Marta Perry - Desperately Seeking Dad

“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.”

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.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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.

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

“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 shot upward, as if she were expecting an emergency.

“I’d like to see Chief Donovan, please.” Her voice didn’t betray her nervousness, at least she didn’t think so.

That was one of the first things she’d learned as an attorney—never let her apprehension show, not if she wanted to win. And this was far more important than any case she’d ever defended.

The woman studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Chief!” she shouted. “Somebody to see you!”

Apparently the police station didn’t rely on such high-tech devices as phones. The door to the inner office started to move. Anne braced herself. In a moment she’d—

The street door flew open, hitting the wall. An elderly man surged in from outside, white hair standing on end as if he’d just run his fingers through it. He was breathing hard, and his face was an alarming shade of red. He propelled a dirty-faced boy into the room with a hand on the child’s jacket collar.

The man emerging from the chief’s office sent her a quick look, seemed to decide her business wasn’t urgent, and focused on the pair who’d stormed in.

“Warren, what’s going on?” His voice was a baritone rumble, filled with authority.

“This kid.” The man shook the boy by his collar. “I caught him stealing from me again, Chief. Not one measly candy bar, no. He had a whole fist full of them.”

Maybe she’d been wrong about the amount of crime in Bedford Creek. She was going to see Mitch Donovan in action before she even confronted him.

She looked at him, assessing the opposition as she would in a courtroom. Big, that was her first thought. The police uniform strained across broad shoulders. He had to be over six feet tall, with not an ounce of fat on him. If she’d expected the stereotypical small-town cop with his stomach hanging over his belt, she was wrong.

“So you decided to perform a citizen’s arrest, did you, Warren?” The chief concentrated on the mismatched pair.

She couldn’t tell whether or not amusement lurked in his dark-brown eyes. He had the kind of strong, impassive face that didn’t give much away.

“Not so old, after all, am I?” The elderly man gave his captive another little shake. “I caught you, all right.”

“Take it easy.” Donovan pulled the boy away. “You’ll rattle the kid’s brains.”

The boy glared at the cop defiantly, eyes dark as two pieces of anthracite in his thin face, black hair that needed a trim falling on his forehead. He couldn’t be more than ten or eleven, and he didn’t appear to be easily intimidated. She wasn’t sure she could have mustered a look like that—not with more than six feet of muscle looming over her.