Baby 101

“Good luck in your quest, Garrett,” Megan said.

“We’ll need it,” he replied grimly.

“And good luck to you,” she said to Lana. Unspoken between them was the knowledge that Megan alone knew Lana wasn’t going home to an empty house. “I think you’ve embarked on quite a different quest of your own.”

A QUEST OF YOUR OWN.

A journey to find something wondrous and fine.

A journey to find one’s self.

Except she knew who she was. Didn’t she?

Megan was reading too much into the fact Dylan Van Zandt was staying with her. It was just a more convenient way to help him hone his parenting skills, and safer for Greg, too. There was no deeper meaning in having him in the big, empty house she’d rattled around in since her mother died.

She parked her car in the garage, passing Dylan’s truck on the way in. Her dad’s classic ’57 Thunderbird was parked along the far wall, covered with a nylon tarp. Michael kept saying he was going to take it, tune it up and drive it, but he never had. It didn’t matter. The garage was big enough for five cars. Now it only held two.

She’d told Dylan to feel free to park his pickup inside, but he hadn’t taken her up on the offer. Not even today when it had rained all day and she’d left a spare remote for the garage door lying conspicuously on the kitchen island.

He seemed determined to keep his distance. And, of course, it was better for both of them that way.

She walked slowly along the brick path that led to the kitchen door. The rain had stopped while she was at Megan’s, although the air was so thick and humid it made little difference. The heavy scent of the night-blooming jasmine that covered the side of the garage perfumed the darkness. The moon rode high in the sky, peeking out from amid a tatter of fleeing clouds. There was light in the kitchen, and in the maid’s room where Dylan and Greg had taken up residence. Lana quickened her step. It made the house look more lived-in. As it had when she was a girl—when there was a family living here, not just one sometimes lonely young woman.

She punched in the code of the security system Michael had insisted Sheila install after their father’s death and stepped inside. Dylan was standing by the microwave, watching the seconds count down on the digital display beside the door, Greg propped against his shoulder.

The baby was awake, staring at the door as though waiting for her to appear. His head wobbled, and he laid it on Dylan’s shoulder. He was very weak yet, compared with other babies his age. Lana’s heart turned over in her chest. He appeared so tiny and fragile. He had overcome much already, but he had more challenges ahead of him than other children, and not just because he was born prematurely.

Growing up never knowing your mother was a hard thing to do. She had managed because she had loving adoptive parents who had smoothed her way. But Greg had only Dylan, a man who distanced himself from his son as well as everyone else—or at least her.

Dylan turned around. “Hi,” he said. He was wearing a blue oxford cloth shirt, hanging open, exposing a muscled chest covered with dark hair. Greg’s little fingers were tangled in the curling mat, and the contrast between the man’s strength and hardness and the baby’s utter helplessness and fragility sent a glittering arc of sensation from Lana’s heart to her womb. It wasn’t a sexual awareness, she told herself, but something more primitive than that. It was more the receptiveness of the female for the male of the species, the protector, the provider. It was conditioning over a million years, nothing more.

“Hi. I thought you’d both be in bed by now.” She wasn’t a cavewoman. This was the twenty-first century. Women were just as often the protector and provider as men. She ignored the increased beat of her pulse and moved into the room.

“Greg decided he needed a midnight snack.” The microwave beeped, and Dylan turned to remove the bottle warming inside. He secured the nipple and tested the liquid on the inside of his wrist, as she’d taught him. He shifted Greg from his shoulder to the crook of his arm and touched the nipple to the side of the baby’s mouth.

Greg turned his head automatically and latched on to the nipple, sucking greedily. It should be his mother’s nipple, Lana thought sadly. Did Dylan have such thoughts, too, as he mourned the death of his son’s mother, his wife, his lover?

