Easy remembered Catherine’s parents. Stiff, unsmiling people who never spoke to him and rarely said a word to their daughter. Mr. St. Clair was a hotshot lawyer—Mr. Perfect with plenty of big bucks and a high society lifestyle. Easy wondered how many of his rich clients and golfing buddies knew St. Clair had a vicious temper and a habit of smacking his daughter around. A lump lodged in his throat.
“I didn’t know, Catherine. I swear.”
She turned her face away, gazing distantly. A light breeze ruffled the ends of her hair. He remembered its softness and how she used to swing it in his face, tickling him.
“I tried to tell you at the dance. Do you remember? But your friends wouldn’t leave us alone and then you said all those mean things and you were laughing at me. I was so scared, so ashamed, and when you laughed at me I couldn’t face you anymore.”
He passed a hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”
She gave herself a shake. Lifting her chin, her expression now cool and unreadable, she met his gaze. Those deep blue depths held a coldness Easy had never suspected she could reach. She inhaled deeply and the corners of her mouth tipped in a strained smile. “It was a long time ago. I’m over it now.”
And he was the Pillsbury Doughboy’s evil twin. “So where’s the—”
“Excuse me,” she interrupted. “As fun as old home week could be, I’m sure you understand why I don’t feel like strolling down memory lane. I’d like you to leave. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t contact me anymore.”
“Where’s the kid, Catherine?” He looked about, seeking bicycles, roller skates or toys. He couldn’t do a thing about what happened twelve years ago, nor could he make up for the time they’d lost. Despite her accusations, though, he’d never shirked a responsibility in his life.
“There is no kid.”
Horrified, he pushed away from the railing. “The baby died?”
“I put her up for adoption.” Her rounded chin lifted another notch, defiant. “It was a girl. Six pounds, twelve ounces, perfectly healthy. She had hair. Black hair, just like yours. I signed the papers when she was twenty-four hours old. I held her once.” Her chin trembled and her voice cracked. Unfallen tears glazed her eyes. “I named her Elizabeth, after your mom, because she was always so nice to me. On the birth certificate I listed the father as unknown.”
He closed his eyes, trying to picture Catherine in labor, little more than a baby herself—alone, banished from home, deserted. He saw instead her face when they’d made love, her softly curved cheeks aglow without a trace of shyness or self-consciousness. Loving her had made him a better person. He hadn’t known it then, but he knew it now. She’d never disguised her intelligence or played games or treated him with anything other than respect. He’d lived for her admiration, sought her approval, strove to measure up to her standards.
He had a child. A funny piece of information. He held it in his thoughts as if it were a strange bug he’d never seen before.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “I swear, I didn’t know.”
Her belligerence faded, leaving her face naked with pain. “Now you do. So go away. I’m not in the mood for a class reunion.” She turned for the door, reaching for the handle.
“Catherine.” He took a step toward her. “Tink. We need to talk about this.”
She shook her head. Her blond-streaked hair shone with glimmering lights. “We have nothing to discuss.”
“Wrong answer. Where’s the kid? Where does she live?”
She turned about, her expression now bemused. “How am I supposed to know?”
“You’re her mother.”
“Her mother is the woman raising her. She isn’t mine anymore, and she certainly isn’t yours.”
“I never gave up my parental rights.”
“Rights? How dare you?” She clamped her fists on her hips and leaned forward. “The only person who had any rights was Elizabeth. She had a right to be raised by adults.”
“So you gave her away like a puppy.”
Catherine flinched as if he’d slapped her. Hot color flushed her cheeks and her big eyes grew bigger. So low he barely caught the words, she said, “Giving up my baby was the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life.”
Her sorrow touched him. He clamped his mouth shut.
“I regret being irresponsible, for having sex without being old enough to know what I was doing. I regret not using birth control. I regret not being able to give her a home. But I made the right decision, and that I don’t regret. Wherever she is, she has two parents who love her.”
At least a fourth of his cases involved missing persons. Many of those clients were adoptees seeking birth parents. A few were parents seeking children they regretted giving away. He had never understood why they couldn’t leave the past alone. Now he felt a glimmer of that urgency to know.
Did his daughter hate him? Did she believe he’d discarded her like unwanted garbage?
“I can find her.” He nodded eagerly. “Give me the date she was born. The hospital, the doctor and the name of the adoption agency. We can find her.”
Catherine cocked her head. “Are you nuts?”
“I’m serious. I can do it. That’s how I—”
“Why would you want to? She has a family, a life, people who love her. We can’t pop into her life and mess things up.”
“If,” he said slowly, “I had known you were pregnant, I’d have married you. You never gave me a chance—or a choice.”
She snorted in derision. “I wouldn’t have married you. Not after what you said at the dance.”
Taken aback, he glared down his nose at her. She had changed more than her appearance. Catherine St. Clair had grown a backbone. One made of pure steel, if he were any judge. His temper flared. The more he struggled to control it, the hotter his blood boiled. “So you got even with me and threw away the kid. Why didn’t you just kill her?”
Bad words, fighting words. He regretted them as soon as they popped out of his mouth.
“Good grief!” She threw up her hands and turned her gaze to the heavens. “Ten minutes ago, you claim you didn’t even know I was pregnant. Now you want to play daddy of the year. Get lost, Easy. Just go away.” She entered the house and slammed the door. The clunk of a dead bolt sounded like a pistol shot.
Easy wavered. He hadn’t accomplished what he set out to do. He didn’t know any more about her involvement with Jeffrey Livman than when he’d arrived. He breathed hard, trying to get back to the present problem.
John Tupper had told a chilling story. After a whirlwind courtship, Roberta Tupper had married Jeffrey Livman. In the year they were married, Roberta had severed contact with her family. Six months ago Roberta had fallen from a rock formation in Garden of the Gods, and died from massive head injuries. There were no witnesses and no physical evidence of foul play. The coroner had declared Roberta’s death accidental.
Except, Roberta had been asthmatic and shunned physical activity such as hiking or rock climbing.
Except, a few weeks before her death, John Tupper had confronted his sister at her place of work, demanding to know why she refused to visit him or his family. He had come away with the impression that Roberta was terrified of her husband.
Except, Livman never notified the family of her death. Livman had Roberta’s body cremated without so much as a funeral or a memorial service. John had learned of the tragedy from the