Her Baby's Father

“You saved me.”

Sara pressed her mouth to his.

Perhaps in some part of her mind, she had intended it to be a reassuring kiss. Or maybe a simple thank-you.

But as soon as Jack’s lips touched hers, the moment turned frantic.

As he held her in his arms, the realization slammed into her that she might have died.

She started to tremble. He was trembling, too, as he ran his hands over her back, her shoulders, gathering her closer, so that she melted against him.

In this reality they had known each other only a few days. But for Sara it was so much longer.

Maybe in some way he knew that, too.

About the Author

Award-winning, USA TODAY bestselling novelist Ruth Glick, who writes as REBECCA YORK, is the author of more than one hundred books, including her popular 43 Light Street series for Mills & Boon Intrigue. Ruth says she has the best job in the world. Not only does she get paid for telling stories, she’s also an author of twelve cookbooks. Ruth and her husband, Norman, travel frequently, researching locales for her novels and searching out new dishes for her cookbooks.

Her Baby’s

Father

Rebecca York

To Norman,

who is always there for me.

Chapter One

A sharp, stabbing pain grabbed Sara Carter’s middle, and she gripped the steering wheel tightly, struggling to maintain control of her car.

The contractions were getting more intense and closer together. She’d had a nagging backache since early morning, but hadn’t even realized she was in labor until a gush of water between her legs sent her running to the bathroom.

Even now liquid continued to trickle out of her.

Amniotic fluid, she realized.

The hospital had told her to come in right away, and she thought she had time to get there. It wasn’t even snowing when she left the house. Now it looked like she was inside a giant, freshly shaken snow globe.

“Dear God,” she prayed. “Let me get to the hospital in time. Because nobody’s going to find me out here if I get stuck.”

Doubtless the hospital staff assumed she’d be with her husband. But she didn’t have one. She probably never would. Unless she met a guy who could live up to her memories of Jack Morgan, the father of her child.

At least there were only a few cars on the road. Other motorists had wisely turned back or found shelter. But her only choice was to plow ahead.

She certainly wouldn’t find help at home. The little rented house in the rural end of Howard County, Maryland, was the only thing she could afford at the moment because her savings were dwindling. And she was going to be out of commission for at least a few weeks after she delivered. Hopefully, sooner rather than later, she could get back to work staging houses—making them look their best for potential buyers—on a limited basis. But she was bound to lose a lot of her customers to competitors by turning down jobs.

Life as a new mother would be tough.

Jack’s wealthy family could have helped ease her financial burden, but they’d turned their collective backs on her after his death.

She snorted as she remembered the conversation with Jack’s father when she’d given him the news. If she wanted child support, she’d have to prove paternity with DNA testing. And sue them.

She shuddered. If she did prove the baby was Jack’s, they might try to take him away.

“Never,” she whispered, to the child she carried.

A boy. Named Daniel. He was all she had left of the man she loved, and she would raise him in a way that would have made his father proud.

She didn’t want to think about how hard that was going to be. Instead she let memories of Jack Morgan comfort her. He was the wounded war hero who’d come back from the Naval Medical Center to try to pick up his life.

She’d met him at an expensive house her friend Pam Reynolds was showing. Tara in Howard County, she’d jokingly called it.

His brother had dragged him along to look at the property, and Jack had obviously been annoyed to be there. Maybe she’d seen him as a challenge at first. But the relationship had quickly become important to both of them.

“Oh, Jack,” she whispered as she leaned forward, trying to see through the blinding whiteness ahead of her. “It should have worked out differently. If only you were still here.”

But he wasn’t. And there was no use wishing that her life hadn’t gone careening off the rails in such spectacular fashion. All she could do was make the best of her future.

A future without the man she loved.

Sometimes she wondered how warm, caring Jack Morgan could have come from such a cold, money-obsessed family. But that wasn’t her immediate problem.

