His mother wouldn’t get away with this.
Two years of controlling the Quincy Legacy had made her just powerful and arrogant enough to think she could do whatever she pleased, to feel confident enough to demand support from the movers and shakers around the county. God only knew what level of authority she’d appealed to. For all he knew, she’d gone straight to the governor, who incidentally was his honorary godfather.
He urged Annie to recline on the sofa. “I’ll be right back.” In the foyer, he dug the phone book from the small telephone table near the kitchen door. He found the number for the hospital and called them first. As soon as he explained things to Mary, he’d call Aunt Nan in Roanoke.
The phone clicked in his ear twice before Mary’s soft voice came on. “Hello? Annie, is that you?”
Annie came into the foyer and huddled into his side as he managed, “It’s Travis. Mar—” He swallowed, painfully. “Mom, we’ve got trouble.”
Ruth dressed the boy in a one-piece nautical style romper that once belonged to Travis, and it actually fit decently. He jerked in her grasp and screamed the entire time she fought to get him into the designer outfit. Finally dressed, she left him in the Jenny Lind crib Travis had used as a baby. His incessant sobs grated on her nerves. She’d probably have to move the nursery to a guestroom in the other wing, otherwise, listening to him might keep her up at night.
She watched him warily as he gained his feet and clutched the crib rails. Tears streamed down his face and dampened the collar of his romper. Damn it. That ensemble was an expensive “Happy Baby Togs” original, and the boy would no doubt ruin it with his blubbering.
Yet, he was of her blood. He could be her second chance at motherhood, for she was certain once Travis and Catherine were wed and expecting their own, Travis would forget his desire to raise this child himself. Ruth could not imagine Catherine taking on the care of another woman’s baby. Who could blame her? The boy’s birth was a mistake. He would be illegitimate until legally adopted, and Ruth planned to attain the adoption herself. It was up to her to rear him as befitted a proper Quincy, to eradicate any Turner influence that might have already formed in his malleable little mind.
She might wish with all her heart a child conceived by Travis and Catherine would have the honor of being the next heir, but Ruth knew the legalities of the Quincy Legacy. She despised this child’s mother, but she would adhere to the Legacy. The Turners would be devastated about losing the boy, a nice side bonus for her. She decided a ‘thank-you’ card sent to Lawrence Bailey would be apropos, since his office had moved with such swiftness in bringing the boy to his rightful home. Besides, Lawrence had always been a dear friend of Ronald’s.
She’d puzzled over what to do about the child’s name. She wanted no reminder of the family whose presence in Thompkin had plagued her for so many years. After much consideration, Ruth decided to call him “Duncan Adams Quincy,” after the first Quincy, and borrow Ronald’s middle name of “Adams.” She let the full name roll off her tongue, pleased at how dignified it sounded. She’d have the papers drawn up at once.
A gasp at the open doorway drew her attention from the crib and its noisy occupant, and Ruth spun around.
“Oh, my Lord, what have you
done
, Ruth?”
Martha ignored Ruth and her hostile glares. Instead, her attention centered on the exhausted child who nestled against her shoulder. He hiccupped a teary sob once or twice, which thankfully didn’t awaken him. How utterly stressful the past several hours must have been for him.
From the kitchen, Martha heard the wails and she’d run upstairs in a sudden panic. Ruth wouldn’t have done it, she’d repeated over and over. Ruth wouldn’t have stolen Annie’s child.
But she’d done exactly that. Martha had halted inside the guestroom and gazed at the boy, a mirror image of his daddy, except for those big brown eyes. Annie’s eyes. As soon as the child saw her, he held out his chubby little arms. The poor mite hadn’t stopped crying until Martha picked him up and crooned to him.
“Leave my grandson alone,” Ruth had seethed at her. She’d advanced toward the crib, but the fury in Martha’s eyes must have gotten through to her, because she didn’t move any too close.
Her voice a tender chime of comfort, Martha had carried him downstairs, and Ruth trailed after her.