He was frowning slightly as he watched his son. He didn’t look sad, only fiercely focused on what he was doing. His hands were big and wide, his fingers long and blunt-tipped. Strong hands that could mold and build, soothe a crying baby, arouse a willing woman. Again she felt that glittering tug of awareness deep inside her. It bothered her. She didn’t want to think about making love to any man right now.

And she noticed something else. Dylan was no longer wearing his wedding ring.

Lana forced herself to concentrate on the baby.

“He’s certainly hungry.”

“He took three ounces his last feeding. If he takes three ounces this time, I’m hoping he’ll sleep longer.”

“I’d be happy to give him his two o’clock feeding.” Lana heard herself say the words. Dylan did look tired. He let her take care of Greg during the day, when he was upstairs overseeing the renovations of her building. But in the evening and during the night, he kept the baby to himself.

“Thanks, I’ll take care of it.” A rebuff, but a polite one.

“I wouldn’t mind, really.”

“I know you wouldn’t. But I think I can keep up with him.”

Lana dropped onto one of the stools arranged around the center island. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Too late for me. You look right at home sittin’ there.”

“I spent a lot of hours here. My mother was a wonderful cook.”

“Mine isn’t,” he said, and grinned. “It’s a good thing my dad can cook or we’d have all starved.”

“I have a limited repertoire, but I’m good at what I do. Great-grandma Bostleman’s buttermilk sugar cookies. And pot roast and chicken and dumplings.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll make us some the first cool day. But Shelby got all the real culinary talent in the family. Since we’re all adopted, she insists she picked it up from Mom through osmosis.” She fell silent, thinking of the hours just past, wishing her mother was here for her to confide in.

“How did your evening go?”

She hadn’t expected him to ask such a personal question. So far their short conversations had centered on Greg’s care, the weather, whether Dylan needed towels or soap or toilet paper for the bathroom. Her surprise must have registered on her face. “You looked kind of shell-shocked when you walked in the door.”

“I am.” Her arms ached to reach out and take Greg from him, to cuddle the little boy close and take comfort from his baby warmth and softness. She sat up a little straighter. “It’s not every day you hear from the mother you never knew. And then to find out she’s still as anonymous as she ever was.”

“What do you mean by that?” He moved a few steps closer, hooked the toe of his shoe around a stool, pulled it away from the island and settled himself on it without jarring Greg or taking the bottle out of his mouth.

Lana rested her elbows on the countertop and propped her chin on her hands. “My birth mother sent a package to Aunt Megan with a note that what was inside was for us. She obviously found out who had adopted us and that Aunt Megan was still in contact with us.”

“Or at least she hoped so.”

“No. She thanked Aunt Megan for finding us a good home.” Lana recited the little note, picturing the block lettering in her mind’s eye. “It was printed, as though she wanted to disguise her handwriting. As if she didn’t want us to have that small a hint of who she was.”

“Where was it mailed from?”

“Here in the city. I don’t know which post office. Garrett’s going to try to find out.”

“Garrett?”

“My older brother. There are four of us, you know?”

“No, I didn’t know.” He took the bottle out of Greg’s mouth and put him over his shoulder. He patted him on the back, gently, the way she had taught him. The baby burped and immediately began demanding the rest of his bottle.

“Abandoned on the doorstep of Maitland Maternity twenty-five years ago. We’re triplets, Shelby, Michael and I. Garrett’s the oldest. Shelby owns a diner on Mayfair, near the clinic. Austin Eats. Have you heard of it?”

“No, ’fraid not.”

“We’ll go there for lunch someday.”

“Sounds good.”

“Michael’s head of security at Maitland. Garrett owns a ranch outside the city. I have the store. We’ve got cousins scattered around the country here and there, but since Mom and Dad died there are really just the four of us. What about you?” She didn’t want to think of the way her family had changed in the past few hours. She had felt the earth move under her feet when Garrett and Michael squared off about searching for their mother. She didn’t want to think how deep a rift it might eventually cause in their relationships.