Another contraction made her gasp. Pulling to the shoulder, she waited for the clutching pain to diminish. As soon as the contraction subsided enough for her to concentrate, she nosed back onto the road.

Only fifteen minutes to Howard County General Hospital now. Well, maybe under better conditions. Should she stop and call for help? No, she might end up having the baby in the car if she risked waiting here.

“You’re going to make it,” she told herself. Or that was what she thought. Until she came around a curve on Route 108 and saw the pickup truck stalled at the bottom of a hill.

As her car began the long slide toward the disabled vehicle, she frantically turned the wheel, trying to avoid a collision. But the wheels failed to catch on the slick surface, and she felt the car gaining momentum—hurtling her toward disaster.

The bone-rattling impact of the car slamming into the truck stunned her.

Air bag? Where was the air bag?

The moment her forehead smashed against the windshield and glass shattered, she knew she and the baby were going to die.

Sara couldn’t feel her body, but her mind floated somewhere in darkness. Ahead of her, she could see a beautiful golden light. The warmth drew her, but something held her from going there.

A presence hovered around her. No, two of them. They had come to guide her to the light. Where she’d be warm and safe. And all her problems would be gone.

But something was wrong.

She could hear them talking. Arguing.

“It’s not her time.”

“Of course it is. Look at her.”

“I mean, her life wasn’t supposed to work out this way.”

“She shouldn’t have been driving in a snowstorm.”

“She was on her own. It wouldn’t have happened if he’d been with her.”

“He’s long gone.”

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be that way.”

The one who objected made a dismissive sound. “What are you talking about? We’re not authorized to change history.”

“We can rectify mistakes.”

“Not on our own.”

“She’s got strength and determination. She doesn’t deserve to end this way.”

“Not everybody gets what they deserve.”

“Give her an opportunity to change fate.”

There was a long pause. “We could be making a terrible mistake. We could be punished.”

“It won’t be noticed.”

“You want to take that risk?”

“Look at it this way. Either everything turns out the same again, or she has a chance to change her destiny.”

Chapter Two

In the moment between sleep and waking, Sara remembered hearing voices. Talking about her.

What was it they’d been saying?

She scrabbled to get a sense of the conversation. They’d come to take her to a place that was warm and safe. Where all her troubles would vanish like mist evaporating in the heat of the sun.

Then they’d changed their minds. Or one of them had. When the other had objected, the first one had persuaded him to go along.

Him? Were they men? They had sounded both gentle and commanding. If that was possible.

Before she could decide, she jerked awake. She was in her car. On her way to the hospital?

Could that be right?

Hazy memories swam through her mind, and she struggled to make them come clear.

The last thing she recalled was the car skidding down a long hill on a snow-slick road and crashing into a truck, but that couldn’t be true.

She looked around at tall trees with new green leaves, filtering bright sunlight. Below them were blooming azaleas and carefully planted beds of bright annuals—impatiens and begonias.

Not winter. Spring.

But the snowstorm had seemed so real. Obviously she’d dreamed it.

Disoriented, she struggled to remember why she was here and what she was doing.

Recollections surfaced as she focused on a huge white house with a circular brick drive and Doric columns holding up the two-story front porch. Tara in Howard County, Maryland, she’d called it. Conveniently situated between Washington, D.C., and Baltimore.

She knew the inside layout of the mansion. Six bedrooms. Six bathrooms. A great room and a kitchen as big as the modest home where she’d grown up. This house was too big for any one family, as far as she was concerned. It was the kind of ostentatious property people bought when they wanted you to know how well they were doing.

It was also way out of her price range, but she wasn’t planning to buy it. She’d been hired to stage the place for an important client, a rush job that had kept her here from early in the morning until early afternoon. Real-estate agent Pam Reynolds was paying extra because she had a live one on the hook.

Sara had worked feverishly to get the property ready, using two of the college students who helped her out part-time when she needed to move big pieces of furniture.

