The Toddler's Tale

From Megan Maitland’s Diary

Dear Diary,

Tonight I’m feeling particularly emotional. My life is filled with family and close friends who love me, and I love them. They help sustain me, especially during my trials. But I have to admit that right now, Chase’s disappearance has brought me to a very low ebb. To add to my pain, I just heard that Max Jamison and Chelsea Markum, of all people, are trying to rescue a toddler who crawled into a pipe and can’t get out. Two innocent, precious babies in danger!

All I can do is pray that they are still alive, that one day soon I’ll hold Chase in my arms again. I have to have more faith. Why does it seem so hard tonight?

Dear Reader,

There’s never a dull moment at Maitland Maternity! This unique and now world-renowned clinic was founded twenty-five years ago by Megan Maitland, widow of William Maitland, of the prominent Austin, Texas, Maitlands. Megan is also matriarch of an impressive family of seven children, many of whom are active participants in the everyday miracles that bring children into the world.

When our series began, the family was stunned by the unexpected arrival of an unidentified baby at the clinic—unidentified, except for the claim that the child is a Maitland. Who are the parents of this child? Is the claim legitimate? Will the media’s tenacious grip on this news damage the clinic’s reputation? Suddenly, rumors and counterclaims abound. Women claiming to be the child’s mother materialize out of the woodwork! How will Megan get at the truth? And how will the media circus affect the lives and loves of the Maitland children—Abby, the head of gynecology, Ellie, the hospital administrator, her twin sister, Beth, who runs the day care center, Mitchell, the fertility specialist, R.J., the vice president of operations—even Anna, who has nothing to do with the clinic, and Jake, the black sheep of the family?

We’re thrilled to bring you yet another exciting, dramatic installment of the Maitland Maternity saga, The Toddler’s Tale, by popular author Rebecca Winters.

Marsha Zinberg,

Senior Editor and Editorial Co-ordinator, Special Projects

The Toddler’s Tale

Rebecca Winters

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Rebecca Winters loves a great many things: her children, her extended family and her friends. Besides teaching young people at her church, she travels to Laguna Beach, her favorite spot in California, and makes frequent visits to Denver, Colorado, to visit one of her married sons and his wife. An active genealogist, she’s always busy tracing her family lines. Creating an ambience of French country in her home is an ongoing project. An avid fan of her hometown basketball team, the Utah Jazz, she has now discovered another sport—golf. At least when Tiger Woods is playing. Around 10 p.m. she turns on the TV to watch her favorite British comedies. When all is said and done, she leads a very rich, full life. But she does concede that writing novels adds the extra spice that makes every moment exciting.

This book is dedicated to my one and only grandson

Billy B., the joy of his nana’s life, and the inspiration

for the adorable little toddler in my story.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

“DAMN YOU, Max Jamison! Enough is enough!” Chelsea Markum cried furiously as the dark-haired male at her side drove them deeper into the hill country outside Austin, Texas.

She’d come up against the audacious ex-cop many times before while covering important news events. But he’d gone too far this time. He’d smashed her camcorder, then, to add insult to injury, he’d thrown her inside his blue half-ton pickup, dashing any hope of her getting a breaking story that included pictures.

Thanks to Captain Dangerous here, she didn’t have her cell phone because she’d left it in her car. Now another television station would get the plum story of the month! Damn, damn, damn.

“Your manhandling techniques seem to have worsened since you resigned from the police department,” Chelsea accused. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you were advised to quit before they had to fire you.”

For a response, he gunned the accelerator, making her more livid than ever.

“Keep this up and I’m warning you that your days as a PI are going to be numbered.”

“But I’ve got you now, so it will have been worth it.” The rejoinder was mocking.

Her cheeks filled with heat. “Turn the truck around this instant! Do you hear me?”

“Not on your life!” The wicked smile on Max Jamison’s rugged face made him more attractive than ever. It was the last straw.

Taking a deep breath, Chelsea reached for the front passenger door handle, ready to jump out and hitchhike to Garrett Lord’s ranch. But an arm of steel shot past her, blocking her effort with almost superhuman strength.

“You brute!”

In retaliation she tried pulling on the steering wheel with both hands so he would have to slow down. To her shock, it didn’t budge beneath his rock-hard grip.

This was how her whole day had been going. He’d thwarted her chance to get live video of Camille Eckart and her baby. They’d been in hiding for the past six months at the ranch, where Camille’s ex had traced her and then been killed himself. It would have been one of Chelsea’s best segments yet for her weekly show, “Tattle Today TV.”

When Max pressed on the gas, she had an idea he was laughing at her. Worse, her ineffectual jerking motion had managed to strain the muscle in her upper arm and tear the stitching beneath the jacket sleeve of her new Balenciaga suit. This was the first time she’d worn the French blue two-piece linen outfit, classy yet light enough for the summer heat.

