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“Nobody?” Ty questioned that.
“Nobody,” the investigator repeated, then recalled with a tired smile. “According to half the people who worked there, only two memorable things happened in August—a cocktail waitress got mugged in the parking lot after her shift ended, and a treasury agent spent two nights next door at the Stockyards Hotel.” He paused and looked across the desk at Chase. “I’m sorry, but there was too little to go on and the trail was too cold by the time we got on it. If you have any new information, I’ll be glad to see where it might lead.”
“No, we have nothing new at all.” None of Chase’s inner frustration showed on his strong-lined face. Like Ty’s, it was masked. “You have been very thorough, Mr. Talbot.”
“I’m paid to be.” The investigator recognized the note of dismissal and returned his copy of the report to the briefcase at his feet. “I’m only sorry the results weren’t what you had hoped.”
“We knew it was a long shot going in.” He gestured to Ty. “My son will drive you back to your plane.”
After they left, Chase gathered up the report and carried it to the fireplace. Page by page, he fed it to the flames, letting each one burn to white-hot char before adding the next. When Ty returned, Chase was stirring the blackened and brittle sheets with a poker, crumbling them into bits of ash.
Ty dropped his hat on a chair seat and glanced at the pile of black ash atop the glowing logs. “You burned Talbot’s report.” It was what he would have done. Only a fool waves his hat at a wild bull.
“I didn’t want Cat to accidentally come across it.”
“What now?” Ty leaned against the side of the desk, hooking a leg over the corner of it.
“Now”—Chase returned the poker to its stand—“we have to accept the fact that we may never know the identity of her baby’s father.”
“As usual, Cat has gotten her way in this,” Ty muttered, an irritation sifting through his nerves.
“She’s going to have a rough time of it, Ty. There isn’t much we can do about that,” Chase stated. “But when the baby comes, others will follow our lead. The child will be a Calder. A Calder born and bred, and I want him—or her—accorded the respect of one.”
Love was a word that didn’t come easily to Chase Calder’s lips. Ty had learned that about his father and understood that he was expecting him to treat the child with more affection and pride than might be customary under ordinary circumstances.
“The baby will give me a chance to hone my fathering skills for the time when Jessy and I have our own family.” A smile gentled his rawboned features.
“You’ll be a good father-figure to him. A child needs one,” Chase added, his glance straying to the fire and the ashen remains of the investigator’s report.
Every single parking place within a block of the Blue Moon Clinic was already taken by the time Cat arrived. She wasn’t surprised. Dr. Daniel Brown came to the clinic only once a week, and his day was always crammed with patients to be seen. Cat parked across the street from the sheriff’s office and walked the block and a half to the one-story building that housed the clinic.
The December-brisk air had rosed her cheeks, giving her a healthy glow as she entered the small anteroom that doubled as a reception area and waiting room. Chairs lined three walls, nearly every one of them occupied. Heads lifted automatically to glance at the new arrival, then froze to regard her with narrow-eyed speculation.
Ignoring the not-so-subtle elbow nudging that went on, Cat turned to the wall-mounted coat rack, pulled off her gloves and the red knit cap on her head and stuffed them all in the pockets of her black wool coat, then unwrapped the red muffler from around her neck, shaking her hair loose, and shrugged out of her coat. Shoving the scarf in a sleeve, she hung the coat on a vacant hook and crossed to the reception counter, tensely conscious of the many eyes inspecting the bulky cable knit sweater she wore in hopes of determining how much was sweater and how much was baby.
The strong scent of cinnamon wafted from the crystal bowl of dried flower petals and seeds on the counter, but no amount of potpourri could mask completely the clinic’s antiseptic odors. “Good morning, Sa
ra,” Cat greeted the nurse on the other side of the counter, Sara Battles, a gray-haired widow with a sharp nose and a life-soured mouth.
The woman raked her with a disapproving glance and shoved a clipboard toward her. “Sign in,” she said and proceeded to flip through a pile of folders.
Cat picked up the pen and added her name to the list, noticing five signatures ahead of hers that hadn’t been crossed off yet. “How long do you think it will be?”
“We’ll get to you when we get to you, Miss Calder, and not before.” The woman was by nature a rude and snippish sort. Today she seemed to take an inordinate pleasure in informing Cat of that fact.
More sensitive than usual to such remarks, Cat took instant offense. “I don’t recall asking you to take me ahead of anyone else, Mrs. Battles,” she replied.
“It wouldn’t do you any good if you did.” Sara Battles snatched a folder from the pile and bustled off toward the examination rooms.
Cat turned, catching a few smugly amused looks before they were smoothed away. Two people nodded to her, but the rest ignored her. With her temper still simmering just below the surface, she walked over to the low table in the middle of the room. A spindly, artificial Christmas tree stood atop, strung with bubble lights, beaded garland, tinsel and a scattering of red and gold plastic balls. Ragged and well-thumbed magazines were strewn around the base of it like the discarded wrappings of presents on Christmas morning. Cat picked up one of the magazines less tattered than the others and sought out a chair along the wall, smiling a stiff acknowledgment to her seatmate, then doggedly leafed through the year-old periodical.
During the interminable wait for her name to be called, the silence in the waiting room was loud; any conversing that took place was done in whispers.
The connecting door between the waiting area and the series of examination rooms swung open. The gray-haired nurse stepped out to announce in a sharply ringing voice, “We are ready for you now, Miss Calder.”
Leaving the magazine on the chair, Cat crossed to the door. Before it swung shut behind her, she heard the rush of murmurs that marked her departure. With her usual impersonal coolness, Sara directed Cat to one of the rooms and instructed her to change into one of the gowns.
Almost an hour later Cat lay on the table, her head turned to watch the fluctuating pattern of wavy lines on the ultrasound’s monitor while Dr. Daniel Brown—Dr. Dan, as he was affectionately known by all his patients—slowly moved the hand-held apparatus over her abdomen. Sara Battles stood off to the side, remaining in the room as ethical practice dictated.