After they’d left, she’d climbed into her car to catch a few minutes of sleep before Pam arrived.

She blinked, still feeling like her brain wasn’t quite engaging with reality. The images and emotions from the vivid dream simply wouldn’t go away. It wasn’t just that she’d been driving through a snowstorm. She’d been on the way to the hospital—because she was having a baby.

A baby! Oh, please. She wasn’t even dating anyone. And she wasn’t the type for one-night stands.

Somehow her unconscious mind must have conjured up that scenario from an old movie or TV show.

But now it was time to get back to the real world.

She pulled down the sun visor and looked at her face in the mirror, fluffing her shoulder-length blond hair a little. Then she stroked on a little lip gloss. She had just slipped the tube back into her purse when a silver Mercedes pulled up in the circular driveway, and Pam got out.

She was tall and fit, with a halo of ash-blond hair, and was wearing a tailored pantsuit today.

Smiling, she came over to Sara’s car. “Are we all set?”

“I think so,” Sara answered, hoping it was true.

“Thanks for the rush job. I appreciate it.”

Sara climbed out and shut the door, then, as she stood beside the car, she looked down at her body, expecting to see the swollen belly and big breasts that had been the hallmarks of her advanced pregnancy. Instead she was lithe and slim in jeans, a yellow T-shirt and tennis shoes. Her work clothes.

She should get out of here before Pam’s high-priced client arrived.

Her breath caught. No. She needed to stay because this was the day…

The thought trailed off in confusion again as she tried to remember what was so important.

“Let’s take a look,” Pam was saying. “I always love to see your work. Did you use that antique armoire that I admired so much?”

“I think so.”

Pam peered at her. “You look a little…pale. Are you feeling okay?”

“A little sleep deprived, I guess.”

“Sorry I got you up so early.”

“It’s okay.”

Pam wiped her palm on a pants leg in an uncharacteristic show of nerves. “I’m glad you’re here. Since that murder last week, I’ve felt kind of spooked, staying in a vacant house by myself.”

Murder? Sara scrambled to dredge up what Pam was referring to, then remembered that a woman real-estate agent had been raped and murdered in an empty house where she’d been waiting to meet a client. The man had showed up and taken advantage of the isolated location. So far the cops had no leads, and it seemed all of the women in the local real-estate business were on edge.

Sara had thought about that when she’d been working at this three-acre property early in the morning. But Peter and Brad had been here most of the time. They’d only left a little while ago—and taken her truck back to the warehouse space where she stored the furniture and knickknacks she used in her work.

The real-estate agent hurried up the front steps and stepped into the house.

Sara followed more slowly, marveling at how much easier it was to walk without all the extra weight of advanced pregnancy. She’d forgotten how it felt not to be dragging around the equivalent of a couple of gallon jugs of water.

No, wait. Had she really been pregnant? She was still having trouble sorting reality from…what?

Not a dream. More like a different reality.

When Pam glanced back, Sara hurried to catch up. Inside, her gaze swept over the work that she’d completed this morning, starting with the antique side table that she’d centered along one wall of the large foyer. On the polished surface sat a whimsical elephant lamp and one of the orchids that she kept in the greenhouse in the back of a friend’s garage. They were easy to grow, bloomed for months and always added a touch of elegance.

On the wall was an ornate mirror that she’d patched up with spackling compound and refinished herself.

Finding and fixing up pieces that would work as part of the rooms she furnished was both her skill and her pleasure.

“The elephant’s a nice touch,” Pam remarked. “Garage sale or auction?”

“Garage sale. The base was coming off, but I superglued it back together. Love that stuff.”

Pam headed for the kitchen where Sara had used Dansk Kobenstyle casseroles, tall glass jars of preserved herbs and red-and-white-checkered dish towel accents. The round table was set with more garage-sale plates and goblets. The centerpiece was a bowl of mixed citrus fruit.

