

The Biological Bond is an exploration of the emotional upheaval experienced by the biological and adoptive parents of a young girl in need of a life-saving procedure, a procedure that only the birth parent can provide. To further complicate matters, there is the undeniable attraction between birth and biological parent. And of course, there is the secret of the child’s parentage and what could happen if the truth was ever revealed.

I hope you enjoy your time with Sam and Rebecca as much as I did. I’d love to hear what you think. Write to me at P.O. Box 224, Mohall, North Dakota 58761-0224, e-mail to jamie@jamiedenton.net or visit my Web site at www.jamiedenton.net

Sincerely,

Jamie Denton

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Prologue

“We’ve found her, Mr. Winslow. She’s in Los Angeles, California. Would you like us to make initial contact?”

Sam Winslow, Jr., glanced again at the photograph of Rebecca Martinson. Familiar green eyes gazed at him, and his hand shook. He wondered how she could she have done it. And why? He’d never understood the inner workings of a woman’s mind, but this particular woman he needed to understand.

“No,” Sam said, dropping the photo on the investigator’s desk. “I’ll leave for L.A. in the morning. I can handle things from here.”

Sam stood. If he was going to catch the morning flight for California, he had plenty to take care of before he left. Picking up the photograph again, he slipped it into the thick manila envelope the investigator provided.

Details.

Details of Rebecca Martinson.

For a woman who didn’t want to be found, she’d been relatively simple to locate.

He extended his hand to the investigator and thanked him before leaving the office. Tucking the envelope under his arm, he headed toward his pickup, slipped inside and tossed the offending material on the seat.

He wasn’t looking forward to this trip. Hell, he wasn’t looking forward to meeting her. And he wouldn’t have bothered, if he hadn’t needed her to save his daughter’s life.

Chapter One

“There’s a Mr. Winslow here to see you, Rebecca.”

Rebecca Martinson set aside the file she’d spent the morning reading and looked at her secretary. “A new case?” she asked Laura, wondering whatever happened to marriages that lasted forever. As a family law attorney, she’d seen the uglier side of marriage and, in some instances, humanity as well. She knew from her myriad of clients that happily-ever-after was nothing more than fodder for fairy tales. The only bright spots in her chosen profession were the adoptions she handled. Nothing could compare to the happiness on the faces of the adoptive couples or the love they gave to the child who’d been chosen. Her adoption cases gave her hope.

“He won’t say, and he doesn’t have an appointment.” Laura wiggled her eyebrows. “But he’s the most drop-dead-gorgeous specimen I’ve seen around here in ages.”

Rebecca smiled. “I’ve got a few minutes before the staff meeting. I’ll see what he wants, then you can get started on whatever paperwork we might need.”

Laura nodded, opened the door, and Mr. Winslow walked into the office. For once her secretary hadn’t exaggerated. This man was truly a sight to behold. He had “cowboy” written all over him, and Rebecca’s insides fluttered. Rough-hewn features and broad shoulders teased her feminine senses. She glanced away. She hadn’t been that affected by the male species since…well, in a very long time.

“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Winslow?” Laura asked.

“No, thank you.” His deep voice commanded attention, not to mention the jeans that emphasized long legs and strong thighs. He had the kind of well-tuned body Rebecca appreciated just a little too much.

Forcing her mind on business, she rounded the desk and extended her hand. His rough, callused hand clasped hers firmly. This was a man who worked with his hands for a living, she thought. Powerful hands.

“I’m Rebecca Martinson, Mr. Winslow.” She motioned to a chair. “Won’t you sit down?”

He nodded, then crossed the office and sat in the chair opposite her desk. A deep-brown corduroy jacket, complete with elbow patches, matched the color of his hair—a tad too long for a label like clean-cut.

She returned to her own chair and looked at him expectantly. “What can I do for you, Mr. Winslow?”

The cowboy shifted and glanced around her office, taking time to examine the multitude of diplomas and awards on the wall behind her desk. When his gaze fastened on her, she smiled, hoping to set him at ease.

“Why don’t you start by telling me why you need a lawyer, Mr. Winslow.” She pulled a legal pad from her tray and wrote his name at the top.

He cleared his throat and looked at her with deep, chocolate-colored eyes. His lips were drawn in a thin line. He looked so serious, and a little angry. Not an unusual emotion in her line of work.

She set her pen on the pad, growing a little uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny. “Mr. Winslow, the initial consultation is free, but I have to warn you, I have a full schedule today. Perhaps you’d like to do this another time when you’re more comfortable—”

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. Some emotion she couldn’t define sparked his gaze. “You gave a child up for adoption, right?”

For the breath of an instant her heart stopped beating. If someone had sucker-punched her midsection, she couldn’t have been more shocked. No one, not even her closest friends, knew about the decision that had been made fourteen years ago. How could this man, a total stranger…

“Who are you?” she demanded, rising.

“My name is Sam Winslow. I adopted a child fourteen years ago.”

Breathe. Just breathe.

This couldn’t be happening, she thought, sucking vital air into her lungs. She waited in vain for the rapid cadence of her heart to slow, but the pounding continued.

I adopted a child fourteen years ago.

Maybe it was a coincidence.

I adopted a child fourteen years ago.

There was no other explanation. There could be no other explanation. Hadn’t her father seen to it that no one would ever learn the truth?

“My daughter has a condition called aplastic anemia,” Sam Winslow continued in a matter-of-fact tone as if he hadn’t just tipped her world upside down. “If she doesn’t have a bone-marrow transplant, she’ll die. We haven’t been able to find a match, so I petitioned the court to open her adoption records. You’re listed as her birth mother.”

The room spun. Rebecca clutched the edge of the desk to steady herself. She’d prayed, hoped and dreamed that her child would one day want to meet her. At odd times she’d find herself wondering whether if things had been different she could have kept her child. Only things hadn’t been different, they’d been impossible.

Mr. Winslow’s words penetrated the fog surrounding her, and she looked at him. A daughter! She had a daughter. She hadn’t even known whether the child had been a boy or a girl—until now. She’d given birth, and the nurses had whisked the baby away, but not before she’d heard that first cry of life. A sound that had been haunting her dreams for fourteen long years.

Now that child could very well die. Her heart broke all over again.

“I…I have a…a daughter?” she whispered, still reeling from Sam Winslow’s claim.

His expression tightened and he stood. “No, Ms. Martinson. I have a daughter.”

The truth stung and scraped along her raw emotions. He was absolutely right. She didn’t have a daughter. He did. Legally. Emotionally was an altogether different scenario.

And it did nothing to stop the myriad of questions swimming through her mind. From the sharp tone of his voice, she had a feeling Winslow wouldn’t be forthcoming with answers. “What’s her name?”

He shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “I don’t believe that’s relevant.”

Sam turned and strode to the window overlooking Wilshire Boulevard, fifteen floors below. He never cared much for big cities, especially ones like Los Angeles with its smog, crime and overcrowded conditions. Previous experience reminded him that a twenty-mile drive could take more than an hour during rush hour. Wide-open spaces and untamed land, land that provided for his family, were more his speed.

He shouldn’t have come here, but he’d run out of options. Mel needed this woman to save her life. He was completely helpless, and he hated the feeling. And the way Rebecca Martinson looked at him, with those damn big green eyes of hers, made him uncomfortable as hell. Eyes just like—

“Mel,” he said.

He didn’t know why he’d enlightened her, but the vulnerability and pain he’d detected in her eyes tugged at him. What harm was there in her knowing his daughter’s name?

“Mel? You named a girl Mel?”

