The Baby Switch!
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Melissa Senate
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15
He took home the wrong baby…But gained a wife! Single dad Liam Mercer loves his son with all his heart. But the unthinkable has happened — his beloved baby isn't really his! And Shelby Ingalls is reeling to discover that her baby was accidentally switched with Liam's. Their solution? Marriage! And the sparks flying in this marriage of convenience sure look a lot like love.
Chapter One
Liam Mercer’s agenda for Friday, April 14:
*Negotiate 2.4 million-dollar acquisition of Kenyon Corp.
*Take six-month-old son for first haircut at Kidz Kutz, where apparently there was a baby seat in the shape of a choo-choo train, and a puppet show video to distract criers.
*Preside over four meetings, sign countless documents, approve hiring of VP in New Business Development, prepare quarterly report for board of directors.
*Repair lifetime rift between his father, the imperious Harrington Mercer, and his I’ll-do-what-I-want-it’s-my-life younger brother over the weekly family dinner tonight at the Mercer ranch.
Just another Friday. Well, except for the haircut. That was new. Liam loved firsts when it came to Alexander and noted them all in the leather-bound baby book his cousin Clara had given him, along with a seven-foot-tall stuffed giraffe, the day after Alexander was born. The first notation of the first first: at barely a half hour old, Alexander West Mercer wrapped his tiny fist around Liam’s pinky. Every worry and fear that a single, twenty-eight-year-old corporate president who’d had no idea he was even going to be a father could actually raise a helpless living creature on his own, fell away. Of course, every one of those worries returned two seconds later, but his heart had been swiped by the little guy. A love he’d never felt before had come bursting out of Liam’s chest. And that was that.
He shifted Alexander in his arm, nudged the heavy baby bag higher up on his other shoulder and pulled open the door to Mercer Industries. Despite the fleece jacket with its bear-ears hood covering his son’s dark hair, the silky wisps were getting so unruly they were peeking out. The plan was to knock off the acquisition, deal with two of the meetings, then slip away at lunchtime to Kidz Kutz and be ready with his camera.
“There’s Wyoming’s luckiest baby!”
Liam turned around in the reception area. Clara, his favorite cousin and right-hand woman, VP of Mercer Industries, bent forward to coo at Alexander. As it was just before nine o’clock, employees began streaming through the doors, smiling at Alexander as they passed through to the elevator bank.
Clara gave the baby a little tap on the nose. “Yup, luckiest. Millionaire at birth, gorgeous gray-blue eyes and the Mercer dimple and a doting extended family, including myself. Oh, and let’s not forget a daddy who refuses to hire a nanny and instead keeps him close by at the cushy company day care and visits twice a day.”
“Three times, actually,” Liam said. He couldn’t spend enough time with his son.
And at least it was Friday. Even though Liam always had work crowding his weekend, he was looking forward to his plans to take Alexander on a hike up Wedlock Creek Mountain to see the huge Cottonwoods. Alexander would watch the scenery from his perch in the backpack carrier, one of the zillion baby gifts he’d received from family and friends and coworkers in total shock that Liam Mercer, who wasn’t exactly a playboy but lived for work, had become a father.
After the hike it would be library time, where he’d sack out on the huge bean bags dotting the children’s room and read Alexander’s favorite book three times, the one with the talking pear named Joe. On Sunday they’d head to his family’s ranch, a huge spread with a small petting zoo that his father had created just for Alexander. He was a good eight months away from feeding a goat pellets from his hand, but his dad wanted the zoo in place “because clearly Alexander is advanced.” His father was way over-the-top when it came to Alexander, but Liam had to admit the grandfatherly pride was touching. Especially from Harrington Mercer.
Liam’s phone buzzed in his pocket, as it had been doing for the past half hour, par for the course for the president of Mercer Industries. But he couldn’t reach his phone with Alexander in one arm and his baby bag in the other. “Hold him for a sec, will you, Clara?”
She wrinkled her nose. “And risk baby spit-up on my dress for the big meeting with Kenyon Corp? No way.” She did a few rounds of peekaboo, covering her face and opening her hands to reveal a big smile to a rapt Alexander. “Peekaboo, I see you! And I swear I love you even if I won’t risk what happened last month at your grandmother’s birthday dinner. Oh, yeah. I know you remember, drool-boy.” She blew a kiss at Alexander, then headed through the frosted-glass double doors on her very high heels.
Liam rolled his eyes with a smile. Six months and a day ago, he’d been the same way. He’d no sooner go near a sticky baby than pet an animal who’d get white hairs on his Hugo Boss suit. But six months and a day ago, Liam hadn’t even known he was about to become a father.
Life could change just like that. And had.
