The Lost Heiress Already Has Three Dads

When my biological mother, Vivian Whitmore, came looking for me, I'd just chopped the head off a pig. She looked at the pig, then at me with blood all over my apron. Her eyes rolled back, and she toppled stiffly toward the ground. I lunged to catch her. To my surprise, her coat looked thin, but the woman inside it was decidedly solid. My foot slipped, sending both of us—and the knife—pitching forward. The tip stopped a hair's breadth from her pearl necklace. "Murder!" a girl shrieked from the doorway. "Dad! Dylan! She's trying to kill Mom!" I glanced down at the knife in my hand. The good news: it hadn't touched anyone. The bad news: if my biological mother didn't wake up soon, my back was going to snap. A middle-aged man and a young man rushed into the yard. I later learned they were Malcolm Whitmore and his son, Dylan Whitmore. Malcolm looked at the knife, then at me, his expression darkening. "She is your biological mother! No matter how much resentment you have, you can't do this!" Dylan's voice tightened. "We didn't abandon you on purpose. Mom and Dad have been looking for you all these years!" Still supporting the woman in my arms, I offered a sincere suggestion. "If one of you could take her first, I might have more energy to listen." No one did. The girl, Vanessa Whitmore, suddenly charged toward me. "Do you hate me for taking your place? Come at me, then. Don't hurt Mom!" She was about to run straight into the knife when the young man caught her in his arms. "Vanessa, don't be ridiculous. You'll always be my sister." "But I'm not Mom and Dad's biological daughter." "So what? We've lived together for 20 years. No one can take your home away from you." I set the knife on a wooden barrel, freeing both hands, and finally maneuvered my biological mother into an armchair. Once my back and hands were free, I clapped twice. "Touching. Would you like some background music? I have some on my phone." Only the week before, a nonprofit that helps reunite families had confirmed my identity. The Whitmores were wealthy, lived in Crestmont, and had spent 20 years looking for me. I was Sadie Mercer, and I'd agreed to meet them during Blair Creek's winter potluck. Somehow, before we'd even managed introductions, they'd already mistaken me for a murderer. The brother and sister looked at me in unison. I pointed to the security camera on the barn. "Let's watch the footage first and see who's lying." On the screen, the woman fainted on her own, and I rushed to save her. The footage showed everything clearly, even Vanessa's expression as she stood in the doorway and watched. I turned the volume all the way up and played it again. "See? She fainted by herself. I had to keep holding her, or she'd have hit the ground." Dylan released Vanessa. She immediately burst into tears. "I was terrified. I saw blood, and then I saw the knife..." "So you mistook a rescue for a murder." I nodded. "You were standing right there. Didn't you see me holding her up? You screamed so loudly you almost made me drop her for real." My biological father frowned. "She was only worried about her mother. There's no need to be so cutting." "If I hadn't caught her, she'd have hit the ground. You accused me without even asking what happened, and now I'm not allowed to say a few words in my own defense?" His jaw tightened as he began looking around. "Where are your adoptive fathers? Why would they leave you alone to do this kind of work?" "They went into town for supplies." "Do you normally do work like this?" "Sure. It's a butcher shop. That's what the job involves. We close on Sundays, so that's my only day off." He looked at the meat on the butcher block and fell silent. I handed him a clean apron. "Since you're here, help out. Those ribs need to be divided into portions. I've left the tools out for you." "Me?" "You don't have to. But everyone else brought something, and I'm guessing you don't want to be the only one who just sits around waiting to eat." He looked down at his empty hands. Two minutes later, his expensive coat hung from a peg while my biological father stood at the butcher block, seriously contemplating how to divide a basin of meat into perfectly equal portions. Calvin Mercer usually handled that job. He ran the butcher shop. His husband, Grant Mercer, worked as a carpenter. Grant's brother, Russell Mercer, lived with us and repaired cars, along with any toys I took apart and couldn't put back together. They'd gone into town for supplies that day, leaving the butcher block to me. I'd known I was adopted for as long as I could remember. After all, other kids' family portraits showed 2 big figures and 1 small one. Mine looked like 3 kidnappers holding a child hostage. The 3 men had originally wanted to raise a little princess. Then they discovered I had only a passing interest in dolls and a remarkable gift for pulling their heads off, so they let me be. By 18, I could run the shop alone and chase away drunks who tried to buy on credit. Russell often watched family soap operas with me. Whenever someone on-screen was falsely accused, the TV had to be paused so the other 2 dads could join him in acting out the scene. Grant hid a necklace, Calvin played the stepmother, and Russell shouted, "Why would your sister frame you instead of anyone else?" My usual answer was, "Because no one else has a dad this stupid." Russell would reward me with an extra helping of pudding. Later, Calvin sold the prop necklace and brought home 2 large pizzas. We were halfway through them when Russell realized the necklace belonged to an ex-girlfriend who'd asked him to get it repaired. None of us dared ask for seconds that night. Malcolm finally finished arranging a platter and looked up at me. I pointed. "That piece is too small." He shifted another piece over. "Now that one's too big." He took a deep breath. I patted his shoulder. "Relax. The pig isn't going to file a complaint." Dylan stood nearby. The corner of his mouth had just begun to lift when his father glared at him. I dropped a sack of potatoes by his feet. "Don't just laugh. You can peel these." Vivian woke in time to see the scene. She stared at her husband's floral apron, speechless for several seconds. "Malcolm, why are you..." "Helping." His face was rigid. Vivian turned to me, as if trying to decide whether this constituted another form of k********g. I poured her a glass of water and brought over a clean towel. "If you still feel faint, sit for a while. If you don't, you can help wash the carrots." She held the glass and sat up very straight.