thought Sharon named me as the father on the birth certificate.” And with his Navajo heritage there couldn’t be much question as to whether the child had inherited his Native American features. That part would be obvious. With her Irish-American background, Sharon certainly couldn’t have passed those traits onto the child.
“That’s true. Ms. Johnson did name you as the father, however, that alone won’t stand up in court.”
Gray’s hackles rose at the implication. “Sharon Johnson might not have been one of Thatcher’s more prominent citizens, but she would never have lied about something like this.” Gray had no intention of sitting here and allowing some spit-polished, college-educated snob to sully Sharon’s name, even though she hadn’t seen fit to let Gray know about his child.
“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” Davis clarified quickly.
“Good,” Gray said, and glared at the man behind the desk. He forced his fury back to a manageable level. He had worked long and hard to learn to control his temper, but this new turn of events was testing those limits.
“Ms. Whitmore was given full custody of the child by the biological mother. If you choose to contend her adoption proceedings, then it’s up to you to prove your right to do so in a court of law.”
Gray shrugged. “I have no problem with that. Just tell me where to go and what to do.”
Davis eyed him skeptically. “The test and court costs will be quite expensive, Mr. Longwalker. Since it is up to you to prove paternity, then the burden of cost for both you and the child will fall on your shoulders.”
“Whatever it takes,” Gray responded without hesitation. His own attorney had warned him to expect this stall tactic.
Lauren darted a nervous glance in his direction. Gray smiled to himself. He may have left Thatcher as poor as dirt, but he hadn’t been as dumb as dirt. Don Davis would probably faint dead away if he knew just how much money Gray had growing interest in a Dallas bank account.
“Well, then.” Davis jotted a few notes on his legal pad before looking up again. “I’ll see that the arrangements for the test are made as soon as possible. Leave a contact number with my secretary and I’ll be in touch. Once the paternity issue is resolved in the eyes of the law, Mr. Longwalker, you may petition the court for custody.”
Gray had a bad feeling about the custody part. Lauren Whitmore probably had the whole town on her side—including the judge. “How long will the test results take?”
“Two weeks at least,” Davis answered smoothly.
“The custody battle, however, could go on for months—” he peered self-righteously at Gray over his wire-rimmed bifocals “—or years even,” he finished smugly.
Gray restrained the anger that skyrocketed inside him. He didn’t care how long it took. Sarah was his child, and he fully intended to have her. “Fine,” he relented, his patience holding on by a thin thread. “When can I see Sarah?”
“Don,” Lauren protested. She clutched the arms of her chair, her knuckles white with the effort.
“We won’t discuss visitation until after paternity has been established,” Davis stated, as if the issue was closed to further discussion.
Gray rose to his full height of six feet two inches. He leaned over and placed his hands palm down on Davis’s gleaming desktop and settled a gaze Gray hoped communicated the seriousness of his words to the man staring up at him. “Discuss visitation or don’t discuss it, it makes no difference to me. But I will see my daughter. Is that clear?”
“You will have absolutely no contact with Lauren unless it comes through me, Mr. Longwalker. I hope that’s clear,” he said cautiously. “And threatening me won’t do you any good,” he added carefully.
“It’s not a threat,” Gray offered without apology. He straightened and picked up his hat from the table that separated his chair from Lauren’s. “It’s a promise.” He met Lauren Whitmore’s gaze for the space of two heartbeats before turning away.
Gray strode out of the office without a backward glance. As angry as he was, he knew one thing for sure—he would never be able to forget the look on Lauren Whitmore’s face. As pale as a ghost, her eyes full of fear, she had looked ready to break down and cry.
He hardened his heart against the sympathy that arose immediately. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t given her the opportunity to resolve this thing between the two of them. But she wanted no part of a negotiation. She had made up her mind long before laying eyes on Gray. She intended to keep his daughter from him, that much was evident. Gray clenched his jaw. He had no doubt that the woman cared deeply for his daughter. Lauren Whitmore would suffer as this battle played out. But her pain was inconsequential, Gray reminded himself. His only concern was claiming his daughter—Sarah.
Chapter Two
Gray stood in the middle of Thatcher’s only cemetery. The March wind whipped around him and through the branches of the old oak trees, the sound breaking the deathly silence. He felt cold and uncharacteristically lost inside. In the distance the small town that was supposed to be his home sprawled across the flat landscape that seemed to go on forever. The place had never actually felt like home to him, not even when he was a small child. No pleasant memories sprang to mind, no old friends he longed to visit. Nothing remained for him but pain and bitterness, and enough anger to last three lifetimes. But he’d been born and raised here.
And that made this place home.
Gray had always been an outcast. A half-breed bastard who worked like two men for half the pay of one. Gray swallowed the anger that accompanied that memory. Old man Jennings had at least given him a place to sleep, and three meals a day. No one else would have taken him in after his mother died, leaving him alone at sixteen, with no money or place to go. Gray drew in a deep breath and scanned the wide-open blue sky. It was during that eight-year stint on Jennings’s ranch that Gray had discovered his God-given talent with horses and how to use it. But it wasn’t until he left this hate-filled place that he had learned to utilize his skills to their fullest extent.
Horse training required great patience and the ability to open himself completely to reach the animals, and before Gray could do that he’d had to learn to control the rage that had driven him from the age of ten. Self-discipline had been hard earned and long in coming. But he had mastered the art four years ago. Oh, he had the occasional relapse, like today in Davis’s office, but he’d grabbed back control swiftly enough. He wasn’t the same man who left here all those years ago. Despite the indifference and taunting he had suffered growing up, he held no true grudges, except one.
Gray glanced beyond the rows of typical headstones until he found the one of the man who had sired him. A massive monument loomed over the family plot. He gritted his teeth and tamped down the churning emotions that threatened now, even after all this time. His father—the word turned his stomach—had taken advantage of Gray’s mother, turning her into his mistress. Then he’d killed her one inch at a time. Never once had the man spared one iota of concern for the illegitimate child born of their infidelity. By the time Gray had reached school age, the man had turned his back on both of them. Covered up his wrong doing, making their lives miserable in the process.
Determined not to be undone by his past, Gray shifted his gaze back to the small headstone that marked Sharon Johnson’s final resting place. Tiny blue flowers blanketed the year-old grave. A frown furrowed his brow as he tried to