She sounded like Christina, his ex-wife, and he bristled. Christina had despised it when he’d called their adorable dark-haired, green-eyed little girl Mel. Undignified, she’d called it. “It’s short for Melanie.”

Silence stretched between them. He wanted to leave, to hop on a plane and fly home where he belonged. But Mel needed this woman—her birth mother.

“How do you know I’ll be a compatible match?” Her voice sounded faraway, dream-like. But this wasn’t a dream—it was a nightmare—his nightmare.

He spun around to face her. “We don’t,” he stated. “The test is simple, and once it’s determined you’re a match, you can donate the bone marrow. I’m told the removal is a relatively simple procedure—”

“I know how it works, Mr. Winslow,” she snapped.

“Good. Then you agree?”

She stared at him, her eyes pooling with unshed tears. He didn’t want to see her tears. He didn’t want to care that she cried. All he wanted was to know that she was willing to save his daughter’s life.

“I need an answer, Ms. Martinson.”

She gave him a watery smile. “Call me Rebecca.”

“I need an answer, Ms. Martinson.” There’d be no Rebecca or Sam for them. If she was a match, she’d donate the marrow, then be out of their lives as if she’d never existed. Mel wouldn’t even have to know who had donated the marrow. “I’ve already made arrangements to have you tested as soon as possible. Today.”

She stared at him in stunned silence.

“To make this as simple as possible, I’ll have a phlebotomist come to your office,” he told her. “We can have the results in a few hours. I’ll call you as soon as we know something. When’s the best time?”

He didn’t know if she was going to deny him or not and decided not to take any chances. He had no trouble playing dirty if it meant saving Mel. He’d do whatever was necessary if it meant saving his daughter’s life, even asking the court for an order to force Mel’s birth mother to give his daughter what she needed.

He moved closer to the desk, braced his hands on the polished surface and leaned forward. “Ms. Martinson, my daughter could die. She needs your help. You gave her life,” he said, going for the kill. “A blood test could be all it takes to save her life.”

She bit her lip, and those eyes that reminded him too much of his daughter filled with emotion. “I have a staff meeting in a few minutes, then I have to be in court this afternoon. I can always get someone to cover for me.” Her long, slender fingers trembled as she lifted her hand to rub at her temple. “Whenever you can arrange it is fine.”

He calmly handed her a card indicating the name of the lab he’d made prior arrangements with before coming to see her. It had been a gamble, but he was past the point of playing it safe. He’d wanted all avenues covered before he’d approached her and was pleased that his instincts had paid off.

He moved toward the door, relieved the first step had been accomplished. In a matter of hours he’d have his answer.

“Wait!” she called as he reached for the door. “What happens if I’m a match?”

“Then you’ll need to check into a hospital to have the bone marrow extracted.”

Anxious to put some distance between himself and Rebecca Martinson, he reached for the door handle again.

“Wait!”

He glanced over his shoulder at her.

“Is she going to be all right? Will a transplant work?”

Her soft voice held a plea that touched his heart. “I hope so, Ms. Martinson.”

He opened the door and looked back at her one last time. He’d always wondered where Mel had gotten those big green eyes and raven’s wing hair. Now he knew.

She looked as if she wanted to say something. Sam didn’t want to hear it. “I’ll be in touch,” he said. As he strode out of the elegant law office, he wondered why he wasn’t relieved.

REBECCA TRIED TO CONCENTRATE, but no matter how hard she attempted to focus on the cases the associates who reported to her had prepared to discuss at the weekly staff meeting, the more her mind drifted to her daughter and Sam Winslow. Now that she’d gotten over her initial shock, she had questions. Simple questions, silly ones really, like what her daughter looked like, whether or not she liked chocolate ice cream topped with fresh strawberries, a daily staple during her pregnancy. Did Mel wrinkle her nose at the sight of meat loaf? Did she like to read? Was she a math whiz? Did she have a desire to practice law like the rest of the Martinsons, or maybe she dreamed of studying medicine like her mother’s side of the family?

There were more questions, tougher ones she had no answers for and was even afraid to ask…like, did her daughter want to meet the woman who had been forced to give her up for adoption?

“Rebecca?”

She let out a frustrated breath and turned her attention to Jillian Thatcher, the newest associate in the family law department. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

“The Templeton adoption,” Jillian said, opening the file on her lap. “I was wondering if you were going to cover the bench trial.”

Rebecca sat up straight and tapped her index finger against her lips. There was a chance her client, Peter Grant, could lose his parental rights, which was a subject close to her own heart. His ex-wife had remarried, moved to South Carolina with her new husband, and had been difficult at best when it came to her client’s visitation. The former Mrs. Grant was alleging her ex-husband hadn’t exercised his parental rights in five years. This was a tough case, and one she didn’t feel the new associate was prepared to handle alone. And one that Rebecca wanted to win, not only for her client, but for herself, as well.

“When is the trial scheduled?” she asked, an idea skirting around the fringes of her mind. A dangerous idea with a steep price tag.

Jillian flipped through the file. “Two months. We have most of the pretrial discovery completed.”

Rebecca nodded. Two months would allow her to see the plan forming executed. “What about phone bills? Do we have them yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Get them,” Rebecca instructed. “We can use them as evidence that our client has attempted to maintain contact with his children. Also get in touch with the child support unit in the County Clerk’s Office. I want verification of all his support payments over the last ten years. Subpoena the clerk into trial if you have to. You’ll be second chairing this one.”

Jillian smiled, the excitement of stepping into a courtroom for an actual trial evident. She nodded, then jotted notes on a legal pad.

Rebecca checked her watch. If she closed the meeting now she might be able to catch Victor Furnari before he scooted out of the office for his standard two-hour lunch with the other senior partners. She needed her head examined for what she was considering.

“Is there anything else?” she asked, scanning the group.

When no one spoke, she stood and scooped a sheaf of papers into her out box. The associates took the action as a signal for the end of their meeting and gathered their files.

“I wanted to discuss the settlement conference on the Barker divorce.” Lee, the more senior of the associates, was close to becoming a junior partner. She liked him. He was ambitious and smart. He could be sympathetic or brutal in the courtroom, a skill that afforded him an excellent track record.

“Can it wait until tomorrow, Lee?” she asked, rounding her desk and heading for the door.

“Sure,” he said, following her. “We don’t go before Judge Holden for another week.”

“Check with Laura,” she said, closing her office door. “Tell her I said to squeeze you in tomorrow.”

She dropped a file on Laura’s desk, then went directly to the elevators that would take her up to the offices of the senior partners. She stepped off the elevator into the plush reception area with its soft gray carpeting and elegant furnishings. Understated artwork adorned rich mahogany-paneled walls. She nodded a greeting to the receptionist and turned left toward Victor Furnari’s office.

She approached the open door and peered inside. Victor stood before a miniconference table, a mug of coffee in his hand as he examined a variety of photographs. “Victor?” she called softly, not wanting to startle him.

He turned and smiled at the sound of her voice. “Come in, Rebecca. I was just trying to decide which of these would best sway the court into believing my client’s husband is hiding assets. What do you think? This thirty-thousand-dollar piece of horse flesh he ‘gifted’ his brother, or this receipt for a little five-carat bauble the tabloids reported he gave to his leading lady last week.”

She stepped into the office that had more masculinely elegant furnishings. “Why not both?” she suggested, coming to stand next to her boss.

“Because?” Victor challenged, indicating a chair at the table.

“Simple,” she said and sat. “I would attempt to establish Cristina Howard as the poor wife of a philandering husband.” She glanced at the blowup of the exclusive jewelry store receipt. “Go for the sympathy angle, Victor. No matter how sexist is it, especially since you have a woman judge. Another woman can easily relate to a woman who’s worked two jobs to put her husband through school. I doubt that it’d matter Mr. Howard chose acting lessons over med school.”

