Tara Quinn - A Child's Wish

“One of the skills that has served Quinn best…has been her ability to explore edgier subjects.”

—Publishers Weekly

“One of the most powerful Superromances I have had the privilege to review.”

—WordWeaving on Nothing Sacred

“Quinn writes touching stories about real people that transcend plot type or genre.”

—All About Romance

“Quinn explores relationships thoroughly…. Her vividly drawn characters are sure to win readers’ hearts.”

—Romance Communications

“Quinn’s latest contemporary romance offers readers an irresistible combination of realistically complex characters and a nail-bitingly suspenseful plot. Powerful, passionate and poignant, Hidden is deeply satisfying.”

—Booklist

“Somebody’s Baby is an exceptional tale of real-life people who are not perfect, feel heartache, make mistakes and have to find their inner strength…. Somebody’s Baby easily goes on my keeper shelf.”

—The Romance Reader Reviews

Where the Road Ends is “an intense, emotionally compelling story.”

—Booklist

Dear Reader,

Most of us, when we were children, spent a lot of time playing. As we grew up and responsibilities presented themselves, the child inside us was slowly buried. For some, the burial was complete and we forgot how to play at all. For many of the rest of us, playtime was minimal. We not only lost the “fun” that filled the majority of our waking hours, but we lost the ability to believe in things we couldn’t explain, to assume we’d be loved just because we existed, to wish for something with any expectation of receiving it.

A Child’s Wish is the story of a woman who didn’t lose that ability to listen to her heart, who didn’t lose the ability to believe in the things she couldn’t explain. It’s also the story of a child whose greatest wish, and her attempts to achieve it, could cost her her life. And it’s the story of a man who trusts only what he can explain with his head, not his heart.

A Child’s Wish feels, in part, like my own autobiography. While all the events are pure fiction, the catharsis, the coming of age, by all three of the story’s major players touched me personally. This story gave me hope and joy; it gave me not only the reminder, but the license, to play. I hope you can find the freedom to believe what your heart tells you, no matter where it leads—even if it goes against the crowd. I wish you all joy in life. I’m off to play now….

Tara Taylor Quinn

P.S. I love to hear from readers. You can reach me at P.O. Box 133584, Mesa, Arizona 85216 or through my Web site, www.tarataylorquinn.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Kevin, Rachel, Mom and Sherry, the daily recipients of my intensity, who hang around in spite of me. You are the culmination of my deepest wishes and I am grateful for you every single day.

Many thanks to Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office Deputy David Parra for his generous contribution to the technical aspects of this book. And for the kindness, respect and humor with which he handled my ignorance.

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

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

“MS. FOSTER, are you alone?” Startled as the loudspeaker sounded in her third-grade classroom during her Thursday-afternoon planning period, Meredith glanced up from the sloppily scrawled math problem she’d been trying to decipher.

“Yes, Mr. Shepherd.” She used the formality, just as she always did when anyone else was around—or could possibly be around.

“Could you come down to my office?” The principal’s inner sanctum—the only place in the building where one could be guaranteed an uninterrupted meeting.

Meredith dropped the purple pen she’d been using to grade papers.

“Yes, Mr. Shepherd. I’ll be right there.”

The beautiful March day had just taken a nosedive. She was in trouble again.

“YOU’RE THE BEST teacher I’ve ever had, Meredith. Year after year, your students average higher scores than any other students in the district on both national and local aptitude tests.”

“I know.” Hands clasped in her lap, one thumb rubbing the opposite palm, Meredith added, “Thank you.”

“You’re also the teacher who brings me the most parental phone calls.”

She occupied one of the two wooden armchairs in front of the scarred but spotless desk while the principal, dressed in casual slacks, cotton shirt and tie, stood at the window behind it.

“I know.”

“Those parents pay my salary.”

“I know.”

“And yours.”

She nodded, pulling her hair in the process as her waist-length ponytail got caught in the corner of the chair’s arm.

“Some of them make up the school board and the superintendent who oversee us.”

It must be bad.

“They are the community that—”

“Mark, I get the picture,” Meredith interrupted. “Mr. Barnett called.” She was only guessing, but it didn’t take a psychic to figure it out.

“He got me at home last night—during dinner.”

“I’m sorry.” For what, she wasn’t sure. Causing him aggravation, certainly. Interrupting his dinner, of course. But for telling the boy’s divorced mother that she suspected Tommy’s father was emotionally abusing him—no.

“You not only created grief that we didn’t need, your conversation with Tommy’s mother yesterday afternoon resulted in a nasty fight between the boy’s parents.”

Unfortunate, to be sure.

“Which should be avoided at the cost of an eight-year-old boy’s safety?” She shifted and felt a sting as the back of her leg stuck to the wood. If she’d ever learned to tuck her skirt beneath her when she sat, as her mother had urged her to do for most of her life, that wouldn’t have happened. Instead, the long folds of colorful cotton flowed around her.

“You’re a third-grade teacher, Meredith, not the school counselor. Your job includes speaking to parents about scholastic concerns, reading problems, poor test scores or a lack of attention in class—not about unproved suspicions of suicidal tendencies.”

“So I should just let a kid kill himself or rip himself to pieces considering it? I should let his monster of a father continue to tear him down until he eventually believes there’s no point in being alive?”

“He’s eight years old!”

“A very mature eight years old.”

“There’s a protocol for these things. Professionals who are in place to help if you suspect trouble. People who are trained to deal with sensitive issues, with families and life tragedies.”

“I’ve talked to Jean twice. She talked to Tommy and said she didn’t think there was any need to call in the boy’s parents—or to speak with him again unless something else came up.”

“Jean’s been with us for four years. She has almost a decade of child psychology training and is highly respected in her field.”

That might be. But Jean Saunders lived completely in her head. If it wasn’t logical, if it didn’t fit a predetermined pattern, it didn’t exist. “She’s missing something with this one.”