He wanted to grab Annabel away from her and run. Or just stay here, not letting the baby girl out of his sight.
Because no matter how many times he told himself she wasn’t his daughter, he couldn’t make himself believe it.
He forced himself out the door, his heart staying behind.
Sara couldn’t stop staring at the tiny baby nestled against her chest. Couldn’t stop touching her, couldn’t stop telling her she loved her, that she was so sorry she hadn’t been there the past seven weeks, that nothing would ever come between them again.
On the drive over to the ranch from the lawyer’s office, she’d kept thinking, Please let my daughter be alive. Please let her be there. Please, please, please. Her prayers answered, Sara’s relief, her pure joy at being reunited with her baby girl, trounced her anger—murderous rage, really, at what had been done to the infant, done to Sara. That monster took so much from us. He’s not getting a second more of any piece of me. Not my thoughts or my emotions. Nothing. He’s gone.
“We have so much to catch up on,” Sara whispered, in awe of everything about Annabel. Her ten fingers and toes. Her little nose and chin. The way her chest rose and fell in her sea-foam-green-and-white pajamas with little ducklings across the front. That she was really, truly here.
The baby’s eyes were drooping, and Sara would be happy to sit here forever with Annabel napping in her arms. She glanced down at Chance, who was already asleep in his carrier. The siblings, twins, back together. She took in a deep, satisfying breath. Seven weeks felt like so much to miss out on, but she knew as time went on, she’d be grateful it had barely been two months.
She stood up, gently rocking Annabel, and walked over to the stone fireplace that dominated one wall of the living room, photos on the mantel. She’d lived in this house from the time she was born until she was sixteen, had sat on the sofa facing that fireplace night after night with her father after her mother passed away when she was nine. Talks, homework, reading, her dad’s delicious sub sandwiches as they watched a series they could enjoy together. Her entire life was up in the air right now, but being here in this cabin made her feel safe.
“I grew up here,” she whispered to Annabel. “Your grandma lived here. And your grandfather loved this cabin. He was the foreman here.” Now Noah was.
She froze, biting her lip as Noah’s words came back to her. There was a note with her. It said she was mine.
All this time, Noah had thought the baby was his. She glanced around the room, taking in the pale yellow playpen with its pastel mobile atop it by the bay window. The baby swing. The big basket of baby paraphernalia by the coffee table—she could see neatly folded burp cloths, a pack of diapers, a pink pacifier on a silver tray on the coffee table. An infant stroller was by the front door with a tote bag hanging from its handles. Lots of photos on the mantel were of Annabel, a few of Noah holding her.
She gasped as it really sank in that Annabel had lived here these past seven weeks, that Noah had taken her in—as his daughter.
Was he relieved that the mother had come back to take her? Upset? Noah Dawson was the bachelor of bachelors. Clearly he’d gotten his act together to reopen the guest ranch, but perhaps his siblings were all involved in that. The Noah she’d known near the end of their relationship two years ago didn’t wake until noon, despite having a ranch to run. Didn’t take care of business. Didn’t take care of their fledgling romance, the one she’d fought and kicked so hard for. Turned out Noah Dawson had been right about himself—that he’d only break her heart in more ways than one.
She always thought she knew better, didn’t she.
Her future was in her arms. In the carrier beside the sofa. Her children. Hours ago she’d had only a son. Now she had twins.
Take the blessing and let that fill you, she ordered herself. Because letting herself get caught up in anger over the past—recent and not so recent—would only hold her back. She had a family to raise, money to earn, a life to start.
She took a deep breath and glanced at the other photos on the mantel, surprised to see one of her and Noah in their caps and gowns, their high school graduation. They’d both worked at the Circle D then, a prosperous ranch a half hour away. Sara had lived there as the foreman’s daughter, and Noah was a hand. But a month later, when he turned eighteen, Noah had moved there too, so upset by the conversation he’d had with his dad a half hour earlier that he’d gone off alone. Sara still didn’t know what had gone on during that discussion.
The other photos were of his siblings, the six of them together when Noah was sixteen. They’d still come home to celebrate his birthday, though they’d refused to have Christmas at the ranch with their dad and had flown Noah to one of their homes instead.
There was a photo of his mom, a pretty brunette with blue eyes who’d died when he was ten, something that had brought Sara and Noah even closer. They never had to talk about how awful it felt to miss your mother, to wish she were there. They just knew and could be together, quiet, skipping stones in the river, throwing bread to the ducks, climbing trees and sitting up there for hours.
She missed the Noah he’d been three-quarters of the time—even to the very end of their relationship two years ago. She missed that guy so, so much.
And she’d missed this cabin. She turned to look around. She had so many memories here, so much history. She knew every nook and cranny, which floorboards creaked on the stairs, how many steps it was down to the creek (182), how she’d sat on her bed in her room upstairs, writing Sara Dawson in hearts in her journal like the lovesick teenager she’d been.
“Where’s my sweet baby girl?” a woman’s voice called cheerily through the front screen door, followed by a set of knocks. “I need my Annabelly time.”
Sara froze. Oh God. Who was this?
Noah’s wife? Girlfriend?
“Noah? You here?” the feminine voice called.
Sara bit her lip. Should she go to the door? Pretend she wasn’t here?
Curiosity got the better of her, since this woman might have helped Noah take care of Annabel the past seven weeks. Maybe, in fact, she’d done all the work. That was more likely.
She went to the door, and her heart soared. It was Daisy Dawson, Noah’s only sister.
“Daisy!” Sara said, hearing her voice break and not caring. Her long honey-brown hair in a braid practically to her waist, a straw cowboy hat on her head, pretty, sweet Daisy had been a good friend from childhood until Willem had isolated Sara from everyone she used to care about. Daisy was also at least six months pregnant.
“Whoa—Sara?” Daisy asked with a shocked grin, pulling open the screen door and coming inside. She glanced at Annabel in Sara’s arms. “This is a huge surprise. Did you come for Dawson’s grand reopening?” Before Sara could even respond, Daisy added, “That rascal Noah—he didn’t even tell me you two had gotten back in touch. God, Sara, it’s so good to see you. You look amazing. So healthy and glowy. Is Noah here or did he have to step out to deal with something?” Daisy touched a finger to Annabel’s cheek. “I’m so glad you got to meet my beautiful niece. Isn’t she precious?”
My beautiful niece. Sara’s knees buckled.
Sara tightened her arms around Annabel, more out of instinct than because she was worried she’d really drop to her knees.
Her every emotion must have been showing on her face, because Daisy tilted her head and looked at her. “Sara? You okay?”
“Not really,” Sara said. “Not by a long shot. I’ll be okay, though.”
Daisy put