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“India? Are you all right?”
She couldn’t tell Jack what was on her mind, so she bit back her questions about her daughter’s first days with him and Mary and changed the subject. “I love to look at photos, but I always want to know the stories behind them.”
“Colleen is like that, too. Unfortunately, we couldn’t tell her much. Mother Angelica only told us Colleen had a normal delivery. You don’t seem surprised to hear she’s adopted. Has she already told you?”
India nodded in time to the beat of her own heart. Jack’s question tempted her again to enter a dreamworld, where Colleen would get used to the idea of her true identity, and Jack would forgive her for her lies.
“J-Jack,” she stuttered, “Colleen’s birth mother could tell you all about her birth. Have you never wondered about her?”
His vehemence gave away the depth of his feeling about the “birth mother.” “No. Mary was Colleen’s mother. That’s all I need to know. For years, we dreaded the idea of some woman trying to take our daughter away from us. I still think about it when I hear one of those stories on the news….”
His voice trailed off, and India tried to hide her utter dismay. Averting her face, she scrambled for composure. He’d given her a swift, detailed answer. If she tried to tell him the truth, he’d think she’d come to steal his child.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anna Adams grew up battling for position with four brothers and five male cousins. Her grandma, concerned when Anna built a tree house that resembled a condo for a family of four, gave her the gift of a Harlequin romance novel and told her that young women (Anna was twelve and—please—no longer a “girl”) could combine other, even more exciting adventures with their architectural accomplishments.
With wholehearted joy, Anna plunged into a world of strong women and loving men who knit their lives together no matter what obstacles stood between them. Now Anna can’t believe she’s lucky enough to add her stories to the ones that came before her. She hopes to bring the same delight she’s known to other readers. She just wishes she could share that cool reading spot, too.
Anna lives in Georgia with her jazz guitarist son, Colin, her swims-like-a-fish daughter, Sarah, and her hero of twenty-one years, Steve.
Her Daughter’s Father
Anna Adams
To Mamie—who gave me that first book.
To Colin and Sarah—may life bring you the love
you’ve given me.
And to Steve—I still listen for your voice on the phone,
your key in the door. You love like a hero.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
ON NEW YEAR’S EVE, in the basement of St. Genevieve’s Home for Unwed Mothers, India Stuart gripped a small flashlight between her teeth and bent over a locked filing cabinet. Seconds ticked like frantic heartbeats in her head.
She’d learned how to pick locks from a book, but her hands hadn’t trembled this way when she’d practiced at home. Like the attorneys she’d consulted and Mother Angelica, who’d run the home since before India had come here to give birth, the lock remained firm.
She didn’t take burglary lightly. Fifteen years ago, she’d stepped outside the rules and made one mistake that had taught her never to rebel again. She glanced at the window she’d climbed through. Headlights on a waiting car flashed twice.
Her father, encouraging her. He was only trying to help, not alert the local police. “Dad!” She redoubled her efforts. A bead of sweat trickled down her nose. Had he flashed the lights before? Even at a time like this, she and he did not know how to communicate.
She tightened her moist fingers on the tools. Any minute Mother Angelica might materialize to engulf her in voluminous black robes. No, at night, Mother Angelica only ventured from her room to investigate the sound of a gallon of ice cream bouncing across the kitchen tiles. India still remembered.
Inhaling a shaky breath, she started over. Use a gentle touch. Persuade the lock. Don’t force it.
With a metallic thunk, it finally gave and sprang outward. Astounded, she stared at the cabinet. A moment of truth. Fifteen years of hopes and dreams and regrets, all concentrated in one shattering second.
She yanked the handle on the S drawer.
Smith, Smith, Smith—how many frightened young women had borrowed that name? Finally, a Smythe and two Snyders. She ran her fingertips over the folder tabs. Sprayberry, Spritzer? At last, a Stewart, and another, and then—Stuart, India. Even in the dim light her folder looked old.
Fifteen years.
She tugged at the file. Wedged between the others, it stuck. She tugged harder, but left it halfway in, so she wouldn’t have to figure out where it belonged when she finished with it.
Prying the folder open enough to see the writing on the pages inside, India shone her small flashlight on Mother Angelica’s spidery scrawl. She searched