A Kingsbury Collection

  Looking at her now, it was hard to believe that scant weeks ago she was in the hospital fighting for her life. Kathy let out a single, soft chuckle at the lovely picture Amanda made.

  All right, here goes, sweetheart. “Yes, good news. A man came into the office today very interested in you. He said he thinks he and his wife would like to be your foster parents and … ” Kathy tried to read Amanda’s reaction, and since she saw nothing that resembled excitement, she gently took the girl’s shoulders in her hands and stared deeply into her eyes. “And one day they might even want to adopt you. Forever, Amanda.”

  Panic worked it’s way across Amanda’s face. “B-b-b … ” She exhaled in a huff. “B-b-but … ” Amanda crossed her arms, and focused her attention on her feet. “Kathy, I c-c-can’t make my words right.”

  Kathy’s heart melted. “Oh, sweetie, it’s okay. Lots of people have trouble making words when they’re upset. Just take your time.” She ran a hand down the back of Amanda’s head.

  When Amanda’s eyes lifted they were filled with tears. “I d-d-don’t even know him … ”

  Kathy swallowed back a lump in her throat. Poor little darling Lord. Help me say the right thing. “Honey, I know that. But he’s a very nice man. He said you were exactly the type of child he and his wife were looking for.” Kathy hated keeping the facts from her, but Ben Stovall had asked that she do so. Besides, Kathy wasn’t at all sure it would be wise to tell Amanda she’d been found by her birth mother. Not when the woman was in a psychiatric hospital being treated for depression, unaware that her husband had even located the child.

  Momentary worry washed over Kathy. What if Maggie Stovall refused contact with Amanda, let alone a foster or adoption arrangement? That would be too great a heartbreak for Amanda to take. It was better to keep the details simple, at least for now.

  “W-w-why would he w-w-want an old girl like me? Most p-p-people want little kids … b-b-babies.”

  Kathy felt the girl’s shoulders trembling and she moved her hands slowly down the thin arms to take hold of Amanda’s small fingers again. “That’s true.” She lowered herself so that she could see directly into Amanda’s eyes. “But this man is different. He said they were looking for a girl like you. They don’t want a baby who cries all night or a toddler who hasn’t learned to read. They want a girl just exactly like you, Amanda.”

  She shook her head and fresh tears filled her eyes. “I don’t wanna go, Kathy. P-p-please. Don’t m-m-make me.”

  “Baby, we’ve been through this before. The state won’t let me keep you. Not unless there’s no foster homes available.”

  “Yeah, but I … l-l-love you guys. I don’t wanna leave.”

  “Oh, Amanda … ” Kathy pulled the girl to her and held her close. The enthusiasm she’d felt earlier was all but gone. How am I ever going to let her go, Lord? She doesn’t even know these people. They could be awful for all any of us know. How can I—

  Trust Me, daughter.

  But …

  Trust Me.

  There it was again, the soothing reassurance Kathy knew came from the Lord. She exhaled slowly, forcing herself not to get caught up in her selfish feelings. If God had brought Amanda’s mother back into her life there had to be a reason. Besides, Amanda was pretty well out of options in the Social Services system.

  Kathy just needed to do all she could to help make the transition as smooth as possible. Amanda remained nestled in her arms, her head against Kathy’s chest. What was she thinking? How does it feel to know your life could change at any moment, that you have no control over where you might be sleeping on any given night? Help her, God. Please shut the door on this if it isn’t from You. And give me wisdom to know what’s best for Amanda.

  The girl pulled back and studied Kathy’s eyes nervously. “Am I going with him tonight?”

  Kathy smiled. “No, silly. Of course not. You need to meet him first.”

  Another look of terror flashed in Amanda’s eyes. “By m-m-myself?”

  “No, sweetie, I’ll be with you.” Kathy reached out and smoothed her hand over Amanda’s hair. “How ‘bout we all meet at Party Pizza tomorrow for lunch?”

  The fear was gone for the moment, but in its place was resignation. Amanda had been this route before; she knew the protocol. “So I leave tomorrow night?”

