Charlotte Maclay - Montana Twins

It had taken the private detective three months and several thousand dollars to locate the man. Five hours from now, give or take a little, Laura would actually meet him.

“In spite of the rocky road she’d traveled, Amy believed families ought to stick together,” Laura told her mother. “I suspect you were the one who taught her that.”

“I don’t know, dear—”

“Mom, I have to do this. I gave my word of honor.” Straightening, she rested her hand lightly on her mother’s shoulder, trying to reassure herself as much as her mother. “Chances are a sheriff in a town like Grass Valley has a beer belly, chews tobacco and has only a passing interest in the offspring of a woman he never knew. I’ll have an easy decision to make—he obviously won’t be a fit father for the twins—and my conscience will be clear.”

Failing that, her last, best hope would be that Eric Oakes wasn’t married—at least the detective hadn’t uncovered any evidence of a woman in the picture. Amy had been adamant that she didn’t want her babies raised by a single father. She didn’t trust any man that much.

Laura hugged that thought tightly to her as she kissed her mother goodbye and climbed in behind the steering wheel of the SUV. Amanda and Rebecca were already her life, the children of her heart.

Because she couldn’t bear children of her own, they were her one best chance to be the mother she longed to be. They could ease the ache that had been with her since that terrible accident when she’d been sixteen years old—an accident that had been her fault. Oh, she hadn’t been driving the pickup truck filled with a half dozen cheering high school friends when a speeding car crashed into them.

But climbing into the back of that truck after their team had beaten the town rivals had been her idea. She’d carry that guilt with her forever.

Her hand trembled as she twisted the key in the ignition. Anxiety about what would happen in Grass Valley dried her mouth like a summer drought turns a prairie to dust.

The early-morning sky was a pale blue, the air crystalline clear. The temperature would probably reach seventy-five degrees, typical for July.

Normally she loved driving across Montana during her time off from teaching high school history and government. She’d even been known to go hiking on her own or camping with friends. But this trip—and what might follow—she dreaded at a deeply personal level.

She could lose the babies she had come to love with the intensity that only a mother could possess.

AS SHE’D EXPECTED, six hours later and three stops for diaper changes and bottles, she discovered Grass Valley was little more than a wide spot in a very narrow road.

Laura slowed as she entered the town. Eric Oakes had told her to meet him at his house, so she cruised past the few buildings that lined the main street, noting a couple of women visiting in front of the general store. An older man coming out of the saloon waved at Laura—probably mistaking her vehicle for someone else’s. She caught sight of the sheriff’s office, a short, stout building that wouldn’t even intimidate a jaywalker.

Then she saw the quixotic roadside mailbox, a prisoner in a bronze striped uniform escaping through the roof of the jail. Eric had said she’d have no trouble finding his place.

Drawing a deep breath, she turned into the long driveway leading to a two-story house. Modest by most standards, the best feature was a porch that stretched the full width of the house and was positioned to catch the morning sun. Two wicker chairs promised comfort while watching the sun rise.

A big cottonwood tree shaded portions of the front yard, and beyond the house stood a small barn and corral. A pair of sorrel horses raised their heads to check on her arrival.

Laura didn’t want to think about how much Amanda and Rebecca might someday want their own horses or have a swing hanging from a sturdy tree branch. Her townhouse didn’t have room for a corral, and the trees were mostly poplars, impossible to climb much less swing from.

When she pulled to a stop, a man came out of the house, the screen door bumping closed behind him as he walked down the steps toward her with an easy stride. Tall and lean in his khaki uniform, he wore a badge pinned to his broad chest and a pager on his belt that was no larger than a trim size thirty-two.

She’d really been counting on a beer belly.

Checking first to see that the twins were still sleeping, she got out of the car.

“Afternoon,” he said in the same clear baritone she’d heard on the phone, a tone that held a note of caution.

She nodded. “Sheriff Oakes.” His hair—the color of a sand dune after a rainstorm—was cut short, probably to tame the natural waves rather than from any desire to appear military. Crinkles fanned out at the corners of his eyes, as though he’d spent a lot of time squinting into the Montana sky—or laughing. His face was tanned, his jaw square, his lips set in a firm, skeptical line.

“Most folks just call me Eric. We’re pretty informal around here.” He glanced toward the truck. “You’ve got the twins with you, Ms…uh…I didn’t get your whole name.”

“Laura Cavendish. They’re in their car seats.”

“I wasn’t a hundred percent sure you’d show up.”

“I said I would.”

“Well, let’s take a look at ’em.” He gestured toward the back seat.

She bristled. “This isn’t like picking out a good horse, you know.”

His pale-blue eyes narrowed and darkened with suspicion. “I didn’t think it was, Ms. Cavendish. But they are my nieces, aren’t they?”

“Apparently.” More than anything in the world, Laura wished they weren’t—wished the detective had made a mistake and traced the wrong man. But he’d assured her that wasn’t the case.

“How did you find me, anyway? Johnson is a pretty ordinary name.”

“I had your date and place of birth from your sister, which I gave to the detective I hired. Since I knew you and she hadn’t been raised together, we guessed you had landed in the foster care system somewhere.” The tricky part had been getting ahold of the adoption records. Laura hadn’t asked the detective how he’d managed that.

He cocked his brow, then edged closer to her vehicle, peering through the tinted side window. “So you’re pretty sure I’m the right guy.”

“Yes.” She swallowed hard. If she simply got back in the truck and returned to Helena, no one would question that she’d done as Amy had requested and decided their uncle wasn’t suitable. The twins would be hers. “But if you’re not interested in raising them—”

He grasped the handle and opened the door. Laura held her breath as he leaned inside.

“Oh, my God.” He spoke as though his words were a whispered prayer and filled with awe. “They’re so little.”

Through the crack, Laura saw him tenderly slip his finger into Rebecca’s hand. The baby closed her tiny fingers into a fist around him and opened her eyes, looking up at Eric with her bright blue eyes. A bubble escaped her lips.

“Hey, Tinkerbell,” he said softly. “This lady says I’m your uncle Eric. Whadaya think, huh?”

The magical exchange between the big, rugged sheriff and his tiny niece was so powerful, Laura’s throat closed down tight, and she almost couldn’t speak. “That one is Rebecca. The other one is Amanda.”

“How do you tell ’em apart?”

“Rebecca’s left eyebrow arches a little more than Amanda’s does and her ears stick out a tiny bit more. She’s also more wakeful than her sister.” Somehow, from almost the first moment following their birth she’d been able to tell the twins apart without checking their ID bracelets. The hospital nurses had been amazed. “Other than that, they’re identical.”