Longwalker's Child. Debra Webb

If she opted not to submit Sarah to the test, Gray would no doubt make a legal move. By taking the test, Lauren had a couple of weeks to figure out some way to fight him. Two weeks, three tops. It was no time at all.

      “You may hold Sarah in your lap if you’d like,” the tech suggested, nodding toward the beige molded-plastic chair against the wall.

      Numbly, Lauren sat down and pulled Sarah onto her lap. She pressed a kiss to the top of her head and gave her a hug. Her chest ached with the fierce pounding of her heart.

      “Mommy, if I’m a good girl, do I get a present?” Sarah looked up at Lauren, her big gray eyes hopeful.

      Please let this be the right thing.

      “Sure, baby,” Lauren said softly.

      “And I want a Little Mermaid Band-Aid,” Sarah piped up.

      “I think I can handle that.” The tech smiled.

      Lauren fought the burn of tears behind her eyes. Even the medicinal smell of the place made her stomach churn. She had to do this. They needed the time before Gray made a move. But Lauren knew how this test would turn out.

      “Now,” the tech began, “this won’t hurt a bit.”

      Chapter Four

      Time crawled at a snail’s pace for Gray. Three days had passed since he had arrived in town…since he had seen Sarah. He had been in Thatcher only seventy-two hours and it felt like a year.

      He hated this god-awful place. Sarah was the only reason he had come back. Yesterday afternoon he had driven to Dallas and parted with the required samples for the DNA test. He supposed that Lauren had taken Sarah, as well. But, of course, he had no way of knowing because no one told him anything.

      Gray blew out a disgusted breath as his surroundings came back into focus. He sat alone in the diner. The booth’s red vinyl seats were faded and cracked with age. Nothing had changed about the place. Same scarred counter. Same black-and-white tile floor, coated with years of wax and buffed to a high, slightly yellowed sheen. Booths and tables, some mismatched and all worn from decades of use, filled the surprisingly clean diner.

      A waitress placed his breakfast in front of him, freshened his coffee and smiled flirtatiously. Gray nodded, but didn’t return the smile.

      He knew what people thought of him in this town. He’d stopped caring long ago. The quick, nervous glances and periodic murmuring told him that, like the diner’s decorating scheme, the people hadn’t changed, either.

      Gray stared at the bacon, eggs and toast on his plate with complete disinterest. He really wasn’t hungry. He hadn’t been for days.

      Not since he had seen his child…Sarah.

      Gray closed his eyes and envisioned the little girl. His heart squeezed in his chest. When he’d first learned of her existence, he had tried to imagine what she looked like but hadn’t been able to put a mental image with his expectations.

      Now he knew.

      He opened his eyes and surveyed the small crowd in the diner. These people knew Sarah was his daughter, as well—they would have to be blind not to know. Mrs. Jennings had known.

      Had anyone in this pathetic excuse for a town ever treated Sarah as they had treated him? Anger rose with such swiftness that he balled his fists.

      Gray forced back the anger, shuddering with the effort. He would not allow it to consume him. He picked up his fork and stabbed at the food. His stomach turned. He couldn’t eat. Even the invitation for dinner at the Jennings ranch held no appeal for him. The fork clattered against the heavy white plate, earning Gray another round of suspicious looks and renewed murmuring.

      Gray clenched his jaw and met each look with a fierce stare of his own. Let them say something, he mused. His fingers itched for an excuse—any excuse—to pound someone senseless.

      He dragged in a long, deep breath and forced his attention to the wall of windows and the street outside. The last thing he needed was a fight. The law in this town would love an excuse to send him packing, or worse.

      Gray hadn’t been in a brawl in more than four years. He walked away from conflict now. He had made peace with himself, if no one else. He had chosen his path and never looked back. There hadn’t been any reason to look back, until now.

      The idea that his blood ran through that little girl’s veins shifted something—some sort of balance—deep inside him. Gray didn’t quite understand the feeling. He didn’t exactly love Sarah…. How could he? He didn’t even know her. The sensation was something much more primal than love. A sense of responsibility or protectiveness maybe.

      Whatever it was, it grew with each breath he took.

      When he had tucked Sarah into bed the other night, he had sat on the floor for a long while and watched her sleep. He had never before experienced such a driving desire to possess something. He wanted this child. His child.

      Gray pushed his plate away and finished off his coffee. He hadn’t heard anything from Lauren Whitmore’s attorney other than the time and place for the lab appointment. Davis had until five o’clock today to contact Gray, after that his own attorney would start legal proceedings. He would not waste any more time waiting or analyzing Mrs. Jennings’s comment about someone else having an interest in Sarah. No one would keep him from claiming his daughter.

      Gray had stayed away from Lauren since the episode on Monday night. He had struggled ever since with guilt he shouldn’t even be feeling. He didn’t know much about headaches, other than he’d had his share, but he had never seen anyone suffer the way Lauren had. But he had to set his sympathy aside. Lauren Whitmore was an obstacle he intended to remove from his path—one way or another.

      Gray stood, ignoring the wary looks his every move earned him. He dropped the cash on the table for his meal and headed for the door. He’d had about all the Thatcher social life he could stand for one morning.

      A bell jingled as he pushed the door open and stepped outside. Gray closed his eyes and raised his face to the warmth the sun offered against the cool March wind. He drew in a deep breath, settled his hat on his head and wondered how he could occupy himself today. He had visited a few of his old haunts the last couple of nights. What little night life Thatcher had to offer hadn’t changed much since he left, either.

      Maybe he would go out to Manning’s ranch and take a look at that stallion the old man was having such a hard time with. He had heard the stories at the tavern last night about the demon horse Manning owned. The animal had injured the half dozen or so men who had tried to work with him already. Gray had a gut feeling that the horse had probably paid dearly for his rebellion, and that bothered him far more than what the men who had tried to break him had suffered.

      Gray walked in the direction of the hotel where he had taken a room and left his truck. Thatcher was always quiet at this time of the morning. The kids were in school, and most of the other folks were at work, except those who made a career out of hanging out in Sid’s Diner or Dilbert’s General Store.

      The same old storefronts lined the sidewalk, with only a fresh coat of paint here and there to mark any progress. The wind slashed down the straight line called Main Street that cut smack through the middle of the two-horse town.

      Gray shook his head in disgust. Thatcher only reminded him of the things he had worked hard to forget. The longer he stayed the harder it became to maintain the discipline he had struggled to achieve.

      A mane of blond hair fluttering in the wind caught Gray’s eye. His gaze traveled the length of the female whose back was turned to him. His attention riveted to the firm, round derriere encased in snug-fitting jeans. Maybe there was a thing or two in this town worth a second look. The sound of the woman’s almost musical voice wafted to his ears. Gray stopped dead in his tracks. Every muscle in his body tensed.

      Lauren Whitmore.

      Gray headed in her direction. No time like the present to find out just what