Who's That Baby?

He heard the squeak of her swivel chair, the soft intake of breath. When she spoke, the sting had evaporated from her voice. “I knew it, knew the minute I laid eyes on you this morning that something was wrong.”

Myra uttered a concerned cluck. He recognized without looking that she’d probably pursed her lips while squeezing her thick hands together the way she did when she was worried about him. She was always worried about him, it seemed. Much as he tried to discourage that, he nonetheless loved her for it.

Squaring his shoulders, he forced an even glance over his shoulder. “Nothing is wrong, Myra. I simply have business to discuss with the sheriff, business that is mine and mine alone. Are we clear on that?”

A prick of regret stung him as he noted the sorrow in her eyes. She nodded briefly, forcefully enough to vibrate the poodle pelt of graying curls on her scalp. He would have turned away, but she extended a hand. The pleading gesture stopped him, forced him to meet her empathetic gaze.

“You can’t keep people from caring about you, Johnny.”

He studied her, softened his voice with a smile. “I can try.”

With that, he strode into his office and closed the door. Ten minutes later, the intercom buzzed as Myra announced that Hank was on line one.

Johnny took a deep breath, pressed the button. “Hank, how’s it going?”

“Can’t complain,” came the jovial reply. “Had me a real lively time at the steak house over on the highway last night. There was a pair of twin beauties there from out of town that couldn’t keep their hands off me. Had to flip a coin just to keep the both of them happy! Now if you’d have been along, I wouldn’t had to wear myself into such a frazzle.”

Johnny smiled, pinched the bridge of his nose. Hank enjoyed bachelorhood to the fullest, and was always trying to entice Johnny into joining his tomcatting forays into the local singles’ scene. “My loss, Hank. I’m sure you took up the slack.”

“Did my best, and that’s a fact.” A hiss of air filtered over the line, as if Hank had heaved a sigh. “So what’s going on, Johnny? Myra sounded like a woman who’d just scraped her favorite cat off the pavement. You got problems?”

“No, no problems.” He spoke quickly, too quickly. Puffing his cheeks, he exhaled slowly, forced himself to lean back in his chair. “Actually, I just need a favor.”

“Name it.”

“Do you remember Samantha Cloud?”

“Sure do. Pretty woman, ran off to Albuquerque a year or so back with that ne’er-do-well boyfriend of hers.”

Johnny flinched. “Yes, well, I need to find her, and I was wondering if you could do a little checking for me.” A nerve-racking silence followed. Johnny felt compelled to break it. “Just a few discreet inquiries…off the record.”

There was a rustling sound, as if Hank had shifted to peruse papers on his desk. “Sure, I can do that.” More rustling was followed by the unmistakable rasp of a throat being cleared. “Don’t want to tell me what this is about, do you?”

The office door cracked open, startling Johnny. He glanced up to see his partner, Spence McBride, peering into the room. He motioned Spence inside, and completed his conversation with Hank. “Not at the moment. Let me know what you find out.”

“Will do,” Hank said.

Johnny cradled the receiver as Spence settled into the guest chair across his desk, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. He kicked one lean ankle over his knee and sucked mustard from his fingers. “Myra’s worried about you.”

“Myra’s always worried about someone. Worry is what she does.”

“Yep, she’s good at it, too.” Spence licked his lips, took another bite of his breakfast.

Johnny nearly gagged at the sight of it. “Good Lord, what is in that thing?”

“This?” Wide-eyed, Spence gazed at the huge conglomeration, yet another of his famously atrocious sandwich fetishes that were the talk of the office. “This is my newest specialty,” he said proudly. “Sardine, banana, mashed avocados and sliced kiwi fruit on a garlic-onion bagel. All the major food groups. The perfect meal.”

“You’re a sick man.”

“Perversity is its own reward.” He smacked his lips. “So why are you hunting for Samantha?”

Apparently, he’d overheard more of the conversation than Johnny had hoped. He managed a noncommittal shrug. “That’s my business.”

Spence quirked a brow. “Guess you just have a hankering to get that old heart broken again, huh?”

“Samantha never broke my heart.”

“Oh, that’s right. It was your ex-wife who broke your heart. Samantha just laid the pieces out and stomped them a little flatter.”

With some effort, Johnny unclenched his jaw, dug a familiar agenda packet out of his in basket. “I need you to take over the school-board meeting tonight.”

