“You’re a lawyer, huh?” asked the small-town police chief.
“Well, Counselor, whose battle are you here to win?”
Anne’s mouth tightened. But then, one hardly expected the police to look kindly on defense attorneys. And most times the feeling was mutual.
“I’m representing myself.” She glanced down at eight-month-old Emilie, who banged her rattle on the stroller tray. “And my daughter. I’m here because…” How could she say this?
She forced the words out. “Because I believe you are Emilie’s biological father.”
Chief Mitch Donovan stared at her, shifted the stare to the baby, then back to her. If his eyes had softened slightly before, when they assessed Emilie, that softness turned to granite now when his gaze met hers.
“Lady, you’re crazy. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
MARTA PERRY
wanted to be a writer from the moment she encountered Nancy Drew, at about age eight. She didn’t see publication of her stories until many years later, when she began writing children’s fiction for Sunday school papers while she was a church education director. Although now retired from that position in order to write full-time, she continues to play an active part in her church and loves teaching a class of lively fifth- and sixth-grade Sunday school students.
The author lives in rural Pennsylvania with her husband of thirty-seven years. They have three grown children.
Desperately Seeking Dad
Marta Perry
MILLS & BOON
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Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your paths.
—Proverbs 3:5-6
In loving memory of my parents-in-law, Harry and Greta Johnson. And, as always, for Brian.
Contents
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
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Letter to Reader
Chapter One
“I believe you’re my baby’s father.” Anne Morden tried saying it aloud as she drove down the winding street of the small mountain town. The words sounded just as bad as she’d thought they would. There was absolutely no good way to announce a fact like that to a man she’d never met.
In her mind and heart, Emilie was already her child, even though the adoption wasn’t yet final—even though the father hadn’t yet relinquished his rights.
He would. Fear closed around her heart. He had to. Because if he didn’t, she might lose the baby she loved as her own.
The soft sound of a rattle drew her gaze to the rearview mirror. Emilie, safe in her car seat, shook the pink plastic lamb with one chubby fist, then stuck it in her mouth. At eight months, Emilie put everything in her mouth.
“It’ll be all right, sweetheart. I promise.”
Emilie’s round blue eyes got a little rounder, and her face crinkled into a smile at the sound of Anne’s voice…the voice of the only mother the baby had ever known.
Fear prickled along her nerves. She had to protect Emilie, had to make sure the adoption went through as planned so the baby would truly be hers. And confronting the man she believed to be Emilie’s biological father was the only way to do that. But where were the right words?
Anne spotted the faded red brick building ahead on the right, its black-and-white sign identifying it as the police station. Her heart clenched. She’d face Police Chief Mitch Donovan in a matter of minutes, and she still didn’t know what she’d say.
Help me, Father. Please. For Emilie’s sake, let me find a way to do this.
A parking spot waited for her in front of the station. She couldn’t drive around for a few more minutes. Now, before she lost her nerve, she had to go inside, confront the man, and get his signature on a parental rights termination.
For Emilie. Emilie was her child, and nobody, including the unknown Mitch Donovan, was going to take her away.
Parking the car, getting the stroller out, buttoning Emilie’s jacket against the cool, sunny March day—none of that took long enough. With another silent, incoherent prayer, Anne pulled open the door and pushed the stroller inside.
Bedford Creek didn’t boast much in the way of a police station—just a row of chairs, a crowded bulletin board and one desk. A small town like this, tucked safely away in the Pennsylvania mountains, probably didn’t need more. She’d driven only three hours from Philadelphia, but Bedford Creek seemed light-years from the city, trapped in its isolated valley.
“Help you?” The woman behind the desk had dangling earrings that jangled as she spun toward Anne. Her penciled eyebrows
