What the Baby Knew Read online

  “That’s not my baby,” Quinn said.

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Books by Ingrid Weaver

  INGRID WEAVER

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Copyright

  “That’s not my baby,” Quinn said.

  Rachel jiggled the child in her arms, her gaze steady on his. Her eyes, those wide, expressive eyes that used to follow Quinn with naked adoration when he and Rachel were in high school, now held a mixture of accusation and disappointment.

  “I swear it’s not—”

  “Right.” She picked up one of the bottles she’d found in the bag. “Excuse me, but she needs to be fed.”

  “Rachel, I don’t know how that kid got here, but I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Your responsibility or lack of it isn’t important right now. This child is hungry. Now, are you going to feed her, or do you want me to?”

  “I don’t know how—”

  “Fine. I will.”

  It was a good thing Rachel had come by when she had...and that her love of children hadn’t changed. But everything else about her sure had....

  Dear Reader,

  It’s summertime. The mercury’s rising, and so is the excitement level here at Silhouette Intimate Moments. Whatever you’re looking for—a family story, suspense and intrigue, or love with a ranchin’ man—we’ve got it for you in our lineup this month.

  Beverly Barton starts things off with another installment in her fabulous miniseries THE PROJECTORS.

  Keeping Annie Safe will not cool you off, I’m afraid! Merline Lovelace is back with A Man of His Word, part of her MEN OF THE BAR H miniseries, while award winner Ingrid Weaver checks in with What the Baby Knew. If it’s edge-of-your-seat suspense you’re looking for pick up the latest from Sally Tyler Hayes, Spies, Lies and Lovers. The Rancher’s Surrender is the latest from fresh new talent Jill Shalvis, while Shelley Cooper makes her second appearance with Guardian Groom.

  You won’t want to miss a single one of these fabulous novels, or any of the books we’ll be bringing you in months to come. For guaranteed great reading, come to Silhouette Intimate Moments, where passion and excitement go hand in hand.

  Enjoy!

  Yours,

  Leslie J. Wainger

  Executive Senior Editor

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S. : 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  WHAT THE BABY KNEW

  INGRID WEAVER

  Books by Ingrid Weaver

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  True Blue #570

  True Lies #660

  On the Way to a Wedding. #761

  Engaging Sam #875

  What the Baby Knew #939

  Silhouette Special Edition

  The Wolf and the Woman’s Touch #1056

  INGRID WEAVER

  admits to being a compulsive reader who loves a book that can make her cry. A former teacher, now a homemaker and mother, she delights in creating stories that reflect the wonder and adventure of falling in love. When she isn’t writing or reading, she enjoys old Star Trek reruns, going on sweater-knitting binges, taking long walks with her husband, and waking up early to canoe after camera-shy loons.

  Ingrid is the recipient of the Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award, Best Romantic Suspense Novel, for her book On the Way to a Wedding....

  To Mark...again,

  and always.

  Chapter 1

  An ordinary man wouldn’t have heard the noise. Not over the drone of the ceiling fan or the splash of tepid water that trickled into the sink. No, the sound was too low, too subtle to attract attention, like a whispered sigh or a stealthy footstep in the grass.

  But Quinn Keelor wasn’t an ordinary man.

  With a flick of his wrist Quinn shut off the water, then straightened up and turned around more quickly than he should have. Pain knifed through his back at the sudden movement, but he ignored it as he’d been trained to do, holding himself motionless while he concentrated on his surroundings. He was a long way from the jungle, or the ocean, but Quinn reacted reflexively, scanning the garage, his senses alert for anything out of place, for whatever unknown intruder had triggered this adrenaline rush.

  Stainless steel tools and discarded engine parts gleamed in the harsh glow from the bare bulbs overhead. The car he’d towed in this morning was in the center of the floor, its hood propped open, the crumpled fender he’d pried off still beside the wall where he’d left it. Beyond that was his father’s red tool cabinet, the crate with the new radiator and the bench with the discarded wrappings from the burger he’d eaten an hour ago.

  The air was thick with July humidity, stirred up by the gently thumping blades of the fan, bringing with it the smells of metal and grease and damp cement. Beyond the gaping blackness of the open door, a scattering of stars silhouetted the oak at the side of the lane. Red smudges of taillights from a passing car winked through the fence that separated the yard from the street. In the distance a dog barked and a train whistle whined into silence.

  Nothing out of place, nothing threatening. Only the ordinary evening sounds he’d grown up with.

  What the hell was the matter with him? Quinn thought, blowing out the breath he’d been holding. This was good old Maple Ridge, Ohio, not some nameless dot on a map or another high-security mission base. How much longer was it going to take for that fact to sink in?

  A sudden movement overhead caught his gaze. In a blur of white, a moth fluttered around the lightbulb. Fragile wings beat against glass in a subtle, stealthy whisper...like a footstep in the grass.