And now Liam knew how wrong he and Clara were about their expensive clothes and perfect hair. Spit-up didn’t bother him at all. Changing diapers—no problem. Alexander’s new favorite solid food—Toasty Os cereal—thrown at his hair with a giggle? Good arm, kid. It was amazing how Liam had changed in six months because of one tiny baby. His baby.
And Clara was wrong about something else. Alexander wasn’t the luckiest baby in Wyoming. He didn’t have everything.
He didn’t have a mother.
After the shock had worn off, when Liam had stepped into his new role as someone’s father, when he’d sit with Alexander in the middle of the night in the rocking chair in the nursery, feeding him a bottle, holding him, rocking him, breathing in the baby-shampoo scent of him, staring at every beautiful bit of him, all Liam could really focus on was the fact that his baby’s mother had died during childbirth, that this innocent child in his arms was motherless.
Liam was doing okay as a father, maybe even better than okay. It had been some learning curve. He’d forced himself to take two weeks off from the office, hired a baby nurse to teach him the ropes, which had involved waking up every few hours, warming baby bottles, changing diapers, acquainting himself with ointments and lotions and baby bathtubs, and figuring out which cry meant hungry or diaper rash or gas or pick me up. Now, six months later, he basically knew what he was doing. But no matter that Liam was there, really there, he was no substitute for a mother.
The problem with finding a mother for his son was that Liam wasn’t looking for a wife.
“There’s our little heir,” came the voice of Harrington Mercer. The fifty-eight-year-old CEO took Alexander and held him high in the air, his own expensive suit be damned. “Good, Alexander, you’re all ready for a day of soaking up the corporate culture. You’ll intern here through college, then get your MBA, and you’ll be in line to take over Mercer Industries, just like your father and your grandfather did from great-granddad Wilton Mercer.”
Liam mentally shook his head. “Dad, he’s six months old. Let’s get him sleeping through the night before he starts as a junior analyst at MI.”
His father waved his hand in the air. “Never too soon to immerse the heir in the learning process. Anyone knows that, it’s you, Liam. Heck, you grew up in this building.” His dad smiled and kissed Alexander on the cheek. “Oh, I have a little present for you, Alexander.” He set his briefcase on the reception desk and opened it, and pulled out a tiny brown Stetson. “There. We may be businessmen, but we’re Wyoming men and cowboys at heart.”
Harrington Mercer took off Alexander’s hood and settled the little hat, lined with fleece, on his head, nodded approvingly, then handed him back to Liam and headed through the double doors.
“One minute I don’t understand your grandfather at all,” he whispered to Alexander. “And the next, I want to hug him. People are complicated. Life lesson one thousand five.”
Alexander smiled and reached out to squeeze Liam’s chin.
“You know what’s not complicated?” Liam whispered as he shifted his son to push open the door. “How much I love you.”
Liam took the elevator to the fourth floor, which held the company’s health club, cafeteria and the day care, using his key card to open the door to the day care center. The main room, separated from the door with a white picket fence-gate decorated with grass and trees and flowers, was for the toddlers and preschool-age kids. Liam waved at one of the teachers, then headed into the nursery for babies under fourteen months. The room, with its pale blue walls bordered with smiling cartoon animals, was cozy with its decor and baby gear, the play mats and bouncers and bassinets with little spinning mobiles playing lullabies. Two babies were already there, having tummy time on the thickly padded mats. There were seven babies currently, ranging in age from three to twelve months.
“Morning, Liam,” the nursery director said with a smile. “And good morning, Alexander. I like your hat.”
Liam signed in his son and handed him over, always feeling like he was handing over a piece of his heart. Another employee came in with her four-month-old and stood for a while by the window, nuzzling her little daughter’s cheek before finally giving her to the director with a wistful smile.
I know how you feel, he thought, staring at his baby son. It’s so hard to say goodbye, even for a few hours.
The day care center had been started almost sixty years ago by his grandmother, Alexandra Mercer, for whom Alexander was named. Back then, when the brilliant businesswoman, then president of Mercer Industries, became a mother, she’d insisted that her husband, Wilton, the CEO, agree to open a day care center on site for all employees. She’d hired the best nannies in Wedlock Creek to staff the new corporate day care and told off anyone who dared say that she should be at home, raising her child herself. Back then, not many employees partook in the service offered. But now, with women comprising over half the employees at MI, the day care center was almost always filled to capacity. Knowing their babies and toddlers and preschoolers were well taken care of just an elevator ride away made for happier, more productive employees. Liam could attest to that firsthand.
He kneeled down on Alexander’s play mat and pulled out his phone to take a photo of Alexander in his cowboy hat, noticing an unfamiliar number on the screen. The same number had called three times in the past half hour. As he snapped the photo of Alexander, the phone buzzed again.
“Can I throw this thing out the window?” Liam asked the director.
She laughed. “You go ahead—answer it, I mean. We’ll take good care of Alexander.”
