Brought Together by Baby

“I think you don’t dare open your heart again because you don’t believe God uses everything for our good. Pain is all part of the chance we take when we open our hearts,”

Pilar said, touching her friend on the shoulder.

“Well, right now I don’t have time for heart stuff. I haven’t met anyone who is my type,” Rachel responded.

“Not even Eli Cavanaugh?”

Rachel tried to ignore the little rush she felt at the mention of his name.

“I think he’s very attractive, very appealing. And by the flush I can see creeping up your neck, I think you are thinking the same thing,” Pilar teased.

BROUGHT TOGETHER BY BABY—

Carolyne Aarsen (LI#312)

CAROLYNE AARSEN

and her husband, Richard, live on a small ranch in northern Alberta, where they have raised four children and numerous foster children, and are still raising cattle. Carolyne crafts her stories in her office with a large west-facing window through which she can watch the changing seasons while struggling to make her words obey.

Brought Together by Baby

Carolyne Aarsen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to caregivers of handicapped people young and old. May God bless you and give you strength for your task. May you find peace in His love and His purpose. I’d also like to thank Mindy Starns Clark for her valuable and selfless help on nonprofits and charities.

My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.

—II Corinthians 12:9

Eli—Hebrew name meaning “ascended.” This Old Testament figure was a high priest of Israel and instructed the young Samuel.

Rachel—Hebrew name meaning “ewe.” In the Bible’s Old Testament, Rachel was the favorite wife of Jacob and the mother of Joseph and Benjamin.

Grace—A Latin and English name meaning “lovely or graceful, a virtue.”

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 Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Letter to Reader

Chapter One

“I’ ll speak to LaReese Binet about where she’d like her donation to go myself, Reuben.” Rachel Noble tucked her papers into her briefcase, one eye on the clock hanging on the wood-paneled wall of her office. “I don’t have time to talk now. I’m due for dinner at my parents’ place in twenty minutes.” She frowned as her assistant launched into a litany of complaints, then cut him off. “Just let me know if she calls again.” She hung up, picked up her cell phone and dropped it into her briefcase along with the small gift she had bought for little Gracie, a penance for not visiting her newly adopted sister more often. The offices and hallways of the Noble Foundation were quiet as Rachel hurried down to the parking garage.

Her mother’s weekly invitation to the Noble plantation had included the warning to dress casually. Her mother was always nagging her to cut loose and relax. Rachel glanced at her dove-gray tailored suit and peach silk blouse. Her mother would have to take her as she was. She didn’t have time to go home and change.

When Rachel returned to Richmond after a five-year absence, her parents had begged her to move back onto the plantation with them. But Rachel had been on her own too long. Instead she had opted for a modern condo west of Main Street. Though she was seldom home, it suited her.

She stopped behind an SUV at a four-way stop, trying not to tap her manicured nails on her steering wheel as the driver in front of her let car after car go by. It looked like she would have time to speak with Reuben after all.

Rachel stiffened, as a motorcycle pulled up beside her. Its obscene roar drowned out the gentle Brahms symphony coming from her car’s CD player.

The driver stopped. He straddled the motorcycle, easily holding it up as he waited. He wore a denim jacket, blue jeans and cowboy boots.

Rachel clenched the steering wheel. She hated motorcycles. If Keith had been driving his truck that night—

She pushed the futile thoughts about her late fiancé aside. That was in the past. Over.

In spite of that, she couldn’t seem to avoid giving the man on the motorcycle a quick glance.

He pushed his helmet back and, as she caught his eye, a slow smile crept over his mouth, making the corners of his eyes crinkle. Wisps of blond hair curled out from the front of his helmet, framing a lean face.

She looked ahead, angry with her flicker of reaction to his lazy good looks.

As she made the turn leading to her parents’ home, the biker roared past her, leaving her frustrated and with unwelcome memories.

She ejected the CD, found a radio station that played classic rock and turned up the volume. As she drove, she focused on the work that she had to do tomorrow. The jobs that needed her attention. She had to leave the past in the past.

