The Return of Connor Mansfield

Connor gripped her hand almost to the point of pain, and she glanced up sharply.

The intensity of the gold stare she met sent a tremor through her.

“So marry me now. I want you and Savannah both to have my name.”

Darby’s heart lurched. “What?”

“It’s what we’d planned before I went into WitSec. We can get a justice of the peace or the hospital chaplain to come—”

“Connor, stop.” She wrenched her hand from his and shook it to get the blood circulating again. “Think about what you’re saying!”

“I don’t need to think about it. It feels right. It is right.” Determination and conviction set his jaw and shone in his gaze.

Her pulse raced so hard her head spun. At one time, marrying Connor and growing old with him had been her heart’s desire, a dream within her reach. Now he was offering her another chance at the dream that had been snatched from her. She should be grabbing on with both hands. But she couldn’t.

How could she marry a man she knew planned to leave her in a few days?

The Return of Connor Mansfield

Beth Cornelison

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BETH CORNELISON started writing stories as a child when she penned a tale about the adventures of her cat, Ajax. A Georgia native, she received her bachelor’s degree in public relations from the University of Georgia. After working in public relations for a little more than a year, she moved with her husband to Louisiana, where she decided to pursue her love of writing fiction.

Since that first time, Beth has written many more stories of adventure and romantic suspense and has won numerous honors for her work, including a coveted Golden Heart Award in romantic suspense from Romance Writers of America. She is active on the board of directors for the North Louisiana Storytellers and Authors of Romance (NOLA STARS) and loves reading, traveling, Peanuts’ Snoopy and spending downtime with her family.

She writes from her home in Louisiana, where she lives with her husband, one son and two cats who think they are people. Beth loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at PO Box 5418, Bossier City, LA 71171, USA, or visit her website, www.bethcornelison.com.

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For my dad. Thanks for all you’ve done for your family through the years!

Thanks to Emma Welch for sharing her cat, Toby. I was happy to celebrate the love and loyalty of her furry friend as Darby’s faithful feline companion.

Thank you to Allison Reed for her winning bid in Brenda Novak’s Auction for the Cure of Diabetes 2012 to be featured as a character in this book.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Excerpt

Prologue

Through the thick fog of a Louisiana autumn morning, Victor Gale watched his prey from an abandoned hunter’s blind. Raising his rifle, he peered through the scope and drew a bead on his target’s head. Hatred gnawed his gut like acid, and his muscles hummed with tension and anticipation. Other men had used this camouflaged blind to hunt deer. Victor hunted a man. A traitor. A liability to his family, his livelihood, his freedom.

Last year, Connor Mansfield had found evidence of Gale Industries’ side business, had stolen company records to show the FBI and had testified for the prosecution at William Gale’s trial. Mansfield’s betrayal had cost Victor’s father everything. For that, Mansfield had to pay. He had to be silenced. He had to die.

Their father had taken the fall for the family to protect Victor and his brother, James, so retribution against Connor Mansfield fell to his sons. Victor relished the duty.

As quietly as the mist curled through the woods, Victor tracked Mansfield’s progress from his truck to the small cabin, a hunting camp deep in the pine forest of central Louisiana, waiting for a clear shot through the trees. He had to take Mansfield out before he went inside.

Before he lost his chance.

Mansfield hesitated at the cabin door as if reluctant to go inside, but a fat cypress obscured Victor’s line of sight. Damn it!

When Mansfield finally slipped inside and out of view, Victor growled his frustration and spit on the ground. He might not get another shot for hours, not until Mansfield left the camp. Unless...

Victor considered approaching the ramshackle cabin, peeking in the window and shooting Mansfield from closer range. But he risked being seen or heard, tipping Mansfield off, leaving evidence near the scene that could trace the kill back to him.

No. Better to have patience. Wait him out. Catch Mansfield when—

A deafening blast rocked the woods as the cabin erupted in a massive fireball.

The concussion of the explosion knocked Victor off his feet. Rang painfully in his ears. Thundered in his chest.