“Good choice,” Vic said, lifting his mug in salute.

When she’d first started at Denison, Ross & Furnari, Victor Furnari had been a brutal taskmaster, constantly throwing challenges in front of her. It hadn’t taken long for her to prove herself, and as a result she’d been given the esteemed honor of second chairing his trials. After Victor had taken ill during a particularly difficult case, Rebecca had stepped in and won the case and many that followed, resulting in her eventual status of junior partner. She loved her job, despite her father’s reference to her ambitions as wasted Martinson talent.

“So what brings you up here today?” He sat in one of the conference chairs and faced her. “Certainly not a burning desire to discuss the Howard divorce,” he added with a chuckle.

She gave him a thin smile. No, her purpose for breaching the walls of Mahogany Row were much more important than the divorce of one of Hollywood’s hottest actors. “I need to take a leave of absence.”

His salt-and-pepper brows pulled into a curious frown. “For how long?” he asked, setting his mug on the table.

“I’m not sure,” she said. She wasn’t certain her outrageous plan would see fruition, but she had to try. “I was thinking four weeks.”

“Four weeks?” His frown deepened when she remained silent. “Are you asking me to grant your request without asking for an explanation?”

She gave a humorless chuckle. “I had hoped.”

Victor stood, crossed the room and closed the door. “You’ve worked for me for a long time,” he said coming back to sit across from her. “You know whatever happens in this office stays in this office, but I can’t go to the other partners for approval without an explanation.”

This was one part of her plan she’d been dreading. There were court appearances to reschedule or shift to the associates under her supervision. She had a bench trial for support modification scheduled for next week, but she was confident Lee, or even Jillian, could handle the case without any problems. No, she dreaded telling Victor why she wanted, needed, the time away from work. If she were in his position, she’d definitely expect an explanation. The dread settling in the pit of her stomach stemmed from her admiration and respect for Victor Furnari. Could he understand the fear and desperation of a seventeen-year-old girl who hadn’t been given a choice? Would the compassion she’d always admired be extended to her?

She stood, nervous energy making her edgy. “First of all, I’m not certain I’ll need the time off,” she said, and moved to the window overlooking the Los Angeles skyline. “I won’t know until later today.”

She turned and rested her backside against the window frame, gripping the ledge with her fingers. Victor leaned back in the chair, his elbows resting on the arm, tapping his fingers together as he waited for her to continue.

“I may be a match for a child who needs a bone marrow transplant.”

Victor shrugged. “Okay, but donating marrow isn’t a month-long procedure. It’s not like donating a kidney, but only around a week-long recovery process at best.”

“I’m aware of that. But this is more complicated.” She pulled in a deep breath. “The child is my daughter.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at her with shrewd hazel eyes. “I didn’t know you had a child,” he said carefully.

“I don’t. Not legally,” she said and wrapped her arms around her middle. Legalities were the least of her problems. Right now the issues plaguing her were much more emotional. “She was given up for adoption when I was seventeen. Her adoptive father came to see me about an hour ago.”

She explained what little she knew about Sam Winslow and her daughter’s life-threatening illness, even going so far as to share with Victor the less painful details of the events surrounding the child she’d been forced to give away. He remained silent, until she said, “I want a chance to get to know my daughter.”

He stood suddenly and crossed the space separating them. Gently he laid a hand on her shoulder in a silent offer of comfort. “I’ve known you since you were fresh out of law school. You’re a very intelligent woman, Rebecca, and an excellent attorney. I’m talking to you as a friend, not your employer. Meeting this little girl is not the move of a smart person. Don’t do this.”

She knew he was right. The analytical part of her understood she was courting disaster, but her heart spoke another story, even if it meant she would accomplish nothing more than a broken heart. “I have to, Victor,” she said quietly.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “For God’s sake, why?” he asked, his voice filled with frustration.

“Because I didn’t have a choice. For some reason that I’m not willing to question, I’ve been given a chance now, and I have to take it.”

“Rebecca—”

“I can’t turn my back on her,” she argued, before he could issue further opposition.

He sighed. “I’m not saying you have to. Do whatever is required medically, but don’t go anywhere near this child. You know the risks.”

True, she knew the risks, but she was willing to take them. And all she had to do was convince Sam Winslow she was entitled to at least meet the daughter she’d been forced to give away fourteen years before. “I have to, Victor. She’s my daughter.”

He shook his head, his gaze filled with concern. God, she thought, if only her own father had been as compassionate, she might not even be having this discussion right now.

“No, Rebecca,” he said gently. “She’s Winslow’s daughter. And since you’re determined to go through with this, then you’d better remember that.”

Chapter Two

As the afternoon eased into early evening, each time the telephone on her desk rang, Rebecca jumped. The lab had sent someone within an hour of Sam’s departure, and she’d been waiting for his phone call ever since. Five hours later and still no word from Sam Winslow.

She’d prayed she’d be a compatible match, but, from the Internet research she’d conducted while indulging in a microwave lunch at her desk, she knew her chances weren’t all that high. A twin was the most likely, then a sibling, lastly a parent. But she could still pray, and she did.

Her research had told her a great deal about aplastic anemia as well. From what the medical journals reported, the disease was indeed as serious as Winslow indicated. Melanie, her daughter, could very well die. She didn’t know any of the details, but it was more than likely Melanie had suffered some sort of low-grade infection that had gone untreated for the anemia to require such drastic measures. She wondered how such a thing could have happened, but she didn’t want to pass judgment on anyone at this point.

The shock she’d been feeling since Sam made the purpose of his visit known had finally worn off. She’d been fighting against the tears ever since, refusing to unleash the pain and silence of the past. Once again tears burned the backs of her eyes. She wanted to give in, but she couldn’t. Too many years of conditioning prevented her from releasing the pent-up emotions.

The waiting was killing her. She had a schedule to rearrange and cases to farm out if her plan worked. Since her conversation with Victor, she’d spent more than a few moments wondering if he was right. Perhaps she should just do whatever was required medically and leave well enough alone.

If only Winslow would call, she could set the wheels in motion. For a brief instant she wondered what her father would say if he knew what she had planned. She shook her head. Silence would serve as her protection against Justice Martinson’s wrath. She’d made the mistake of trusting him once. This was one secret she wouldn’t reveal to anyone—especially her father.

The telephone on the edge of her desk rang, and she jumped. This was it. Since returning from her court appearance earlier that afternoon, she’d instructed Laura no calls unless it was Sam Winslow.

She stared at the phone as it rang a second time. What if he didn’t agree? She didn’t think he would turn her down—he’d told her she was needed.

The phone rang a third time and she reached for it. “Rebecca Martinson.”

“This is Sam Winslow.” His deep voice filtered through the phone lines. She didn’t have to see him to know his lips were probably drawn in that everpresent tight line.

“We have the results. How soon can you check into the hospital?”

Despite the hint of relief in his voice, his words were still clipped and somewhat brusque. Rebecca wondered what his reaction would be when she told him what she wanted. She didn’t care what Sam Winslow thought of her. Nothing was important now except that she have the chance to save her daughter’s life, and convince her daughter’s father that she be allowed to spend a few days with the girl.

She took a deep breath and gathered her courage. “Mr. Winslow, I’d like to discuss this with you further. Where are you staying?”

Silence.

She bit her lip, waiting. Hoping.

After a moment he rattled off the address to his hotel, which she jotted down. She checked her watch. “I’ll be there within the hour,” she said, and hung up the phone.