By the time she turned onto her parents’ tree-shaded drive, she felt back in control again. The evening was going to be just fine.

She steered her car through a narrow opening between two rows of clipped shrubs that surrounded the main house, pulling up in front of a converted four-car garage.

And her heart flipped over.

The motorcycle that had zipped past her now stood parked on the inlaid brick drive in front of the garage, a helmet hanging from the handlebars.

Great.

She took a long slow breath, just as her yoga instructor had taught her. Focused on the now, the present.

She picked up Gracie’s gift and walked with careful, deliberate steps up the brick paved drive to the front door. Maybe the motorcycle belonged to a deliveryman. Or one of the maid’s boyfriends.

Her parents’ visitor was most likely coming later.

As she stepped inside the door, Aleeda, the housekeeper, swept down the square rigged flying staircase toward her carrying an armful of linens.

“Well, well. You’re back again,” she said, smiling at Rachel. “Your mother is in the kitchen, concocting…” She shrugged. “Something.”

“Thanks for the warning, Aleeda. Do you have any idea what she plans to feed me?”

“They’ve got company.” Aleeda gave her a mysterious smile. “So I think she’ll be doing something more traditional for you and their guest.” Aleeda gave her a quick nod, and then strode off to the back of the house before Rachel could ask her who it was that had arrived on that dreadful motorcycle.

Rachel caught her reflection in the mirror hanging in the front hall and took a moment to smooth a wayward strand of chestnut-brown hair back from her forehead. All neat and tidy, she thought. The dark lashes fringing her hazel eyes didn’t need mascara. Her cheeks were, well, pale. But so be it.

She whisked one hand down her skirt as she walked along the narrow hallway toward the kitchen, brushing away the few wrinkles she had gotten from driving.

Her mother stood at the huge counter that served as an island in the modernized kitchen, her knife flashing as she chopped vegetables. She wore a bright orange, loose, woven shirt over a wildly patterned silk T-shirt in hues of turquoise, orange, red and gold that accented her short chestnut-brown hair, worn in a spiky style. The kitchen table, tucked away in a plant-laden nook, was set with her mother’s earthenware dishes. Definitely casual.

“Ah. There you are.” Beatrice put down her knife and swept around the island, arms spread out, her shirt and matching skirt flowing out behind her. She enveloped her daughter in a warm hug, holding her close. “I’m so glad you came. And right on time.” She drew away, cupping Rachel’s face in her narrow hands, her hazel eyes traveling over her. “You’re looking a little pale, my dear. Have you been taking your kelp supplements?”

Rachel lifted her hand in a vague gesture. “I’ve been busy…” She laid the present for Gracie on the counter.

“Honey, honey, honey.” Beatrice shook her head in admonition. “You have to take care of yourself. Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit. God needs healthy servants to do His work on earth.”

Rachel merely smiled. She wasn’t going to get into a discussion with her mother over what God needed or didn’t need. For the past eight years she had put God out of her life. Or tried to. Now and again glimpses of Him would come through, but she generally managed to ignore them. She preferred her independence, and God required too much and gave too little.

Beatrice slipped her arm around Rachel’s shoulders and drew her toward the counter. “Your father and I have a lovely surprise for you. Gracie’s pediatrician said he would come and visit us.”

“He’s here now?”

Beatrice nodded, giving her daughter a sly grin. “I thought you might want to meet him.”

A moment of awareness dawned. “Is he the fool on the motorcycle?”

Beatrice frowned and tapped her fingers on her daughter’s shoulders. “Rachel Augusta Charlene Noble, you shouldn’t use words like that. Especially about someone as wonderful as Eli.”

Rachel had hoped that adopting not-yet-two-year-old Gracie would satisfy her mother’s deep-rooted desire for grandchildren. Well, this was one romance she was going to nip in the bud. “I’m sorry, Mom, but as far as I’m concerned, anyone who drives a motorcycle isn’t firing on all cylinders. Especially if he’s a pediatrician.” Rachel picked a baby carrot from the bowl sitting on the counter and took a bite. “Where’s Dad?”

“He and the estimable Dr. Eli are out in the garden with Gracie. I do believe they’re coming back now.”

