Diana Whitney - Who's That Baby?

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.