Bracing her hands on the edge of her desk, she hung her head for a moment and said a quick prayer of thanks. She really wasn’t much of a religious person, but since she’d made her decision, she’d recited every prayer she remembered.

SAM FACED THE WINDOW overlooking the rear parking lot of the hotel, waiting. He glanced at his watch again for the fifth time. She would be arriving any moment now. He scowled.

A sleek, black, foreign sports car pulled into the parking lot, and he watched its slow progress across the asphalt. Instinct told him it was her.

The car slid into the parking slot two floors below. He held his breath, a part of him hoping she wouldn’t come. Seconds later she slipped from the car.

She looked cool, despite the hot August evening, her white linen suit unrumpled even in the sweltering heat. Her rich dark hair was pulled back and fancily secured so it hung halfway down her back. There was no denying where Mel’s beauty came from—her birth mother.

He stepped away from the window when she turned and headed toward the luxury hotel. Rebecca Martinson may be intelligent, a hot-shot lawyer, according to the report the investigator provided him with, and beyond beautiful, but he knew her type all too well. According to the investigator, Mel’s birth mother had a pedigree to rival royalty.

Rebecca Martinson’s father was a State Supreme Court Justice, her grandfather had been a United States Senator, brutally assassinated. As for Mel’s maternal grandmother, she was simply one more cardiologist in a long line of top medical practitioners in the country.

As painful as the subject was, he couldn’t help wondering about Mel’s biological father. The investigator had been evasive in his answers on that score, and had provided nothing by way of solid information. Was Mel’s natural father the son of a servant the mighty Martinson family had been ashamed of? Or was he someone high on the “A” list anxious to avoid scandal? Or was it something as simple as the fact that Rebecca hadn’t been more than a child herself?

A knock on the door interrupted his train of thought. She wanted to talk. His gut said she wanted something. He could feel it just as sure as he could feel the cool breezes from the plains where he grew up, and it filled him with a deep sense of dread.

She knocked again, and he opened the door. Standing in the hallway, she was no longer the self-assured attorney he’d first glimpsed. Now she was nervous, almost as nervous as he was about this meeting.

“Hi,” she said quietly when she stepped into the room.

“I’d offer you a drink, Ms. Martinson, but this isn’t a social call. What do you want?”

He knew he was being hard, but dammit, he didn’t like feeling threatened. And Rebecca Martinson was a threat of the worst possible kind. She didn’t have a legal right to demand squat. Emotionally, well, that was an entirely different situation.

She set her purse on the cream sofa, and he couldn’t help noticing how her hands trembled. She started to remove her lightweight linen blazer, then changed her mind and pulled it back around her, shoving her hands in the side pockets.

She cleared her throat, her gaze darting around the suite. He remained by the closed door and crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn’t going to make this easy for her, whatever the hell it was she wanted from him.

“Mr. Winslow, I would like the chance to get to know my dau—to get to know Melanie.”

Anger, pure and hot, flared through him. He should have expected something like this. His visit had more than likely stirred some dormant maternal instinct. Well, she could forget it. He wasn’t going to risk losing his daughter to appease the woman who’d given her up in the first place.

“I don’t think so, Ms. Martinson.” He swung around and opened the door. “You can leave now.”

“Hear me out. Please.”

The pleading in her voice startled him. God, she even sounded like Mel.

He slammed the door, and she flinched. Good, let her be frightened. Because if she so much as tried to take his daughter away from him, he’d hunt her down and…

“I just want a chance to meet her and get to know her.” Her voice was whisper soft, not at all the forceful personality he’d encountered in his two previous conversations with her.

“No.” Cold and blunt, but the point was the same. No way in hell, lady.

Dark, finely arched brows drew together in a sleek line over bright-green eyes. “What harm can there possibly be in me at least meeting her?”

“What harm?” he roared. “Lady, are you nuts?”

“Obviously,” she muttered, and turned away.

He strode across the room until he was standing directly in front of her, giving her no choice but to look up at him. A small power play, but he wasn’t above using his own physical advantages at a time like this. He simply had too much to lose.

“Do you know what kind of shock it’d give her? What do I say? ‘Mel, this is your birth mother. She wants to get to know you,”’ he said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “No!”

Much to his amazement she didn’t back down or cower. Frustration flashed in her eyes and, if he wasn’t fighting for his daughter’s life, he might have found her gumption just a little stimulating.

“You don’t have to tell her who I am. You could tell her I’m an old friend. She doesn’t even have to know I’m the one who’s donated the bone marrow.”

Bracing his hands on his hips, he continued to scowl at her. “And just how long do you plan on ‘visiting’?” he asked against his better judgment.

She pulled in a deep breath and stepped away. “I’ve arranged for a month-long leave of absence.”

“A month?” A few days, maybe, if that’s what it took to get what Mel needed. But a month? No way could he have this woman living under the same roof with his daughter. He shook his head.

“Look Mr. Winslow. A month isn’t all that long to ask for. I’ve lost—”

“Don’t tell me what you’ve lost,” he thundered. “You made the decision to give her up for adoption. And believe me, if Mel didn’t need you for physiological reasons, you would have gone blissfully through life without knowing her.”

“Haven’t you ever done something you’ve regretted?” she asked. “She’s your daughter, I just want—”

“A chance to right some cosmic wrong?” he retorted. “Forget it.”

She let out a stream of breath and closed her eyes momentarily. In that instant she reminded him so much of Mel. The way her long, dark lashes fanned her cheeks, the stream of breath that ruffled bangs and spoke loud and clear of dramatic frustration.

She opened her eyes and gave him a direct stare. “Please, Mr. Winslow. There’s no other way I know how to ask.”

The pleading note in her voice ripped through him, and he felt himself begin to soften. He’d have to be pretty convincing where Mel was concerned. How could he just bring a strange woman into their home and pretend they were old friends?

“All I’m asking for is a month to get to know her. I don’t want to upset her. I’m willing for her to never know who I really am. Won’t you agree? Please, Mr. Winslow.”

Sam strode to the window and stared into the horizon. He wanted to tell her to get out—to leave and forget he’d ever contacted her. But he couldn’t. No matter how much he detested her manipulative tactics, for Mel he couldn’t afford the luxury of telling Rebecca Martinson to go straight to hell.

“One month in exchange for bone marrow?”

Rebecca expelled a rush of breath. She was getting through to him. As cold and heartless as he made it sound, that was exactly what she wanted. “Yes,” she said, not bothering to tell him that even if he’d refused she would have checked into the hospital immediately to begin the extraction process.

“One month,” he repeated and turned to face her. He strode across the room until he was towering over her again. “My daughter knows she’s adopted, Ms. Martinson.” His soft voice belied the fury burning in his dark eyes. “God help us both if she finds out who you really are.”

“FLIGHT 473, nonstop to Denver will commence boarding in five minutes.”

Rebecca checked her watch for the fourth time in as many minutes. She opened her shoulder bag and retrieved the airline ticket delivered to her last night. She double-checked the flight number—473. A few hours to Denver, then a commuter to a place called Minot, North Dakota. From what Sam had told her, he lived in a small town with a population of less than five hundred. Her condo complex was more populous.

She looked at the overhead monitor and bit her lip. Their flight was due for take off in less than thirty minutes, and Sam Winslow still hadn’t shown.

Turning to face the electronic doors, she watched as people flooded into the terminal at LAX. Not one of them was Sam. She sighed. How difficult could it be to spot one taller-than-average, better-looking-than-any-man-had-a-right-to-be guy with a permanent frown creasing his brow?

In this crowd, impossible.

