to head down to the shop when Anne Parcells had called, asking Shelby to come in and “bring the minor child” and her attorney. The phrasing and the word attorney had freaked her out, but the administrator had refused to say anything else. Shelby had been so panicked that it had something to do with Shane’s blood test, that he was terribly ill after all. A week ago she’d brought him into the clinic for a stomach virus and had been waiting for the results, which she’d been sure would reveal nothing since the virus had cleared up and Shane was back to his regular happy little self. But despite the director assuring her that Shane was perfectly healthy, Anne Parcells again requested that she come immediately to the clinic—and to bring an attorney.
First of all, Shelby didn’t have an attorney, and despite the size of her extended family, there wasn’t a lawyer in the bunch. Nor did she want this weird request from the director to become family fodder until she herself knew what it was all about. Her sister, her mother, her aunt Cheyenne and a bunch of cousins would be crowded in the back of this room if she’d let anyone know. So she’d called her sister, Norah, who despite being a chatterbox who knew everyone and all the town gossip, could keep a secret like no one else. Turned out, Norah was newly dating a lawyer, an ambulance-chasing type, and so much of a shark that she was thinking of breaking up with him because of it. A few minutes later Norah had called back and assured Shelby that David Dirk, attorney at law, would meet Shelby at the clinic by 9:10—and that the meeting was probably about some lawsuit from the night Shane was born because of the storm and the generator failing twice. In any case, Norah had promised to keep mum about the meeting and texted:
I get to know what it’s about, though, right? Call me the minute you’re out of there!
Shane stirred against her chest, and she glanced down at her dear little son, caressing his fine brown wisps. A moment later, an attractive guy in his early thirties appeared in the doorway. He had a baby face and tousled hair, but he wore a sharp suit and had intelligent eyes behind black-framed glasses. Not Norah’s typical brawny rancher type.
“David Dirk,” he said, extending a hand and sitting down beside her. “When the administrator arrives and says her spiel, don’t comment, don’t agree to anything, don’t answer anything with yes or no. In fact, let me speak for you.”
“I always speak for myself,” Shelby said. “But I’ll listen to your advice and we’ll go from there.”
Before he could respond, two other men appeared in the doorway, and at the sight of the one holding a baby wearing a brown cowboy hat, Shelby almost gasped.
She knew him. Well, she’d seen him before. And she’d never forget his face. Not just because he was incredibly good-looking—six feet one or two and leanly muscular with thick, dark hair and gorgeous blue eyes, a dimple curving into the left side of his mouth. It was that she’d never forget the combination of fear and worry that had been etched into his features, in those eyes. The night she’d given birth, he’d been sitting in the crowded waiting room of this clinic, his head in hands, when the ambulance EMTs had rushed her inside on a gurney. He’d looked up and they’d locked eyes, and despite the fact that she was already in labor and breathing and moaning like a madwoman, the complex combination of emotions on the man’s face had so arrested her that for one single moment, she’d been aware of nothing else but him. Given the pain she was in, the contractions coming just a minute and a half apart, that was saying something. A second later she’d let out a wail that had even her covering her ears, and the EMT had hurried into a delivery room.
She’d wondered about the man in the waiting room ever since, if whomever he’d been waiting on had been okay. There had been one hell of a storm that night, so much blinding snow that a ten-minute ride to the clinic from her apartment above her shop had taken almost an hour.
Because she was now staring at the man with the baby cowboy, he glanced at her, and she could see he was trying to place her.
“Good morning,” a woman said, her voice serious as she appeared behind the two men in the doorway. “I’m Anne Parcells, administrator of the Wedlock Creek Clinic. All parties are here so let’s begin. Please,” she said, gesturing for the men to enter and to sit in the two chairs positioned to the left of her desk. Shelby and her attorney were seated to the right. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Ingalls and Mr. Mercer.” Introductions were made between attorneys and parties, the door was closed and everyone was now seated.
Please get to the lawsuit or whatever this is about so that I can get back to the store, Shelby thought. Three of her favorite regular customers, the elderly Minnow sisters, came in every Friday morning at the shop’s opening time of ten o’clock to see what she might have added to the shop for the weekend rush. She hated to keep them and any new customers waiting. Wedlock Creek was a small town, but had its own rodeo on the outskirts and a bustling downtown because of it, so folks came from all over the county to enjoy a bit of the Wild West, then walk the mile-long Main Street with its shops and restaurants and movie theater with the reclining seats. Business was semi-booming.
The administrator cleared her throat, her expression almost grim. Shelby felt for the woman. The Wedlock Creek Clinic, a nonprofit that included an urgent care center, was a godsend for so many in the county, since the county hospital was forty-five minutes away. A lawsuit had the potential to close the clinic.
“I’m going to just say this outright,” Anne said, looking up from some paperwork. “A week ago, Ms. Ingalls—” she gestured to Shelby “—brought her six-month-old son, Shane, to the clinic with a stomach virus. A standard blood test was run. This morning our lab returned the results, noting a discrepancy with Ms. Ingalls’s blood type and Shane Ingalls’s blood type.”
A discrepancy? Huh? Shelby leaned forward a bit, staring at the woman, who glanced at her for a moment, the expression in her eyes so compassionate that the hairs rose on the back of Shelby’s neck.
Anne Parcells looked down at the papers in her hands, then back up. “Based on the results, it would be impossible for Ms. Ingalls to be Shane’s biological mother.”
What the ever-loving hell? Shelby bolted up, her arms around Shane in the sling. “That’s impossible! Of course he’s my son! I gave birth to him!”
The administrator’s expression turned grim again. “The test was run three times. I’m afraid that Shane Ingalls cannot be your biological son, Ms. Ingalls.”
Shelby’s legs shook and she dropped down on her chair, her head spinning. She tried to make sense of the words. Not your son. Discrepancy. Impossible.
This had to be a mistake—that was the only explanation. Of course Shane was her son!
Dimly, she could hear her sister-appointed lawyer requesting to see the paperwork, the ruffling of sheaves of paper as Anne handed over the stack and David Dirk studied them, flipping through the various documents.
“Jesus,” David mutter-whispered.
Shelby closed her eyes, trying to keep hold of herself despite the feeling coming over her that sh∆e was going to black out. She felt herself wobble a bit and grabbed David’s chair to steady herself.
He put a bracing arm around her. “We’ll have your and Shane’s blood drawn again and retested in a different lab,” he said.
She sucked in a breath and nodded. Yes. Redone. A different lab. It was a mistake. Just a mistake. The results would prove she was Shane’s mother. She was!
“Excuse me,” Liam Mercer’s lawyer said, darting a compassionate glance at Shelby. “But what does this have to do with my client?”
The
