High Meadow

by Joan Wolf

Genres: Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Kate Foley was only 21 when her wild sister Colleen died, leaving behind an infant son. Forced to drop out of college and raise her nephew, Ben, as her own, Kate tries to protect him from a possibly sadder truth by telling him that his absent father is dead.

Release date: September 26, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 418

Sample

Finish your milk,” Kate said, and the doorbell rang. Ben started to get up, but she held up a hand. “I’ll get it.”


The little boy subsided into his chair. “Can I have another cookie?”

The kitchen was redolent with the smell of the quick bake oatmeal-raisin cookies she had just made, and she helped herself
to one as she answered, “One more, if you finish your milk.” She looked at the German shepherd lying on a mat in the corner
of the sunny kitchen, and said, “Cyrus, stay with Ben.”


Before she left the kitchen, she glanced from habit out the window, which gave her a view of the stable. The wooden barn looked
peaceful in the September sunlight, with a few horses’ heads hanging out the opened top of the Dutch doors on their stalls.
As she walked toward the front door of the old farmhouse, the doorbell rang again. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she muttered,
put her hand on the knob, and opened the door halfway.


The man outside had the kind of good looks generally associated with movie stars. His hair was streaked with blond, and his
eyes were deeply and purely blue. He smiled, showing perfect white teeth.



Shit, she thought. Her fingers closed tensely on the door-knob. My God, he hasn’t changed at all, the rat.

“Kate!” he said.

“What are you doing here, Marty?”

He shrugged. “I’m home, and I thought I’d come and see if Colleen was around.”

“You haven’t been home in eight years,” Kate said. “We were all rather hoping you were dead.”

“Kate,” he said reproachfully. “I didn’t walk out on Colleen, you know. She walked out on me. Anyway, as I said, I’m home,
and I’d like to see her. Is she around?”


He can’t see Ben, Kate thought in alarm, and she moved a little to block Marty’s view of the hall. “Didn’t you know? Colleen’s dead.”


His eyes widened. “What?”

Kate said bitterly, “You really must have cared about her, Marty. In all these years, you never once asked your parents about
how she was doing?”


She started to push the door closed.

He wedged his foot against it. “How long has she been dead?”

Kate thought she heard the scrape of a chair against linoleum in the kitchen and replied rapidly, “Seven years. She died in
a car crash. So you can go away, Marty. And don’t come back. My mother will be even less happy to see you than I am.”


She pushed the door again. She was a small, slender woman, but she had a lot of upper-body strength. Marty’s foot held firm.

A clear treble voice said from behind her, “Who’s that man, Mommy?”

Damn. Damn. Damn.


“Nobody,” Kate said firmly. “Go back to the kitchen, Ben.” Then, to the man in front of her, “Good-bye Marty.”


Cyrus materialized at her side.

Marty looked warily at the dog, but held his ground. “Why are you so anxious to get rid of me?”

Kate’s voice took on a sarcastic note. “That’s easy enough to answer. I don’t like you. You took my sister away from us, then
you abandoned her. Get lost, Marty. We don’t want you here.”


“I told you, she left me,” he repeated.

They stood at impasse, the door half-open between them, Kate acutely conscious of Ben still in the hall behind her.

Sensing her distress, Cyrus growled softly deep down in his throat, and moved closer to Marty. “You’d better go,” Kate said
warningly. “I can restrain him for only so long.”


His eyes still on Cyrus, Marty said, “She left me for another man, Kate, but I was ready to let bygones be bygones, so I came
to see her.”


Kate’s voice was contemptuous. “I guess she finally found out what a worm you were. Too bad she didn’t listen to me and Mom
before she ran off with you.”


From behind her Ben said uneasily, “Should I call 911, Mommy?”

Still keeping her pressure on the door, Kate turned to give her son a reassuring smile. “No, Ben. That won’t be necessary.
The man is leaving.”


Marty looked from the dog to Ben. “This is your son?” he asked.

After a fractional hesitation, she returned, “Yes.”

He looked at her hand. “I don’t see a wedding band.”

From the hallway a small, strained voice said, “My mother died. Mommy is my mother now.”