She turned and headed toward the bank of phones intending to call his hotel. Maybe he’d overslept. If he wasn’t familiar with the layout of the airport, he could even have gotten lost. She reached for the pay phone when she spotted him, walking toward her at a brisk pace. Her pulse rate picked up speed.

Pulling in a deep breath, she told herself to calm down. Her rocketing heartbeat had nothing to do with the way Sam’s rich sable hair curled just right at his nape or the fact that he had the sexiest bedroom eyes she’d ever seen in her adult life. The purpose of this trip had nothing to do with Sam Winslow and everything to do with her daughter. And besides, more than likely he was a married man!

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, ushering her toward the metal detector without pause. “The rental car had to be dropped off.”

“No need to apologize. I only just arrived myself,” she lied. She’d been waiting, and pacing, for over an hour.

Neither of them spoke, for which Rebecca was thankful. She didn’t know what to say. Better to suffer through the awkward silence than put her foot in her mouth, which she’d undoubtedly do, considering she had a record-setting case of nerves. Facing the toughest judge the family court had to offer never rattled her, but the presence of one tall, drop-dead-gorgeous man she knew nothing about had the ability to make her feel like a complete klutz.

He approached the metal detector and waited for her to set her carry-on and purse on the black conveyor belt. She stepped through the electronic archway toward a security guard who passed a hand-held detector over her body. Nothing beeped or screeched so she moved on to the end of the table to await the arrival of her bags.

Sam wasn’t so lucky. When he stepped through the archway, a high, piercing wail sounded. The security guard pointed him back through again. Rebecca picked up Sam’s carry-all while he removed his belt and a few trinkets from the pockets of his jeans. Finally he strode toward her, took the bag from her and silently guided her toward the loading gate and aboard the plane that would take her to her daughter.

She still couldn’t get over the initial surprise of finally being given the chance to meet the child she’d been forced to give up so long ago. Fate, she knew, played funny tricks on people, and sometimes righted the wrongs. She prayed again, like she had so many times in the past forty-eight hours, that this was her chance.

Once their bags were stored in the overhead compartment and they were comfortably seated, Rebecca turned to Sam. “Not much of a talker are you?”

He looked at her, and she wished she knew what he was thinking. The warmth of his eyes was a direct contrast to the creasing of his brows. She had no idea what went on in his mind. And she didn’t know a thing about him. Well, maybe it was time she found out. Like how his wife was going to feel about her barging into their lives.

She gave him one of her best smiles. “I don’t know anything about you.”

“There isn’t much to know.” He adjusted his seat belt then looked past her, out the window toward the tarmac.

She wasn’t about to be put off by his less-than-friendly attitude. Work. Work was always a good subject. People loved to talk about what they did for a living. “What kind of work do you do in Shelbourne, North Dakota?”

“Farming.”

“You’re a farmer?” She didn’t mean to sound so shocked. She should have guessed him to be an outdoorsy kind of guy who worked with his hands. She remembered those hands, strong, powerful. Yet, she somehow knew they could also be tender and gentle. Tender and gentle enough to bring a woman to a fever pitch.

“Not everyone has had the advantages you’ve had, Ms. Martinson.”

Ouch. Maybe his hands could be tender and gentle, but his attitude was sharper than a switchblade. “Don’t expect me to apologize because I’ve had a good life. I got K through twelve just like everyone else. Just because I—”

“I’m sorry.”

This guy could shift gears faster than a close-ratio Ferrari. “Excuse me?”

He sighed, then looked at her. The frown disappeared and he looked handsome again. “I said I was sorry. This situation is a little…tense.”

“No kidding.” She laid her hand over his strong forearm. “And you’re not helping.”

“You want me to make this easy for you?” Slowly, as if he didn’t want her to notice, he removed his arm from her grasp.

“You don’t have to make anything easy for anyone. We can’t help where we’ve come from or what we’ve had to do to get where we are. Why don’t we just accept that and go on from here, okay?”

Uh-oh. Frown’s back.

“Is that what you did, Ms. Martinson? What you had to do to get where you are today?”

She glared at him. There was nothing else for her to do. She couldn’t very well get up and walk out of an airplane taxiing down the runway. But she didn’t want to keep suffering his sarcasm for the next three and a half hours, not to mention another ninety minutes on a rock-and-tumble commuter flight.

“Look, Winslow,” she said, giving him a narrow-eyed glare as the plane lifted off. “My past is my past. Tough decisions were made that are pretty much none of your damn business. So why don’t you just pipe down and be civil. Okay?”

His expressed immediately softened, and his dark eyes filled with contrition. “Are you always this sassy?” he asked.

“Only with people who have a rotten attitude.”

“Touché,” he said, the beginning of a grin tugging his lips ever so slightly.

“I bet your wife doesn’t let you get away with that attitude.”

“I’m not married.”

“Let me guess. Your winning smile drove her away, right?” Okay, so he was right. She was sassy. But she knew all about pecking order, and she was not about to let Sam Winslow intimidate her into playing Beta to his Alpha. He might be gaining the home field advantage, but he’d learn soon enough his opponent was anything but a pushover.

This was not how Sam had planned his association with his daughter’s birth mother. In fact, since he’d walked into Rebecca’s office yesterday, not much had gone as planned…his physical reaction to her topping the list.

He’d seen the photograph of her and knew she was a beautiful woman, but he wasn’t prepared for the sleek, cat-like grace she possessed when she moved, or the way her bright-green eyes pooled when he mentioned Mel. Nor had he been prepared for the physical response that surged through his body when she’d gently laid her hand over his arm. That had been a curve ball he hadn’t seen coming.

An hour later Sam hadn’t come to terms with the way his body had reacted to Rebecca. When the flight attendant offered them a drink, Rebecca ordered a diet cola. He wanted a double bourbon—straight, but settled for coffee instead.

He thanked the attendant and gave Rebecca his full attention. She sighed, a wistful little sound that stirred his blood.

“I don’t want Mel to know you’re the one to donate the bone marrow,” he blurted. He’d been trying to find a tactful way to approach the subject. Oh well, he thought. At least it was out in the open.

She looked at him and lifted one of those dark brows in silent question.

“Mel’s not a stupid kid,” he said quietly. “A sibling or a biological parent are the most likely matches in bone marrow transplantation and she’s aware of that fact. She’s heard the rundown on the entire medical process and can easily figure it out for herself who you really are.”

Setting her diet cola on the fold-down tray, she traced squiggles in the condensation of the plastic cup with a perfectly manicured nail. “I thought we already had this discussion.”

True, he thought, but he wanted to make certain Mel was protected. “I don’t lie to my kid, but in this case it’s necessary. And, Ms. Martinson?” Sam waited until she looked at him. “Once the month is over, that’s it. You’ll never be allowed to see my daughter again.”

A PINCUSHION had fewer holes than Rebecca did in her arm. As soon as she’d checked into the hospital, they’d sent in the legalized vampires to begin the methodical torture of withdrawing vial upon vial of blood. The nurse had threatened an IV would be started before she went to sleep. Rebecca didn’t think she had a vein left for the insertion.

She continued to surf the fourteen available channels and finally landed on a local news program. While a petite blonde talked about an overturned grain truck on one of the highways, Rebecca thought about her daughter, two floors above her.

“Damn,” she muttered. She never should have promised Sam she’d wait to meet Melanie until after the girl was released from the hospital. But even her promise failed to squelch the burning desire to sneak upstairs and take a look at her.

