air. Honestly, he was grateful for Gladys’s call. He wasn’t exactly in the mood for a lengthy conversation with Andrew today. However, he was worried about the older woman.
He slid behind the wheel of his Tahoe and headed north, continuing outside of town. Gladys had always been faithful in keeping in touch with him over the years. He still had all the letters she’d sent him while he was in the navy.
A few minutes later, he pulled into her drive, gravel crunching beneath his tires. Exiting the vehicle, he spotted the large pile of wood near the barn at the back of the property. He made his way there first and filled his arms before heading to the small, white, single-story house with green trim.
He tugged open the screen door and knocked. “Gladys? It’s Matt.”
His anxiety heightened as the seconds dragged on. Reaching for the knob, he gave it a twist and inched the door open. “Gladys?”
“In—” coughing echoed from the living room that sat at the opposite end of the kitchen “—in here.”
He continued into the house, moving through the compact yet tidy kitchen and into the chilly living room. There, on the other side of the room, in front of the big picture window, the elderly woman lay in her recliner, buried under a stack of blankets, her short gray hair sticking up every which way. She looked frailer than he’d ever imagined.
Crossing to the wood-burning stove in the corner of the room, he dropped the wood before touching a hand to the side of the stove. “This thing is stone-cold.” He opened the door to see only ashes in the bottom.
He twisted around. “What’s going on, Gladys? Why don’t you have a fire going?”
Her face was pale, but she sent him weak smile. “I ran out of wood.”
This wasn’t good. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”
“Just a little cold.” One wrinkled hand clasped the blankets to her chest while the other held tightly to a handkerchief she used to cover her mouth when she coughed.
A few quick strides put him at her side. He touched her forehead. “You’re burning up.”
“Am I?” Clouded blue eyes met his. “Feels pretty chilly to me.”
He knelt beside her. “Have you been to see the doctor?”
“No.”
He knew what he had to do, but Gladys wasn’t going to like it. The best thing he could do was to make her a little more comfortable before bringing up the ambulance. A few more minutes wouldn’t make that much difference.
“Okay, let me get this fire started.” Back at the stove, he removed the ashes before adding a starter stick from the box he spotted on the shelf and a couple of thin logs.
After closing the doors, he went into the kitchen and set the four-cup coffeepot to brew. Probably not the best thing, but she needed something warm. A few minutes later, he filled an old green coffee cup halfway and took it to her. “Careful, it’s hot.”
“Thank you, Matt. You’re a good boy.”
No, a good boy would have checked on her more often.
After adding another log to the firebox, he pulled up a chair and sat beside her. “I wish you had called me earlier.”
“I know. But I—”
“Hate to bother me, I know.” Resting his forearms on his thighs, he leaned closer. “Gladys, I need to call an ambulance.”
Her eyes widened slightly as she passed him her cup.
“I’m afraid you have more than just a cold and I want the EMTs to come and check you out.”
“Can’t I just go to the doctor?” She coughed.
“And how are you going to get there? You’re in no condition to drive yourself.” Any other time he’d take her himself, but since he was the only deputy on duty... Besides, she’d likely be going to the hospital in Montrose anyway.
Her thin lips pursed as she turned her gaze to the conifer-dotted landscape outside the window. “If you think that would be best.”
He laid a hand atop hers. “I do. I want you to get better.”
He made the call, then monitored the fire and paced the beige carpet as he waited for the EMTs to arrive.
“When did you do this?” He pointed to two photos, one color, the other black-and-white, encased in a single frame on the wall near the opening to the kitchen.
“About a month ago. That’s my first graduating class—” more coughing “—and my last graduating class.” Forty years of teaching. Definitely impressive.
“Hey, there’s me.” He pointed to the newer photo.
“Bring it over here, please.”
He lifted the frame and took it to her.
She smiled as she touched the glass. “You and your brothers all had your father’s dark eyes.”
“Except Daniel,” he said. The baby of the family was the polar opposite with his blond hair and blue eyes.
“Oh, yes. He took after your mother. But the rest of you... Anyone could tell you were a Stephens.”
His gut clenched, images of Kenzie flashing through his mind. Her dark eyes. That sense of familiarity washed over him again. Could it be true?
Thirty minutes after the EMTs arrived, he watched as they loaded Gladys into the back of the ambulance. While bronchitis was a good bet, given her age, the doctors wanted to observe her to be certain there was nothing else going on.
He returned to the house to make sure everything was in order and the fire in the wood stove was put out. He’d have to touch base with the church and others in town so Gladys would have plenty of folks to check on her and bring her food once she returned home.
Before leaving, he picked up the framed photo and hung it back on the wall. Anyone could tell you were a Stephens.
His eyes closed. God, forgive me. I know I made a mistake all those years ago. How do I know if Kenzie is my child?
By the time his shift ended, he could hardly wait to get home. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but if what played across his brain was truly from God, he might have the answer he’d prayed for.
He pulled his Tahoe into the drive, ditched his gear at the back door and headed straight for the bookshelves surrounding the fireplace in the living room. Quickly locating the scrapbook his mother had compiled for him and his sister-in-law Carly had assembled, he flipped past the baby pictures and those of him as a toddler, his heart pounding when he came to a photo of him at age four and a half. Except the face staring back at him was Kenzie’s. The nose, the eyes—He touched a finger to his forehead—even that little widow’s peak had Stephens written all over it.
He dropped onto the couch, feeling as though the air had been sucked from his lungs.
Kenzie was his daughter.
Standing at the island in her mother’s kitchen, Lacie transferred the remnants of Kenzie’s birthday cake to a large plastic container then licked a smudge of the super sweet frosting from her finger. Thanks to no nap earlier in the day, save for fifteen short minutes in the car on the way back from Montrose, the little girl had crashed early. Still, it had been a good birthday. Mom had gone above and beyond on the gifts. Clothes, toys, books... Yet she refused to do Christmas. Unless the abundance was to make up for not celebrating Christmas.
Whatever the case, they’d all had a pleasant evening.
She stowed the cake in the fridge, rinsed and dried her hands, then grabbed her laptop