  Kathy shook her head. “The man’s wife is in the hospital right now. We’ll have to see what happens, but I think it could take a few days to get everything lined up.” She hesitated. “Are we on then? For tomorrow, I mean?”

  “Okay.” The girl’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, and Kathy was struck again by how tender yet tough this child was. Tender to all that was good and right with God and the world, yet tough enough not to break down sobbing when her very existence was being turned upside down.

  Kathy hugged her close. “I wish you could stay. You know that, right?”

  Then Amanda did something she’d never done before. She reached out a single finger and softly traced a heart on the back of Kathy’s hand. “Know what that means?”

  Kathy fought back tears. “No, honey, what?”

  “It means that even if I go, you’ll always have my heart.”

  Amanda tried to sleep, but it was hard. She wasn’t sure what to feel. Kathy had said the man’s name was Mr. Stovall and that he was good and kind and that he and his wife were probably an answer to prayer. Amanda turned onto her side and tried to keep her eyes shut. It was possible, wasn’t it? That God had heard her prayers for a forever family and brought the Stovalls as an answer?

  But why hadn’t God given Kathy a bigger house instead? That would have been the best answer.

  She didn’t want to meet this man tomorrow. Because if things went well, she’d be leaving Kathy’s house very, very soon. She blinked and stared about the shadowy room. What if Mr. Stovall really was a nice man? The kind of friendly-looking man that Amanda had seen on television shows. Maybe he went off to work in the morning and came home at night, and he’d play with his kids—with her—on the living room floor like Mr. Garrett. Maybe he and his wife were sent by God to take her home and love her forever.

  Amanda closed her eyes again. Of course she’d thought that about Mrs. Graystone, too.

  No, there could only ever be one, true answer to prayer where her life was concerned. If God wasn’t going to give Kathy a bigger home so Amanda could stay with her, there was only one person who would qualify as an answer to prayer. And it wasn’t Mr. Stovall.

  It was her mother. Her real mother. The one who somewhere, somehow must still remember the baby she gave away. The one who surely one day would do whatever it took to find her.

  28

  Judge Caleb “Hutch” Hutchison hated emergency hearings and he rarely granted them. Especially first thing in the morning. But that brisk November day a week before Thanksgiving, he had examined the circumstances and decided there was no other choice.

  The situation seemed on its surface an open-and-shut case. Long-lost father shows up to claim a child caught in the Social Services system. Judge Hutch’s job was merely to make sure the facts matched up and send the father and daughter on their way. Still, something about the man and the little girl he claimed to want for his own troubled Hutch. Deeply.

  Alone in his chambers, five minutes before the meeting was to take place, the judge reviewed the situation for the fifth time. One John McFadden waltzes into the courthouse, fills out an emergency request form saying he only recently learned he had a child in Cincinnati, and then produces enough information to convince the clerk he’s the real father. The child is a girl named Amanda Joy Brownell, a ward of the Social Services system who’s been wasting away in a series of foster homes for the past three years.

  Judge Hutchison had worked as a jurist in that same courthouse for more than twenty years. He knew his peers considered him both brilliant and tough—a judge criminals feared, whose sentences brought a sense of justice to the people of Cincinnati and the surrounding area
. But criminals weren’t the only group Hutch detested. There was one other group of citizens he was loathe to waste time on: dead-beat dads.

  Therefore, his decision to meet with the man today had nothing to do with any generosity of spirit. If this McFadden had truly been concerned with the welfare of his daughter, why hadn’t he come forward before now? The possibilities as to what had motivated him—after so many years—to seek custody of the child now were less than encouraging.

  So the only reason Judge Hutchison was giving the man five minutes of his time was pure and simple: Hutch loved children. He had five grandchildren of his own and often found himself fighting back tears when the victims in his cases were kids too young to help themselves. Amanda Brownell’s file had made his eyes watery after only the first page.

  If there was even a remote chance that this McFadden character really was an upstanding citizen who only recently realized he’d fathered a child and who truly wanted to give this hapless little child a permanent, loving home, Judge Hutchison did not want anything to stand in the way.