The newscaster promised a weather report after a commercial break. Melanie was probably sleeping. There certainly was nothing on television to hold one’s interest, let alone that of a teenaged girl. Maybe she could just take a walk, stretch her legs and stroll past the room. If Melanie was awake, she’d keep going, but…

Unable to resist any longer, she reached for her cotton robe and pulled it around her. She jammed her feet into the slippers the nurse had parked neatly at the bedside. Firmly ignoring the possible repercussions, she left the private hospital room, strolled past the nurses’ station and headed for the elevator.

After a moment the doors whooshed open, and she stepped inside, pushed the button for the fifth floor and waited. Her insides churned, and her heart pounded in a heavy rhythm. Thank goodness she was in a hospital—a crash cart would easily be at hand if she arrested.

The doors slid open, and she stepped off the elevator onto the fifth floor. Now what? she wondered. She was here, her daughter was somewhere on the floor, but where? What if Sam left instructions with the nursing staff that Melanie was to have no visitors? No Rebecca Martinson visitors?

Hesitantly she headed down the corridor toward the nurses’ station. An older man, apparently a doctor, was jotting notes in a chart and giving orders to a nurse. She couldn’t just walk the halls and pray she’d be guided by some magical force to her child.

Wiping her hands on the thin material of her robe, she continued toward the nurses’ station.

“What about the Winslow girl?” the nurse asked.

Rebecca froze.

“She’s resting comfortably,” the doctor answered, handing the chart to the nurse. “She’ll be transplanted at 7:00 a.m. by Dr. Walsh.”

Rebecca slowed her steps, straining to hear anything, a sliver of hope that they believed the transplant would be a success.

“I hope it works.” The nurse placed the chart on the Formica counter. “She’s such a—”

A high-pitched beep sounded. The nurse looked over the counter and pushed a button. “Sandy Reed again.”

The doctor chuckled, then strode away while the nurse took off in the opposite direction.

The chart lay on the stark counter.

Rebecca bit her lip and hurried forward. The nurses’ station was deserted. She looked over her shoulder, up and down the corridor, then scanned the chart. The name typed on the bottom of the form entitled Doctor’s Orders was Mary Fitzmyer.

With another surreptitious glance around the vicinity, she made certain all was clear. A few televisions droned in the background along with the bleeps and chirps from various monitors and medical equipment. Standing on tiptoe, she peered over the counter. Medical charts lined the desk area. Valuable minutes would be wasted if she had to search each chart to see which room was Melanie’s.

Another look around the area and she darted around the counter. M. Winslow. The name and room number was posted to a board with little red lights that flashed when someone required the nursing staff’s attention.

Room 529.

She didn’t believe it possible, but her heartbeat thudded painfully in her chest. This was it.

Wiping her damp palms on her robe a second time, she rechecked the area, then hurried from around the counter.

She checked the sign. Rooms 519 to 529. Melanie would be at the end of the corridor.

She’d come this far, she couldn’t back out now. Nervously she headed toward the end of the corridor, staying close to the pale-mauve walls for support. Stopping outside the slightly opened door to room 529, she listened, barely able to hear a thing beyond the blood pounding in her ears.

Absolute quiet. No television, radio or even the sounds of a magazine or book pages being turned. With one last glance down the corridor, she quietly pushed the door open. By the soft light from the hallway spilling into the room, she spotted the bed. Curled on her side sleeping peacefully, was a tiny girl with hair as dark as Rebecca’s own and a pert nose remarkably reminiscent of Rebecca’s mother.

Her breath stopped, and she fought an unexpected rush of tears. This was her child, her daughter. Carefully she stepped more fully into the room and approached the bed. Melanie Winslow looked so small and fragile, Rebecca’s heart broke as if it was nothing more than delicate crystal smashed cruelly against the pavement. She deeply resented that she’d had to give this beautiful child away, but her father hadn’t given her a choice.

Dwelling on the past solved nothing. She had to look to the future, grateful to have the one month Sam had granted her.

The girl stirred. Rebecca held her breath as realization flooded her. God, what had she done? If Melanie awakened and found her here, how would she explain her presence later? She’d promised Sam she wouldn’t do this—and look at her, sneaking around the hospital in the middle of the night.

Melanie snuggled further beneath the blankets, and Rebecca expelled the breath she’d been holding. As carefully and as quietly as possible she backed out of the room and pulled the door near closed.

By the time she reached her room, her limbs trembled uncontrollably. Personal risks were something she rarely employed. Gambling was not on her list of habits, but she’d certainly done more than her fair share in the past forty-eight hours. She knew getting to know Melanie was risky—she could lose, and the cost was astronomical. She’d suffered heartache once. Did she really think she could bear to suffer it again?

Chapter Three

The textbooks lied. There was no other explanation for the horrible throbbing pain in her hips. Rebecca winced when Sam swerved to avoid another pothole in the road. She didn’t think the bruises would ever fade, considering the coat hanger they’d used to extract bone marrow the previous day.

The radio played softly, a country-western station no less, and she wondered if they played other types of music out here in the middle of nowhere. She doubted Sam even owned anything remotely close to classical music, unless one considered Hank Williams classical, she thought crankily.

Occasional farmhouses and huge red or white barns dotted the sprawling countryside as they headed north toward the Canadian border. A few corrals with a horse or two grazing idly, and even small paddocks with cattle, now and then broke up the vast landscape, but mainly her view consisted of field upon field of wheat and other types of soon-to-be grains she didn’t recognize.

As they passed a field of sunflowers, Rebecca marveled at the huge, bright-yellow flowers, all facing in the same easterly direction, like smart little soldiers waiting in ranks for the order to march forward into battle. She thought of asking Winslow how they did that, but he’d been silent and sullen since they’d left the hospital so she kept her questions to herself.

“How much farther is it to Shelbourne?” she asked twenty minutes later, more out of boredom than anything else. She shifted in her seat and stifled a groan when her sweats rubbed uncomfortably against her bruised hipbone.

“Another forty minutes or so.” Sam kept his eyes trained on the flat roadway. Other than the rich tenor on the radio singing about putting the past behind him, the cab was silent again.

“Did you make reservations for me?” she asked, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. Not only was Sam’s less-than-friendly attitude beginning to wear on her nerves, she wanted nothing more than to lie down.

“Reservations?”

She sighed. “Yeah. You know, like in a hotel? A place where I can rest my head at night? Or did you plan on stuffing me in a hay-filled stall with all the other barnyard animals?”

He tossed an exasperated glance her way. “The closest motel is fifty miles away from the farm. You’ll be staying at the house with us.”

She sat up and winced. “What?”

“Sorry, Ms. Martinson, but Shelbourne isn’t exactly a mecca filled with fine restaurants and five-star hotels.”

Rebecca turned to the window, worrying her lower lip. She’d imagined spending her time in a nice little hotel room, going with Sam to visit Melanie and waiting for word that the transplant was indeed the success the preliminary reports were showing. Once the doctors released Melanie to home care, she’d envisioned spending a few days a week at the house playing the role of visitor—not taking up residence with Witty Winslow.

Thirty minutes later they turned from the highway onto a secondary road. They passed the tall cylinders of a grain elevator and finally a silver tower with the word Shelbourne painted in black, block-style letters.

She shielded her eyes from the bright North Dakota sunshine and struggled to sit straighter to get a look at the town where her daughter lived. Sam slowed the truck to the twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit posted for the city limits.

City? she wondered silently. City wasn’t exactly the word she would use to describe the three-block section of Shelbourne. There was a hardware store, a post office, a grocery with big red letters that said just that and a drugstore, all in one block. The next block boasted a beauty shop she was certain Ron, her stylist, would flay her alive if she dared to visit. On the other side of the street stood a floral shop, an auto parts store and a barbershop, complete with an old-fashioned red-and-white pole. There were a couple of taverns, a place called the Shelbourne Diner and at the end of the street a mechanic’s shop that doubled as a gas station. Before she could blink, they’d crossed over a set of railroad tracks and then more wide-open nothingness. Just more fields of summer crops.