“Sure, no problem.” Spence popped the final bite of sandwich in his mouth, wiping his hands on the napkin as he chewed. He retrieved the agenda, gave it a halfhearted glance, then tossed it aside. “If you don’t tell me what’s going on with Samantha, you leave me no choice but to turn Myra loose. Once that old bloodhound gets the scent, there won’t be any stopping her. Whatever you’re trying to hide will be all over town before sundown.”

Johnny closed his eyes, swallowed a surge of panic. “It’ll be all over town by noon, I imagine. I’m meeting Claire at the child-care center after lunch.”

“Claire?” Spence perked up. “Who’s Claire?”

“Claire Davis. She’s on the pediatric staff at the clinic.”

Spence nodded as if that made sense. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees, and he waited. There was no sense in putting it off. If Johnny trusted anyone in this town, it was Spence McBride. They’d known each other in high school, although they hadn’t been close back then. They’d become good friends since Spence returned to Buttonwood a few months ago and brought his ranch-law expertise to Johnny’s law firm.

Yes, Johnny trusted Spence as much as he was capable of trusting any human being. Even if he didn’t, there wasn’t much point in keeping a secret that would be all over town by the end of the day. Buttonwood would be buzzing about the mysterious dark-eyed baby that Johnny Winterhawk was caring for. Speculation would run rampant.

Most of it would be true.

“So,” Spence prodded, “are you going to tell me why you’re looking for Samantha?”

Johnny sighed. “Because I want to find out why she left our child on my doorstep last night.”

Whatever Spence had been expecting to hear, that obviously wasn’t it. If he hadn’t already finished his sandwich, he probably would have choked on it. As it was, his face turned beet-red, his breath caught in his throat and his jaw drooped like a broken gate on a rusty hinge while Johnny methodically related grisly details.

Spence wiped his forehead, visibly shaken. “You’ve got a kid,” he muttered. “Wow. Better you than me.”

“Thanks for the support.”

“Cripes, what are you going to do?”

Johnny wished he knew. Still, he heard himself uttering the same mantra he’d repeated last night. “It’s temporary. Samantha will be back any time now.”

He’d almost begun to believe it, until the phone rang.

“Hope you’re sitting down,” Hank said. “You’re not going to like this.”

It was nap time at the Buttonwood Child Care Center, although one wouldn’t have noticed from the chorus of tiny voices, grunts and fusses emanating from the cheery sleep room. Colorful mats were arranged in neat rows on the clean, carpeted floor, some topped by thumb-sucking toddlers dozing drowsily, some supporting youngsters who kicked, rolled, sang and hummed with dogged determination to keep their eyes open to the bitter end.

Three women hovered among the throng, offering drinks of water, tucking thin covers over wriggling bodies, then moving into the infant room to check sleeping babies in their cribs.

Across the room, Joy Rollings waved. “I’ll be right with you, Claire.”

“Take your time,” Claire called back. Johnny wouldn’t arrive for another thirty minutes or so. “I’m early.”

A wail from the baby room captured the day-care owner’s attention. As Joy went to check on the source of the displeased cry, Claire shifted Lucy in her arms, and went to wait in the deserted play area.

The moment Claire entered the sunlit room strewn with bright toys and tiny, child-size furnishings, she spotted the lonely figure at the far end of the playroom. “Rachel?”

Startled, Nurse Rachel Arquette spun around, absently cupping one hand around her bulging belly. Her eyes widened in surprise. She offered a thin smile of greeting. “Dr. Davis, how nice to see you.”

Claire lifted Lucy against her shoulder, and picked her way through the clutter of discarded toys. “You look wonderful,” she said, although the woman actually looked fatigued and terribly sad. “How are you feeling?”

As if reading the worry in Claire’s eyes, Rachel forced a brighter smile. “I’m fine, just fine. Thank you for asking.”

A lot of people had been asking about Rachel Arquette lately. More specifically, they’d been asking about the mysterious father of Rachel’s child. Speculation had been creative, widespread and not always kind. The latest grist for the gossip mill had been the constant attention heaped upon Rachel by Dr. Dennis Reid, the clinic’s pompous and controlling chief of staff.

Anyone with half a brain could see that Reid had designs on Rachel, and Claire suspected him as the source of the rumor that he was in fact the father of her unborn child. It was possible, Claire supposed, although Dennis Reid certainly didn’t seem to be Rachel’s type.