Once more she turned to Ben. His large, luminous brown
eyes were very dark, and Kate felt a surge of fury that he had to be subjected to this. She said crisply, “Ben, go back to
the kitchen. I’ll keep Cyrus with me.”


Ben hesitated, his eyes going from the man in the doorway to Kate, then back again to the man in the doorway. Suddenly, breathlessly,
he asked, “Are you my father?”


The words hit Kate like a punch in the stomach.

“No, Ben,” she managed to answer steadily. “Marty is not your father. Now do as I say and go to the kitchen.”

Mercifully, Marty remained silent as Ben did as he was told and retreated to the kitchen. Cyrus remained beside Kate, his
eyes focused unwaveringly on Marty, who finally spoke. “So he’s Colleen’s child.”


His voice sounded oddly triumphant.

“He was Colleen’s child,” Kate said. “I adopted him after Colleen died. And don’t get any ideas, Marty. He is not your son. Colleen
was quite clear about that.”


A muscle flickered in his cheek. “Who was his father then?”

“I don’t know, and I’m not interested in finding out. Ben doesn’t need a father. He has Mom and me, and he doesn’t need anyone
else. So go away, or I’ll sic Cyrus on you.”


Marty was carefully not looking back into the dog’s eyes. “How old is Ben?”

“None of your business.”

“I can get it from the Records Office here in town, Kate. Stop being so obstructive.”

If Marty went to the Records Office, someone in the town clerk’s office would be sure to find out what he was doing, and news
would spread that he was Ben’s father. Kate struggled to contain her rage that this scumbag had the power to disrupt her relationship
with her son, and said coldly, “He will turn seven next month.”



“Thank you.” He removed his foot from the door. “Well it was nice seeing you, Kate. Say hello to your mother for me.”


“Drop dead,” Kate said, and slammed the door in his face.

She took a moment to pat Cyrus reassuringly and collect herself before she walked back to the kitchen to join Ben. He was
sitting at the old oak table, his empty glass of milk in front of him, and his arresting dark eyes were troubled. He waited
for her to speak first.


She sat at the table across from him. “That man was once a friend of your mother’s. He isn’t very nice, Ben, and I don’t like
him.”


“Did my mother like him?”

Cyrus went to his mattress under one of the windows. Kate had opened it before, and the crisp white cotton curtains rippled
in the breeze.


“She was fooled by him, but then she found out how bad he was, and she didn’t like him anymore.”

“Oh,” Ben said.

Kate took a deep, steadying breath. “Ben, why did you ask him if he was your father? Haven’t I told you that your father is
dead?”


He made no reply, just regarded her out of those large, long-lashed eyes.

“Didn’t you believe me, Ben?”

“Yes.”

“Then why… ” She broke off. She already knew the answer to her question. He was hoping. No matter what she had said, he was
hoping that one day his father would come.


Damn.

She spoke in the most normal voice she could muster. “Soccer practice starts today. Nana will be home soon to take you. Why
don’t you go and change your clothes?”


“Okay.”


He was so quiet and cooperative that he worried her.


Damn Marty Lockwood, she thought with helpless rage as she watched her son’s small figure leave the kitchen. Damn him.

The first thing Marty did after he left Riverton Farm was to go to the Glendale Public Library. He sat at a computer, connected
to the Internet, and typed in the keyword Daniel Montero. An hour later he left the library to return to his parents’ Cape-Cod-style house. There he carefully composed a letter, which
he mailed directly from the post office.


Two weeks later he received the response he had been hoping for. “May I speak to Martin Lockwood?” a man’s voice asked when
Marty picked up the phone on the third ring.


“I’m Martin Lockwood.” Marty’s heart skipped a beat. The man had spoken fluently, but his voice had a distinct Spanish accent.

“I’m calling for Daniel Montero. He would like to meet with you.”

Marty’s heart began to hammer. “That can be arranged.”

“Mr. Montero lives in Greenwich. Would it be possible for you to come to his house?”

“Yes,” Marty said smoothly. “Of course.”

“Shall we say tomorrow at noontime?”