  He checked his watch. The man should be there by now, sitting in his courtroom waiting the judge’s decision, which could go one of two ways: a temporary grant of custody rights—one day, for instance, so the two could become acquainted—or a refusal until the situation could be further examined.

  Judge Hutchison had long ago learned to trust his instincts, and they were telling him that McFadden was almost certainly not the type of father who would give little Amanda a happy, loving home.

  The man was in too great a hurry.

  No, McFadden was more the kind of man Hutch would subject to intense scrutiny; the kind that might not only be false, but perhaps even dangerous.

  He opened the door and walked from his chambers into the courtroom. A dark-haired man with a falsely humble expression rose to his feet. “Your honor, my name is John McFadden, and I’m—”

  “Sit down, Mr. McFadden.” Hutch glowered at the man, more certain than ever that something wasn’t right. Something about the flashy cheap suit and the depth of darkness in McFadden’s eyes made him look more like a Las Vegas pit boss than a loving father who had only recently stumbled onto his long-lost daughter.

  Hutch took his seat and sorted through his docket. Several minutes passed before he looked up and rapped his gavel twice. He nodded to a court reporter sitting nearby. “I will now hear the emergency matter of John McFadden regarding his request to be granted custody of his seven-year-bid daughter, Amanda Brownell, who is currently a ward of this court.” He peered down and found the man watching him with great expectancy. “You may present your information, Mr. McFadden.”

  As he stood, the man glanced behind him, then side to side. Nervous sort, Judge Hutch thought. McFadden took a handful of documents and presented them to the judge. “Here. I believe this is everything you need.”

  The judge sifted through the papers. A notarized DNA test, a request form asking the judge to check McFadden’s DNA against that of the child’s, a request form for temporary custody, and another request form for a hearing that would give him permanent custody. Everything was in order … but the gnawing feeling that something was wrong remained.

  “All right, Mr. McFadden, why don’t you give me your driver’s license, and I’ll go back to my chambers, make a copy of it, and check out the DNA with the child’s birth certificate. It shouldn’t take long to pull up the information on the computer.”

  McFadden’s shoulders relaxed and his face seemed to sag with relief. “Thanks, Judge, you don’t know what this means to me. I can’t wait to see her. I mean, after all these years and such, you know how it is. This is really amazing … ”

  The man was still rambling as Hutch took his identification and slipped back into his chambers. Before he checked the computers for matching DNA; before he contacted Kathy Garrett, the social worker listed on the girl’s file; before he did anything else for that matter, he was going to run the man’s information by someone else. Just in case.

  He picked up the phone and was immediately connected with the court clerk.

  “Yes, your honor?”

  “Get me the police department, please.”

  John McFadden tapped his foot, anxiously awaiting Judge Hutchison’s return. With each passing minute, his heart rate increased. Finally, when the eighth minute passed, John clenched his teeth, cursing under his breath. No DNA match should take this long. That judge must have discovered more than whether or not John was the kid’s father.

  He stood and took three quick steps toward the court reporter. “Tell the judge … uh, I had to use the restroom.”

  The court reporter looked up briefly. “Sure.”

  In three minutes, McFadden was in his gold Acura, pulling out of the courthouse parking lot. He steered into the first alley he saw and dialed Alfie’s cell phone.

  “Yah, buddy.” Alfie’s words were muffled; the lug was probably eating again. Alfie was always stuffing his face.

  It’s me.

  “Oh … hey, boss, what’s up?”

  John gritted his teeth. They’d forced his hand. He had no choice now but to—

  “You follow the girl this morning?”

  “Sure thing, boss. Walked to a bus stop a block from her house. Waited, oh, maybe five minutes.” He paused. “We didn’t follow the bus. Was we supposed to?”

  “Nah, you did good. What was the name on the bus?”

  “Wood-something.”

  This guy was the limit. “Ask Mike, will ya?” John tried not to get impatient with Alfie, but there were times …

  In the background he heard Mike’s voice. “Woodland Elementary, I wrote it down.”

  “Hey, boss, he wrote it down. It was—”

  “I heard him. Never mind. Do me a favor and put Mike on. I need to know exactly where the bus stop is.”

