The Secret Son. Tara Quinn Taylor

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      “Get my sister here in the next five minutes or I shoot,” James yelled just above Jack’s head. Close enough to slide his hand out that window and shoot Jack.

      “We’re working on it, James,” Jack said, as though reassuring a hungry boy that dinner was almost ready. “But it might take a little longer than five minutes.”

      The gun still aimed in the general direction of the little girl, the boy fired a shot. Splinters from the chalkboard sprayed around the room. The bullet lodged in the cement wall.

      Uniform and rubber-suited officers alike jerked to attention. All eyes were on Jack, guns pointing toward the classroom.

      “I have a shot,” one of the officers said. “Should I take it?”

      “No.”

      Jack wasn’t going to see that boy die if he could help it.

      He’d have to go in. James was shooting. It was only a matter of time.

      Marissa was lying to the left of the window. James was on the right. Jack’s job was to get through that window and put himself between the child and the gun.

      The worst that could happen was that he’d take the bullet. He hoped it would hit the bullet-proof vest he had on under his T-shirt. But if not, it would be his life in exchange for the child’s.

      Small price to pay.

      He shifted onto his knees. “James?” he called. “My butt’s getting sore sitting here, so I’m going to stand and lean on the windowsill. Okay?”

      It was a gamble. But if the boy’s attention was on Jack, chances were the child would be safe for another moment or two.

      “I don’t want you to be startled by the movement,” he said, crouching under the window. “Is it okay with you if I look in?” he asked.

      “No.”

      Peering over his shoulder, receiving the confirmation he’d been seeking, Jack rose to his full height. An officer inside the building was ready to rush the boy if James turned the gun away from the child for even a second.

      He stood.

      James, startled, aimed the gun at Jack, who pushed up the window and climbed in. “Just didn’t want you—”

      The rest of his words were lost in the chaos that followed. A couple of officers appeared from the back of the room as Jack put himself between the boy and the small blond girl lying on the floor. With one officer on either side and others filling the back of the room, they apprehended the boy.

      Jack reached for the now-hysterical child.

      And a shot rang out.

      CHAPTER SIX

      June 1997

      ERICA TRIED not to scream. To conserve energy. Panting, she rode out the pain. And wanted to die when relief finally, briefly, took its place.

      “How many hours has it been?” she asked, not recognizing the hoarse voice as her own.

      “Twenty-three.”

      Through the haze of exhaustion and bright lights, she could barely see Jefferson hovering beside her.

      “Too long,” she croaked. “I can’t do it.”

      He slid an ice chip between her cracked lips. “Yes, you can.”

      Sucking greedily, she turned her head away from him and from the nurse who’d just appeared to check the glucose running through her IV. “I don’t want to.”

      Not without Jack.

      “Yes, you do, hon. You’ve been waiting for that baby a long time. Long before we knew he was a boy, before he had a name. You were talking to him. Loving him. Thinking about holding him in your arms.”

      Holding her baby. Oh, yeah. She’d do anything for that….

      The next time the doctor told her to push, Erica squeezed her eyes shut and found the strength to focus on the little body trying to fight its way free. Her entire life force was centered on making her son’s advent into life as smooth as possible. Which meant she had to work as hard as she could, as quickly as she could.

      Another push. And then another. More ice chips. Jack beside her. Holding her hand. No, that was Jefferson.

      The hospital garb he was wearing made her confusion a little more excusable.

      Jack was inside her. In her mind, her heart, birthing their son with her. He knew nothing about the boy nor, she was certain, would he welcome the news, but she couldn’t do this without him. She imagined Jack as he’d been before the tragic loss of his young family, that Jack would probably have been so actively involved in the birth of his son he’d have been a pain in the— No. He would’ve made Kevin’s arrival perfect.

      Kevin—named after his maternal grandfather. Jefferson’s idea.

      “That’s good, honey. You’re doing amazing things,” Jefferson said softly beside her.

      Though it took mammoth effort, Erica focused on him. And smiled. She was very lucky to have his support.

      When he put the next ice chip against her lips, he leaned down and kissed her neck, almost as though he thought she’d be so distracted by the ice she wouldn’t notice.

      “I’m proud of you,” he whispered.

      “I’m proud of you, too.” Her voice was dry, raspy.

      “Just another push or two,” Dr. Jocelyn said cheerfully from her vantage point at the end of the bed.

      Erica was almost surprised to find her there. There’d been so many people in and out of her room, checking on her over the past day, that she’d long since tuned them out.

      “Look, Senator, you can see your son’s hair,” the doctor said in the middle of the next push.

      Yes. Kevin was Jefferson’s son.

      And no man could have been more supportive or proud or loving when Kevin Jefferson Cooley put in his appearance twenty minutes later. With the baby resting on her stomach, Erica watched through blurry eyes as Jefferson cut the umbilical cord. And then he gently placed her son in her shaking arms.

      Erica, fatigue forgotten, laughed, stared at her baby, fell in love.

      And silently, secretly, cried for Jack.

      July 1999

      SWEATING, STILL WEARING her in-line skating gear, Erica leaned against a tree in the park a couple of blocks from their condo and watched, unnoticed, as her husband and son romped in the grass just a few yards away. She could hardly believe Jefferson was still at it, patiently tossing the foam baseball to the miniature foam mitt resting precariously on the two-year-old’s right hand. The fact that even after she’d СКАЧАТЬ