“Give me the address,” Marty said, “and I’ll be there.”

He was still going over the speech he had prepared the following day as he walked up the flagstone path to the clapboard-and-stone
single-floor house that belonged to the New York Yankees ace pitcher. The house was not lavish, for Greenwich, but the gardens
framing it were magnificent. A small fountain played in the shrubbery-enclosed area that was surrounded by the drive.



I’m the one with the upper hand here, he told himself as he pressed the bell button. I have to remember that.

The door was opened by a slender, dark-haired man who looked to be in his fifties. Marty introduced himself.

“Yes. Come in.” The voice was the same as the voice on the telephone the previous day. Marty stepped into a high-ceilinged
front hall with polished bare wood flooring and yellow walls and looked around. “Come with me, please,” the man said briefly,
and Marty followed him out of the hallway and down a wide hall that led toward one of the wings. The man pushed open a door,
said to the occupant inside, “Daniel, Martin Lockwood is here,” and gestured for Marty to enter.


Marty strode forward and found himself in a comfortable and well-furnished office. It was a medium-sized room, with French
doors giving a view of the gardens and a free-form pool outside. The large rolltop desk was golden oak, as was the computer
station and the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The man who was sitting behind the desk swiveled around in a large coffee-colored
leather chair and Marty found himself looking at one of the most famous faces in all of American sports.


Daniel Montero said, “Stay, Alberto,” and the man who had escorted Marty went to take a seat in a comfortable leather armchair.
No one asked Marty to sit down: both men just looked at him.


Boldly, Marty stared back at the man he had come to see. The Yankee star’s bronzed, clean-cut face was familiar from the newspapers,
but the large brown eyes were even more remarkable in actuality than they appeared in photos.


“So,” Daniel Montero said, “you wish to blackmail me.”

Still nobody asked Marty to sit down, so he crossed his arms over his chest and replied with the words he had rehearsed,
“As I wrote, I am in possession of information that you have a son who is being raised in ignorance of who his father is.
If I inform the child’s adoptive mother of your identity, she will most certainly demand a huge sum of money from you. What
I am asking for my silence doesn’t begin to compare with what you will have to pay in child support over the next eleven years.”


Daniel Montero’s face was calm and unreadable. “Why do you think this child is mine?”

“Because I know that eight years ago you had an affair with a girl named Colleen Foley.” A trace of bitterness crept into
Marty’s voice. “I know this because she ditched me so that she could be with you.” There was no flicker of recognition on
Daniel’s face at the mention of Colleen’s name, and Marty continued defiantly, “Ten months after she started to sleep with
you, Colleen had a baby. I saw him the other day. He looks just like you.”


“Can this be true, Daniel?” the man named Alberto asked.

The Yankee pitcher’s face remained calm and unreadable. “I remember Colleen. It was the spring training after I graduated
from college. We were together until I left Florida to go to one of the Yankee farm teams. She told me she was going to go
home.” There was no trace of an accent in his voice.


“She did go home,” Marty said triumphantly. “She went home and she had a baby. Then she was killed in a car crash. Her sister
adopted the boy and is bringing him up. She doesn’t know who the father is.”


For the first time, a flicker of expression crossed Daniel’s face. “This is difficult to believe.”

Marty said, “I’m sure I can get some pictures. Once you see him, you’ll know he’s yours. Colleen had blond hair and blue eyes.
This boy has straight black hair, like yours, and his eyes are like yours as well.”



Marty brought out his pièce de résistance. “Once I give Kate your name, she can get the court to order DNA testing to prove paternity. Believe me, once that’s done,
you won’t be able to get off the hook.”


Daniel said slowly, “And you are telling me this because you think I will pay you to keep my identity a secret, so I will
not have to pay child support to my son’s adoptive mother?”


Marty smiled. “That’s right.”

“How fortunate for this child that he does not have you for a father,” Daniel Montero said. “I, on the other hand, am perfectly
willing to support him—and his mother—if it can be proved that he is in fact my son.”


It took Marty a moment to digest the implications of this statement. The smile left his face and he stared at Daniel in outraged
disbelief. “You want to pay for this child? But you don’t even know him!”


