Her Secret, His Child

"What?"

HER SECRET, HIS CHILD

"For show and tell," Miss Peters said as though she'd just explained. Which she probably had. "We can turn it into a history lesson." She paused. Smiled. Seemed satisfied that her plan had been met with the approval she'd expected.

"Did you lose him in an overseas military action?" The teacher's eyes were brimming with compassion.

Trapped, Jamie shook her head. She had no idea what to say. What to do. How to control the panic.

But instead of raising Miss Peters's suspicions, Jamie's lack of response seemed only to confirm what the teacher already believed. That Jamie had lost her husband tragically, and that the wounds were still raw.

As Jamie left, still with no resolution, she couldn't help imagining how the conversation would have gone if she'd confessed the truth. That she'd never been married in her life. That her precious Ashley was exactly what four-year-old Nathan had so cruelly claimed. A bastard.

The night was bitterly cold. Forecasters predicted that temperatures would reach record lows for Denver—and nearby Larkspur Grove. Weather that seemed fitting as Jamie sat alone, huddled in front of a blazing fire in the living room of the quaint little house she was so proud of. Her furnace had chosen that night, of all nights, to be temperamental. A night when repairmen were overbooked and the best anyone could promise was to make it out by the next afternoon. Karen was looking after Ashley

TARA TAYLOR QUINN

next door. She'd offered to put up Jamie, as well, but Jamie hadn't been at all confident in her ability to keep up appearances and opted for a cold night on the living-room floor, instead.

But at just past eight o'clock, she wondered if maybe this latest decision was another bit of idiocy. Dressed in leggings, jeans, a flannel shirt, sweatshirt and two pairs of socks, she was warm enough—as long as she didn't leave the five-foot range of the roaring flames. She'd trapped herself again.

Papers lined the hardwood floor around her and were neatly piled on the colorfully braided rug that covered most of the floor. Papers, work, that should've absorbed all of her attention. Except that they didn't. Nothing did. Except Ashley. And Ashley's father.

If the little girl only knew how much hell there'd be to pay—for both of them—if her father's name was revealed. But a four-year-old couldn't possibly know. Or understand. Not in a million years. Jamie was an adult and she didn't understand. And she'd been there.

So what was she going to do?

She'd been handling crises all her life; surely she'd find a solution to this one.

She wrapped her favorite blue blanket—soft and worn from its many washings—around her and huddled inside, searching not so much for warmth but for comfort.

Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang. The blanket fell off her shoulders and puddled at her waist.

"Who on earth…" Grabbing up the blanket, she

HER SECRET, HIS CHILD

headed for the door, wrapping it once again securely around her. Had the furnace guy found himself with a free minute? Maybe someone else had canceled, or he'd finished a job earlier than he'd thought.

She could always hope.

On tiptoe, she peered through the peephole in her front door.

And began to tremble again. Softly.

Kyle Radcliff, handsome, confident and slightly disheveled-looking, stood on her front porch. What did he want? And what were her chances of pretending she wasn't home?

What were the chances he'd go next door and ask Karen if she knew where Jamie was? Or that Karen would see him standing out here?

As she opened the heavy wooden door, she let in a blast of cold.

"I saw your car," Kyle said before she could get out so much as a hello. Or a "go awa

y," for that matter. ' 'And the house lights were on, so I decided to stop by."

Jamie frowned. What did he want? Calculating how long Ashley had been at Karen's, the extended bath time necessary with two of them in there playing, she figured it was still a good bet that Ashley was safely tucked in bed, sound asleep. Not likely the child would come tearing across the yard in subzero temperatures to kiss her mother good-night.

"May I come in?"