Debris rained down around him, piercing the thin walls of the hunter’s blind and stinging his skin when it hit. When all fell quiet again and his shock eased, he scrambled to his knees to peer out the blind’s slit of a window.

The cabin Mansfield had just entered was in ruin, the remnants ablaze. Stunned by the turn of events, Victor stared, his head buzzing from adrenaline and the damage of the loud blast.

Finally he pulled out his cell phone and punched in his brother’s number.

“Is it done?” James asked without preamble.

“Yeah, but...I didn’t do it.”

“What are you saying?”

“The freakin’ cabin exploded. Maybe a gas line leak that went up when he hit the light switch?” Victor shook his head, still gawking at the carnage. “No way he survived that blast.”

Silence answered him.

“Did ya hear me, man?”

James’s sigh rattled through the phone. “Yeah. I guess fate took its own revenge.”

Victor grunted, a tickle of suspicion pricking his neck. “Maybe, but...I don’t like it. I smell a setup.”

“What kind of setup?”

“Don’t know, but...I think I’ll stay and watch the place. See who shows up—whether they recover a body—how this gets handled.” Victor pinched the bridge of his nose, dreading the long hours of sitting cramped in the hunter’s blind, getting eaten by mosquitoes. But he had to be sure.

“Fine,” his older brother said. “I want a full report of everyone and everything that happens out there the rest of the day.”

Resigned to the task and more mosquito bites, Victor stayed and watched as the cops and fire department arrived and put out the flames. Grim-faced men in FBI jackets came next. A coroner’s hearse hauled away a body bag. And an attractive redhead drove up, broke down in hysterical tears and was stopped from approaching the smoldering remains of the cabin by two FBI agents.

When the scene was deserted several hours later, Victor rolled his aching shoulders and dialed James again to report in. “Did Mansfield have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah,” James said. “A redhead. Name’s Darby something. Kent, I think. Yeah, Darby Kent.”

“She showed up. Seemed pretty torn up about his death.”

James grunted, then fell silent again for several nerve-racking seconds.

Victor braced himself. He knew what was coming next.

“Find Darby. Follow her. See if she meets up with him. If the explosion was part of a setup, she’s the key to bringing him outta hiding.”

“You want me to take her out?”

“Naw. She’s nothing to us. But if she meant anything to him, and he’s still alive—”

Victor glanced at the burned-out husk of the cabin. His brother had a point. Family had always been Mansfield’s weakness. But Victor disagreed with James on one point. If Mansfield was still alive, pulling a hoax, Victor wasn’t as squeamish as his brother about collateral damage. If Darby Kent led him to Mansfield, he’d kill them both.

Chapter 1

Four and a half years later—Dallas

Sam Orlean looked up from his laptop when he heard a knock on his office door.

His boss at Tri-State Insurance strode in and slapped several files on his desk. “These just came in. They’re Roy’s accounts, but he’s on vacation. All three have reached over a hundred thousand in claims in the past month and need a policy review, follow-up calls.”

Sam glanced at the sticky note on the top file that Roy had left.

Male, 87, two weeks in intensive care—complications from flu

Female, 3, cancer

Sam’s gut wrenched. The cases that involved children were always the toughest to handle. The third notation read:

Woman, 37, staph infection post-hysterectomy— extended hospital stay

Sam’s job didn’t usually include medical claim reviews. He was in the auto claims department, but the company was small enough that covering for a different department wasn’t unusual.

“What exactly am I looking for in the review?” he asked.

“Just look at the paperwork, check for duplicate charges, tests run without supporting documentation from the doctor. Just make sure everything we’ve been billed for is on the up-and-up.” His boss gave a little wave as he left. “Have fun.”

Sam leaned forward to drag the files closer, gritting his teeth in frustration. Days like today, he really hated the job the U.S. Marshals arranged for him. In his old life, when he’d been an accountant, he’d dealt with numbers. Numbers made sense. But insurance meant factoring in people—little girls with cancer and old men dying from complications from the flu. Even auto claims often mean human suffering. Spouses killed by drunk drivers, reckless teens who learned hard lessons and would never walk again.