Actually, Reid didn’t seem to be anyone’s type. He was universally disliked by the nursing staff for his arrogance and high-handed manner, and held in relatively low regard by clinic physicians for basically the same reasons. Still, he was Claire’s boss, so she was careful to keep her opinions to herself.

Meanwhile, Rachel had refused to respond to the growing curiosity about her child’s father by becoming sadder and more withdrawn each time Claire had seen her.

“I’ve been hoping you’d attend our Lamaze classes,” Claire said.

Rachel glanced away. “I’m a nurse. I already know how to breathe.”

The reply was issued softly, without rancor. Claire’s heart went out to her. Instinctively, she touched the woman’s thin shoulder. “There’s more to the classes than perfunctory exercises, hon. We support each other, share our joys, our worries. We’re a family.”

A shimmer of moisture brightened Rachel’s eyes. She took a shaky breath, clamped her lips into a tight smile and focused on the wriggling infant in Claire’s arms. Her lips loosened; her breath slid out all at once. “Ohh, who do we have here?”

A ridiculous pride puffed Claire’s chest as she shifted the infant to allow Rachel access. “This is Lucy. I’m watching her for a friend. Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She is precious,” Rachel whispered, stroking a tiny hand with her fingertip. “I just love babies.”

Claire hiked a brow, aimed a pointed look at Rachel’s pregnant tummy. “Under the circumstances, I’m glad to hear that.”

A bubble of genuine laughter from Rachel warmed Claire’s heart, but it lasted only a moment before the sadness returned to Rachel’s eyes. She circled a protective palm over her stomach. “I can’t wait for my son to be born. He’s all I have now.”

Claire hesitated. “Rachel—”

“Goodness, look at the time.” She stepped back, averting her gaze, her body language pulling back into herself. “It’s been lovely seeing you again.”

As she brushed past, Claire spun around, managed to touch her wrist, stopping her. Rachel met her gaze slowly, sadly.

“Here,” Claire said, fumbling in the pocket of her blazer with her free hand to retrieve one of her business cards. “Take this. My home phone is on the back, and so is my pager number.” She pressed the card into Rachel’s cool palm. “Call me anytime, for any reason.”

Rachel stared at the card, bit her lip and nodded silently. A sparkle of moisture slipped down one cheek.

“I care,” Claire whispered as Rachel reached the doorway.

The woman paused, her shoulders quivering. She glanced back, seemingly choked by emotion. A moment later, she slipped through the opening and was gone.

Claire sighed, lowered herself into a sunny yellow plastic chair. “With so many people in the world, why is it that so many of them are lonely?” The baby gurgled, and bobbed her head sideways as if following the sound of Claire’s voice.

“Ah, but you mustn’t worry, sweet girl. There will always be enough love for you. I promise you that.”

It didn’t occur to Claire to question the peculiar affirmation. In some faraway part of her mind, she understood that she was in no position to promise this child anything, that she was merely a temporary caretaker and that their time together would be all too fleeting. She understood that, although dwelling on it would have been too painful. She felt blessed to have these moments with Lucy, and she wasn’t about to waste them on the realities of what was to come.

Claire carefully laid Lucy on her lap, tucking her in the dip between her own thighs. “Do you know how lucky you are to have such a wonderful daddy?”

The baby’s head swung around. A fat tongue poked out, wrapped in baby bubbles.

“Yes, you most certainly are a lucky girl. I never knew my real daddy. Odd how one can so desperately miss a person one has never met.”

As she spoke, Claire unwrapped the thin receiving blanket to once again inspect each tiny leg and count the sweet button toes. “Why, there they are again! One, two, three…” She gave an exaggerated gasp, hiking her eyebrows. “Ten of them! Imagine that!”

Lucy grinned. Or perhaps she just had gas. It didn’t matter, because Claire couldn’t have been more delighted as Lucy kicked her fat legs and flailed her tiny fists. With the sweet heaviness of the warm, wriggling body, the powdery fragrance, the fresh scent of laundered cotton and gentle oils, Claire was surrounded by the auras of motherhood—a soft ache in the chest that made her feel more whole, more alive than she could ever remember.

Layer by layer, Claire removed fabric, examined the soft, round belly, the reddened skin beneath her little armpits, the perfect fold of a baby ear, the delicate quiver of a fleshy little throat. Every inch was perfect. Every inch.