“That’s it?” she asked, and turned to look behind her. There hadn’t been a police station, city hall, not even a library or a church. “Where’s the police station?”

“We don’t have one,” he answered, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

“You guys dish out justice Western style, or what?”

He chuckled and the sound swept over her, stirring her senses. “No. We have a county sheriff in a nearby town. There’s a courthouse, too, a couple of lawyers, a medical clinic. Pretty much everything we need is here in Shelbourne or Johnstone. For anything else I travel to Minot once a month.”

“I see.” Really she didn’t. Where were the convenience stores? Or a movie theater, or video store? God, where did Melanie go if she got a craving for a hot-fudge sundae? Canada?

She turned her gaze back to Sam. “You said it was a small town, but cripes, I didn’t realize you meant it.”

“Feeling a little out of your element, Ms. Martinson?” There was no animosity in his voice, just mild amusement which made her smile.

“Actually…yes,” she admitted, curious to know what Melanie did for recreation in a town the size of Shelbourne.

Sam didn’t reply, but turned the truck onto a gravel road. Instinctively she clutched the dashboard in an effort to keep the jarring to a minimum. As if he sensed her discomfort, he thankfully slowed the truck and she relaxed. She hoped he had a comfortable bed for her. Her hips were killing her, and she was exhausted. The doctor had warned her to take it easy for a week. Considering what she’d just seen of the town, she didn’t think that was going to be a problem, because Sam had been right. Shelbourne was not exactly a mecca.

WHEN SAM HAD SAID he was a simple farmer, Rebecca envisioned a little red barn in need of repair on the edge of a wheat field. She imagined cows and pigs, chickens pecking the ground, maybe even a small corral for a horse or two along with a big lazy bloodhound snoozing in the shade.

The dusty driveway she’d pictured was in reality a smooth concrete drive bordered by majestic evergreens. Replacing the little red barn of her imagination stood a monstrosity of red, neatly trimmed in white, along with three other long, low, rounded buildings of equal size. There were other outbuildings, as well, each painted white with a red W above the doors. She counted close to two dozen huge, galvanized-steel cylinders along a treeline and varying types of heavy machinery she couldn’t begin to name.

Sam drove past the barn and outbuildings and waved to a group of at least a dozen men resting on benches beneath the shade of a large maple tree. But the sight that stole her breath was the farmhouse itself, the house she would share with Sam and Melanie for the next four weeks.

She’d prepared herself for the worst, imagining a clapboard shack with peeling paint, a sagging roof and dusty windows. The structure that loomed in front of her could only be referred to as stately. The home was subdued elegance and country comfort, a combination she never would have been able to imagine. A covered porch swept across the front, complete with an old-fashioned wooden railing that made her think of warm summer evenings and sunsets. A bed of spring flowers strained toward the warmth of the sun, creating a picture-postcard effect she found too enchanting for words.

A tall, reed-thin man sauntered from around the side of the house, a cowboy hat shielding his eyes from the sun. His weathered face broke into a grin as he approached them. “Boy am I glad you’re here. We’ve got a small problem, Sam.”

Sam slipped a blue ball cap onto his head and slid from the truck. “What’s up, Jake?”

“It’s that old combine again,” he said. “R.D.’s won’t have the parts in until next week, and I can’t spare a man to run into the city right now.”

“Damn.” Sam braced his hands on his denim-clad hips. “That wheat’s ready to come down. We need every piece of equipment in those fields.”

Jake tilted his hat back, exposing thick salt-and-pepper hair. “I did another grain test this morning, boss. I’ve started the boys out there today in the far northern square.”

“Have you called around to see if anyone can get the parts to us?”

Jake nodded. “Farm Supply in the city, but they can’t deliver until Friday. I’d head off but we’ve already got four truckloads of grain ready to take to the elevator and we’re short a driver.”

Carefully Rebecca opened the door to the cab and stepped onto the driveway. Sam and his foreman could have been speaking a foreign language. She didn’t have a clue what they were talking about, but she could tell from the dark expression on Sam’s face he wasn’t too happy.

She closed the door, and both men turned to look in her direction.

Jake touched the brim of his cowboy hat. “Ma’am.”

“Rebecca Martinson, this is Jake Henshaw. He’s my foreman.”

She walked around the front of the pickup and extended her hand to Jake. “A pleasure, Mr. Henshaw.”

Jake chuckled and shook her hand. “Just Jake, ma’am. You a friend of Sam’s?”

“We’re old friends from college.” The lie easily slid from her lips, from where, she couldn’t be sure. She supposed it was the safest and most logical explanation for her presence at Winslow Farms.

She caught Sam’s dark gaze, but his eyes revealed nothing.

“I’ve got to head back into the city,” Sam told her. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” She’d been worried about what they would find to talk about. His abrupt departure would at least give her a chance to find her bearings. “I’ll just get settled, if you’ll show me where I’ll be staying.”

Sam said a few more words to Jake and sent the older man to call in the order so it would be ready when he arrived.

“This way.” He inclined his head toward the side of the house and pulled her overnight bag from the bed of the truck.

Rebecca followed him up a short set of steps into a utility room the size of a small office. An antique bench butted against the wall next to a rack filled with boots and shoes. Inside of an open closet space, coats and sweaters hung neatly on a bar below a shelf with a variety of hats, gloves and scarves.

When she stepped into the kitchen, she stared in amazement. Most people thought of the kitchen as the heart of a home. To her, it had always been the room where she kept the cereal and microwave dinners. Just about every appliance, small and large, most of which she couldn’t begin to name, adorned the spacious, cream ceramic-tiled counters. A large oval oak table held center stage atop an authentic brick floor. Rich oak cabinets with matching ceramic handles or knobs, along with braided oval rugs, cream lace curtains and baskets filled with dried or silk flowers added a comfortable down-home feel to an otherwise technologically sterile environment.

“Mel’s idea,” he said, nodding to the feminine touches.

He dropped her bag on a thick-legged chair near the table. “Make yourself at home,” he said, removing his cap and running his fingers through his hair. “I had your bags brought upstairs yesterday. Your room is the third door on the left. You’ll find leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry.” He glanced at his watch then slapped his cap back on his head. “I should be back in time for supper.”

Back in time for supper? Oh, sweet heaven. He didn’t expect her to cook, did he? Because she had serious doubts that her one speciality, Rebecca raman, would be well received in the land of meat and potatoes. Before she could ask Sam, he spun on his heel and disappeared through the utility room.

Sam drove away before she pulled out a chair and sat. Now what? She was miles from home, exhausted, and didn’t have the first clue what to do with herself. Resting her elbow on the heavy table, she plopped her chin in her hand.

What was she doing here?

Maybe she should leave. Victor had been right, she had no business coming to North Dakota. She should ask Sam’s foreman to take her back to the airport and she could jump on the first plane back to California. Open adoptions were becoming more and more common, but she always advised her adoption clients not to maintain contact with the birth mother because ultimately, the child suffered. She knew the arguments by rote, but her heart cried out for this one chance to get to know the daughter she’d lost. The choice of keeping her child had been taken away from her when she’d been a mere child herself. How could she turn away from the opportunity she now held in her hands?

No. She couldn’t think about what might go wrong. Melanie was not going to find out who she really was, and after her month was up, she’d leave.

And do what? she asked herself.

Learn to live her life without her child—all over again.