  Quinn shook his head as he reached for his cane, disgusted with himself. Not only was he jumping at shadows, he was letting an insect send him into full alert. Time to call it a day before he did something even more stupid. He finished cleaning up and shrugged on his shirt, then walked over to the switch he’d installed last month and hit the button to lower the door. Creaking and shuddering, the heavy panel slid down the track and locked into place. After a quick check around the garage, Quinn pulled his keys from the pocket of his jeans and headed for the office. He turned off the interior lights, switched on the outside flood, then pulled open the back door and stepped out.

  If it hadn’t been for the training he’d been doing his best to forget, he would have stumbled over the objects on the doorstep. Instead, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the shadow just in time to shift his weight to the side.

  “What the hell—” It looked as if someone had dumped their old clothes in front of the door. Next to a blanket-covered bundle, there was a large canvas bag that bulged with uneven lumps. Quinn scowled, shielding his eyes to peer past the glare of the floodlight on the pole in the center of the yard, but he could see no sign of whoever had left this here. He prodded the side of the bag with the tip of his cane and heard a faint gurgle of liquid from within.

  Maple Ridge didn’t have the big city problems of bag people or the chronically homeless. From time to time drifters passed through, sometimes taking shelter in one of the junkers beside the garage, but Quinn hadn’t seen anyone hanging around lately. Could this stuff belong to someone like t
hat? His scowl deepening, he leaned down for a closer look.

  The bag was packed so full that the zipper hadn’t been completely closed. He reached out to open it, then paused, his hand inches from the zipper’s tab. Up until a year ago, he would have been more cautious about touching anything that was unfamiliar like this. It could have been rigged with explosives, or it could have been meant as bait to set him up for a sniper’s bullet. One tug on the zipper could activate a timer. A minute’s unguarded curiosity could expose him to—

  “That was then, Keelor,” he muttered to himself. “This is now. You’re spooking at another damn moth.” He completed his motion, grasping the tab and tugging the zipper open.

  Released from the pressure that was holding the sides of the bag together, the contents sprang upward. Scraps of fabric, pale bits of terry cloth and cotton spilled into his hands. He dropped them on the ground and reached into the bag, pushing his hand through more fabric scraps until he touched a hard plastic object. Curling his fingers around it, he pulled it out and tilted it toward the light.

  About seven inches long and two inches in diameter, the clear plastic bottle was filled with white liquid that had the consistency of...milk.

  “What the hell is this?”

  But Quinn knew. He’d never had any reason to get this close to one. Still, he had no trouble recognizing what he held. With those volume markings on the side and that brown plastic nipple on the top, it was absolutely unmistakable.

  Since when did derelict drifters start carrying around a baby bottle full of milk?

  Shifting the bottle to his other hand, Quinn picked up one of the bits of fabric he’d dropped. A row of lace formed a cuff on the top edge, and an impossibly tiny curve shaped the bottom into a—it was a miniature sock.

  Hell, this bag wasn’t full of fabric scraps, it was full of baby clothes.

  And just as Quinn was trying to figure out why someone would dump a bag full of baby supplies on his doorstep, the bundle of blankets beside his foot let out an impatient wail.

  The rear bumper of her old Renault rattled alarmingly as Rachel Healey turned past the fence and started up the lane. Tightening her grip on the steering wheel, she eased back on the accelerator yet again. When that van had rear-ended her outside Springfield, the damage had seemed minor. She didn’t think there was any need to delay her return just to get her car repaired, but with every mile since then, the noise from the back end had gotten worse. She suspected some of the clamps on the muffler had been knocked loose as well as the bumper. At least she’d made it this far without having to pick pieces of her car off the road, but what the highway hadn’t done, the potholes in the lane to Keelor’s Garage threatened to finish.

  “Terrific,” Rachel muttered.

  The floodlight in front of the garage glared through her windshield as she passed the trees at the edge of the yard. The big door was shut tight, the interior dark. Wonderful. Keelor’s Garage was evidently closed for the night.

  Rachel paused, letting the engine idle as she considered her options. She had assumed Doug Keelor would still be here and would be willing to give her a ride home. She could try to drive there herself, but from the sound of it, her car might not make it that far. The only other choice was to leave the car here and walk.

  Swallowing a yawn, Rachel steered toward the graveled parking area in the side yard. She turned off the ignition, then closed her eyes and did a few slow neck rolls to ease the tightness in her shoulders. The trip was finally starting to catch up with her, but she knew it wasn’t only the long hours behind the wheel that caused this tension. This happened every time she visited her mother.

  But Ann Healey was happy, she reminded herself. She was in good health, was surrounded by friends and had just been promoted to chief accountant at the insurance company where she worked. She was content, just like her daughter.