Given any other feasible option, Sam would leave this job. He’d complained to Marshals Jones and Raleigh before, requesting a new position doing something else, and was given the bureaucratic runaround. His new identity couldn’t bear any resemblance to his old one. New name, new hobbies, new hometown. New career.

As they had when he entered the program, his handlers had fed him the line that went, “no Witness Security Program participant, who has followed security guidelines, has been harmed while under the active protection of the U.S. Marshals.” Translation: if you want to live, stop complaining and do what you’re told.

Acid gnawed Sam’s gut as he shuffled the files and opened the one on the case that would be toughest. Three-year-old girl with leukemia. Chemotherapy started. Doctors placed child on bone marrow transplant list. No match found on maternal side of family. Father deceased. No siblings. One paternal uncle was a partial match, but her doctors were still hoping for a closer match from the donor registry.

Sam sighed. He’d heard how rare it was to find a bone marrow donor with enough matching genetic markers outside of a patient’s immediate family. The poor kid and her mother were facing an uphill battle. A heartbreaking fight against an ugly disease.

His chest tightening with sympathy, he flipped the page and found the policy history.

Date policy purchased: January 18 of last year.

Clicking his tongue in his mouth, hoping he could find enough supporting information to approve the claims without bothering the mother for further paperwork, he flipped back to the first page, looked for the date the first claim was filed. March 2 of this year. A little more than two months ago. He turned back to the summary page Roy had left to see the total paid out so far and gave a low whistle. Cancer treatment wasn’t cheap.

As he flipped back to the front of the file, his gaze snagged on the name at the top of the form. The name of the mother, the policy owner: Darby L. Kent.

Sam’s heart rose to his throat. What were the odds that there were two Darby Kents? Slim.

He checked the woman’s address: 1209 Cypress Court, Lagniappe, Louisiana.

Icy dismay washed through him, chilling him to the bone. It was his Darby. The woman he loved. The woman he’d had to give up when he entered the Witness Security Program more than four years ago. If he closed his eyes, he could picture her as she’d looked the last time he’d seen her, an autumn breeze lifting her copper hair from her oval face. One errant wavy lock had blown across her green eyes, and she’d laughed as she brushed the strands behind her ear and blown him a kiss from her front porch steps.

He rocked back in his chair, slamming a hand through his hair. Through the haze of shock, his brain began clicking other facts into place.

Darby had a baby. A sick little girl. Three years old. Almost four.

He checked the child’s birth date and dragged a hand over his mouth as he did the math. The little girl would have been born...eight months after he left. Eight months after the U.S. Marshals faked his death, and he’d become Sam Orlean. Eight months...

The file read Father deceased. But he wasn’t dead.

A shudder rippled through him. The drone of blood whooshing through his veins buzzed in his ears.

It was a near certainty...

He was the baby’s father.

* * *

The hardest part about being a mother was seeing your child suffer and being absolutely powerless to ease her pain.

Her heart giving a tender throb, Darby leaned forward to stroke her daughter’s tiny brow, knit in discomfort even as she slept. If Darby could have been the one getting stuck with needles and dealing with the nausea from the chemo treatments, she would have switched places with Savannah in a second. But all she could do was watch her baby soldier through the treatments and procedures she was too young to understand.

Please, God, don’t take my baby, she begged silently for the millionth time. She’d lost Savannah’s father four and a half years ago, before she’d even realized she was pregnant, and thought she wouldn’t survive the pain. When she’d learned she was having Connor’s baby, she’d pulled herself together and rebuilt her life, focused on raising the miracle that was Savannah. An unexpected posthumous gift from Connor.

Connor. Another sharp pang twisted in her chest, and she forcefully shoved down the suffocating ache. She had to be strong for her daughter.

In her purse, her cell phone trilled. Darby set aside the sketch pad on her lap—drawing had always been her best stress reliever—and swiped tears from her cheek as she shuffled through her bag. The caller ID showed the insurance company with which she’d bought health coverage, and Darby tapped the answer key.

“Hello,” she whispered, hoping not to wake Savannah. She rose from her chair beside the hospital bed that swallowed her daughter and crept quietly to the hall to take the call.

After a brief silence, a man asked, “Ms. Kent?”

