Firstborn Page 11

  Erika bolted forward, wanting to get to the dog before Susie. Oh please, God, don’t let him be dead.

  She knelt in the street, the asphalt of the road digging into her bare knees. “Motley?”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see him. I’m so sorry. I—”

  Motley whimpered. He was alive… for now.

  “Is there a vet nearby?” the driver asked. “Will you let me take you there?”

  Erika slipped her arms beneath the dog. “Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “Please.”

  Motley whimpered again as she lifted him.

  “Susie,” Erika said, “go tell your mommy what happened. Ask her to call Dr. Murdoch and say we’re on our way. Hurry! Run!”

  The driver opened the rear door of the Toyota. Erika scarcely gave her a glance before sliding into the backseat, cradling the beloved mutt against herself.

  Please, God. I couldn’t bear to lose Motley. Not now. Not on top of everything else.

  Erika must have given the woman directions to the vet’s clinic, although she didn’t remember doing so. Nor did she remember rushing inside, her pulse racing, her heart filled with dread.

  But somehow, she found herself alone in the waiting area with only the driver of the car, a stranger, for company.

  “I’m so sorry,” the girl said.

  Erika looked at the young woman beside her.

  She was pretty, with long, kinky-curly black hair, wispy bangs parted by a cowlick in the center of her forehead. Her eyes, filled with concern, were brown with a coppery ring around the corneas. They reminded Erika of—

  She released a tiny gasp, knowing but not believing.

  With a nod, the young woman whispered, “I’m Kirsten.”

  Paula rarely paid a visit to the Hurst Technology site, which was only one reason for Dallas’s uneasiness as he rose to greet his wife. Things hadn’t been smooth on the home front in the two days since he’d told Paula about him and Erika. Oh, his wife pretended to be okay with it. In fact, she’d acted a whole lot better than he’d expected, but Dallas suspected she wasn’t as calm about it as she appeared.

  “Hi, beautiful.” He searched her face for a clue to her mood.

  Paula marched up to his desk and fixed him with a direct stare. “Dallas, I’ve been thinking. We need to see our lawyer.”

  His mouth went dry. “What for?”

  “That girl. The one who claims to be your daughter. What do you know about her?”

  “Nothing really, but—”

  “Exactly.” She placed her knuckles on his desk and leaned toward him. “We know nothing about her. That’s why we need to protect ourselves before it’s too late. She’s probably after our money.”

  “I don’t think she knows who I am. She couldn’t—”

  “All the more reason to see Scott now. I’m not about to let some moneygrubbing nobody march into town and threaten our way of life. We’ve worked too hard for what we have to let that happen. It wasn’t your fault Erika was stupid enough to get pregnant. We shouldn’t have to pay for her mistake. If she’d had any sense, she would have had an abortion. I would’ve, in her shoes.”

  For an instant, Dallas wondered if he really knew his wife at all.

  This wasn’t the way Kirsten had imagined their first meeting, in a room that smelled of frightened animals, medication, and disinfectant.

  No, she’d had something more poignant in mind. For several months and across two thousand four hundred and seventy-two miles, she’d imagined all sorts of scenarios for her first meeting with her birth mother, but never had she pictured this one. Nor had she expected to feel a sudden hope that Erika Welby would come to care about her.

  Erika said Kirsten’s name softly, as if testing it on her tongue.

  Kirsten nodded. “Yes.”

  “I’m Erika.”

  “I know.”

  An awkward silence filled the waiting room. A heartbeat later, Erika looked away, turning her gaze toward the examination room where they’d taken the injured dog.

  “I’m sorry,” Kirsten said for what seemed the hundredth time. “I didn’t see him running into the street. I was looking… I was looking for your house number and then I saw you in the yard and when I realized—” She stopped, certain she was babbling like an idiot.

  “His name is Motley.” Erika’s voice lowered. “He belongs to Ethan.”

  Ethan?

  As if Kirsten had spoken her question aloud, Erika answered it. “He’s my son.”