“If he is my son, then I am responsible for taking care of him.” He leaned slightly forward. “Where may I find him?”

Marty’s brain churned frantically as he tried to find something to salvage from the wreck of his perfect plan. A glitter in
Daniel’s eyes alerted him to a possible alternate course. “It will cost you to find out,” he said.


The glitter became even more pronounced. “You would blackmail me for this information?”

“Yes,” said Marty, sure he was onto something now.

Daniel fitted his fingers together and said, slowly and deliberately, “In that case, let me tell you what I will do, Martin
Lockwood. I will give your name to the police and tell them to arrest you for attempted blackmail. Then I will hire a private
detective, who will search out the whereabouts of my son. You said that Colleen’s sister is raising him, and that her name
is Kate. I do not think it will be very long before he is located.”



Shit. Marty thought furiously. I told him too much.

“Kate will refuse to see you,” he said.

A straight black eyebrow lifted. “You told me she would sue me for child support.”

“She’s more likely to get a restraining order to keep you away from him,” Marty said. “If you want, I can arrange for you
to meet the boy away from her.”


“A restraining order will avail her nothing if he is indeed my son. Nor am I going to sneak behind her back.” Daniel stood
up and the full force of his splendid physical presence dwarfed even Marty’s good looks. “Now, are you going to tell me where
I can find this Kate and my son?”


Checkmate, Marty thought bitterly, and gave Daniel Montero Kate’s address.





It was the seventh inning, and the Yankees were up by two runs, but Daniel was in trouble. He had loaded the bases by giving
up two walks and an infield hit, and Boston’s biggest slugger was coming up to the plate. There was furious activity in the
Yankee bullpen, and when Daniel glanced over at the dugout, he saw the pitching coach on the telephone.


Shit, he thought. Mel is going to take me out.

Then the manager himself was walking to the mound. Daniel cursed long and fluently to himself in Spanish as he stood with
an impassive face and watched Joe approach.


“I think you’ve lost a bit of concentration,” Joe said, holding out his hand for the ball. “Let’s let Mike finish this up.”

It killed Daniel to give up the ball. When he got into a mess, he wanted to be the one who got out of it. “I am sorry, Joe,”
he said stiffly as he handed the ball to his manager. Joe patted him on the shoulder as he walked by. The crowd gave him a
standing ovation, which he forced himself to acknowledge by tipping his cap.


He sat by himself in the corner of the dugout, and no one came near him. Everyone in America knew that Daniel Montero hated
to come out in the middle of an inning.



And against Boston! he fumed to himself as he squinted into the sunlight on the field. I couldn’t even get the damn ball over the plate! What the hell is the matter with me?

Daniel knew the answer to his own question. He was meeting after the game with the private investigator he had hired to dig
up information about Kate Foley, and he couldn’t seem to keep his mind from straying to that future conversation.


I have a son. Every time he said those words to himself, sheer joy bubbled in his chest and stomach. After two years of thinking it would
never be possible… he had a son. It was like a miracle.


On the field the batter hit a line drive down the left field line. The third baseman, who was playing on the line, snagged
it, and the inning was over.


Daniel stood up and shook the hand of the pitcher who had relieved him and saved his chance for his twentieth win. Wins had
seemed of the utmost importance to him just a few days ago. He was in a contest to win the Cy Young Award for best pitcher
in the American League, and the more wins he rang up, the better his chances of getting the trophy over Boston’s ace. Daniel
had won it twice, and Boston’s pitcher had won it twice, and Daniel wanted to be the one who went to three.


But that was a few days ago. Now all he wanted was to go down to the clubhouse, change into street clothes, and go home so
he could meet with the private investigator. He was stuck, however, because of the significance of this possible win.


Twenty-two minutes later, the game was over and the scoreboard flashed the news that this was Daniel Montero’s twentieth win.
The crown went wild, and he had to step out of the dugout and tip his cap. Then his teammates were giving
him high fives, and slapping his back, and looking so genuinely pleased for him that he felt guilty that he could not be more
wholehearted in his response.


