The Baby Trail. Karen Smith Rose

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      This time when he handed it to her, their fingers did brush. The expression on his face didn’t change, but she glimpsed a sparklike flicker in his eyes. Could he be attracted to her, too?

      So what if he was. She’d come to enlist his help, not to step into another romantic quagmire.

      Maxwell let her precede him to the table in the breakfast nook. When she was seated, he dropped into a ladderback chair across from her, took a few sips of his coffee and assessed her over its rim. “So…tell me what this is about.”

      After her own sip of coffee, she told him how she’d found baby Amy in her sunroom.

      “And you didn’t hear anyone outside?” he asked.

      “No. I just heard the baby cry. After I found her, I looked out and thought I heard a car start up. But it was getting dark and I couldn’t see.”

      “A smooth start or a rough start?” he asked.

      “I don’t know.”

      “Yes, you do. Think about it.”

      As she tried to take herself back to that evening, she remembered holding Amy in her arms and attempting to search through the dusk. She’d heard a chug-chug, then a va-room, before the vehicle sped away. “It wasn’t a smooth start. There was chugging first.”

      Maxwell seemed to make a mental note of that. “You said your friend, Shaye Malloy, who is a social worker, arrived. And then the sheriff came. What did he do with the note with the baby’s name on it?”

      “He looked at it, then slipped it into his pocket.”

      Garrett Maxwell shook his head and his jaw tightened. Then he asked her, “What was the baby wearing?”

      The former agent’s face had lines around his eyes and mouth. Gwen guessed he was nearing forty. Had he left the FBI because the job had taken its toll? His face was so interesting, so ruggedly angular, she could look at him all day.

      But that wasn’t why she was here.

      “Amy was nestled in a blanket, but she had on this cute little sweater and hat and one of those one-piece terry playsuits…in yellow.”

      “Why did you call the social worker? Wouldn’t the sheriff have done that?”

      “Shaye and I have been friends a long time. I wasn’t about to let Amy out of my hands without knowing someone who cared was looking after her.” Before Shaye and the sheriff had arrived, Gwen had cuddled Amy, rocked her, crooned to her, and it had been very difficult to let Shaye take her.

      When Garrett Maxwell’s penetrating gaze focused on her, Gwen felt turned inside out.

      “Where is she now?” he asked.

      “In the hospital’s nursery.”

      He leaned back in his chair and it creaked. “Does she need to be in the hospital?”

      Suddenly Gwen decided she wouldn’t want to be interrogated by this man. He was methodical and thorough. “The doctor examined her and found she was jaundiced. She’s over that, but now they’re trying to find a family to take her. I would have liked to, but—”

      “What?” Garrett asked, his gaze probing.

      Gwen felt she was too close to him, though the distance of the table separated them. “I have to work, and I’d have to find someone to babysit. Besides that, I’m a firm believer a child should ideally have two parents—two parents who are going to love her forever. And it’s just me, so I couldn’t give her that. Shaye says they can easily find a couple who will…if we don’t find the mother.”

      Garrett’s gaze closely appraised her again until she felt like shifting in her chair. Finally he commented, “If you do find the mother, the child will be taken away from her, anyway.”

      “Maybe. But Shaye says it depends on the circumstances. It’s not like she abandoned her in a dumpster or in a cold alley. I’m racking my brain to figure out who might have known me and why they would have left the baby with me. I’ve met a lot of unwed mothers.”

      “How so?” He took a long swallow of coffee.

      “I’m a nurse practitioner, and I specialize in obstetrics. I help set up programs for unwed mothers.”

      “In Wild Horse Junction?”

      “All over the state.”

      After he seemed to absorb that information, he stood. “There’s not much here to go on.”

      Gwen wasn’t ready for this meeting with him to be over. Because of Amy. Because… Simply because. “I read you’re good at what you do. I know you can find her.”

      “Miss Langworthy—”

      “Gwen,” she corrected him, forestalling him, not wanting him to tell her he wouldn’t take the case. “I’ll pay you,” she hurried on. “I’ll pay you somehow, whatever you charge. This little girl deserves to know who her mother is. She deserves to know why her mother left her with me. If she goes through life always wondering—” Gwen stopped abruptly.

      Rounding the table, Garrett Maxwell stood close by her side. “What will that do to her?” His eyes were suddenly compassionate.

      “It will make her unsure of who she is and where she came from. And who she might become,” Gwen murmured, unwilling to reveal too much.

      “We’re not talking about Baby Amy now, are we?” The question was rhetorical, and he was trying to make a point.

      Looking him squarely in the eyes, Gwen answered, “We’re talking about any child who doesn’t know his or her roots.”

      Neither of them looked away. The moment palpitated with Gwen’s passion for the search along with man-woman awareness.

      Finally Gwen asked, “Will you help me find Amy’s mother?” That was the bottom line for her and all that mattered.

      “I usually search for children, not parents.”

      There was steel in his tone, and she had the feeling he didn’t change his mind once he made a decision.

      “Can you make an exception?”

      Time ticked by in interminable seconds until he assured her, “I’ll think about it and get back to you.”

      Her stomach sank and she stood. Pulling a business card from her pocket, she laid it on the table. “When?” she asked, aware of the we’ll-get-back-to-you line and professionals who never did.

      “You need an answer soon because you’re going to find a P.I. to do this if I won’t?” he guessed.

      “Exactly. I don’t give up easily, Mr. Maxwell. And I don’t have much time.”

      After a few more beats of studying her, he muttered, “I guess you don’t. I’ll call you tomorrow evening with my answer.”

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