THREE HOURS LATER Sam still hadn’t returned. Rebecca had showered, changed and explored the large and elegant farmhouse and was bored stiff. Needing something to occupy her time, she found her way to the kitchen. Sam said he’d be home for supper. What time was supper in North Dakota? She’d seen for herself that the sun didn’t set until after nearly eleven o’clock each night. And she’d already learned that lunch was called dinner, which she didn’t think she’d ever get used to hearing. Things were certainly different in the Midwest.

Well, maybe she wasn’t much of a cook, but she did have quite a knack for microwave dinners. Sam said there were leftovers. Maybe she could warm some of those and they’d eat supper together.

With some effort she located the makings of what she deemed a decent meal. Now all she had to do was figure out how to operate the electric stove, since Sam didn’t have a microwave, which she thought odd considering the multitude of gadgets in his kitchen.

Geeze, what did Melanie do for popcorn? she wondered.

Twenty minutes later, and after several false starts, she’d sliced a leftover roast, found a container with what she thought could pass for gravy and set them to simmer. She wrinkled her nose. Warming, the meat had a strange odor.

She peered into the skillet. It looked like roast beef. Checking the container, she found a masking tape label on the lid with a V printed on the top. “Veal?” she murmured, and looked back in the pan. Didn’t look, or smell, like any veal she’d ever seen. With a shrug she padded across the brick floor to the freezer, hoping to find some vegetables. Stacked inside in neat orderly rows were meats, clearly labeled and wrapped in white paper. She found hamburger, T-bones, roasts, pork chops and…

“Venison! Oh my, God. I’m cooking Bambi!”

With a disgusted cry, she slammed the freezer door then hurried across the kitchen as quickly as possible, considering her sore hip. She snapped off the burner and glared at the contents in the skillet. No way was she eating Bambi.

Now what? she thought. She returned to the fridge and found some lettuce and tomatoes. She added a can of tuna she found in the pantry and successfully turned it into a salad. Now her only problem was she couldn’t find a drop of dressing. She vaguely recalled a cooking show she’d seen once when she was stuck in bed with the flu for a week. Maybe she could make her own salad dressing. After locating cooking oil and a bottle of vinegar, she dumped the contents of both bottles into a bowl, stirred them, then set the bowl in the fridge to chill.

Happy with her endeavors, she wandered to the family room and flipped on the television. She found an old movie and settled on the sofa to wait for Sam.

MELANIE SAT against a mound of pillows, a teen magazine propped in her lap when Sam walked through the door. For the first time in weeks a hint of sparkle shone in her eyes.

Overcome by a rush of emotion, he stopped and stared at his daughter. He’d been so afraid he would lose her. First the unknown, and then the dreaded diagnosis that forced him to locate her birth mother. Thanks to Rebecca, Mel now had a chance. For that, he would always be grateful to her.

“Dad!” Mel tossed the magazine aside. “I’m so bored.”

Sam chuckled at her melodramatics and produced the stuffed bear he’d been holding behind his back, before sitting on the edge of the bed. “That’s a good sign.”

Mel gave him one of her breathtaking grins. Shock rippled through him. That smile he’d always loved on his daughter reminded him too much of Rebecca. Mother and daughter shared the same smile, the same hair and eye color, but that’s where the physical similarities ended. He’d always had a mild curiosity about Mel’s parentage. Since meeting Rebecca, that curiosity had mounted, almost to the point of obsession.

Mel wrapped her slender arms around his neck and gave him a fierce hug. “Thanks for the bear, Dad.”

“Anytime.”

Mel settled against the pillows and hugged the pink teddy to her chest. “What are you doing here? I called the house. Where were you?”

“You called the house?” Rebecca was at the house.

“Yeah, I left a message on the machine. I figured you were busy with harvest.”

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He’d have to explain Rebecca’s presence sooner or later, but he preferred later. “I had to come in to the city to pick up a part for one of the combines. The boys have already started taking down the wheat.”

A flicker of sadness flashed in her green eyes. “I guess that means you won’t be able to come see me tomorrow, huh?”

He’d never disappointed his daughter, and he wasn’t about to start now. Harvest or no harvest. “I’ll be here, Mel. I promise.”

“That’s okay, Dad,” she said, giving him a half smile. “I know you’ll be busy. You don’t have to.”

True, harvest time was difficult, with long hours from sunup until sundown. Most times they never even came in from the fields for meals. In the past, his widowed mother had helped out at harvest, bringing meals to the hands twice a day, and keeping up with the household chores, but last fall she’d relocated to Arizona to live with her sister in the much warmer climate. He needed to hire a housekeeper and cook, test the durum and canola fields, and deal with a mountain of paperwork piling up on his desk, but nothing could keep him from getting away to spend time with Mel until she came home, even if he could only manage to get away for a few hours at a time.

“I’ll be here,” he told her again.

Mel pushed a length of raven’s-wing hair over her shoulder. “Did you hear the good news, Dad? Dr. Walsh said I might be able to come home this weekend.”

He’d spoken to the doctor before coming in to see Mel. Granted, she might be released by the weekend, but that meant she’d need to come to the city three times a week to be monitored. With harvesting, he wasn’t sure how he was going to be able to do everything, both at home and with Mel. But he’d find a way. He and Mel had always made it, and they weren’t about to stop now.

“Dad?” Melanie peeked at him through long dark lashes, her hands folded in her lap.

He was in trouble. His daughter was anything but the demure picture she was attempting to paint. He gave her a stern look. “What?”

She leaned forward, placing her small hands on his arm. “Since I missed my driver’s ed classes this summer, can I take private lessons at one of those schools?”

He let out a pent up breath. The last thing he wanted right now was his daughter driving. “Let’s wait until you get home to discuss this.”

“Please, Dad,” she pleaded. “Leah’s taking her test next week. She’ll have her license before me.”

“It’s not the end of the world, Mel.”

She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes it is. I’ll be the only ninth-grader without a driver’s license.”

“We’ll see.”

“That’s not an answer,” she said, pouting.

“It’s the only answer you’re going to get right now.” He slid his finger down the slope of her nose, softening the rebuke.

Melanie sighed, her expression turning serious. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”

“About what this time?” he asked, checking his watch. Jake was waiting for the parts to repair the combine.

“I’d like to see my mother.”

Sam stared at Mel, not knowing what to say. As soon as she’d been old enough to understand, he’d told her she was adopted. The question of her birth mother had never come up—until now.

“Your mother?” he asked when he found his voice.

“I hope you’re not upset, Dad. But I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately. I don’t remember much about her.”

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t referring to Rebecca, but Christina, her adoptive mother. The mother who walked out on her when she was six years old.

“Baby, I don’t even know where she is. I haven’t seen her since she—” turned her back on us. Regardless of his feelings, or lack of them, for Christina, she was the only mother Mel knew. By the time Mel was ten, she’d given up looking for birthday cards and Christmas cards from her mother. Not a single word. Why Mel would even want to see her baffled him, but Christina was a fickle woman and might one day rediscover her maternal instincts. If that happened, he didn’t want to color Mel’s vision in that regard. “Since she left,” he continued. “You know that.”

“What about my grandparents? Wouldn’t they know where she is?”

“What is this all about?”

She lowered her gaze and began plucking at the blanket. “I thought she might come see me when I was sick. I guess I want to ask her why she doesn’t love me.”

He hooked his finger under her chin until she was looking at him. “I love you. And in her own way, I’m sure your mother does, too. She just wasn’t an openly affectionate person, Mel.”

Tears pooled in her eyes, breaking Sam’s heart. He could handle almost any situation, but Mel’s tears had the ability to reduce his heart to shreds.

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