Finally, the team went down to the clubhouse, and Daniel steeled himself to be polite to the reporters who were already gathered
around his locker, which was marked by a brass plate bearing his name. He had been born into a privileged Colombian family,
and his mother had instilled in him from early childhood the necessity of courtesy to those beings less fortunate than himself.


“Did it make you mad to have to come out?” the reporter for the Daily News said as Daniel approached.


Daniel flashed his famous grin. “Not at all, Felipe. You know how much I appreciate Mike’s help in the middle of an inning.”

Everyone laughed, and a television reporter asked the next question. It was a full hour before Daniel was able to extricate
himself from the clubhouse and get into his car to drive home.


Alberto met him in the hallway of his house in Greenwich, and said, “He’s in your office.”

Daniel did not want his secretary and his father’s old friend to see his face when he was talking to the private investigator.
Alberto saw too much sometimes, and there were some feelings a man wanted to keep private. “If you don’t mind, I’ll handle
this alone, Alberto,” he said.


“Of course.”

Daniel walked quietly to his office door, inhaled deeply, and pushed the door open. The man inside got to his feet as he came
in. “Congratulations,” Joseph Murphy said. “Twenty wins. That’s terrific.”


Daniel held out his hand. “Thank you.”


The two men shook, and Daniel looked into shrewd blue eyes that were on a level with his own. The other man’s thick six-foot-two-inch
frame carried considerably more weight than he did, however.


“Won’t you please sit down,” Daniel said.

Murphy resumed his seat in the leather armchair, and Daniel went to sit in the chair in front of his desk. He swiveled around
to face Murphy, and said, “So, tell me what you have found out.”


“There isn’t a whole lot to tell,” the detective replied. “Katharine Foley lives a quiet, structured life. She has custody
of her sister’s child…”


Daniel’s heart leaped with hope. “Custody? I was under the impression that there was a legal adoption involved.”

“There is.”

Damn. Daniel’s heart settled down. A legal adoption would make matters more difficult for him.


The detective went on, “The sister died in a car crash when Ben—that’s the kid—was only six months old. Katharine adopted
him, but she and her mother have raised him together. As far as I can discover, there’s been no sign of a boyfriend since
she took on the boy.” Murphy lifted an ironic eyebrow. “She’s not exactly a hot number, Mr. Montero.”


That was good news. He did not want his son being raised by a hot number.

“How does she support him?” he asked.

The detective settled his burly frame more comfortably in his chair. “She teaches riding, and she buys and sells horses.”

He stared incredulously. “And she makes money at this?” His father bred Andalusian horses in Colombia, and in Daniel’s experience,
horses were money-losers, not money-makers.



“She didn’t when she first started the business, but she does now. Her mother’s a schoolteacher, and she supported them for
the first few years, until the business turned around. Now the business pays its own bills, with enough left over to live
on.”


“She must be a genius, to make money on horses,” Daniel said with genuine wonder.

“Apparently she’s a pretty smart businesswoman,” Murphy agreed. “You said you wanted a report on her finances, so I got you
a copy of her last tax statement.” For the first time he opened the briefcase on his lap, took out a paper, and passed it
to Daniel.


The number that Daniel saw typed under net income was decent. It was not in the same stratosphere as his income, of course, but it was enough money for a woman and a child
to live on. Daniel frowned as he put the tax statement on his desk.


“Horses are a lot of work,” he commented. “Where is Ben while this Katharine is working?”

“You asked me to find that out, and I did. When Ben was a baby, Katharine took care of him while her mother was at school.
She did the stable work and teaching when her mother was at home. Now that Ben’s in school, she has more time for the business,
which is one of the reasons it’s been making more money.”


“What grade is Ben in?”

“He just started second grade.”

Second grade. Daniel shut his eyes. I have missed so much time.

A little silence fell.

Murphy said, “I have a picture of the boy if you would like to see it.”


If I would like to see it? “Yes,” he said, his voice not quite as steady as he would have liked. “I would like to see it.”


Once more the detective opened his briefcase. “It’s only a newspaper photo. It appeared in the local rag last year. Apparently
Ben’s first-grade class went pumpkin picking, and the paper carried the story.” He handed over a photocopy of the newspaper
article. “You can see why they chose Ben for the picture. He’s a good-looking kid.”


