Because she was now staring at the man with the baby cowboy, he glanced at her, and she could see he was trying to place her.
“Good morning,” a woman said, her voice serious as she appeared behind the two men in the doorway. “I’m Anne Parcells, administrator of the Wedlock Creek Clinic. All parties are here so let’s begin. Please,” she said, gesturing for the men to enter and to sit in the two chairs positioned to the left of her desk. Shelby and her attorney were seated to the right. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Ingalls and Mr. Mercer.” Introductions were made between attorneys and parties, the door was closed and everyone was now seated.
Please get to the lawsuit or whatever this is about so that I can get back to the store, Shelby thought. Three of her favorite regular customers, the elderly Minnow sisters, came in every Friday morning at the shop’s opening time of ten o’clock to see what she might have added to the shop for the weekend rush. She hated to keep them and any new customers waiting. Wedlock Creek was a small town, but had its own rodeo on the outskirts and a bustling downtown because of it, so folks came from all over the county to enjoy a bit of the Wild West, then walk the mile-long Main Street with its shops and restaurants and movie theater with the reclining seats. Business was semi-booming.
The administrator cleared her throat, her expression almost grim. Shelby felt for the woman. The Wedlock Creek Clinic, a nonprofit that included an urgent care center, was a godsend for so many in the county, since the county hospital was forty-five minutes away. A lawsuit had the potential to close the clinic.
“I’m going to just say this outright,” Anne said, looking up from some paperwork. “A week ago, Ms. Ingalls—” she gestured to Shelby “—brought her six-month-old son, Shane, to the clinic with a stomach virus. A standard blood test was run. This morning our lab returned the results, noting a discrepancy with Ms. Ingalls’s blood type and Shane Ingalls’s blood type.”
A discrepancy? Huh? Shelby leaned forward a bit, staring at the woman, who glanced at her for a moment, the expression in her eyes so compassionate that the hairs rose on the back of Shelby’s neck.
Anne Parcells looked down at the papers in her hands, then back up. “Based on the results, it would be impossible for Ms. Ingalls to be Shane’s biological mother.”
What the ever-loving hell? Shelby bolted up, her arms around Shane in the sling. “That’s impossible! Of course he’s my son! I gave birth to him!”
The administrator’s expression turned grim again. “The test was run three times. I’m afraid that Shane Ingalls cannot be your biological son, Ms. Ingalls.”
Shelby’s legs shook and she dropped down on her chair, her head spinning. She tried to make sense of the words. Not your son. Discrepancy. Impossible.
This had to be a mistake—that was the only explanation. Of course Shane was her son!
Dimly, she could hear her sister-appointed lawyer requesting to see the paperwork, the ruffling of sheaves of paper as Anne handed over the stack and David Dirk studied them, flipping through the various documents.
“Jesus,” David mutter-whispered.
Shelby closed her eyes, trying to keep hold of herself despite the feeling coming over her that sh∆e was going to black out. She felt herself wobble a bit and grabbed David’s chair to steady herself.
He put a bracing arm around her. “We’ll have your and Shane’s blood drawn again and retested in a different lab,” he said.
She sucked in a breath and nodded. Yes. Redone. A different lab. It was a mistake. Just a mistake. The results would prove she was Shane’s mother. She was!
“Excuse me,” Liam Mercer’s lawyer said, darting a compassionate glance at Shelby. “But what does this have to do with my client?”
The administrator took a deep breath. “Based on the results and a discussion with a night-shift nurse who retired three months ago, we believe your babies—Shane Ingalls and Alexander Mercer—born within minutes of each other in the early-morning hours of November 5, were accidentally switched at birth.”
Shelby gasped.
“That’s impossible,” Liam Mercer said, his gaze narrowed on the administrator, then on Shelby. “Come on.”
The woman glanced from Shelby to Liam, then said, “In the chaos of the storm, the nurse didn’t follow procedure to secure an identifying bracelet around the male babies until the generator kicked back in. She was positive she’d put Ms. Ingalls’s baby in the left bassinet and Ms. Harwood’s in the right. But because we now know that Shane Ingalls can’t be the child Shelby gave birth to, she thinks she must have made a mistake.”
Liam stood up, tightening his hold on the baby in his arms. “That’s ridiculous. Like Mr. Dirk said, the blood test results are a mistake. A mislabeled vial, and voilà, mother and baby are suddenly not related. There was no switching of babies.”
“Mr. Mercer,” Anne Parcells said. “I wish that were the case. However, given that the generator failed at precisely the time when both babies were taken, within minutes of each other, to the pediatric clinic to be weighed and measured and cleaned up, it’s entirely possible that the nurse accidentally switched the babies. I also wish that the blood type issue could be a mistake, but Ms. Ingalls’s blood was drawn twice on prior visits to the clinic during prenatal care—and documented, of course. Her blood type is not compatible with Shane’s.”
Oh, God. There went her last hope.
“Entirely possible isn’t good enough,” Liam said, his voice ice-cold. “Either the nurse did switch the babies or she didn’t. If you don’t know for sure, then...” He shook his head, then stared at Anne Parcells. “Wait a minute. Alexander was born here, so you must have his blood type on record and his mother’s. Are they compatible? I’m sure they are.”
The administrator nodded. “Alexander’s blood type, one of the most common, is a match for Liza Harwood’s. However, it’s also a match for Ms. Ingalls. Which leads to next steps. DNA tests must be conducted.”
“There,” Liam said, “Alexander’s blood type is compatible with his mother’s. And mine, I’m sure. He’s my son.”
“You visited the urgent care center twice in the past five years, Mr. Mercer. Your blood type is on record. Your blood type is compatible with Alexander’s, as well.”
The relief that crossed Liam’s face almost had Shelby happy for him. But she was barely hanging on.
“This is all some mix-up with Ms. Ingalls and her son’s blood type but it has nothing to do with me.” He looked over at Shelby then, his expression a mix of confusion and worry. Just like the night she’d first seen him. “I don’t mean to sound cavalier at your expense, Ms. Ingalls, but this is a mistake,” he said to her. “It has to be.”
“He’s right!” Shelby shouted, panic and bile rising. “It’s all a mistake. It has to be a mistake!”
“There were four babies born the night of November 5,” the director said. “Two boys and two girls. If there was a switch, it was between Shane Ingalls and Alexander Mercer.”
The lawyers began talking, but Shelby’s ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton. As Liam began pacing, she glanced at the baby in his arms—and gasped.
“What?” Liam asked, freezing, his gaze narrowed on her again.
“The little birthmark on his ear,” she whispered, standing up. “I have it, too. So does my grandmother.” Norah didn’t have it. Her mother didn’t have it. But Shelby did.
Everyone