  Her son…

  My brother…

  Kirsten had wondered, of course. She’d wondered if she had any siblings, but she’d never been able to find that information. Now she knew of at least one. Ethan. Her half brother.

  Or is he my full-blooded brother? Is Steven Welby my father?

  Kirsten hadn’t the courage to ask. Not yet.

  The phone rang. The receptionist answered it. Dogs barked somewhere in the bowels of the building. The wall clock noisily ticked off the seconds as the hand swept around its large, white face.

  Kirsten pretended to look elsewhere while studying her birth mother’s profile.

  Do I look like her?

  She wasn’t sure. For countless years, she’d wished she looked like somebody.

  Or do I resemble my father?

  Erika Welby had dark blond hair, unlike Kirsten’s ebony locks, but it was just as curly, and if she wasn’t mistaken, Erika had the same stubborn cowlick that plagued Kirsten.

  A cowlick and naturally curly hair. Was that enough to make them mother and daughter?

  Erika glanced at Kirsten, tears in her pale blue eyes.

  It was Kirsten’s turn to look away, afraid.

  Afraid that the dog she’d hit with her car wouldn’t survive. Afraid Erika Welby wouldn’t like her. Afraid Ethan Welby would hate her. Afraid she would never meet her father. Afraid of all the unknown twists and turns of her future.

  Afraid.

  Eighteen

  The drive home from the veterinarian’s was even more awkward than the hour the two women had spent in the waiting area. Motley was suffering from shock and some nasty abrasions, Dr. Murdoch had told Erika when he emerged from the examination room, but the dog was expected to make a full recovery.

  “Turn right at the next intersection,” Erika instructed softly.

  Kirsten held the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip.

  Do I ask her in? Erika wondered. Do I tell her to come back later?

  She could suggest lunch in a week or two. She could say that she understood Kirsten would need time to get settled. She would be doing the girl a favor.

  She’s your daughter. Your daughter!

  Erika felt a catch in her breath, a flutter in her heart.

  My daughter.

  “There it is,” Erika whispered. “On the right.”

  “Yes. I see it.” Kirsten pulled to the curb rather than into the driveway.

  This was her baby girl. How could she have considered not meeting her?

  Erika drew a shallow breath and asked, “Would you like to come in?”

  Kirsten didn’t answer immediately. She took a moment to cut the engine, then relaxed her hold on the wheel. Finally, she turned to meet Erika’s gaze. “Yes.” Her reply was almost inaudible. “Yes, I would like to come in.”

  “It isn’t anything fancy.” It sounded like an apology, and Erika regretted that. She loved her home.

  In unison, they opened their respective car doors and got out. Erika waited near the curb while Kirsten came around the front of the Toyota. Then they walked side by side up the driveway. The front door wasn’t locked. A good thing since Erika had neither her purse nor the key to the house. Erika led the way inside. "The coffee’ll be cold by now. I’ll brew another pot. Make yourself comfortable.” She waved toward the living room off to her left, then headed down the short hallway to the kitchen.

  What do I say to her? What will she say to me?

  They weren’t supposed
to have met like this. They might not have met at all, given a different set of circumstances.

  She’s my daughter. She’s a stranger. God, tell me what to do.

  Erika moved about the kitchen on autopilot, pouring the cold coffee down the drain, filling the carafe with water, grinding fresh beans.

  She looks so much like Dallas. I wasn’t ready for that, Lord. Why wasn’t I ready for that?

  “This must be Ethan.”

  Erika whirled around. Kirsten stood in the family room, studying the grouping of photos on the wall above the piano.

  “Is he your only son?”

  “Yes.”

  Kirsten pointed at another photograph. “And this is your husband? Ethan’s father?”

  “Yes.” Erika moved forward.

  Kirsten turned to look at her. “But he isn’t my father, is he?”

  She stopped still, a breathless pause, then the confession. “No.”

  The question lay unspoken between them: Who is my father? What’s his name?