Daniel stared down at the photograph and into a pair of huge, long-lashed brown eyes. It was like looking at a picture of
himself when he was seven. Ben’s dark hair was styled in the cut that Daniel had seen on the sons of his friends, but the
face was the same.


Shaken, he looked up to meet the eyes of Joseph Murphy. “He looks very much like you,” the detective said softly.

“Yes.” Daniel inhaled and blew out slowly though his nose. “I have only just learned of his existence.”

Murphy nodded, his blue eyes speculative. “He appears to be a perfectly normal, happy little boy. Katharine has done a good
job with him.”


Daniel nodded. “If I can prove that he is mine, can I claim the legal rights of a father?”

Murphy said, “You’ll have to consult a lawyer, but I’m sure the court would award you visitation rights.”

Visitation rights. The words sounded so cold. What he wanted to do was scoop his son up in his arms and never let him go.

“Have you met Katharine yourself?” he asked the detective.

“Yes. I stopped by the farm pretending to be looking for a place to board my horse. She’s a beautiful woman. It’s hard to
believe she doesn’t have a boyfriend, but apparently she doesn’t date. She runs the stable and takes care of Ben.”



Daniel spoke to the detective for fifteen more minutes, but the salient information had been delivered. Then he wrote Murphy
a check.


The detective said hesitantly, “Usually I don’t pester my famous clients, but would you mind giving me your autograph? My
son is a Little League pitcher, and he idolizes you.”


Daniel smiled. “Of course I will give you an autograph. I even have a picture I can sign for you.”

Murphy’s eyes lit. “That would be great.”

Daniel pulled open several of his desk drawers. “Let me see, I think I saw some in here the other day… Yes, here it is.” He
took out a photo of himself in his Yankee uniform, signed it, and handed it to the detective. Then he courteously walked Murphy
to the door and let him out to collect his Camry, which was parked on the circular graveled drive.


After Murphy had driven off, Daniel went along to the family room, where he knew he would find Alberto. He heard the sounds
of a familiar voice as he approached the door and entered into the room to the notes of Luciano Pavarotti finishing up an
aria from La Boheme.

“The Three Tenors again?” he said teasingly as he walked to one of the comfortable cushioned sofas placed at right angles
to the stone fireplace.


Alberto got up from his seat between the speakers and went to turn the CD off. “So?” he said, as he sat across from Daniel
on the matching sofa. “The news is good. I can see that in your face.”


“Here is a picture of the boy.” Daniel reached forward, the photocopy of Ben’s picture in his hand.

Alberto took it and studied it for a moment in silence. “Lockwood was right. The boy is yours. You looked just like
this when you were his age.” He looked up from the picture and smiled. “Daniel, I am so glad.”


Daniel’s return smile was radiant. “So am I.”

“After that terrible news two years ago, to find that you already had a son—it is like a miracle.”

Daniel remembered vividly his emotions when the doctor had told him that his bout with mumps had probably left him unable
to father a child. It was one of the reasons he was still single at the age of twenty-nine. How could he ask a woman to marry
him when he could not give her a child?


“Your mother and father will be ecstatic,” Alberto said.

Daniel leaned forward. “I’ve been thinking about this, and I want him to live with me, Alberto. I want shared custody. I don’t
want to be just a weekend father.”


Alberto looked grave. “I understand your feelings, Daniel, but what will his mother have to say to that?”

“She’s not his mother, she’s his aunt. I’m his father. Surely the court would give heavy consideration to my claim.”

“Daniel, think before you take this case to court.” The gravity that was always present in Alberto’s brown eyes was even more
pronounced than usual. “The welfare of the child must be your prime consideration. It will not be good for him to be the center
of a contested custody case.”


Daniel stared at the floor and didn’t reply.

“If you go in armed with lawyers, you will make an enemy of the mother. It would be far better to make her a friend, far better
for her to willingly let you be a part of the boy’s life than to throw a lawsuit at her. After all, she is a single mother.
She cannot have had a