and find a place to stay. Tomorrow he’d talk to the lawyers and to his daughter’s social worker and soon, very soon, he’d have his daughter. And he could start making amends for not trying hard enough to make his marriage work and for not considering that Kath could’ve been pregnant when she kicked him out that last time.
The woman—what had she said her name was? Fern?—came back out carrying a crockery bowl. She set it on a tray beside him, and the smell of soup tickled his nose, made him hungry for the first time in days. Behind her, the little girl carefully carried a plastic plate with a couple of buttered rolls on it.
It all looked delicious.
“I’ll eat up and then be on my way,” he promised, tasting the soup. Wow. Perfect. “This is fantastic,” he said as he scooped another spoonful.
“Mama Fern always has good food.”
Something about the way the little girl talked about her mother was off, but Carlo was too ecstatic about the chicken soup to figure out what it was.
“So...” The woman, Fern, perched on the other edge of the couch, watching him eat. “What are you going to do?”
He swallowed another spoonful. “As soon as I finish this soup—which is amazing—I’m going to head into Rescue River and see if I can find a place to stay.”
“There’s that little motel right on the edge of town. It tends to fill up during storms, though. Travelers coming through don’t have a lot of choices.”
“There’s a few doors I can knock on.” Not really, but she didn’t need to know that. He could sleep in his truck. He’d slept in worse places.
Although usually, the problem was being too hot, not too cold. He’d have to find an all-night store and buy a couple of blankets.
“So what brought you out of the jungle?”
He paused in the act of lifting a spoon to his mouth. She was being nosy and he hated that. But on the other hand, she was providing him with soup and bread and a place to sit down.
“You’re nicer than my mommy’s boyfriends.” The little girl leaned on the couch and stared up at him.
He couldn’t help raising an eyebrow at Fern.
Fern’s cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink. “She’s not talking about me. I’m kind of her foster mom.”
“And she’s gonna ’dopt me!”
“After all the grown-up stuff gets done, sweets.”
They went on talking while Carlo slowly put down his spoon into his almost empty bowl of soup and stared at the two of them.
It couldn’t be.
Could it?
It had to be a coincidence. Except, how many four-year-old girls were in need of being adopted in Rescue River, Ohio?
Could Fern have changed her name from Mercedes to Mercy?
No, not likely, but he’d learned during battle to consider all possibilities, however remote.
He rubbed his hand over his suddenly feverish face and tried to think. If this girl, by some weird set of circumstances, was Mercedes—his own kid, whom he hadn’t known about until two weeks ago—then he needed to get out of here right away. He was making a terrible impression on someone who’d be sure to report every detail to the social workers.
Not only that, but his lawyer friend had advised him not to contact the child himself.
The child. Surely she wasn’t his? The hair color was his own, but light brown hair was common. He studied her, amazed at her beauty, her curls hanging down her back, at her round, dark eyes. She was gorgeous. And obviously smart.
And obviously close with this woman who wanted to adopt her.
If this was foster care, then it was different from anything he’d imagined. He’d expected to find his daughter staying in a dirty old house filled to the brim with kids. No doubt that stereotype was from his own single bad experience years ago, but it was the reason he’d dropped everything, not waited to recover from his illness, and hopped a plane as soon as he realized he was a father and that his child’s mother was dead.
He didn’t want a child of his to suffer in foster care. He wanted to take care of her. And he would, because surely this beautiful child in this idyllic life was no relation to him.
When he did find his own daughter, he’d find a way to make up for some of the mistakes of his past.
Maybe redeem himself.
“Are you finished?”
The pair had stopped talking and were staring at him. Oh, great. He was breathing hard and sweating, probably pale as paper.
“I’m done,” he said, handing her the plate and bowl. “Thank you.”
She carried them into the kitchen and he took the opportunity to study the child.
“How do you like it here?” he asked her.
“I like Bull,” she said, “but home is nicer.”
“Home with Mommy Fern?”
“Mama Fern. Yes.”
“I guess you miss your mommy.”
She looked at him. “Do you know her?”
He settled for “I don’t think so.” Because almost certainly, this wasn’t his own child, whose mother, Kath, he had indeed known quite well. Theirs had been a mistaken marriage, born of lust and bad judgment. Soon after the wedding, they’d started having serious problems. Her drinking and drugs and promiscuous behavior had led to them breaking up, not once, but twice.
What he hadn’t known was that the last time she’d kicked him out, he’d left her pregnant.
Fern walked back into the room and squatted down beside the child with a natural grace. “Half an hour till your bedtime, sweets. Want to have your snack in front of the TV? Finish your movie?”
“Yeah.” The little girl hugged Fern. “Thanks for letting me.”
“Fridays only. Let’s get you set up.”
Carlo’s head was spinning so badly with questions and fever that he had to stay seated, but he forced himself to keep his eyes open and take deep breaths. Not only was he sick, but he was dizzy with confusion.
Could God have arranged it that he’d meet his child this way, rather than wearing nice clothes in a social worker’s office?
Was that beautiful little girl his daughter?
Fern came back in. “She loves her princess movies,” she said apologetically. “I’m not real big on TV for little kids, but it comforts her.”
Carlo lifted his hands. “I’m not judging. Don’t most kids watch TV?”
“Yeah, but...I want to do better.”
She was a good, caring foster mom. And he had to find out the truth. “How old did you say she is?”
“She’s four, going on five.”
He nodded. “Now, did you name her Mercy or was that already her name?”
She looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “You can’t change a four-year-old’s name. She’s been Mercy all her life.”
Relief poured over him. He hadn’t messed up the all-important moment of meeting his own daughter. To be polite, he tried to keep the conversation going. “And you’re...hoping to adopt her?”
“I’m planning on it,” she said with satisfaction. “Everything’s looking great. As long as the birth father doesn’t show up, I’m golden.”
He cocked his head to one side. “You don’t want