“Speaking.”

“This is...uh, Sam Orlean with Tri-State Insurance.” His voice had a funny nasal pitch to it as though he had a bad cold or something.

“Yes, Mr. Orlean, what can I do for you?”

“I’m...calling about your recent claims.”

She didn’t like the hesitation in his voice. A knot tightened her gut. “Is there a problem?”

“It’s standard procedure to do a policy review when claims reach a certain level. The company needs to verify the claims so that your daughter’s treatments can be covered.”

A nervous sweat rose on Darby’s top lip. “What kind of concerns do you have?”

She tried to keep the note of panic out of her voice, but even the suggestion that the insurance company would deny her claim made her lunch churn and threaten to come up. If her claim for Savannah’s treatments was turned down, the expense of chemotherapy, the hospital stay, the CT scans, blood tests, doctors’ appointments... She’d go bankrupt paying for it all. She couldn’t possibly afford—

“Can you tell me when Savannah—” his voice cracked, and he paused to clear his throat “—first showed signs of illness?”

Darby frowned, wondering what had the man so anxious, but also wary of his questions. She poked her head back into Savannah’s room to check on her. Still sleeping, if fitfully. “She had been acting droopy, tired and cranky for a few weeks back in February. I assumed she was catching a cold or maybe had an ear infection. You should have a receipt for the trip to her pediatrician in her file for around the sixth.”

“Yes, I see it.” He had her recount other trips to the doctor, tests that were run and details of the treatment regimen that was started once Savannah’s leukemia was confirmed. “And how far into the chemo treatments are you?”

“She’ll be finished with her first round by the end of the week.” Darby drew a deep breath and switched the phone from one hand to the other. “What is it exactly that you want to know, Mr. Orlean? What is it the company is taking issue with?”

He sighed heavily, and something about the world-weary sound tickled a memory, triggered a gut-level response. She knew it was ridiculous, that she’d never met the insurance man who worked in the company’s Dallas office, but she knew that sigh...somehow.

“We’re simply verifying the charges filed with us, cross-checking with standard treatment expenses, double-checking that your policy covers—”

“You’re looking for fraud.” Even the hint that the company might try to deny her claims or cancel her insurance, take away her ability to pay for Savannah’s treatments, made her knees buckle, and she slid to the cold tile floor.

“Well, we do have to be alert to the possibility of fraud, yes, but—”

A buzzing rang in her ears, and she leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, fighting to keep her breathing measured and even.

Stay calm. Stay strong. I have nothing to hide, nothing to worry about...

“But as I said, this is simply a policy review—”

Darby groaned and dropped her head to her hands.

“Ms. Kent, are you all right?” One of the nurse’s assistants squatted beside her in the corridor, laying a cool hand on her arm.

Darby shook her head, searched for her voice. “No,” she rasped, wanting to deny everything about her current circumstances. “No, no, no.”

No, her daughter couldn’t be sick, couldn’t be dying. No, she didn’t have the will, the strength left to fight an insurance company for the medical coverage they’d promised. No, she wasn’t all right. She hadn’t been truly right in almost five years, since Connor died.

Tears prickled her sinuses and dripped on her cheeks. She waved the nurse’s assistant off with a tremulous smile, then wiped her face with a thumb. “I swear to you, Mr. Orlean. If something about the claims filed by the doctors or hospital is off, I’ll do my best to get things straightened out.” She heard the rustling of papers on the other end of the phone line. “To be honest, I haven’t paid close attention to what’s been filed and where claims stood. I’ve had my hands full just taking care of my daughter. Thank God I work for family, so I can get the time off—”

“You changed jobs?” he interrupted, his tone not quite so nasal this time.

“Uh...yes. Last January. Just before I bought the policy. But I am employed, if that is part of your concern. I won’t miss any premium payments.”

“I—um, no. That’s not... You’re working for Mansfield Construction? But your art...um, your file says you are an artist.”

She wrinkled her brow. If the company wasn’t concerned about her ability to pay her premiums, then what business was it of his where she was working?