Rachel wandered over to the window overlooking the grounds, popping the last of the carrot in her mouth. A tall, narrow-hipped man sauntered alongside her father, the tips of his fingers pushed into the front pockets of his blue jeans, his softly worn shirt flowing over broad shoulders. He reached over and feathered a curl of Gracie’s hair back from her face, smiling softly at her. Gracie laughed up at him and snuggled closer to her father.

Rachel couldn’t mesh the picture with the one she had created of Gracie’s Dr. Eli. Until her mother’s pronouncement, she had always pictured the man her parents spoke so highly of as an older, portly gentleman, not this…cowboy.

Who drove a motorcycle.

A chill drifted over Rachel and she spun away from the window.

“And what are you making for dinner?” she asked, looking for a distraction.

When Rachel was younger, her mother had hardly darkened the doorway of the kitchen except to give Francine, their cook for the past fifteen years, directions on when to serve which course. But in the past few years, Beatrice had started exploring various culinary options and had settled on macrobiotic cooking. The result was that Francine turned up her nose at what Beatrice wanted to make and had quit and been re-hired a number of times. The two of them had settled on part-time work, which suited Francine just fine and gave Beatrice the space she needed to create her concoctions.

Beatrice looked up from the salad she was working with her hands. “Polenta with corn, herbed black soybeans, carrots and broccoli with ume dill dressing and a pressed Chinese cabbage salad.”

Rachel thought of the fast-food outlets she had passed on her way over here and her stomach growled.

“Francine made sure there was herbed chicken for you, Gracie and Eli, and she made your favorite chocolate cake for dessert.” Her mother gave her a quick smile. “I know how much you love your empty calories. That’s why you’re so pale, you know.”

“I’m fine, Mother.” Rachel ate another carrot as if to show Beatrice that she knew how to make healthy choices.

“Is that my little girl?” Charles called out affectionately.

Rachel looked back over her shoulder just as her father burst into the room. He strode to her side, and gave her a quick one-armed hug, balancing his youngest daughter on the other arm.

“Hello, Dad,” she said, leaning against him. “Good to see you.”

She glanced at Gracie, who grinned at her, her curly brown hair framing a heart-shaped face. She wore blue jean overalls today with a soft pink T-shirt. Fairly normal considering her mother’s personal taste in clothing.

“Hey, there,” Rachel said with a quick smile, stroking her sister’s shoulder. Gracie held her arms out to Rachel, overbalanced, and tried to compensate, her movements jerky. Rachel restored her back to her father’s arms but took a step away from them.

Gracie was adorable, cute and loving. But every time Rachel was around her, she felt inadequate and, quite frankly, a little nervous.

It hadn’t helped that the first time Rachel saw the girl that had captured her parents’ hearts the child had been attached to a respirator, monitor, IV and other machines. Gracie had cerebral palsy and had been recovering from a bad seizure. Her parents had just applied to adopt her. So they had asked Rachel to come with them to meet her.

Rachel had thought she’d overcome her hatred of hospitals, but five minutes of standing by Gracie’s bedside was all she could take. The hiss of the respirator and the pervasive scent of disinfectant broke over her in a wave of angry memories and nausea.

She gave her parents her blessing and left as soon as she could.

Since then, every time she saw the girl, she saw helplessness and sickness and hospitals. And she felt uncomfortable.

“Here, little one, I brought you a present.” Rachel offered the toddler the wrapped box as a peace offering.

“What do you say, honey?” Charles prompted.

“Hank you.” Gracie said with a proud grin at her father.

Charles tried to catch Rachel’s gaze, but she looked away. She knew her father didn’t always understand her reaction to her adorable little sister. Rachel didn’t always, either. But there it was.

Charles looked behind him at the man she knew had been watching them. “Rachel, I’d like you to meet Dr. Eli. He is Gracie’s pediatrician. Eli, this is our daughter, Rachel.”

“I believe we’ve already met,” Eli said, the same lazy smile crooking his mouth as he held out his hand to her.

