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      Marion Lennox was born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on—mostly because the cows weren’t interested in her stories! Marion has written almost fifty novels for Harlequin, some published under the name Trisha David.

      In her nonwriting life, Marion cares (haphazardly) for her husband, teenagers, dogs, cats, chickens and anyone else who lines up at her dinner table. She fights her rampant garden (she’s losing) and her house dust (she’s lost). She also travels, which she finds seriously addictive.

      As a teenager Marion was told she’d never get anywhere reading romance. Now romance is the basis of her stories and her stories allow her to travel—so if ever there was an advertisement for following your dream, she’d be it!

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      EPILOGUE

      PROLOGUE

      MARRIED! The first of her babies was now a married woman.

      LeeAnn stared at the pages of the Maitland Maternity Clinic newsletter, and the laughing face of her firstborn daughter glowed at her. It was Lana, LeeAnn’s precious child.

      Lana was one of her four children, but she was standing now not as a sister, but as part of a couple. What did the caption say? With This Ring, I Thee Wed. The insert photo was of a truly breathtaking diamond.

      Lana Lord, married to Dylan Van Zandt.

      Who was this Dylan? LeeAnn ached to know. His face was proud yet gentle—tender yet firm. He looked as if he’d be a loving husband to her daughter, but how could she tell from a picture?

      She stirred in bed, wincing from the pain. Why didn’t she have the courage to face them? she asked herself bleakly. Why couldn’t she take this last step and meet her children in person?

      There was another shot next to the wedding picture—one of the guests. Almost every person there had some connection to the clinic. And right in front of her on the page was the rest of her brood.

      The caption stated they were Megan Maitland’s godchildren and identified Megan as the founder of Maitland Maternity, but LeeAnn knew that already. She’d found out so much in these past few weeks. She’d managed to get herself onto the mailing list for the clinic’s newsletter, and she’d hoarded every piece of information she could find from the last twenty-five years.

      So now she almost knew them. Here was her lovely Garrett, looking strong and stern and proud. Garrett was her firstborn. He’d been the one to take charge even from infancy. Shelby was next to him, her auburn hair just what her mother’s had been so many years ago, and that lovely smile… And Michael, standing slightly apart.

      LeeAnn’s heart stilled. There was trouble with Michael.

      She looked at the picture for a long, long time, searching these faces she really didn’t know at all and yet knew so well. They were part of her. Michael was her son. Even though she’d abandoned her children as babies, she knew his face like she knew her own.

      There was trouble in Michael’s face, she thought. His expression was shuttered, and with a pang of distress she saw a suffering there that she recognized as her own all those years ago when she’d left her four small children to be cared for by strangers.

      “Michael,” she whispered. “My little one. What’s wrong?”

      There was no answer. How could there be? LeeAnn was in a hospice in the final stages of incurable cancer, and her children didn’t even know her name. They were no longer her little ones. They were adults, and unaware of her existence.

      Or maybe not. Had Megan Maitland given them her gifts? Given them her message? She’d sent the three little sweaters she’d made herself all those years ago, each embroidered with a triplet’s name, and she’d tucked in Garrett’s teddy, the one she’d used as her only comfort over the years.

      It didn’t matter, she told herself bleakly. She’d sent them. That was enough. They were tokens to tell them that they were loved—nothing more. These lovely young adults, smiling at her from the newsprint, were no longer part of her life. She’d forfeited her right to know them when she’d abandoned them as babies all those years ago.

      But she couldn’t stop gazing at the pictures, question after question forming in her heart. Did they know she’d had no choice? Did they realize that once Gary had died, there’d been so many debts, so little money—no support

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