“Yes, I do the billing and clerical duties for Mansfield Construction. They’re a small company a friend owns.” While she’d much rather be doing something with her art for a living, working for Mansfield Construction gave her a steady income, health insurance and, because the owners were her daughter’s grandparents, understanding and job security when she needed time off to take care of Savannah—a benefit that had been particularly welcome since Savannah’s diagnosis a couple months ago.

Mr. Orlean sighed again, and another hint of the familiar whispered down her neck. She shoved to her feet, feeling a bit stronger now, past the initial shock and dread of impending doom. She peeked in the room to check on Savannah, then pulled the door closed and resumed her position in the hospital’s corridor. “If that’s all, sir, I need to get back to my child—”

“Wait! I...” He cleared his throat again. “I still need to verify some things to satisfy the company’s questions about your policy.”

She straightened her spine, suddenly exhausted by the man’s endless questions. “Look, Mr. Orlean, I’ve paid my premiums on time, and if your company has questions about charges filed by the hospital, you should talk to the billing department. Not me. And if you try to deny my claims based on a clerical error or technical glitch and put my daughter’s health in jeopardy, so help me, I’ll sue your company ten ways to Sunday!” All her pent-up frustrations with Savannah’s illness, her helplessness to ease her daughter’s pain, her sense of being alone in the most important battle of her life boiled over. “If you think I’m going to lie down and let you walk all over me, you’ve got another think coming!”

A chuckle filtered through the line.

Darby saw red. “This isn’t funny! Do you think I’m kidding?”

“I know. I’m sorry, Darby. I...”

She stiffened hearing him use her first name, as if they were best friends. Hearing the way his Southern accent softened the hard ar in her name to Dahr-by. The way Connor used to say her name.

Pain clutched at her chest as Connor’s face flickered in her memory.

In the pause of the conversation, Mr. Orlean had apparently sobered. His tone was darkly serious when he asked, “What is Savannah’s prognosis? What are the doctors telling you about her treatment options, about her...chances—”

Darby felt the blood drain from her face. The best way she had of dealing with Savannah’s illness, the only way she had of not going stark raving mad with worry and grief and fear for her daughter, was to take things one day at a time. She couldn’t think about the long term, the odds of Savannah surviving her cancer, or she’d become so burdened with despair that she couldn’t be the mom Savannah needed now.

“I’m not sure why that matters to you at this point. Whatever the doctors feel is necessary and best for Savannah should be covered, regardless of how long it takes or whether she—” Her voice broke, and she paused for a reinforcing breath. “Or whether she responds to the treatments.”

“Of course. If Tri-State clears your policy after our review, we will cover—”

“If?” Darby shrieked then, clenching her teeth, she growled, “Listen here, buster. Don’t you screw around with me! I need that coverage to save my daughter’s life!” Just saying the words brought a rush of unwanted emotion, and moisture filled her eyes again. “Don’t take away my only means to give my baby the medical care she needs!” So much for the tough-cookie act. She was begging now, tears in her voice and the words. Pitiful.

Her shoulders slumped as she gave in to the tears, surrendering to the roller-coaster emotions that had her head spinning these past several weeks. She was a mess, and she had to pull herself together in order to be the rock, the comfort, the mother Savannah needed.

“Please, Ms. Kent, don’t cry. I’m so sorry this is happening to you.” The man’s nasally voice softened with compassion. She almost believed his sympathy was real. “This is all standard company procedure. I promise. Please know that I will do everything I can to see that all of your claims are processed in a timely manner. I want your daughter to recover. Truly I do.”

Darby couldn’t answer. Her throat was too clogged with emotion to breathe, much less speak.

“I’m sorry for upsetting you. I know you’re dealing with a lot.” He sighed again. “Alone.”

She frowned. How did he know she was alone?

“I wish...” he continued in a low voice, the nasal twang gone again. “I wish I could do...something to help. I—”

Darby stilled. Her heartbeat slowed. Without the nasal affectation, his voice sounded so familiar. She shook her head. It was just her turbulent emotions playing with her mind. Wishing. Longing...