She gave him a polite smile. She could do that much. It wasn’t his fault that her parents were itching to be in-laws. “The motorcycle man.”

“That’s me.” His hand was warm, his fingers long, and at his touch she felt a flicker of awareness that had been dormant for a long time now.

She didn’t like it.

“I’m surprised that you ride one,” she said, unable to stop the defensive note from creeping into her voice. “You being a doctor and all.”

“And all what?” His grin mocked her comment.

It was an overreaction, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. “And all the responsibility you carry,” she added.

“What if something happened to you?”

“It’s cheap transportation. And I’m careful.”

“Famous last words,” she said with a chill in her voice.

His sea-green eyes held her gaze, his head angled to one side as if trying to figure her out. Well, he could try all he wanted. The only time their paths might cross again would be at a Noble Foundation fund-raiser for the hospital. He didn’t need to know more about her than her name.

“We can eat,” Beatrice announced, taking Gracie from her husband’s arms. “Why don’t we unwrap your present when we have dessert,” she said to Gracie, setting the gift aside. “Rachel, you get your usual spot. Eli, you can sit across from her.”

Beatrice shepherded them all toward the cozy eating nook whose floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the kitchen garden. Rachel sat in “her” chair, noticing the place setting.

When the Nobles first moved to Chestnut Grove from their old home, Rachel and her mother had gone touring the local market. Rachel stopped at a booth that displayed brightly colored earthenware dishes, each place setting unique. Her mother insisted that Rachel choose one for each of them and a couple for her aunt, uncle and cousin. The dishes only came out on family occasions, never when they had company.

Rachel gave her mother a quick glance now, recognizing the not-so-light hint her mother was giving her. At any other time she might have been amused, but Eli and his irresponsible motorcycle had unnerved her.

Beatrice suddenly busied herself buckling Gracie into her specially made high chair, making sure she was comfortable.

“This looks lovely, Beatrice,” Charles said, holding out his hand to his daughter on one side, Eli on the other. “We usually say grace before our meal,” he explained to Eli.

“That’s fine with me. So do the Cavanaughs.”

That seemed an odd way to talk about his family, but Rachel didn’t have time to wonder. Her father had squeezed her hand, and she bowed her head as he began to pray.

She heard her father talking to God, but couldn’t join in on his heartfelt prayer. Though she had been born and raised with faith, she had drifted away over the past few years. She didn’t need God, or what He supposedly offered her and she knew He certainly didn’t need her. Her parents weren’t happy with her choices, but she was thankful they kept their distance. And probably prayed over her.

“Help yourself, Eli,” Beatrice said when Charles was done. “We don’t stand on formality here. The only rule we have is start with what’s in front of you and pass it to the right.”

“And finish what’s on my plate, I imagine,” Eli said with a quick grin at Beatrice.

“If you can,” Rachel muttered, grimacing at the bowl set nearest to her.

“Don’t pay attention to the carnivore,” Beatrice said, fluttering her hands in dismissal of Rachel’s comment. “In spite of being raised with gourmet cooking, Rachel’s idea of a well-balanced diet is cake in one hand and a burger in the other. I pity the man she ends up marrying.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t have a man,” Rachel said with a warning glance at her mother as she passed on the bowl of soybeans. “Or any intention of getting one.”

“As you said, famous last words, my dear,” Beatrice threw back, unfazed by Rachel’s pronouncement. “One day you’ll swap that impersonal condo of yours for a house with a yard like Eli’s. A nice cozy colonial.” Beatrice turned to the doctor. “I understand that you’re in the process of fixing it up?”

“Actually, my brother Ben has been working on it. He’s the carpenter.” Eli took a small helping of what looked like corn with a pained expression that made Rachel smile in spite of herself. “He’s been nagging at me to make some decisions about the kitchen, but I’m not sure if I want to go modern or stay with the colonial theme.”

“Rachel might be able to help you there,” Charles said, ignoring the prod of Rachel’s foot, beaming at Eli like he was already a favored son. “She’s very good at interior decorating.”