Now, determined to get to the bottom of this latest mess, Martha faced off with Ruth in the main foyer. Her eyes, soft with instant love as they looked down on the boy’s sweet face, hardened and narrowed when she raised them.
“You are out of your damned mind, Ruth.” The low, furious words didn’t stir the sleeping baby she held.
“I did what I had to do. I did the right thing for my grandson.” Ruth haughtily lifted her chin.
Martha only shook her head and rocked back and forth, humming softly as she stroked a hand across the child’s back. He snuffled and cuddled closer, two fingers in his mouth. Her arms tightened and she brushed a kiss across his damp forehead, then frowned at the lump that protruded and the tiny cut, already crusted over and beginning to heal.
Ruth pointed to the wound. “Annie Turner did that. She hit my grandson.”
“Oh, bullshit,” Martha retorted, eyeing Ruth with disgust. “Children fall down and whack their heads all the time. There is no way on God’s green earth that Annie hit this child.”
“Well, what about those marks on his arms? And he was filthy when the social worker visited. Covered in heaven knows what kind of foulness. Bruises, screaming in pain. I’m sure photos were taken to document this hideous abuse.”
Martha’s fingers smoothed lightly over the bruises visible beneath the fancy short-sleeved romper the boy wore. Ruth probably did it herself when she tried to dress him. What the idiot woman knew about dealing with babies could be printed on the head of a pin with room to spare.
“You
are
insane, Ruth. It’s not only all in your mind, but it’s also a passel of lies.” Martha hitched the baby closer to her body, uneasy when she noted how Ruth watched the child as if she’d like to grab him and run away with him. Predatory possessiveness was there in her eyes, in her stance.
It hadn’t come as a surprise when Martha heard about Travis’s son. She’d known something urgent had to be behind Annie’s departure from Thompkin, and given Ruth’s attitude toward Annie over the years, her fear of Ruth’s reaction to the news made sense. The situation Martha now found herself in, holding this exhausted child in the foyer of Quincy Hall instead of where he rightfully belonged, proved how far Ruth would go in her vengeance against an innocent like Annie.
Anger churned in her as she turned to Ruth. “You tore the boy from his mother—no, that’s not quite right, is it? You hired someone to go to Annie’s home and frighten her, intimidate her, and then steal her own son from her. Do you have
any
idea what you put him through, today? Any idea what you’ve done to Annie? To Travis, when he finds out about this? Do you even care?”
Ruth shifted closer, her eyes focused on the baby. “Give him to me.” She held out her arms and frowned when Martha backed up and shook her head. “I said, give him to me! He’s my grandson. Soon he’ll be my adopted son. I wish to hold him.”
Martha spat, “You don’t deserve to hold him, Ruth, not after what you’ve done. Kidnapping, missy. Has an ugly ring to it, wouldn’t you say? Well, that’s what you’ve done. And if you think the Turner family will allow you to get away with it, think again. I wouldn’t be surprised to see the police on the doorstep before very long.” With that, Martha turned and strode toward the kitchen with the sleeping child locked in her arms.
“You are dismissed, Martha! You are fired. Do you hear me?
FIRED!
” Ruth screamed the words at her, but Martha merely flung a furious look over her shoulder and disappeared around the corner. She took the back stairs at a run and didn’t slow down until she was behind the locked door of her suite. She sank into the closest chair, her heart pounding, and looked down at Travis’s son, still fast asleep in her arms.
She pressed her lips to his silky curls. “Don’t you worry, sugarpie. Martha’s got you now.”
Mary wiped the tears from Annie’s face. Susan stomped around the room in a circle and tossed out a few inventive ways to kill off Ruth Quincy. Travis, slumped in a chair across the room with his head in his hands while Henry patted his back, made no attempt to defend his mother against Susan’s rages. If his mother stood before him right now, he’d have strangled her himself. He doubted a court system in the state would condemn him for it.