With so many injustices, she felt like howling. So far no tactic in her repertoire had duped that razor-sharp brain of his, which always appeared to be two steps ahead of her.

Be more creative, Chelsea. If you can get on his good side, he might return you in time to write a follow-up story for the seven o’clock show.

According to her watch it was ten after four, though the overcast sky made it seem much later in the day.

In a resigned tone, she said, “All right. You’ve made your point. Unlike you, who enjoys kidnapping defenseless women and destroying company property, I actually work for a living. If you would be so kind as to allow me to get back to my job, I’ll overlook this crime like I have your others and tell my boss not to press charges.”

He darted her what she thought at first was an amused glance. But his narrowed gaze held a certain glitter she found uncomfortable. The rumble of thunder in the distance added to her sense of unease.

Though she knew Max Jamison wasn’t anything like Anthony Dorset, one of her mother’s many live-in lovers, the hostile look in his eyes took her back to a time when, as a fifteen-year-old living in Hollywood, California, she had learned the meaning of terror.

Anthony, a muscular, out-of-work actor who displayed a controlling personality and cruel streak her mother chose to ignore, had moved into the mansion that was Chelsea’s home.

The leering looks he gave her were so indecent they made her skin crawl. Soon she was doing everything in her power to avoid him. But the more she tried to keep out of his way, the more he behaved like a guard dog, always lurking, always lying in wait for her to arrive home from school.

She didn’t want to think about those hellish years. They were long since behind her. She was a different person now. From the moment she’d gone to work in television journalism in the Los Angeles area until she’d carved out her career as a talk show host for “Tattle Today TV” in Austin, she made certain the men she met gave her a wide berth. But Max Jamison wasn’t intimidated by her. Worse, she resented him for reminding her of her nightmarish past.

Suddenly he made an unexpected turn onto an unfamiliar country road. Good! Her noncombative tone must have soothed the savage breast. It appeared he’d relented enough to circle and head back the way they’d come.

As she relaxed against the seat, she saw a run in her hose that hadn’t been there when she’d driven to the Lord ranch earlier. She hoped her assailant choked on the growing bill “Tattle Today TV” would present him for lost and damaged goods.

With fabricated nonchalance she crossed her left leg over her right to hide the run from view. If she smoked, this would have been the perfect moment to light up.

Not for the first time did Max notice those elegant legs out of his periphery, but right now he was still reacting to her implication that he had been let go from the police force.

Nothing could have been further from the truth!

He’d become a PI by choice, but he wasn’t about to explain his reasons for resigning from the police department in order to satisfy Chelsea Markum’s insatiable curiosity.

Before he’d taken on Maitland Maternity Clinic as a client, and found himself chasing Ms. Markum off the premises, the relentless reporter had caused Max grief on the Bobbie Stryder case, which was still pending with the courts. The woman’s mere presence spelled disaster.

Now that she was his captive audience, he could deliver the long-overdue lecture he’d been saving for a moment such as this.

“Are you aware that some of the good citizens of Austin call you the black widow of television?”

The bluntness of the message, delivered in his deep, compelling voice, caught Chelsea unaware.

She blinked. Black widow?

“There’s no question the female is one of the most beautiful spiders in existence. She performs her deadly work by making several punctures in her victims, then proceeds to suck out their lifeblood. She lets nothing stand in her way, not even her partner, whom she eats after they’ve mated.”

The unflattering analogy would have hurt at any time. To hear it from a man Chelsea couldn’t intimidate made it all the more devastating.

“No. I didn’t know that.” She stared straight ahead, dry-eyed. Another clap of thunder cannonaded across the rolling hills. “Thank you for letting me in on that fascinating piece of unsolicited information. I’ll file it away for future reference.

“In the meantime, if we want to reach the Lord ranch before the storm catches up to us, may I remind you we’re headed in the wrong direction? No one dislikes back-seat drivers more than I do, but in your righteous zeal to keep me apprised of public opinion, you seem to have forgotten our destination. Before this day is out, I still have a story to put together for my show.”

The truck continued to distance them from Austin. “Nothing fazes you, does it.”

She fought to get past the asperity of that remark. “A good journalist tries to deliver despite any obstacles.”

“You think that’s what you are? A good journalist?”

A tight band constricted her breathing. “My boss tells me my show has the highest ratings in Austin as well as many other parts of Texas. Can all of the people be fooled all of the time?”

“High ratings don’t necessarily have a hell of a lot to do with the kind of worthy reporting the majority of people are hungering for.”

“But are they?” Though deep inside she agreed with him—another reason for her perturbation—she enjoyed throwing out a challenge. No man of her acquaintance frustrated her quite the way he did. That was because she’d seen him in action as a cop and a PI. He was tough. If he had a vulnerable spot, she hadn’t found it yet.