  The answer lodged in Erika’s throat and wouldn’t come loose.

  “Does he know about me?” Kirsten asked softly. “My father. Did you tell him I was coming? Does he live here?”

  “Yes, he lives here. He knows you’re coming.”

  “Does he… does he want to meet me?”

  Erika felt as if a giant fist were squeezing the life from her heart. “I don’t know. He… he hasn’t told me.”

  “I see.” Kirsten turned back to the wall of photos.

  No, you don’t see. You can’t see. You can’t possibly know what your coming here has done to me, to Steven, to Ethan or Dallas or Paula. You can’t know because… because I gave you away.

  Erika returned to the coffeemaker.

  I never smelled your sweet baby’s breath. I never kissed the bottoms of your feet after your bath. I never rocked you to sleep or nursed you at my breast.

  The pain in her heart was intense. The yearning for what might have been. The ache for all the memories she’d never made. She’d lost all those years, all those magical moments of a child’s life—the first steps, the first tooth, the first day of school, a girl’s first kiss and her first broken heart, the first day of driver’s ed, her graduation. She’d lost all that and more, and she could never get them back. Another woman had those memories, a woman whom Kirsten thought of as Mom.

  But Erika could have tomorrow’s memories if she made the effort.

  “Whose car’s that?” Ethan asked as Steven turned past the blue Toyota and into the driveway.

  “Nobody’s I know.”

  When the car stopped, Ethan opened the passenger door and got out. “I’ll put the clubs away.”

  “Thanks, Son.”

  Steven glanced toward the front door. He felt a little better than he had when he left. The time on the golf course had helped to clear his head. Maybe he and Erika could—

  “Ethan! Ethan!” Little Susie from next door came racing across the yard. “Where’s Motley?”

  “Backyard. Why?”

  “You mean he’s not… he isn’t dead?” Tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Dead?” Ethan looked over the roof of the car at his dad.

  Steven took charge. “Why would you think Motley might be dead, Susie?”

  “The lady in that blue car—” she pointed at the Toyota—“hit him. Mrs. Welby took him to the doctor, but I didn’t see her bring him back.”

  Ethan bolted toward the house, Steven right behind him. “Mom?” the boy shouted as he entered. “Mom?”

  “I’m here, Ethan. In the kitchen.”

  Son and father rushed down the hall.

  “Where’s Motley?” Ethan demanded as he burst into the room.

  “He’s at Dr. Murdoch’s,” his mother answered. “They kept him overnight for observation, but he’ll be fine. Dr. Murdoch said it’ll just take a bit of time.” Her gaze flicked first to Steven, then toward the family room.

  Steven and Ethan both turned around.

  Steven’s first impression of the stranger was that she was attractive. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties. His second impression was that she might not be a stranger after all. He thought he knew her from someplace, although he couldn’t think from where.

  “Steven. Ethan. This is Kirsten Lundquist.”

  The oxygen seemed to be sucked right out of the room as four people stood there, holding their collective breath.

  “Maybe we should sit down,” Erika said at last.

  Kirsten looked at Ethan. “I’m sorry about your dog. I didn’t see him run in front of my car.”

  “Sounds like he’ll be okay,” Ethan said.

  Kirsten nodded.

  “Please, everybody,” Erika said, the words strained. Lets sit.

  It wasn’t until they each found a place—Erika and Steven on opposite ends of the sofa, Ethan in the matching recliner, and Kirsten in the rocker, the chair farthest from the rest of them—that Steven realized why he’d had the impression of knowing the girl. She looked like Dallas: the same brown eyes that sloped at the outer corners, same thick eyebrows and long lashes, same jet-black hair, same olive complexion. But she also resembled Erika with her dimples and her curls.

  Kirsten looked like Dallas… and like Erika.

  Steven ventured a glance at his son. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach, knowing Ethan had seen the resemblances, too. It made Steven angry at Kirsten—and ashamed for his wife.