Mark entered the waiting room and attempted a smile. “Well, they’re sleeping. Sissy’s worn out, but she’s doing fine.” He stepped over to where his mother sat with Annie, and pressed a kiss to both their cheeks. “She wanted to see you, Annie. Toby’s still in the room with her and the nurse said he can stay there all night. Why don’t you go in and spend some time getting to know your new nephew? Take your mind off your troubles, okay?”
Annie raised tear-swollen eyes to her brother and nodded, reaching up to hug him as he drew her to her feet. She laid her forehead against his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mark. So sorry this happened during what should be the happiest day for all of us. I’m thrilled to have a nephew to spoil.” For a few seconds brother and sister stood clasped together, before she stepped back. The door of the private waiting room swung shut behind her.
“Where’s Nan?” Mary’s voice faltered, and she cleared her throat as she looked up at her son. Mark took the seat Annie vacated and Mary caught one of his hands, holding it between both of her palms.
He gripped her fingers. “She went in search of coffee, after ordering me to send in Annie. Told me it would do her good to stop crying and come sit with Sissy for a while.” He smiled. “Aunt Nan might be starchy, but she’s as mush-hearted as they come. She told me she’d already called the lawyer, and the woman promised to investigate and get right back to us.” He sighed. “You should probably all go home. I’m staying here with Sissy.”
Susan stopped pacing, and scowled at each of her family members in turn. “What’s that lawyer going to do about this? I’d bet all the money in my savings account that no-good social worker didn’t have a warrant, or whatever they need to take children from their homes. It happened too fast.” She spun toward Travis. “Don’t you think it happened too fast, for it to be a legal procedure?”
He nodded as he scrubbed his palms over his cheeks. “Yes, I think so.” He dropped his hands into his lap, feeling helpless, as usual, where his mother was concerned. “It’s easy enough for my mother to make a few calls and get almost anything she wants.” He gathered some facts from memory. “To achieve this legally, she would have to contact County Child Welfare and report suspected abuse or neglect. Someone would then come to the house to investigate. Not to just grab Hank,” he stressed, at the resurgent fury in Susan’s expression. “Just to investigate. If it seemed Hank was in any immediate danger, steps would have been taken to remove him into protective custody.”
Wearily he shrugged and leaned his elbows on his knees. “He had bruises on his arms and a cut on his forehead. That was probably enough for Child Welfare to justify taking him away.” At Susan’s low growl and Mark’s soft exclamation of anger, Travis hastened to add, "But to have Hank brought immediately to Quincy Hall? Mother can’t have gone through proper channels. No way.”
“What were you thinking, Morgan? No, don’t answer that. Obviously you weren’t thinking at all.” Lawrence Bailey dropped his considerable bulk into his office chair. Louise Morgan opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a single blunt-edged finger pointed at her. She wisely closed her mouth, but her eyes remained hostile.
He was indifferent to her attitude. “You let Ruth Quincy have the child.”
“I—”
“Shut up.” His booming voice roughened. “You walked into that girl’s house, interrogated her, took her child, and ignored legal procedure when you gave him to his grandmother. With no documentation, no paperwork of any kind.” He didn’t hide his exasperation from her. “You have no proof the child was abused, because you neglected to bring him to Child Services first and then record whatever evidence you claim to have seen. As a result of your bungling, we have utter squat at this time, no photo evidence, not to mention a ruling by a judge for the child’s temporary guardianship. All we have is your rash and impulsive actions, which I’m sure resulted in the Turner family’s ability to lawyer up in a hurry. And can’t say that I blame them.”
She tried to defend herself. “Sir, I know what I saw—”
“I told you to shut up. And it doesn’t
matter
what you saw. Without going through proper channels, without photo documentation, you could have seen the kid wrapped in manure stained bed sheets and hanging on a hook as wall art, and it wouldn’t have mattered. That’s what procedure is for. Jesus save me from the idiots of the world,” Lawrence griped as he tugged on his thinning hair and made what sparse amount he possessed stand on end.
“I’m
not
an idiot. I did what I thought was best. The boy was sobbing hysterically. He had on a soaking wet diaper. That speaks of neglect. He had a knot on his head where that simpleton girl had hit him, and—”