Pam eyed the display. “Aren’t those old casseroles expensive? Where did you find them?”

She was glad Pam had asked. The questions about her work were tying her more firmly to the present. And she was relieved to discover that the answer came more easily than she might have expected. “On eBay. I get ones that have hard use and fix them up.”

Pam made a dismissive sound. “How can you fix up a metal casserole?”

“With spray paint.”

“Clever.”

“Of course, you can’t put them in the oven,” she added, anxious to make a full disclosure.

“Nobody’s going to cook in them. And they’re a lot more interesting than the plastic food you see in so many model houses.”

As Sara showed Pam the property, the scene became increasingly real to her.

She remembered carefully draping the colorful Peruvian shawl on the tan sofa and arranging candles in the fireplace.

She and the boys had done only one bedroom, but it was a masterpiece of sophistication, using earth tones with touches of bright color.

“If this doesn’t hook Ted Morgan, nothing will,” Pam murmured.

Ted Morgan? Not the right Morgan. “I’m sorry. I forgot who he is,” she stammered.

Pam took in her perplexed look. “Come on. Morgan Enterprises. They’re into everything from construction projects to oil exploration.”

“Uh-huh,” she murmured.

Pam put a hand on Sara’s arm. “Stay here with me after he arrives, okay?”

Sara’s heart started to pound. She remembered this conversation from the first time.

“You’re nervous?” she managed to ask.

“A little. Ted’s a big deal around here. He’s getting married, and he wants a family home.”

“This is the kind of house where the kids and the parents would never have to see each other.”

Pam laughed. “If that’s what he wants, fine with me. He’s a very rich man who can get me a six percent commission on two million dollars.”

“Well, that does put him into perspective.”

Sara knew Pam was doing well as a real-estate agent and living a high-flying lifestyle she wanted to maintain. Sara, on the other hand, wasn’t into “lifestyle.” Instead she was willing to live modestly to build her business. Money had never been that important to her. Well, it had become more important when she’d discovered she’d need to support a baby on her own. And the Morgans were doing their best to make her want to move away. But that was getting way ahead of herself.

There was no baby. Not yet.

She shook her head, grappling with the continuing confusion of what was then and what was now. But she suddenly knew what day this was. The day she had met Jack Morgan. The father of her child.

Because she couldn’t simply stand there, she turned and headed back to the kitchen to stow her purse in one of the lower cabinets. Straightening, she gripped the kitchen counter, the hard surface helping to anchor her.

Outside, the sound of a car pulling up made her heart begin to pound inside her chest with a mixture of excitement and dread.

She understood the excitement and struggled to banish the dread.

Pam rushed to the window and peered out. “He’s here.”

She kept staring, and Sara waited to hear what she was going to say.

What if this was the wrong day? What if Sara was totally crazy?

Pam’s next words settled the question. “I guess Ted doesn’t trust his own judgment. Or he wants outside approval. He’s got someone with him. I think it’s his older brother, Jack Morgan.”

Jack Morgan!

Oh, Lord. The reality of hearing Pam speak his name was like a kick to the solar plexus. This really was the day everything turned golden—and at the same time started to unravel.

Thank goodness the other woman was already out the door and starting down the steps, because Sara knew her face must reflect the jumble of emotions surging through her.

Anticipation. Shock. Relief. Fear. Sadness.

All of those.

“Jack,” she whispered. “Oh, Lord, Jack.”

She felt numb. Jack was dead. He’d been murdered ten months ago. Or ten months in the future if you granted the outrageous idea that Sara had been sent back to her own past by forces she would never understand.

But one thing she knew for sure. Jack’s death was in the future of this current reality because he was alive now. Through the open door she could see Pam hurrying down the steps to meet him and his brother.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” she said to the other man—Ted Morgan. The one who cared about having a grand house he could show off to visitors.

Which was so different from Jack’s attitude about his home. She knew he didn’t give a fig about appearances. He’d never been into flaunting his wealth. And his stint in the army had helped solidify his values.