It was a silly thing, she supposed, this compulsion to constantly reassess the infant. She couldn’t explain the joy it gave her to touch this precious baby, to smooth the soft cotton shirt, caress each delicate baby finger.

Such dark little eyes, so intense, so wise. “You mustn’t worry, precious. Your daddy won’t let anything bad happen to you. And neither will I,” she whispered. “Neither will I.”

As Claire bent forward to kiss the infant’s silky cheek, a tingle slipped down her spine. She straightened slowly in the small chair, instinctively knowing before she gazed toward the doorway what she would see.

Johnny Winterhawk stood there, hovering just inside the room with an expression of awe and wonder that moved her to the marrow.

His powerful form filled the doorway, shoulders seeming even more broad by the fit of a dark, tailored business suit that hugged him like a supple second skin. From his perfectly groomed ebony hair to the tips of his gleaming Italian shoes, he exuded grace, power, control. And danger.

Danger for any woman whose heart raced at the sight of him, whose blood steamed in his presence, whose breath backed up in her throat until she feared her lungs might explode.

Most women looked twice at Johnny Winterhawk. Most women sighed, exchanged a yearning glance, silently wondered what ripple of bone and sinew lay hidden beneath the elegant, tailored cloth. He was masculine perfection, a walking wonder of sheer sensuality silently raging behind a wall of civility. He was magnificent. He was vital. He was gorgeous. Claire wanted to rip his clothes off.

“Hi.” She cleared the horrifying squeak from her voice, and tried again. “You’re early.”

“Am I?”

“A little.”

His gaze slipped to the infant in her lap. His eyes glowed softly, with wonder. “You’re so good with her.”

“It’s easy to be good with her. She’s such a good baby.” Managing to take in enough air to clear the cobwebs from her brain, Claire gave the blanket a quick wrap and lifted the infant to her shoulder.

As she started to stand, Johnny took two massive strides and cupped his palm around her elbow, assisting her. A spark from his touch shot into her shoulder.

She swayed briefly, then stood. Her knees did not buckle. But they wanted to. “So…” She sucked a breath, offered a bright smile. “Are you ready to take over your daddy duties?”

“I—” His gaze darted, his lips thinned. “I wonder if I might impose upon you a bit longer.”

“Of course.” A rush of relief startled her, although the steely glint in his eye gave her pause. “Is something wrong?”

He ignored the question. “Lucy will be spending more time in my care than I had originally anticipated. I would appreciate some, ah, instruction. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” he added quickly.

“No trouble at all. Lesson number one, holding the baby.” Before he could protest, Claire placed Lucy in his arms, nearly laughing out loud at his horrified expression as he shrugged up his shoulders and hunched forward, awkwardly cradling the baby as if she were a porcelain football.

His eyes rolled frantically, his skin paled and beads of moisture traced his upper lip. “She’s so fragile,” he whispered. “I can barely feel her.”

“You’re doing fine.” The terror in his eyes was perversely endearing. Claire decided one just had to love a man who took fatherhood so seriously. “Lesson number two, we’ve already touched upon. Babies are tougher than they look. They don’t break easily, nor do they bounce, so try not to drop her.”

His head snapped up. He looked as if he might faint.

“Now, on to lesson number three.” Claire shouldered the diaper bag, dug her car keys out of her pocket and dangled them in front of his stunned face. “Shopping!”

Johnny groaned.

Chapter Three

“You have to snap that whatchamacallit into the doohickey, and tighten tension on some kind of switch lever.” Claire turned the instruction sheet over, scratched her head. “That’s if you want to use the portable crib function. If you want to transform it into a playpen, you’re supposed to loosen the lever, unsnap the whatchamacallit and twist the doohickey into the thingamajig. I think.”

“Huh?” Shifting one segment of the mesh-sided portable crib under his arm, Johnny hoisted himself on one knee, grunted as he rapped his elbow on the coffee table.

Claire turned the instruction sheet over, angled a sympathetic glance. “It’s a little crowded in here.” The observation was unnecessary, since the formerly immaculate living room was cluttered with mounds of stuffed shopping bags, tiny garments, toys, crib mobiles, baby supplies, a stroller still in its packing carton and one “handy-dandy all-in-one nursery”—a bewildering assortment of tubes, pads and mesh panels that could supposedly shift from crib to playpen to changing table with the merest flick of a finger.