Liam smiled and nodded. “See you in a few hours for lunch and a haircut, cowboy,” he said to Alexander, then finally answered the call on his way out the door.
“Liam Mercer,” he said.
“Oh, thank goodness we finally reached you,” a female voice said. “Mr. Mercer, my name is Anne Parcells. I’m the administrator of the Wedlock Creek Clinic. We need you to come to the clinic right away and to bring the minor child, Alexander West Mercer, and your attorney.”
He froze. The minor child? His attorney? What the hell was this?
Liam frowned. “What’s this about?”
“We’ll discuss everything at the meeting,” Parcells said. “If you can get here by 9:15, that would be appreciated. The others will be here by then, as well.”
“The others?”
She didn’t respond to that. “Can we expect you by 9:15, Mr. Mercer? Please come to my office, two doors from the main entrance.”
Liam glanced at his watch. It was 8:55. “I’ll be there.”
There for what, though? Alexander was born in the Wedlock Creek Clinic. If the administrator was referring to his son as “the minor child” and talking attorneys, there was probably some kind of liability issue regarding the night he was born. A class action lawsuit, maybe. Liam closed his eyes for a second as memories of the snowstorm came back, memories he’d tried to block. Alexander’s mother phoning him, a desperation in Liza Harwood’s voice he’d never heard before, not that he’d known her very long.
Liam, there’s no time for explanations. I’m nine months pregnant with your baby and in labor. I should have told you before but I’m telling you now. I’m on my way to the clinic. The snowstorm is so bad. If anything happens to me, I left you a letter...
Nine months pregnant with his baby. And something had happened to Liza.
Most of Wedlock Creek had lost power that night, and the clinic’s backup generator had blinked out twice. There had been so many accidents in town—from tree limbs falling on houses to car wrecks and pickups in ditches. Liza had made it to the clinic in one piece but had not survived childbirth. A tragedy that had had nothing to do with the storm or the clinic.
Liam closed his eyes again, then shook his head to clear it. He had to call his lawyer, reorganize his morning and get to the clinic.
He headed back inside the nursery for Alexander. At least he’d have some unexpected extra time with his son this morning, after all.
* * *
Shelby Ingalls sat in an uncomfortable folding chair in the Wedlock Creek Clinic’s administrator’s office, holding her baby son against her chest in the sling he was fast asleep in. She glanced at the doorway, hoping the woman would come back and get this meeting—whatever it was about—underway. Opening time at Treasures, her secondhand shop, was ten o’clock, and Shelby wanted to display the gorgeous antique frames she’d found at an estate sale the other day and the cute new mugs with napping beagles on them. She knew several of her regular customers would love those.
She’d been about to head down to the shop when Anne Parcells had called, asking Shelby to come in and “bring the minor child” and her attorney. The phrasing and the word attorney had freaked her out, but the administrator had refused to say anything else. Shelby had been so panicked that it had something to do with Shane’s blood test, that he was terribly ill after all. A week ago she’d brought him into the clinic for a stomach virus and had been waiting for the results, which she’d been sure would reveal nothing since the virus had cleared up and Shane was back to his regular happy little self. But despite the director assuring her that Shane was perfectly healthy, Anne Parcells again requested that she come immediately to the clinic—and to bring an attorney.
First of all, Shelby didn’t have an attorney, and despite the size of her extended family, there wasn’t a lawyer in the bunch. Nor did she want this weird request from the director to become family fodder until she herself knew what it was all about. Her sister, her mother, her aunt Cheyenne and a bunch of cousins would be crowded in the back of this room if she’d let anyone know. So she’d called her sister, Norah, who despite being a chatterbox who knew everyone and all the town gossip, could keep a secret like no one else. Turned out, Norah was newly dating a lawyer, an ambulance-chasing type, and so much of a shark that she was thinking of breaking up with him because of it. A few minutes later Norah had called back and assured Shelby that David Dirk, attorney at law, would meet Shelby at the clinic by 9:10—and that the meeting was probably about some lawsuit from the night Shane was born because of the storm and the generator failing twice. In any case, Norah had promised to keep mum about the meeting and texted:
I get to know what it’s about, though, right? Call me the minute you’re out of there!
Shane stirred against her chest, and she glanced down at her dear little son, caressing his fine brown wisps. A moment later, an attractive guy in his early thirties appeared in the doorway. He had a baby face and tousled hair, but he wore a sharp suit and had intelligent eyes behind black-framed glasses. Not Norah’s typical brawny rancher type.
“David Dirk,” he said, extending a hand and sitting down beside her. “When the administrator arrives and says her spiel, don’t comment, don’t agree to anything, don’t answer anything with yes or no. In fact, let me speak for you.”
“I always speak for myself,” Shelby said. “But I’ll listen to your advice and we’ll go from there.”