  Kirsten didn’t have to be told Steven Welby didn’t want her in his home. She could feel it. His resentment pulsed from him like a heartbeat.

  She rose. “I think I’d better go.”

  Erika stood, too, not saying a word. She twisted her hands at her waist like one of those silent-movie heroines. It would have been funny if it weren’t so tragic.

  It took all of Kirsten’s willpower not to run from the house. Instead, she looked at each member of this family and held their gazes long enough to show she wasn’t afraid. Then she headed for the front door. She was already down the steps before Erika’s voice stopped her.

  “I have your number, Kirsten. I’ll call you… I’ll call you soon.”

  Why call? You don’t want me here, either. You don’t want me around one bit more than your husband does.

  She was dangerously close to tears.

  “I’ll call you soon,” Erika repeated.

  I wouldn’t care if you never called me if I knew how else to find my father. I don’t care anything about you. I already have a mom.

  Walking toward her car, Kirsten nodded but she didn’t look back, not even for an instant.

  Nineteen

  Dallas and Paula met with their lawyer, Scott Monroe, on Friday. During the time they were in his office—at the healthy rate of four hundred dollars per billing hour—Scott reeled off a long list of legal mumbo jumbo and assured them he would find the best way to protect the Hurst assets.

  “In the meantime,” Scott said at the close of the meeting, “see what you can learn about the girl.”

  Those words of advice stayed with Dallas the remainder of the day, and by Saturday morning, he knew he couldn’t put off making a call.

  The phone was answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Erika. It’s me. Dallas.”

  A pause, then, “Hello, Dallas.”

  “Listen, I… I need to talk to you. About… well, you know.”

  “About Kirsten.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We met her a couple days ago.”

  “You saw her? She’s in Boise already?”

  “She came to the house.”

  His palms were sweating. “She was there, huh?” He moved the receiver to his left ear, then dried his now-free right hand on his pant leg.

  “Yes.”

  “How’d it go?”

  She sighed, her breath whispering through the phone line. “Not good.”

  He wondered what that meant. Was Kirsten rude? hateful? ugly? greedy? What?<
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  “She hit Motley with her car. We had to take him to the vet’s.”

  Dallas muttered a curse.

  “It wasn’t her fault. It just happened. And Motley’s fine. He’s home now and lapping up all the pampering he can get.”

  Dallas didn’t care about the dog. What he cared about was Scott’s warning, about how Dallas needed to learn more about the girl. “Erika, are you sure she’s who she says she is? Are you sure she isn’t pulling a fast one?”

  “Oh, Dallas. There isn’t any doubt.”

  “You can’t be sure from only one meeting. She could be some con artist. Who knows how she got ahold of the adoption information? With the Internet, anything’s possible. Maybe we should get a blood test, check the DNA.”

  “She looks exactly like you.”

  His throat constricted.

  “Even Steven and Ethan noticed the resemblance,” Erika added.

  A daughter who resembled him.

  What was a man supposed to feel when he heard something like that? What was he supposed to think?

  What Dallas felt was old. He’d wanted a baby, a son to carry on his name. What he had was a nearly twenty-two-year-old daughter he’d never seen.

  “She looks exactly like you.”

  He took a deep breath. “What did you tell her about me?”

  “I told her you knew she was coming, but that’s all. She didn’t stay long. It was a bit awkward. I… I’m going to call her this afternoon.”

  “Maybe you should let it go, Erika. Maybe she realizes her mistake and will go back to wherever she came from.”

  There was a lengthy silence on the other end of the line, then, “I don’t want her to go back. I want to know her.”

  “Think of the complications. From the little I’ve heard from Steven, things aren’t good between you and him because of her. Am I right? Her coming here hasn’t made things fun at my house, either. We’re trying to have a baby of our own, and Paula thinks this girl’s after something.”

  “Dallas,” Erika said, her voice soft but firm, “listen to me. It may have been a job that brought Kirsten to Boise, but I believe it’s more than that. God’s brought her here for a reason.”