  The visit had gone smoothly, as it always did. They never argued because they agreed about everything from their taste in music to their politics. Her mother was a wonderful role model. She was proud of Rachel’s career and her accomplishments, and she approved of every decision Rachel had made with respect to how she handled her life. Furthermore, Ann was staunchly independent, just as she encouraged her daughter to be, so there wasn’t any guilt or recrimination or possessive demands when it was time for Rachel to leave.

  Then why did each visit leave Rachel more and more drained? Why was she restless and vaguely dissatisfied each time she returned home?

  Shaking her head, Rachel reached for her purse. She was tired, that was all. It had been a long drive, and she still had a long walk ahead of her. Once she got home and got a good night’s sleep, everything would look better in the morning. She took an envelope from her purse, scribbled a quick note of explanation on it for Doug, then sealed the keys inside. She’d slip this under the office door and call him tomorrow.

  She got out of the car, taking a deep breath of the muggy air. Crickets and a train whistle. Another warm July night in Maple Ridge. The walk wouldn’t be that bad, and she could use the exercise, considering the way she’d been sitting behind the wheel most of the day—

  “You! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  The voice was deep and rough, vibrating with anger. Rachel whirled around in time to see a tall figure move toward her from the other side of the garage. One glance and she knew it wasn’t Doug. No, this man had no comfortable paunch, no silver hair, no ready, generous smile. She drew in her breath. For an instant, a bubble of fear closed her throat as she realized how isolated she was here, alone in the dark.

  But the fear swiftly dissolved into a confused jerk of recognition. This man wasn’t Doug, but he wasn’t a stranger, either. His straight blond hair, the tilt of his head, the set of his broad shoulders...it all stirred an echo of an old image that was buried somewhere deep, too deep, in a place she didn’t want to remember....

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed. “Quinn?”

  No, this couldn’t be Quinn Keelor. This man was older. Harder. And he walked with a cane....

  Realization burst over her. It was Quinn. She’d heard he’d come back to Maple Ridge at the beginning of the summer. She’d also heard he’d been in some kind of accident. Fifteen years had passed since she’d last seen him, but she would know him anywhere. His face and body were etched into her memory as indelibly as a childhood scar. She’d thought that particular memory had grown over, that it had healed with time, but all it took was one glimpse and she knew she’d been wrong.

  “I should call the cops,” he said, striding toward her. He closed the distance between them with surprising speed, despite his uneven gait. He’d always had a certain animal grace, whether he was running for a touchdown or leaning over to look under a car hood. His entire body would move in har mony, as if he had perfect control over every muscle and joint. But the control he exerted now looked strained, as if he commanded not through natural ease but through sheer force of will.

  Her pulse thudding, her knees suddenly weak, she somehow managed to hold her ground. She was a grown woman, she reminded herself. And he was a grown man. Oh God, was he ever. Her gaze traveled from the damp hair that brushed the top of his collar to the bare skin of his chest. Lean, washboard ripples of muscle showed between the edges of his unbuttoned shirt. His jeans rode low on his slim hips, his belt buckle skimming just below the shadow of his navel.

  She swallowed hard. She should have known this would happen. Considering the size of Maple Ridge, she should have known she would run into him eventually. But she couldn’t possibly have anticipated the impact he would have, not after all these years. He belonged to a chapter of her life that was finished. It was carefully closed and locked away. So why was she reacting to him like this?

  It must be surprise, or maybe the fatigue from the trip and the stress of visiting her mother. Her defenses were down, that was all. He was just a man, like any other. He was no longer the town’s golden-boy football hero she had loved with
all her adolescent heart.

  Oh, God, how she had adored him. Fully and completely, with the all the painful intensity of a devoted puppy. She’d watched all his games, she’d saved every article from the paper that mentioned his name. She’d clipped his picture from her high school yearbook to keep in a locket around her neck. Her teenage years had revolved around devising opportunities to be near him.

  Of course, he’d never known. No one had known. She’d kept her pathetic secret to herself. She’d been too easy a target for the teasing of her classmates. She’d already endured too much of the cruelty that was passed off as humor. Even now she didn’t want to picture the humiliation she would have suffered if her secret had ever been discovered, if anyone had found out that a girl like Rachel Healey was in love with Quinn Keelor.

  “Lady, you’ve got some serious explaining to do,” Quinn snapped.

  She squared her shoulders. “You don’t need to shout. I thought the garage was closed when I got here. I didn’t think anyone would mind if I just left it here overnight—”

  “I should call the cops. I can’t believe anybody would do that.” Quinn stopped in front of her, his free hand curling into a fist at his side. “Of all the stupid, irresponsible stunts.”

  Why was he so angry? The Quinn of her childhood had had a ready smile for everyone, just like his father. But there was no glimmer of friendship in those sky-blue eyes, no trace of a smile at the corners of his tightly compressed lips. In the glare from the floodlight his face was all harsh planes and angles, distant and unforgiving.

  The envelope with her car keys crackled beneath her fingers as she held it up. “I’m not abandoning it. I was going to call in the morning to explain.”