“Actually, there is something you can do,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“Get yourself on the National Bone Marrow registry if you aren’t there already. The doctors say my baby’s best chance to beat this disease is a bone marrow transplant, but we need a donor. Her uncle was close, but not close enough.” Darby sighed. “It’s a long shot you’d be a match, but maybe you’ll be able to save some other mother’s baby.”

Silence answered her request.

“Mr. Orlean? Are you there?”

“Yes...I’m—I’ll do that. I’ll get on the registry this afternoon. I swear.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“I...have the doctors said...would her father have been a suitable match?”

A chill tripped down Darby’s spine, along with regret and fresh waves of grief. “Kind of a moot point since he died before she was born. That information should be in her file.”

“Yeah, I guess... I—”

Darby shifted her weight, uncomfortable with the personal nature of Mr. Orlean’s questions and tone. “Why do you ask?”

“I just...well, I thought, maybe...” He fumbled awkwardly, the nasal voice back. He sounded truly contrite, and Darby closed her eyes. The man sounded as if he really cared about Savannah’s plight, and she appreciated that he wanted to be more than just a cold company drone at the other end of the line.

“For what it’s worth, I bet he’d have been a match,” she blurted, not knowing why she was going down this road with a perfect stranger, other than the fact that the subject had preoccupied her mind for weeks. “She inherited so much from him. From his dark hair and light brown eyes to his stubborn streak.”

What if Connor were alive? Would his marrow have been able to save their child? She shook her head and shoved the what-if aside. She’d never know that answer. Connor was gone.

* * *

I bet he’d have been a match.

Connor rocked back in his desk chair and squeezed his eyes shut. Frustration and regret gripped his chest and twisted painfully. His daughter needed him. Needed his marrow.

“I have nothing to base this on other than my own speculation, of course,” Darby went on, the sadness in her voice almost more than he could bear.

When she’d started crying earlier, it was all he could do not to blurt out the truth and jump on the first plane back to Louisiana.

“But Savannah got so many other traits from her father, why not marrow type, too?” She paused for a humorless laugh. “And since Connor’s brother has some of the same markers and is a partial match, it seems reasonable to me that Connor would be a closer match. Right?”

Connor. He gritted his teeth, swallowing a groan of anguish. She’d unwittingly confirmed what he suspected, but hearing his name on her lips again was a sweet agony. The precious details about his daughter were like manna that he feasted on, but painful to hear, as well.

He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Sounds reasonable.” He grimaced, realizing he’d forgotten to mask his voice again.

She grunted, and he heard shuffling noises. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m boring you with all this. I need to get back to Savannah. I think I hear her waking up.”

He heard a door squeak, a muffled, “Hi, Miss Priss. Did you sleep well?”

Connor held his breath and squeezed the phone, treasuring the tiny glimpse of the life he’d left behind. The life he ached for every waking minute and dreamed of every moment he slept.

If he slept.

A tiny, distant voice answered. Sweet, plaintive, so young. “It ouches, Mommy.”

Savannah. His daughter.

His baby needed him.

But going back to Lagniappe, leaving WitSec and reclaiming his old life would be suicide. More important, he could put Darby and Savannah in jeopardy.

“I have to go,” Darby said. “I don’t know if I’ve helped you settle anything, but I hope...well, that you’ll do the right thing. Goodbye, Mr. Orlean.”

He heard the click of the call disconnecting, then sat staring at the phone in his hand for long minutes after Darby was gone.

Do the right thing. Years ago he’d done what he believed was the right thing and “died” in order to protect his family and Darby. Now, to save his daughter, would he have to come back from the dead?

Connor went to a local medical lab that same afternoon, requested his blood be analyzed for bone marrow matching and gave the lab directions to send his contact information along with the results of his test to Savannah’s doctor in Lagniappe, flagged for comparison with Savannah’s blood. Roughly thirty-six hours later, his cell phone buzzed while he was in a morning meeting. Seeing the name of Savannah’s doctor on his caller ID, he excused himself from the meeting to take the call.

“Mr. Orlean, this is Dr. Allison Reed in Lagniappe, Louisiana. I received a set of test results yesterday from a lab in Dallas that you asked be compared with a patient of mine.”