Before he could respond, two other men appeared in the doorway, and at the sight of the one holding a baby wearing a brown cowboy hat, Shelby almost gasped.
She knew him. Well, she’d seen him before. And she’d never forget his face. Not just because he was incredibly good-looking—six feet one or two and leanly muscular with thick, dark hair and gorgeous blue eyes, a dimple curving into the left side of his mouth. It was that she’d never forget the combination of fear and worry that had been etched into his features, in those eyes. The night she’d given birth, he’d been sitting in the crowded waiting room of this clinic, his head in hands, when the ambulance EMTs had rushed her inside on a gurney. He’d looked up and they’d locked eyes, and despite the fact that she was already in labor and breathing and moaning like a madwoman, the complex combination of emotions on the man’s face had so arrested her that for one single moment, she’d been aware of nothing else but him. Given the pain she was in, the contractions coming just a minute and a half apart, that was saying something. A second later she’d let out a wail that had even her covering her ears, and the EMT had hurried into a delivery room.
She’d wondered about the man in the waiting room ever since, if whomever he’d been waiting on had been okay. There had been one hell of a storm that night, so much blinding snow that a ten-minute ride to the clinic from her apartment above her shop had taken almost an hour.
Because she was now staring at the man with the baby cowboy, he glanced at her, and she could see he was trying to place her.
“Good morning,” a woman said, her voice serious as she appeared behind the two men in the doorway. “I’m Anne Parcells, administrator of the Wedlock Creek Clinic. All parties are here so let’s begin. Please,” she said, gesturing for the men to enter and to sit in the two chairs positioned to the left of her desk. Shelby and her attorney were seated to the right. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Ingalls and Mr. Mercer.” Introductions were made between attorneys and parties, the door was closed and everyone was now seated.
Please get to the lawsuit or whatever this is about so that I can get back to the store, Shelby thought. Three of her favorite regular customers, the elderly Minnow sisters, came in every Friday morning at the shop’s opening time of ten o’clock to see what she might have added to the shop for the weekend rush. She hated to keep them and any new customers waiting. Wedlock Creek was a small town, but had its own rodeo on the outskirts and a bustling downtown because of it, so folks came from all over the county to enjoy a bit of the Wild West, then walk the mile-long Main Street with its shops and restaurants and movie theater with the reclining seats. Business was semi-booming.
The administrator cleared her throat, her expression almost grim. Shelby felt for the woman. The Wedlock Creek Clinic, a nonprofit that included an urgent care center, was a godsend for so many in the county, since the county hospital was forty-five minutes away. A lawsuit had the potential to close the clinic.
“I’m going to just say this outright,” Anne said, looking up from some paperwork. “A week ago, Ms. Ingalls—” she gestured to Shelby “—brought her six-month-old son, Shane, to the clinic with a stomach virus. A standard blood test was run. This morning our lab returned the results, noting a discrepancy with Ms. Ingalls’s blood type and Shane Ingalls’s blood type.”
A discrepancy? Huh? Shelby leaned forward a bit, staring at the woman, who glanced at her for a moment, the expression in her eyes so compassionate that the hairs rose on the back of Shelby’s neck.
Anne Parcells looked down at the papers in her hands, then back up. “Based on the results, it would be impossible for Ms. Ingalls to be Shane’s biological mother.”
What the ever-loving hell? Shelby bolted up, her arms around Shane in the sling. “That’s impossible! Of course he’s my son! I gave birth to him!”
The administrator’s expression turned grim again. “The test was run three times. I’m afraid that Shane Ingalls cannot be your biological son, Ms. Ingalls.”
Shelby’s legs shook and she dropped down on her chair, her head spinning. She tried to make sense of the words. Not your son. Discrepancy. Impossible.
This had to be a mistake—that was the only explanation. Of course Shane was her son!
Dimly, she could hear her sister-appointed lawyer requesting to see the paperwork, the ruffling of sheaves of paper as Anne handed over the stack and David Dirk studied them, flipping through the various documents.
“Jesus,” David mutter-whispered.
Shelby closed her eyes, trying to keep hold of herself despite the feeling coming over her that sh∆e was going to black out. She felt herself wobble a bit and grabbed David’s chair to steady herself.
He put a bracing arm around her. “We’ll have your and Shane’s blood drawn again and retested in a different lab,” he said.
She sucked in a breath and nodded. Yes. Redone. A different lab. It was a mistake. Just a mistake. The results would prove she was Shane’s mother. She was!
“Excuse me,” Liam Mercer’s lawyer said, darting a compassionate glance at Shelby. “But what does this have to do with my client?”
The administrator took a deep breath. “Based on the results and a discussion with a night-shift nurse who retired three months ago, we believe your babies—Shane Ingalls and Alexander Mercer—born within minutes of each other in the early-morning hours of November 5, were accidentally switched at birth.”
