Dylan and the Baby Doctor. Sherryl Woods

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      Baby Laura had stolen his heart. On his worst days, when he was so low everything looked black, Laura’s smile was like sunshine. Seeing it was a bittersweet sensation, though. It reminded him just a little too much of another baby, another sweet smile.

      The last time he’d held his son, Shane had been just about Laura’s age, thirteen months. He’d just begun to toddle around on unsteady legs. He’d uttered his first word, Mama, and that had pretty much been the moment when Dylan had concluded that Shane belonged with Kit and her new husband full-time.

      Saying goodbye to his boy, doing what was best for him and letting him grow up with a “father,” rather than a stepfather, had almost killed Dylan. He’d agonized over it for months, hated Kit for divorcing him and forcing him into making such an untenable decision.

      But he had also known just how deep the bitterness between him and Kit ran, recognized that no matter how hard they tried, there would never be agreement or peace or cooperation between them. In the end, he hadn’t been willing to subject his son to the inevitable battles, the simmering resentments. Giving up Shane was probably the single most unselfish act of his life. And not a day went by that he didn’t regret it.

      His own grief and pain had been lessened somewhat by the knowledge that Kit’s new husband was a kind, decent man, who already had two boys of his own. Steve Davis kept regular hours, not the erratic, unpredictable schedule of a private eye. He would give Shane the time, the love and the whole family that the boy deserved.

      Dylan tried never to look back, but there were too many days and twice as many nights when that was impossible. It had been more than four years now and he still ached for his boy. He wondered how tall he was, if he still had the same cowlick in his hair, if he was athletic, if he remembered his real daddy at all. That’s when the regrets would start to add up and he’d turn up in Los Pin˜os, his mood bleak, his soul weary.

      Trish intuitively understood what brought him there and over time, Dylan had revealed some of it to Hardy. He withstood their pitying looks, accepted their love and their concern. But with little Laura, there was only the sunshine of her brilliant smile and the joy of her laughter. He could be a hero, instead of the dad who’d walked away.

      “Unca Dyl,” she squealed when she saw him climb out of his rugged sports utility vehicle on a dreary Friday night. Arms outstretched, she pumped her little legs so fast, she almost tripped over her own feet trying to get to him.

      Dylan scooped her up and into the air above his head until she chortled with glee. He brought her down to peer into her laughing blue eyes that were so like her mama’s. He’d been nine when Trish was born and he could still remember the way she, too, had looked up at him as if he were ten feet tall.

      “Munchkin, I think you’re destined to be a pilot or an astronaut,” he declared. “You have absolutely no fear of heights.”

      Laura giggled and gestured until he lifted her high again, then swung her low in a stomach-sinking dip.

      “Still making career choices for her, I see,” Trish said, stepping off the porch to join them. “For a man who refused to let anyone tell him what he should grow up to be, you seem intent on controlling your niece’s destiny.”

      “Not controlling it,” Dylan insisted. “Just listing a few of her options.” He dropped a kiss on his sister’s cheek. “Thanks for letting me come.”

      Instantly, sympathy filled her eyes. “I know it’s a tough weekend. Shane will be six tomorrow, right?”

      Dylan nodded. “I don’t want to talk about it, though.”

      Trish sighed. “You never do. Dylan, don’t you think—”

      “I’m not going to get in touch with him,” he said fiercely. “I made a deal with Kit and Steve. I intend to stick to it. If the time ever comes when Shane wants to know me, she’ll help him find me. Until then, I have to forget about him.”

      “I don’t know how you can live with that,” she whispered, touching his cheek. “I know you think it was the right thing to do, but—”

      “It was the only thing to do. Now can we drop it, please? I could have stayed home and listened to Mother, if I’d wanted to go over this again. Goodness knows, she never lets me forget how I’d deprived her of getting to know her first grandchild.”

      Trish looked as if she might argue, then sighed. “Done. I hope you’re hungry, though. Hardy’s out back making hamburgers on the grill. It’s his night to cook and if it can’t be done on a grill, we don’t eat.”

      Over the weekend, Dylan fell into the easy rhythms of his sister’s family, grateful to be able to push the memories away for a few days at least. When Sunday rolled around, he still wasn’t ready to go back to Houston and face real life. None of the cases on his desk were challenging. Just routine skip-traces, a straying husband, an amateur attempt at insurance fraud. He could wrap any one of them up in less than a day, which was one of the reasons he’d been so desperate to get away. Tackling them wouldn’t have crowded out his misery.

      “Stay one more night,” Trish begged.

      He figured she’d sensed his reluctance to go. His baby sister had always been able to read him like a book, better than any of the younger brothers who’d come between them. Fiercely loyal and kindhearted, the male Delacourts taunted each other and banded together against the outside world. But as tight-knit as they were, none of his brothers dared to bulldoze through his defenses the way Trish did.

      “Yeah,” Hardy agreed, picking up on some unspoken signal from his wife. “Stick around. You can get the tile up in the second bathroom. Trish says I don’t have the patience to do it right.”

      “And I do?” Dylan said, amused by their ploy to make him feel that his continued presence wasn’t an intrusion. Crediting him with more patience than anyone was a real stretch.

      “Trust me,” Trish said. “You’re bound to have more than my husband. He keeps getting distracted.”

      Hardy grinned. “Because I happen to have a very sexy new wife.”

      Sometimes witnessing their happiness was more painful than going back to his lonely existence in Houston, but tonight there was no contest. Anything was better than going home.

      Dylan held up his hands. “Okay, okay, no details, please. You two may be married, but she’s still my baby sister. I’ll stay.”

      “Good,” Trish said, beaming, clearly pleased with herself.

      That night, just as they were finishing supper, the phone rang. Because he was closest, Dylan grabbed it.

      “Oh, Dylan, is that you?” a vaguely familiar voice demanded.

      Dylan tensed, alerted by the tone to trouble. “Yes. Who is this?”

      “It’s Lizzy. Lizzy Adams. I’m the doctor who treated Trish after Laura was born. We met at Trish’s wedding.”

      He recalled a slender, dark-haired woman who’d radiated confidence. She didn’t sound so sure of herself now. “Of course. You want to talk to Trish. She’s right here.”

      “No, no. It’s you I need to speak to.”

      “Oh?”

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