can’t say for certain, not at this point.”
“Well, fine. Then who do you think that baby’s mother is?”
“Ma, I’ve told you all I can right now. I need you to help me look after this baby, and I need you to keep what I’ve said quiet. Will you do those things for me?”
Grace looked tired all of a sudden. And old.
“Just give it to me straight, Ma. Will you help me or not?”
“Oh, Flynt. You know very well you don’t even need to ask.”
Grace took on baby-sitting duties when Detective Hart O’Brien, a friend of Spence’s, showed up from the Mission Creek Police Department about an hour later. Hart had already interviewed Spence, and Spence had turned over the water-splotched note. At the ranch, Hart took Flynt’s statement and then asked him why he thought the abandoned child should remain in his care.
Flynt admitted he thought Lena might be his.
Detective O’Brien asked the same thing Grace had. “If you think you’re the father, then who do you believe is the baby’s mother?”
And Flynt set about hedging an answer. “Look, I’ll be honest. I’m not certain I’m the father. And I don’t want to bring any trouble on an innocent woman. First, I’ll need to find out if Lena is mine. If she is, then no harm has been done. She’s only gone from one parent to the other. If Lena’s not mine…well then, it’s no one’s business who I spend my time with, now is it?”
It was a lot of fast talk and Flynt could see in Hart’s eyes that the detective knew it. But his reply gave Flynt hope. “All right. It’s obvious the baby is in good hands here. Spence said he was contacting CPS—Child Protective Services. And the sheriff’s office, too.”
“Yeah.” Flynt regarded the other man warily. “That’s the plan.”
“Representatives from both agencies should be here soon, then.”
“Right.”
“So I’ll just hang around and see what the social worker has to say about the situation.”
A thin, soft-spoken woman from CPS appeared about five minutes later. She handed Flynt a business card. “I’m Eliza Guzman. I’ll be baby Lena’s caseworker.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
The social worker examined the baby and got a tour of the main house and grounds. “You would need to fix up a room for the child,” she said.
Flynt showed her the bedroom next to his own. Two and a half years ago, that room had been set up as a nursery, with a crib and a changing table, bins of toys, stacks of blankets and diapers, and bright murals on the mint-green walls. After the accident that took both his wife and unborn child, he’d ordered everything hauled down to the basement, where it remained.
Of course, he didn’t go into any of that with the social worker. He only said, “Generations of babies have been born in this house. We’ve got baby stuff, everything Lena could possibly need, stored down in the basement. I’ll have this room set up for her immediately.”
The social worker wanted to know how Flynt, a rancher and businessman with a full schedule, intended to care for a baby round-the-clock.
“I’ll hire a nanny right away. In the meantime, my mother has agreed to take care of Lena whenever I’m unavailable.”
The social worker was nodding and smiling. A good sign. “Since there is some doubt whether or not you are the father, would you be willing to take a paternity test?”
“Whatever I have to do.”
“All right, then.” She produced a card and handed it to him. “Here’s the name of the lab in town where they’ll take a cheek swab. Can you get over there tomorrow, say, some time after noon? I’ll make sure they’re ready for you when you arrive.”
“After noon. I’ll be there.”
“Good. The sample will be sent out for evaluation, and we should have the results in ten to twenty business days.”
“That’s fine.”
“You’ll have to bring the baby with you, of course, so they can collect a sample from her, too.”
“No problem.”
Flynt knew she was about to tell him he could keep Lena—at least till the results of the test came through. But before she got the damn words out of her mouth, the house line buzzed.
It was the housekeeper. A deputy from the sheriff’s office was waiting for him in the foyer.
A deputy, Flynt thought with some relief. He wouldn’t have to bow and scrape to a Wainwright for Lena’s sake, after all.
He had the three officials served coffee and sweet rolls in his sitting room and he answered all their questions, except for the one concerning the mother’s identity. He promised he’d get to that, after the test proved he was Lena’s father. Since he had the social worker and the detective more or less on his side by then, Flynt had little trouble getting the deputy to go along, too.
The three left about an hour after the deputy had arrived. They all had what they needed to write their reports and they were all in agreement that the abandoned female infant called Lena would remain in Flynt Carson’s care, at least until the results of the paternity test came through.
Flynt walked them out to their vehicles. It was a little past noon by then. The gorgeous, mild morning was turning to the usual blistering South Texas afternoon. Flynt stood in the shade of a proud old oak that had been planted by his great-grandmother, watching the dust the cars kicked up as they disappeared down the driveway.
His pickup still waited where he’d left it, a few yards away. That pickup was not only fully loaded with all the luxury extras, it was also a V-8. The thing could move. He wanted to climb in it and roar off down the drive into town.
He knew where to go looking for Josie. First, he’d try her mother’s house. If she wasn’t at Alva’s, he had a pretty good idea where to head next.
The way he’d heard it, once her mother got out of the hospital, Josie had taken a waitress job at the Mission Creek Café, which served down-home country fare and had stood for decades near the corner of Main and Mission Creek Road, in the heart of town. If Flynt remembered right, the café was open till eight or nine at night, seven days a week. But it did most of its business weekdays, for breakfast and lunch. As a relatively new employee, Josie would probably draw the less desirable weekend shifts.
He could make it to town in half an hour—less, given that he’d be burning rubber all the way.
But no.
If he showed up at the café now, looking for her, there would be talk. Even dropping in at that shack of her mother’s in broad daylight was too chancy. He was a Carson, after all, a rich man, a power in the community. And she was young and poor and pretty. Only one reason, folks would say, why a man like Flynt Carson would come looking for a girl like Josie Lavender.
A voice in the back