“One brother, one sister. Both married with kids. Both living out of state. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins. We didn’t have much but family growing up. It was a bust time then.” Lana nodded. Texas’s economy had had a lot of booms and busts during the years it had been so dependent on the oil industry. “My dad nearly lost the business more than once. I joined the Marines when I got out of high school because he wouldn’t let me work for him, and I didn’t have the money to go to college. I ended up in Saudi.”

“You were in Desert Storm?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

For a moment she thought he would refuse, but then he began to talk. He told her of the weather and the vast expanses of sand. Of nights in the desert beneath a sky filled with stars, days spent readying themselves for combat. He talked of his friend Greg, his son’s namesake. Dead of cancer at twenty-seven. He didn’t mention his wife or how they had met, but surely it must have been through his late friend.

Dylan’s voice was low and rough, but soothing, too, like whiskey and honey mixed. She wanted him to go on talking, and she was afraid he would stop if she broke the spell with a question about Greg’s mother. The baby watched him and listened, too, his big blue eyes focused on Dylan’s face. It must have filled his world.

Greg finished the bottle, and Dylan burped him again. The little boy snuggled his face into Dylan’s neck and fell asleep. Lana wished she could do the same. “You’re getting very good at that,” she said. “He’s much more comfortable with you already.”

His mouth tightened. “I’m trying.”

“You’re a natural. Greg’s lucky to have you. Even if he has lost his mother he still has family. It will mean a lot to him in the future. I know. I don’t have any real roots of my own, only grafted ones. I loved my parents dearly, but sometimes it’s a little lonely inside.” She didn’t know why she was telling him this. It was late. She was tired. She didn’t like the sudden darkness that drained the softness from his eyes and hardened his face.

“I’ll do my best to give him that, if I can.”

“If you can? I just told you you’re doing great at this daddy business. He’s lost his mother. It’s tragic, but he still has you. You’re his father—”

Dylan cut her off. “That’s where you’ve got it wrong. I have every reason to believe Greg is another man’s son.”

CHAPTER FIVE

DAMN IT, had he really said the words aloud? He looked at Lana. Her eyes were dark with an emotion he couldn’t read.

“Are you sure?” she asked quietly.

He raked his free hand through his hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a decent night’s sleep. Greg had been fussy all evening. Dylan had felt tied in knots trying to soothe the little one. She had said Greg could sense when he was angry or frustrated. As if to prove her right, the baby stirred and frowned in his sleep. Dylan began jiggling him gently, holding him close so he could hear his heartbeat and be reassured. Except his heart was hammering in his chest, thundering in his ears. He didn’t think that could be reassuring. He settled Greg a little lower in the crook of his arm.

She was waiting for an answer. “Yes. No. Look, will you just forget I said anything?” He should never have started talking to her. It was late. He was tired. She was too damned good a listener. He’d thought it was safe enough to talk about Saudi. After all, they’d both made it through without a scratch. But memories of his friend Greg and the months of pain and suffering before his death had crowded in.

And with that breach of his defenses came memories of Jessie. Young. Scared. Alone. So pretty. So needy.

“It’s not easy to forget a statement like that.”

He’d expected an automatic assurance that his words were instantly forgotten. A meaningless gesture, maybe, but one that would get him off the hook for tonight. That’s what Jessie would have done. What most women would have done. But not Lana Lord.

“No, I suppose it isn’t.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I never intended to say the words aloud.”

“And what about your son?”

“What about him?”

“Will you let it keep on affecting the way you feel about him?” He wondered if she was as good a shot with a gun as she was with words.

“I can’t answer that.”

She looked away. She folded her hands on the counter and stared at them. The overhead light picked out streaks of cinnamon and gold in her hair. He could smell her perfume, light and flowery. If he leaned a few inches closer he would feel the warmth of her skin radiating through the space between them. “I’m sorry to hear that. I don’t want Greg to suffer what I did as a child.”

“Suffer? I don’t understand.” But he thought he did, a little, anyway.