Rachel didn’t know where that had come from. Her parents didn’t like the eclectic mix of masks, rugs and memorabilia from her many trips that graced her condo. Said it made her place look like a museum, not a home.

“I know what I want. My biggest problem, however, seems to be finding time to make the decisions,” Eli said, glancing at Rachel as if he too understood what was going on.

“No woman pushing you to get done?” Charles asked.

Rachel gave her father a harder nudge.

Which he also ignored.

She shot her mother a warning glance to make sure she didn’t join in. But her mother was trying to coax some food into Gracie, who sat in her chair, back rigid, lips pressed together.

“I’m not ready for a woman yet” was all Eli said.

Rachel was thankful when the conversation moved on to traffic downtown, the changing pace of life, and a smattering of politics, and then to some of the fund-raising activities the Noble organization had been involved in.

“There’s the annual Noble Foundation picnic coming up soon. You’ll have to make sure to attend,” Beatrice said, carefully lifting Gracie out of her high chair. “Rachel takes care of it and has it here, on the plantation.”

“You make it sound like I do it single-handedly,” Rachel admonished her mother. “I have a large staff that does a lot of work, as well.”

“But you don’t delegate enough. I thought hiring those two assistants to replace Anita would ease your workload, but if anything, you are even busier.”

“They’re still so new, Mom. I can’t just hand them the files and expect them to deal with all of it.”

“They are well trained.”

“They need just a bit more experience.” She gave her mother another warning look. They did not need to discuss this in front of a complete stranger.

“I love you dear, but I also know you,” Beatrice said, as if ignoring Rachel’s warning, “and you have to stop thinking you can control everything. Sometimes you have to let go and let God.”

“I don’t want to delegate to Him, either,” Rachel muttered. “Can we change the subject?”

Beatrice only sighed, smoothing Gracie’s hair. “Do you want to hold Gracie?” she asked.

Rachel glanced at the toddler who lay passive in her mother’s arms. This was not a subject she was comfortable with, either. She knew she should accept, but she was scared she’d do something wrong.

“She won’t hurt you,” Eli said quietly, as if sensing her apprehension.

His comment hung between them.

Then in her peripheral vision she saw Gracie twitch. The child’s arms splayed out, her legs became rigid. She gave a pathetic little wail.

“Gracie. C’mon, girlie.” Beatrice tried to make her sit, but she wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.

Rachel’s heart jumped in her chest at the sight of the girl’s head thrown back and her body stiff.

“Massage her legs. It looks like a muscle spasm,” Eli said, his voice calm, in control. He squatted beside Beatrice, demonstrating.

Beatrice did what he said, and Rachel breathed a sigh of relief as Gracie’s body slowly relaxed.

“See? Not that bad.”

“No. I was a bit frightened, though.” Beatrice glanced at Rachel. “You can hold her now.”

Rachel’s pager buzzed at her waist and she couldn’t stop the twinge of relief. Reuben to her rescue.

Chapter Two

R achel gave her mother an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Mom. I have to take this call. Excuse me, Dad. Eli.” Thankful for the distraction, she strode down the hallway to her father’s den to use the phone there in private.

“Talk to me,” she said as soon as Reuben picked up.

“LaReese Binet changed her mind again.”

Rachel tapped her fingernail against her teeth as her mind scrambled around this new problem.

“She said she wants to see us tonight,” Reuben continued. “In fact, you should have been there about five minutes ago, but I knew you were at your parents’ place and I held off as long as I dared.”

“That’s okay, you weren’t interrupting much. Polenta, ume dill dressing, matchmaking and Gracie.” She shuddered slightly as she remembered the sound of her sister’s helpless cry. She admired her parents for taking this child in. She knew she couldn’t have done it.

“Pardon me?”

“Never mind. What is the problem now?”

“Mrs. Binet wants to see the quarterly statements of the Barnabas Society. Wants to make sure they’re on the up-and-up.”

“They’ll see that as an insult.” The Barnabas Society was a network of older Southern belles who had been around since after Reconstruction. Well established, well endowed, they had set up a camp for inner-city children, but never said no to extra dollars. Though not at any cost. They did have their Southern pride after all.