“When you’re not busy abducting someone else, Mr. Jamison, I’ll be happy to show you the disparity in the ratings between the sensational coverage of Princess Diana’s death and the grassroots footage on that of Mother Teresa.”

She heard his sharp intake of breath and rejoiced. He’d had it all his way since he’d carried her off the ranch in that humiliating firefighter’s lift in front of an audience. No amount of twisting had effected her release.

“Having said that, you think it excuses you from blame?” Max bit the question out. “Do you have any idea the grief you’ve caused, not only to the Maitland family, but to countless other people in this town who shrink in fear when Chelsea Markum gets wind of a possible scandal?

“The voracious gossipmonger of Tattle Today who manages to be in ten places at once, bribing people to the tune of fifty thousand dollars, creating chaos out of something private and painful, something never meant for public consumption.”

Thank heaven she hadn’t heard about the kidnapping of Connor O’Hara’s son, Chase, from the clinic day care! Max thought. By now Janelle and her partner, Petey—the man Max and the others referred to as the fake Connor—were probably long gone from Austin with the cute little guy.

It was likely the only news story Ms. Markum had ever missed out on since working for Tattle Today. As soon as Max had delivered his ultimatum, he’d drive her to her car, then follow her into town to make sure she went straight home before he met with Michael Lord, head of security at Maitland Maternity, to help pick up the con artists’ trail.

Heat stormed her face once more. “Well, well. Now I’m Medusa as well as the black widow. Make up your mind.”

“I haven’t even started yet.”

Another stiletto stab to the wound he’d inflicted earlier. Chelsea could taste blood.

“I think I’ll take it as a compliment that you’ve managed to make me sound bigger than life. But in case you’ve forgotten, I have a boss who gives me orders, and I’m not the only one on stage. Let’s be generous, shall we, and give the other networks, including the cable channels, at least a modicum of credit for the part they play in what you view as the whole nefarious business of reporting the news.”

Without warning he stood on the brakes. His action killed the engine. Wonderful! They were out in the middle of nowhere.

On her side of the truck lay miles of ranch land. On the other side of the road, beyond his broad shoulders, she could see a dilapidated construction site, but there weren’t any workmen about. No vehicles.

Next door to the site she spied a small ranch-style house set among a stand of pecan and cottonwood trees. In the dead grass stood a For Sale sign. Both the excavation site and the house stood about a hundred feet away from the road and appeared uncared for. It never occurred to her he might be cruel enough to make her get out here and find her own way home.

She dared a glance in his direction.

When he turned his powerful male physique toward her, she noticed a nerve throbbing at one corner of his mouth. His handsome features had hardened into a grim facsimile of the flesh-and-blood man who made her pulse race faster than she deemed healthy.

She struggled for composure under the fierce accusation of eyes more black than brown in the semidark interior of the truck. They matched the angry sky.

“You call it responsible reporting when you trespass on the Lord ranch, interfere with police and FBI business, cause grief to everyone who helped bring down Vince Eckart, just so you could get some damn photos of Camille and her baby? After the incident at the Bobbie Stryder concert, this is like déjà vu. For a woman as highly intelligent and sophisticated as you are, I fail to understand this obsession you have for invasive manipulation of the news. Dare I hope that one day you’ll find you’re a victim of someone like yourself? It could be an enlightening experience.”

Though they’d skirmished many times in the past, he’d never yelled at her to make a point. Another trait she grudgingly respected in Max Jamison. Well-chosen words, not noise, were his scalpel. Like a great surgeon, he knew the precise place to cut, how deep to penetrate to get at that vulnerable core inside her.

Willing tears not to form, she averted her eyes. “Don’t you know anything is possible in this world—”

“What’s that?” He cut her off without preamble. In an abrupt move he shifted in the seat, turning his head away from her. “Listen! There it is again. Do you hear it?”

Chelsea assumed he’d heard the wind, which had been buffeting the truck, but she rolled down her window all the same. Gust-driven raindrops pelted her face.

She shivered from the wet cold and started to roll it up again when she heard crying. At first she thought it must be a cat in distress, but the more she listened, the more human it sounded.

“That’s a little child’s voice!”

“You’re right,” he murmured, “but where?”

Sensing a mystery, Chelsea opened the door to investigate. Before her new Italian leather heels touched the ground, she could see a woman beckoning to them from across the road, shouting frantic cries for help. Her body was nothing more than a silhouette in the downpour.

Max levered himself from the cab, their personal war put on hold in the face of this unexpected crisis. Chelsea chased after him. In case she couldn’t get to the station in time to report the story on Camille and the baby, maybe she’d find nuggets of a new drama unfolding here.

Arms flailing, a panic-stricken young woman no more than twenty-one, twenty-two, met Max halfway. Water ran down her pretty features and dripped off her dark blond braids. The rain had plastered the corduroy jumper against her thin body, revealing every shiver.