“Wondering why my mother left us on the doorstep of the clinic. Wondering what we’d done wrong that she would leave us all that way.”

“You said your adoptive parents loved you.” He didn’t love Greg. Couldn’t love him as a father should, and that ate at him. She was right. Kids could sense that kind of thing, no matter how hard you tried to hide it.

“They did. And it helped me put those doubts aside. But it never completely made them go away. I would hate for Greg to have those same doubts.”

“I told you I never intended to speak of it to a living soul.” Her adoptive parents had learned to love her. Maybe that was the key. Maybe he could be taught to love his son.

“You will try not to let it come between you and Greg.”

“I try every day of my life.”

She wasn’t looking at him, but at the baby he was holding. Her thoughts were all for Greg. For a moment Dylan was jealous of the sleeping infant. Lana was a woman who knew her mind and her heart, not like Jessie, who was buffeted by every passing emotion. Lana was fiercely loyal and fiercely dedicated to those she loved. It would be a lucky man who earned that love for his own. Was he hoping to be that man? Was that why he’d taken off his wedding band after all these weeks?

“What was she like?” she asked softly.

“She was twenty-four when she died, twenty-one when we married. It was a few weeks before Greg died. He had bone cancer. It went fast and it was pretty brutal.”

“You comforted her and perhaps you mistook her gratitude for love?”

“I knew there was another man,” he said, and heard the old anger in his voice. He swallowed hard and went on. “She was coming off a bad relationship. He was older, married. He broke it off and went back to his wife. Then Greg got sick. She was a wreck.” He hadn’t meant to be so blunt. This conversation was getting out of hand. Before he knew it he’d be telling her everything.

“And you were the one who was there to pick up the pieces.”

He considered not answering, turning away and walking out of the room. She wouldn’t follow him. She wasn’t that type. But if he stayed put, she’d keep asking questions as long as he kept answering them. And someplace inside him, a part of him wanted to keep talking, to maybe find out a few answers himself.

“I watched her grow up. She was just a kid when we went to Saudi. She sent tapes and letters. She was so young she dotted her is with little hearts and drew smiley faces in her Os.”

“But when you got back it was a different story.”

“Yes. She wasn’t a little kid any longer. She’d been living with an aunt. All the family they had left. And, well, she was a little wild.” She’d had a lot of problems with commitment and fidelity, too, but hell, he hadn’t known any of that until it was too late for both of them. She was cute and playful, and he’d fallen head over heels in love with her the first time he saw her. But he hadn’t told Greg. She was too young for him, and Greg had come to work for his dad. It would have complicated things.

He was Greg’s buddy, nothing more. Too old and too serious for her.

“You fell in love with her,” she prompted in that quiet voice of hers.

“Maybe a little.”

“Maybe a lot?”

“Maybe.”

“But you were just her older brother’s buddy from the war.”

“Yep, that was me. She went off to college and fell in love with her mystery man. Greg didn’t like it, but she was of age and there was nothing much he could do.”

She nodded. “Then Greg got sick. The love affair soured. Dylan to the rescue.”

“Semper Fi.”

“The Marine Corps motto.”

Semper Fidelis. Always faithful. He nodded. “Greg was my best friend. Jessie’s future was the most important thing in the world to him.” And he’d failed to keep her safe and happy. Instead, he’d contributed to her unhappiness and her death.

“But surely that doesn’t extend to—”

What was she going to say? He beat her to it. “A marriage of convenience? A rescue mission to save a screwed-up kid from herself?” He was angry again, and it showed. Greg squirmed and whimpered.

Lana took it right between the eyes. She didn’t flinch or look away. “Yes,” she replied steadily. “I guess that was what I was going to say.”

“I married Jessica because I loved her.” Somehow that seemed important to say. Maybe he thought it would shock him out of his awareness of Lana as a woman, all softness on the outside and steely strength on the inside, sitting there before him. Still, it was the truth. At least it had been for a while. But not at the end. Not for a long time before the end.

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