Johnny frowned, inspected his elbow. “It would be easier to replicate the space shuttle out of bottle caps. Why would someone engineer this kind of monstrosity for an infant?”

“It’s not for the child—it’s for the parent.” Smiling, Claire glanced around the once tidy room. A screwdriver poked out of an expensive silk-flower arrangement on the polished oak coffee table. A pair of needle-nose pliers sagged against the breast pocket of Johnny’s expensive monogrammed dress shirt. The handle of a claw hammer stuck from between tapestry sofa cushions. “Some Christmas Eve in the future, you’ll have to assemble a tricycle in the dark using nothing but a pair of fingernail clippers and the toothpick from your holiday martini. This is good practice.”

For a moment, Claire actually thought he was blushing. His gaze lowered, his lips curved into a half smile that did peculiar things to her insides. Clearly, he was getting used to the idea of fatherhood, but he was also still shaken by it. His smile dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. He squared his shoulders, rearranged his features into an unreadable mask.

Without responding to Claire’s teasing comment, he returned his attention to the assemblage problem, moving his lips as he worked as if giving himself silent support for the effort.

Claire watched him greedily, fascinated by every nuance of expression, every hint of frown or smile. There was something vulnerable about his struggle with the unfamiliar equipment, a nervous determination in his effort that was exquisitely touching. His collar yawned open, his tie was askew and his sleeves were rolled up to expose muscular forearms dusted by a smattering of dark hair. As cool and confident as he’d been in his formal business attire, he was now charmingly befuddled, sitting cross-legged on the floor amid a nest of packing material, cardboard and bubble wrap.

Lying beside her on the sofa, Lucy yawned hugely and stuffed a baby fist in her mouth. “Someone is getting sleepy,” Claire said. “I think your daughter has given up hope of having a nap in her brand-new crib.”

“Have faith,” Johnny muttered. Squatting on one knee, he bent to inspect a bewildering array of template holes stamped on the metal frame. “Wait a minute, I think I know what this is for….” He grunted, snapped a spring-loaded steel arm into one of the openings, grasped the tubular mesh-side frames and hauled the unit upright. With a click, a shudder, a whoosh, the little crib stood firm and sturdy amid the chaos.

Johnny grinned in triumph. Claire’s heart gave a lurch. She licked her dry lips. “Congratulations. You’ve passed the first test of fatherhood, crib construction.” He looked so inordinately pleased with himself that Claire couldn’t keep from laughing. “Now all we have to do is move it into the nursery and tuck Lucy in for a nice quiet nap.”

“The spare room is at the far end of the hall.” He grabbed a bulging shopping bag and began to root through the contents. “I wouldn’t be able to hear her.”

“Most babies sleep better in a quiet room. Besides, you shouldn’t have to turn your living room into a nursery.”

He grunted, retrieved a package of crib sheets from the bag. “It’s only temporary.”

Claire considered that. “You’ve purchased a lot of permanent stuff for a temporary situation.”

He shrugged, struggled to extract the linens from their packaging. “The child needs these things no matter where she is.”

“She needs a solid-silver hairbrush?”

He looked stung. “She has hair.”

“Yes, she does indeed.”

“Grooming is important.”

Claire couldn’t argue that. “And three separate crib mobiles?”

“The saleswoman said that infants need visual stimulation.”

“And the computer that teaches ABC’s?”

“Educational toys give a child a better start in life.”

“She can barely lift her head, Johnny.” Claire bit her lip, so amused by his adorable sulk that she feared she’d laugh out loud. “And what on earth is she going to do with two dozen stuffed animals? Not to mention the fact that you bought her so many frilly dresses, she’d have to be changed four times a day just to wear them all before she outgrows them.”

“Proper clothing is important to a child’s self-esteem.”

Something in his eyes alerted Claire that Johnny might have been speaking more from experience than parroting the salesperson’s pitch. She regarded him thoughtfully. “I guess you weren’t born rich, were you?”

The question seemed to unnerve him. “I was not a ragged little Indian kid scuffing barefoot through the reservation in feathers and a torn loincloth, if that’s what you mean.”

She hiked a brow. “A little touchy, are we?”

He sighed, allowing his shoulders to roll forward. “Sorry. Guess I do get a bit defensive about the stereotype of my heritage. Actually, my parents struggled when I was quite young, but by the time I was in school, they were middle-class suburbanites, just like your own family.”