To Claim His Own. Mary Lynn Baxter

in a while doesn’t hurt anything.” Patrick continued to peer at his grandson, a worshipful look on his face.

      “Except give him the idea he can wrap me around his finger and make a habit of it,” Emma countered, also giving Logan an indulgent grin.

      Patrick snorted. “That’s a given.”

      Emma gave her father a look. “I know I’ve spoiled him rotten, but you’re a fine one to be talking.”

      “Hey, you don’t hear me arguing. It’s like the pot calling the kettle black, I know.”

      Emma flipped him a grin as she got two cups and filled them with coffee. Once they were seated, they sipped in silence and watched the sleeping child.

      Finally, over the rim of her cup, Emma stared at her father. “I sense this isn’t just a social call.”

      “It isn’t,” Patrick admitted with gruff bluntness.

      Emma was a bit taken aback, feeling another surge of fear. “What’s wrong?”

      “Nothing’s wrong. At least I hope not.”

      “Then what’s got that look on your face?” Emma pressed.

      “Cal Webster.”

      Emma’s hands began to tremble. Before she spilled the contents of the cup, or, better yet, dropped it on the floor, she set the cup down and stared at Patrick through wide, horrified eyes. “What about him?”

      “He’s back in town.”

      Patrick said the word he as though it were contaminated.

      Emma’s hand flew to her heart at the same time her gaze bounced back to the baby who remained sound asleep. “Oh, my God,” she finally wheezed.

      Patrick rose, then sat back down.

      It had been a long time since she’d seen her father so agitated—not since the day of Connie’s senseless death. He really hadn’t been agitated then. Devastated was a better word. And furious, too—the same fury she saw twist his features now.

      “Dad—” The saliva dried up in her mouth, making further speech impossible.

      “I don’t think there’s cause for panic,” Patrick said in that same gruff tone. “Not yet, anyway.”

      “How can you say that?” Emma’s voice rose several decibels.

      “I heard the news from a friend who actually saw him about town.” Patrick paused and gave Emma a direct stare. “I don’t think he knows about Logan.”

      “You don’t think?” Emma stood and began pacing the floor, feeling as if jumping beans were having a field day inside her. “Think is not definitive enough for me.”

      “I’m working on it, Emma. Just give me time. But from what I know of Cal Webster, if he had the slightest suspicion I had his son, he would’ve already knocked on my door.”

      “Oh, Daddy, I don’t mean to panic. It’s just that when I think of losing—”

      Patrick held up his hand, aborting the rest of her sentence, then patted her on the arm. “Don’t go there. At least not now. But rest assured, even if he does find out, that bastard won’t get to first base. He’s already taken one person I love away from me, and I can damn well promise you he’s not going to take another one.”

      Since Patrick had delivered his news, Emma felt her body relax. One rarely crossed her daddy and got by with it. He had clout in this town and wasn’t afraid to use it. Sometimes she wondered if he played dirty pool in order to get his way or to make a deal, but since she had no proof, she refused to dwell on the negative.

      It was fruitless, anyway. She had enough intuitiveness to realize she couldn’t change him or his way of operating. Nor did she want to. In this case, she definitely didn’t. She’d make any sacrifice, or do most anything to keep Logan, which she guessed put her in the same class with her father.

      “What do we do?” she finally asked, trapping Patrick’s dark eyes.

      “Nothing.”

      “Nothing?”

      “That’s right. It’s up to Webster to make the first move. Why alert him to the fact he has a child? I’m betting a kid is the last thing he’d want to be saddled with. When he was married to your sister, he was wild as a March hare and not afraid of the devil himself.”

      “That’s why I can’t believe she married someone like him.” Emma shivered. “A kid off the streets.”

      “A hoodlum is what I called him,” Patrick responded grimly. “His dad was a no-good layabout who finally drank himself to death. I think his mother later died from sheer laziness.”

      “No wonder he was wild,” Emma said in a sad tone.

      “That’s no excuse,” Patrick flared back, a muscle in his jaw working overtime.

      “Still, that’s probably what attracted him to Uncle Sam.” Emma shivered again. “No telling what he did for them.”

      “We’ll never know,” Patrick said. “But then, I don’t give a damn. I just don’t want to ever lay eyes on the s.o.b. again.”

      Emma sighed deeply. “It’s a good thing I never had the pleasure of meeting him.”

      When her sister had hooked up with Cal Webster, Emma had been in Europe studying. By the time she’d returned, the marriage was over and Webster had disappeared.

      “The first time your sister brought him home,” Patrick was saying, “I knew he was bad news. He was cocky and arrogant even when he didn’t have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of.”

      Knowing this conversation had dredged up painful memories, Emma crossed the room and placed a hand on her dad’s arm. “It’s okay. Like you said, he’s probably just passing through, then he’ll be gone on another assignment, no telling where.”

      “That had better be the case,” Patrick said with twisted features and venom in his voice.

      Before Emma could say anything else, Logan cried out. Turning, she ran to the pallet and dropped to her knees beside him. “Hey, sweetheart,” she said with a smile. “Mommy’s here. And so is Papa.”

      “Hey, fellow,” Patrick said, making his way to his grandson where he placed a hand on the child’s head and tousled his dark hair. “Be a good boy for Mommy today, and I’ll take you to get an ice cream cone tonight.”

      “Ice cream,” Logan repeated, a grin on his face.

      Facing Emma, Patrick said, “I’ll see you two later. I have a meeting in about five minutes.”

      She nodded. “Keep me posted.”

      Patrick’s features remained twisted. “That goes without saying.”

      Once he was gone, Emma clutched Logan so tightly to her breast that he began to whimper. “Sorry, son, didn’t mean to hurt you.” She tweaked him on the chin, then placed a hand on his forehead, which felt cool and free of any fever.

      “Mama,” he said with his toothy grin.

      “Oh,” she said wide-eyed. “I hear Mickey’s truck.”

      “Truck,” Logan mimicked, his grin increasing.

      “That’s right, which means Mama has to go. You stay with Janet, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

      As if on cue, her helper came around the corner and took the baby, whose lower lip began to tremble. “Oh, honey, it’s okay. Janet will play with you.”

      Logan kicked his legs, then looped his arms around Emma’s neck and gave her a gooey kiss on the cheek. Emma laughed with joy as she walked outside.

      Cal wasn’t