His Secret Christmas Baby. Rita Herron

snow dotting the tree branches reminded him of Brianna holding that baby at the graveyard the night before. Of the question nagging at him.

      Could that little boy be his son?

       Hell, if he is, he’s probably better off without you. What do you know about fatherhood?

      Zilch. Except that he didn’t want to be like his old man. And he didn’t want some kid thinking he’d deserted him, either.

      What kind of mental scars would that give him?

      Hissing in frustration, he strode to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes looked bloodshot, worry lines fanning around his mouth, the remnants of the nightmares still in his gaunt expression.

      No, if that baby was his, he wouldn’t hurt him like his father had hurt him.

      Dammit. He’d find a way to be the man, the father, the kid deserved, even if he had to take lessons to do it.

      And damn Brianna. If she knew the baby was his son, why hadn’t she contacted him and told him?

      Another woman—another deception. It seemed to be par for the course. Women liked to play games. But he was no player.

      He took a quick shower and dressed, then grabbed his weapon and shoved it into the waistband of his jeans. As he went out the door, he tugged on his jacket and slogged out through the snow. A glance at his watch told him it was only 6:00 a.m. Brianna might not be up. Then again, babies awakened early, didn’t they?

      The snow flurries were dwindling, yet the spiny branches of the trees were coated in white, and dark storm clouds hung heavy in the sky. Gears ground as he chugged up the mountain road toward Brianna’s, grateful he’d had snow chains put on the Jeep. The winter wind whistled through the car as he parked in her drive. Squinting through the fog at the small log cabin, he frowned as he noticed her front door stood ajar.

      Why would her door be open in cold weather?

      Instincts honed from years on the job kicked in, and he removed his gun and climbed out, his gaze scanning her property as he slowly inched toward the porch.

      He didn’t see anyone lurking around, but still kept his eyes peeled as he neared the front door. A glance inside made his stomach knot.

      Brianna was lying on the floor at the bottom of the steps unmoving.

      Good God, what had happened?

      Adrenaline kicked in as he ran toward her and knelt to check for a pulse. His own clamored as he waited.

      A second later, he exhaled in relief. She was breathing.

      He placed his gun on the floor beside him, pulled his cell phone from inside his jacket and punched 9–1-1.

      “This is Derrick McKinney,” he told the operator. “Send an ambulance to Brianna Honeycutt’s house. She’s unconscious and it looks like she took a fall.”

      “I’ll get an ambulance out there right away,” the operator said, then asked for the address.

      Derrick gave her directions, then snapped his phone closed, and brushed Brianna’s hair from her cheek. “Brianna, can you hear me?” He gently shook her, turning her face sideways to check her injuries.

      The bruises on her face made his gut clench.

      She hadn’t just fallen. Someone had hit her.

      Anger churned in his gut, then panic slammed into him. The house was quiet. Too quiet?

      Where was the baby?

      His heart pounded as he vaulted to his feet and searched the downstairs, then raced up the steps. He spotted Brianna’s bedroom on the left, then a guest room across the hall with a crib inside. He hadn’t prayed in ages, but he said a silent prayer that the baby was safely asleep in the crib.

      But when he looked inside, the baby was gone.

      T HE SOUND OF A MAN ’ S GRUFF voice penetrated the fog enveloping Brianna, but a screeching sound trilled in the distance, compounding the pain hammering in her head.

      “Brianna, can you hear me?” Soft fingers stroked her cheek. “It’s Derrick McKinney. I need you to wake up and talk to me.”

      She moaned, but slowly roused, and tried to open her eyes. Where was she? What had happened?

      “Brianna,” he said a little more harshly. “Please. I need you to talk to me.”

      Panic and fear pummeled her as reality returned. Oh, God…the baby.

      “Ryan…” Tears choked her, and she pushed at the floor with her hands, desperate to get up. “The baby…a man…he broke in and took him.” The room swirled as she lifted her head, and pain rocked through her again, sending nausea in waves.

      “Easy,” Derrick urged. “You’d better lie flat until the EMTs get here. You might have a head injury.”

      “No, I’m okay.” She had to drag in a breath to stem the nausea. The room twirled, and she closed her eyes and willed herself not to get sick on him. “Just help me to the couch.”

      He eased her onto the sofa, then knelt beside her. “Tell me where it hurts,” he said.

      “I’ll be fine,” she claimed through gritted teeth, “but he took Ryan.” She clutched his arm with an iron grip. “You have to find him, Derrick. You have to.”

      “I will,” he declared softly. “Just tell me what happened. What do you remember?”

      She massaged her temple, struggling to recall the details. “I put Ryan to bed after I got home and then went to bed myself. Later, I heard him crying, and went to the nursery, but a man was standing over the crib. Then he grabbed Ryan and started to leave.”

      “Did you see his face?”

      She shook her head. “No, it was so dark, and he was dressed in all black and wearing a ski mask. The only thing I saw was his eyes.” A shiver rippled through her, and she slowly sat up. “He had cold, mean eyes.”

      He stroked her arm as if to calm her. “Then what happened?”

      “I tried to stop him, but he hit me, so I ran after him. I caught his arm on the steps, but he threw me down them. Then he ran by me on the stairs.” Tears leaked from her eyes and rolled on her cheeks. “I grabbed his ankle, but he kicked me in the face and chest. I was dizzy but I tried to get to him, but he kicked me again and I must have passed out.”

      She dropped her face into her hands. “Oh, God, Derrick…Ryan is gone and it’s all my fault.”

      D ERRICK TRIED TO STEEL HIMSELF against the torment in Brianna’s voice, but if there was one emotion he understood, it was guilt. And hers was genuine. No act.

      Her sobs tore at him, and he couldn’t resist. He pulled her into his arms and held her. It was a cop thing to do, a human comforting another. He’d done it a thousand times on a case.

      But never had the person’s pain made him ache inside like a knife had ripped open his heart.

      And never had he felt so connected with anyone in his life.

      The thought scared the crap out of him.

      The connection had to do with the missing baby—the baby he thought might be his.

      Grasping onto that reality, he gently lifted her away from him. “Brianna, I have to call the sheriff.”

      “What time is it?” she whispered.

      His expression turned grim. “A little after 6:00 a.m. What time did you wake up and hear the baby crying?”

      She swiped at the tears streaking her pale, bruised cheeks. “I’m not sure, maybe four, four-thirty.”

      A siren wailed outside. About damn time, Derrick thought. She