He trailed behind his brother, looking like this was the last place on earth he wanted to be. Feeling light-headed, she steadied herself with a hand against the side table in the hall, trying to arrange her features and her understanding of what was happening.

A few minutes ago she’d been driving alone in a snowstorm, on her way to the hospital to deliver Jack’s baby. The baby who would never know his father. Now she was going meet him for the first time.

That couldn’t be a coincidence. It must mean something important.

Or was this all a cruel joke? A reminder of how much she’d lost? Maybe there was another explanation for what she thought she was experiencing now. Just the opposite of what she’d been thinking. She’d been in an auto accident. Was she lying in the hospital in a coma, hovering between life and death, dreaming all this?

She pressed her hand against the surface of the table. It didn’t feel like a dream. It felt as real as the first time she’d lived through this day, only every moment was overlaid with what she knew about the future.

She wanted to scream a warning to Jack. And to pledge to whoever had put her here that she wouldn’t waste this opportunity.

Dimly she remembered the conversation that had swirled around her after the car crash. She hadn’t seen who was talking, but she’d heard two voices arguing about her fate. And now here she was being given a second chance to make everything come out differently.

But how? Last time she and Jack had been relentlessly swept along by events they couldn’t control.

She straightened her spine. This time, since she knew what was going to happen, she could change everything. Well, she knew the end result. But that wasn’t enough. Could she figure out who wanted Jack dead and why? Then stop the killer from murdering him?

She clenched her fist, digging her nails into the tender flesh of her palm.

If she wanted it badly enough, maybe she could change history. Well, nothing so grand as the history of the world. Just Jack’s history—and her own.

Her pulse was pounding as she watched the two men come up the walk with Pam. The real-estate agent was engaged in an animated conversation with Ted. Jack followed a little behind, walking with the slightly awkward gait of a man who’d almost lost his leg, then spent months getting the muscles and ligaments to work properly.

The injury was the result of a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. It wasn’t the only consequence of the explosion. He’d been thrown forward in the vehicle, dislocating his shoulder. Shrapnel had peppered his chest and midsection, and a few shards had dug into the skin of his face.

He’d spent weeks in the Naval Medical Center, which had taken over army cases from Walter Reed, then weeks in rehab. But he’d been lucky. And he’d worked like a fiend to get back in shape and prove to himself that he wasn’t impaired for life.

He’d been going to reenlist. Instead his family had persuaded him that he’d done enough to serve his country. He’d come home, not sure who he was.

His war wounds had done a number on his self-image. Which had made him quiet and withdrawn. Yet the two of them had clicked almost immediately.

As Jack walked toward her, she struggled not to turn her total focus on him. He wouldn’t like that. Not when they were just about to meet. He’d think she was staring at him because of his limp—and the scars on his face.

She struggled to assume a casual aspect, struggled not to look like a woman taking the first view of the man she loved, after they’d been separated for months. After she’d believed he was dead.

Still, her chest tightened as she waited for her first contact with Jack in an eternity.

No, her first meeting with him at all, she reminded herself. At least as far as he was concerned.

For a wild moment she thought about taking him aside and trying to explain everything to him. But he’d only think she was crazy. Anybody would think she was crazy if she started talking about events that hadn’t happened yet. Which was one of the problems of this whole situation.

Right now, all she could do was experience the joy of seeing him alive and well.

Still, there was a dreamlike quality to watching him come toward her. Eagerly, she drank in his appearance, taking in everything in one sweep. His height of six feet. His dark eyes and hair. His strong jaw. The scars on one cheek that showed through the dark stubble. His lips that looked so hard but could be so incredibly soft against hers.

He was dressed in a dark knit shirt, jeans and running shoes because his doctor had advised him to stick with footwear that gave him good traction. He took that advice, partly because it suited his casual manner and partly because he wanted to give himself every physical advantage.