“Thank heaven y-you heard me!” she cried. “I need h-help!” Her hands gripped his hard-muscled forearms. “My baby wandered away from me and f-fell through some boards. I tried to go after her, but the framework is c-crumbling. I’m afraid to make a move or everything m-might cave in on top of her!”

Another trapped child.

As the sickness welled up in his gut, Max closed his eyes tightly for a moment.

Chelsea watched his reaction, stunned by the distinct pallor of his complexion and the way his body had tautened. Something earthshaking was going on inside him. But what?

“It’s going to be all right,” she heard him murmur at last. “What’s your name?”

The mother seemed to hesitate for a moment before she said, “Traci Beal.”

“Traci? How long has your daughter been down there?”

“I d-don’t know. A half hour m-maybe. You’re the first p-person to stop.”

The poor woman’s teeth were chattering. This was the perfect heartbreaking child-in-distress story, but a lot of good it was going to do Chelsea without a camcorder. She flashed him a look of outrage for destroying her camera. But his attention was focused on the mother.

“You haven’t phoned for help yet?”

The young woman shook her head. “I don’t h-have a phone and didn’t dare leave the baby to run to a neighbor’s house. Please…you’ve g-got to help me!” She sounded on the verge of hysterics. “If anything happens to Betsy…”

In the next instant Max left them to climb inside the excavation, where the child’s incessant crying was louder. Chelsea noticed that no matter how much care he took, more material caved in.

As she watched him move around and lift debris, Chelsea held her breath. She couldn’t think of another man who would dive into a precarious situation like this with no thought for his own life.

When she reflected on the constant stream of disgusting men who had flowed in and out of her mother’s world, living off her money, she couldn’t imagine one of them putting a child’s crisis ahead of his own selfish needs.

After a few minutes Max climbed back to them, his face grim as he addressed Traci. “She’s crawled into a main drainage pipe for the subdivision. It’ll take a team of experts to help me reach her. But your daughter has a powerful set of lungs. As long as she’s crying like that, you know she’s all right, just frightened. I’ll call for help from the cell phone in my truck. We’ll get your daughter out safely.”

Of course! Chelsea could phone her office and ask her boss, Howard Percell, to send someone out here on the double with a camcorder. They could still get the exclusive scoop if she acted fast!

Unmindful of the rain, she wheeled around and hurried across the road. Max called to her, but she ignored him. It was vital she tip off her boss before Max tied up the phone. She had an idea he probably kept it in his glove compartment.

No sooner had she opened the passenger door to reach inside it than Max flung open the door on the driver’s side. After sending her a murderous glance, he pulled the phone from the top of the sun visor and started punching buttons.

His mouth had formed into a tight line of anger. Despite the heavy tension between them, she observed that even in the rain his brown hair, dark as rich loam, stayed in place. Like James Bond, he managed to look quite splendid no matter how harrowing the moment.

“Spare me the lie that you were going to call nine-one-one.” His voice grated.

She stood her ground. “With your links to the police department, I planned to leave that up to you. I only intended to take a few seconds to let my office know where I am.”

Lines darkened his face before he let go with a string of colorful swear words. “It’s shot!” The phone landed on the seat between them. “I’ll have to find another one. While I’m gone, you’re going to do something unselfish for once in your life and offer support to Traci until help arrives.”

So many stab wounds in one day had cut Chelsea wide open.

Using her superior tone she said, “When there’s a breaking story right here, why would I want to go with you?”

His head reared. “Why, indeed.”

She enjoyed shutting the door in his good-looking face. But when she came around from the back of the truck, she received a surprise. He shoved a folded camper-green tarp into her arms.

“There! That should give you some protection while you’re both waiting.”

“How thoughtful! Thank you.”

Though she almost staggered from the weight of it, she refused to let him witness her struggle as she crossed the road.

MAX PUT his truck in gear and barreled down the road in search of a house or a business of some kind. Whatever came first. With a tiny child’s life at stake, there was no time to lose.

Haunted by Betsy’s cries, which still resounded in his head, he increased his speed on the isolated road. To his relief the rain had turned to drizzle. The idea of a frightened little girl caught and possibly lying injured in cold water plus who knew what else left a pit the size of a boulder in his gut.

Was it asking too much to come across a road crew with a phone? Maybe plane radar would pick him up and put a patrol car on his tail.

Tears smarted in his eyes as he remembered the little boy who’d died inside a laundry chute last year. Neither Max nor his partner, who’d been on duty with him, had been able to save the toddler. Since then, the joy had gone out of his life.

The media had sensationalized the tragedy. As usual, Chelsea Markum had been one of many TV reporters who’d criticized the police department’s response time in getting to the scene of the accident.