  When John had the directions, he hung up and called the operator. “Yeah, I need the number for Woodland Elementary.”

  A minute later he was on the phone to the school secretary. “Hi, my son told me school’s out at 2:15 today, is that right?”

  “No, sir, 3:10, like usual.”

  “I thought so. I tell ya, that boy has an active imagination. Thanks.”

  He looked at his watch as he hung up the phone. 10:15. Smiling, he started the engine and headed for his motel. As he drove he fingered the loaded handgun beside him, running over the plan again in his mind. In less than six hours he would meet his daughter for the first time.

  Then he would take care of business his way.

  The demons were still taunting her, hissing at her, reminding her of the doubts that had first taken shape in Dr. Camas’s office the day before.

  Had Ben really been to blame?

  Maggie rolled over, caught in the layer of reality somewhere between sleep and consciousness.

  It’s your fault, Maggie. Everything that’s happened. Your fault. The hissing became louder until it became a ringing that grew more and more persistent.

  The alarm clock! Maggie shot up in bed and hit the buzzer on the machine beside her. It was 9:30 in the morning, and though Dr. Camas had honored her request for solitude the day before, he had insisted on today’s early appointment. She had thirty minutes until their meeting, and she flipped onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

  Ben must have been to blame, God. Tell me I’m right.

  Silence.

  I can’t think about it, won’t. Then, moving like a woman late for the last bus out of town, Maggie showered, dressed, and ate a blueberry muffin from her breakfast tray. Through the routine, a thought occurred to her.

  For the first time since entering Orchards, she had awakened filled with energy. By ten o’clock she was sitting across from Dr. Camas.

  “I’ve talked with Dr. Baker. We’re excited for you, Maggie.”

  Her heart pounded. How could there be anything exciting about the confusion she was feeling? She was awful, sick in the head, the worst wife anyone could pos
sibly—

  “Maggie … you okay?”

  She twisted in her chair and struggled to maintain eye contact with the doctor. “I, well … I keep thinking about our talk yesterday.”

  “Yes, me too.” He smiled gently and reached out, patting her hand the way her father used to do when she was a little girl. “It’s all right, Maggie. You can finish the story whenever you’re ready. We were talking about what Ben said to you back in your early days together.”

  Maggie nodded and forced her fingertips into her temples.

  Go back, Maggie … remember it right this time.

  Be truthful, Maggie … come into the light. My grace is sufficient for you, daughter.

  Maggie felt herself relax. Wherever it went, whatever happened afterward, she had to remember the truth about her past. The truth about Ben.

  “I’m trying to remember what he said … ” She let her hands drop to her lap, and this time she caught Dr. Camas’s gaze and held it. “And I’m … not sure he ever really demanded that I be—”

  She stopped short as Ben’s long-ago words came back in a rush: “I wanna be pure, Maggie. My wife—whoever she is—deserves that. I wanna be pure … I wanna be pure … ”

  Dear God, was it true? The reality nearly knocked her to the floor. The idea of purity hadn’t come as a directive from him, but rather a promise. He had wanted to offer himself pure, as a precious gift. The notion that she—in turn—could be nothing less than a virgin had come from—

  “No! It can’t be … ” Her voice was a hoarse whisper; a piece of her heart felt as though it had been ripped open.

  Dr. Camas leaned slightly forward. “Go on, Maggie. What do you remember?”

  Sobs welled up in her chest. There had to be other conversations! Times when he had pompously demanded perfection from anyone who might grace his arm down the aisle of a church, anyone who would wear his ring and take his name …

  She was weeping now, and still the doctor waited. She knew there was no choice but to tell him what she remembered. “I … I think he said he wanted to … be pure. S-S-something like, h-h-his wife deserved that.” She gulped and her shoulders shook from the sobs that washed over her. She didn’t know how long it took to compose herself enough to speak. “Then I asked him … ” She squeezed her eyes shut, horrified she hadn’t remembered things correctly until now. “I asked him if that meant he wouldn’t marry a girl who wasn’t a virgin.”