Lauren’s one and only concern right now was Gray Longwalker’s return.
GRAY WATCHED the hushed exchange between the Whitmore woman and her lawyer. He vaguely remembered Don Davis. The best he could recall, the man was at least ten years his senior. When Gray had left the small Texas town of Thatcher six years ago, Davis had been practicing law with his father. Gray supposed the older man had retired or passed away since the storefront window now read The Law Office of Don Davis. Gray remembered the elder Davis as a fair man. He only hoped the son would prove as just.
Had it only been six years ago that he had left this godforsaken place? It seemed like a lifetime. Yet nothing had changed. The people in this town would still think of him as nothing more than a half-breed bastard. An outcast. He wasn’t blind. He had seen the stares as he walked down the sidewalk to Davis’s office. The difference between six years ago and now was that Gray no longer cared. He frowned as the hushed conversation on the other side of the room jerked him back to the present. Whatever Davis was trying to get across to the woman, she didn’t seem to be taking it very well.
Lauren Whitmore was a transplant—a northerner, Gray had assumed from her accent even before Davis had mentioned Chicago. From the discussion they’d just had, Gray had learned that she had moved to Thatcher about three years prior and befriended another of the town’s outcasts, Sharon Johnson.
Gray closed his eyes and summoned Sharon’s image. A slight woman with fiery-red hair and eyes like a clear summer sky. As much as he hated to admit it, he hadn’t thought of her in years, though she had been a friend to him for most of his life. Sharon had been the only person who had tried to understand him or the emotions that drove him. Emotions or ghosts? Gray wondered. It had taken him many years to come to terms with what he was and the hand fate had cruelly dealt him.
He and Sharon hadn’t been in love with each other, but their feelings had been strong just the same. Those last few weeks before Gray had hit the road and left his sorry past behind, Sharon had been his only source of emotional support. He hadn’t meant to make love to her—it had just happened. It grieved him immensely that she hadn’t called on him in her time of need. She had died alone, save for the Whitmore woman and the child whom she had kept hidden from Gray.
Gray opened his eyes and forced the painful memories away. He had left Sharon with child, and she obviously hadn’t considered him worthy of the knowledge. He supposed he couldn’t really blame her. He had been a bitter, mixed-up hothead back in those days. Still, the fact that she hadn’t told him didn’t sit right in his gut. He knew Sharon. Or at least he thought he had. Things had gotten a little crazy those last couple of weeks before he left. Leaving Thatcher had been the only thing that had kept him sane and out of trouble with the law—at least the law according to the Buckmasters.
Enough, Longwalker, he ordered. Gray turned his attention back to the Whitmore woman. A thick mane of blond hair fell around her shoulders. Her eyes were the greenest Gray had ever seen. Like jade. She had long, shapely legs to which the navy leggings she wore clung like a second skin. The thigh-length matching sweater did nothing to conceal the lush curves underneath. Gray felt a stirring in his loins and averted his gaze.
She might look like a million bucks, but he already knew that Lauren Whitmore would treat him just the way everybody else in this town did. Not to mention the fact that she stood between him and his child. The child he had only recently learned existed.
Gray set his jaw and willed the rage to retreat. Rehashing the past would serve no purpose, but he would not allow history to repeat itself. Gray had been called a half-breed all his life. No one who wanted to continue breathing would ever call a child of his half-breed. And no child of his would ever be called a bastard.
He glanced at the Whitmore woman again. No one would stop him from claiming his child.
No one.
Since Gray’s whereabouts had been unknown, an ad announcing the Whitmore woman’s intent to adopt the daughter of Sharon Johnson and Gray Longwalker had been placed in the local newspaper of his last-known city of residence.
Gray knew without a doubt that no real effort had been made to find him. Davis had merely fulfilled the necessary legal technicalities to proceed with the adoption. Neither he nor Lauren intended for Gray to find out about Sarah. If they had known that Gray still had connections in Laredo, the ad would never have been placed in a newspaper there. Still, he’d had to give her the benefit of the doubt. But when he had gone to Lauren’s door, her attitude had told him she wasn’t interested. And now, here they were, sitting in her attorney’s office getting nowhere.
Lauren and Davis had apparently reached some sort of decision and both returned to their seats. Davis settled behind the big oak desk and Lauren sat in the chair adjacent to Gray. She kept her gaze fixed firmly on Davis, not giving Gray so much as a sideways glance.
Gray’s pulse picked up. Now he would find out just how serious Lauren Whitmore was about keeping his daughter from him.
“Mr. Longwalker,” Davis began, “the law clearly gives you the right to demand custody of your child—”
Lauren gasped, but quickly cleared her throat and clasped her hands in her lap. Gray saw the tremendous effort she required to compose herself once more. She evidently didn’t want to hear what her attorney had to say now any more than she had a few moments ago.
“As I was saying,” Davis continued. “If you are, in fact, Sarah’s biological father, then you have every right to petition the court for custody.”
“Is there any question that I’m the father?” Gray straightened in his chair and leveled his full attention on the round face of the stocky attorney. “I thought Sharon named me as the father on the birth certificate.” And with his Navajo heritage there couldn’t be much question as to whether the child had inherited his Native American features. That part would be obvious. With her Irish-American background, Sharon certainly couldn’t have passed those traits onto the child.
“That’s true. Ms. Johnson did name you as the father, however, that alone won’t stand up in court.”
Gray’s hackles rose at the implication. “Sharon Johnson might not have been one of Thatcher’s more prominent citizens, but she would never have lied about something like this.” Gray had no intention of sitting here and allowing some spit-polished, college-educated snob to sully Sharon’s name, even though she hadn’t seen fit to let Gray know about his child.
“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” Davis clarified quickly.
“Good,” Gray said, and glared at the man behind the desk. He forced his fury back to a manageable level. He had worked long and hard to learn to control his temper, but this new turn of events was testing those limits.
“Ms. Whitmore was given full custody of the child by the biological mother. If you choose to contend her adoption proceedings, then it’s up to you to prove your right to do so in a court of law.”
Gray shrugged. “I have no problem with that. Just tell me where to go and what to do.”
Davis eyed him skeptically. “The test and court costs will be quite expensive, Mr. Longwalker. Since it is up to you to prove paternity, then the burden of cost for both you and the child will fall on your shoulders.”
“Whatever it takes,” Gray responded without hesitation. His own attorney had warned him to expect this stall tactic.
Lauren darted a nervous glance in his direction. Gray smiled to himself. He may have left Thatcher as poor as dirt, but he hadn’t been as dumb as dirt. Don Davis would probably faint dead away if he knew just how much money Gray had growing interest in a Dallas bank account.
“Well, then.”