gone.” Jake was holding his black Stetson in his hands, twirling it. “He didn’t come home last night.”
“I know.”
“You do?” Something dark and dangerous shadowed the chiseled angles of his cheeks and jaw.
“Being a teenage father must be a scary thing,” she said, which produced another look in his eyes that made her uneasy.
“Where is he? And Holly?” he demanded.
“I don’t know.” That was the truth. She wouldn’t know until they contacted her. “But they’re together.”
“I’ve taught him to accept the consequences of his actions. It’s not like him to run away from his responsibilities,” he said, raising his chin toward the baby in her arms.
“He didn’t run away—not exactly. They just needed some space to think things through.”
“They’ve got a little girl,” he said, an edge to his voice. “What else is there to think about?”
Rachel glanced down at the sleeping baby. She lowered her own voice to just above a whisper. “Look, I’m going to put Emma down and—”
“I’ll hold her.”
“What?”
“Your ears tired, too?”
Now who was snapping? She wondered what his excuse was. “I heard you just fine,” she said, studying him.
Why would he want to hold the baby? Weren’t most men afraid to hold babies? And he was a big man—at least six feet. At her own five feet one inch, most people towered over her. But that didn’t make her as cranky as Jake Fletcher towering over her. A day with a looming Jake Fletcher definitely didn’t do much to sweeten her case of the tired crankies. Because he wasn’t most people. He was good-looking, in a rugged, masculine way. He was a cowboy. He made her nervous.
He owned one of the biggest, most successful ranches in the Sweet Spring area. And if she was looking for signs, the black hat in his hands was a humdinger. Didn’t all the bad guys wear black hats? It was almost the same color as his hair. In his dark blue eyes there was an expression of world-weary cynicism that, for reasons she didn’t want to think about, chipped away at the ice surrounding her feelings about him.
Or maybe it was that darn, rather dandy dimple in his chin. Her grandmother always said dimple on chin, devil within. Time would tell about that. But she knew he had a nice mouth—when it wasn’t pinched and pressed into a line clearly indicating his irritation.
“You don’t have to hold her,” Rachel finally said. “I’ll put her in her bassinet.”
“I want to hold her. Is there some reason you don’t want me to?”
Yeah, she wanted to say. Her mother doesn’t trust you. Had Holly ever let him hold the baby? This infant was his niece. So unless she wanted to look like she had a heart stored in the deep freeze, she should let him. “Do you know how to hold a baby?”
“How hard can it be? She’s not as heavy as a sack of oats,” he said seriously.
Her eyes widened. “She’s not a sack of anything. She’s a baby. You know, delicate. You can’t toss her around like a sack of—”
The sudden, slight upturn of his lips said “gotcha.”
“Okay.” Her mouth curved up reluctantly as she tucked the information away under T for teasing in the Jake Fletcher file. “But really, you’ve got to support her head.”
Rachel stepped closer to him and laid the sleeping child in the crook of his arm. The fragrance of soap mingled with something—not aftershave she decided, noting stubble on his lower cheeks and jaw. He hadn’t taken the time to shave, but he smelled good. She’d already noted he was a big man who dwarfed her miniscule entryway. But why did he look bigger holding a small baby? His broad shoulders seemed even broader, his thickly muscled arms stronger. Yet he held Emma as if she were priceless, breakable glass.
Rachel’s insides jumped like she’d just touched a live wire. Sleep deprivation could really do a number on your nerves, she decided.
“I’ll go put on some clothes.”
“Good idea,” he said.
Good idea, she thought with a sigh. Second cousin to his “Good Lord” when he’d first seen her. As in she looked like road kill. Followed by, if she couldn’t put a bag over her head, she should at least put some clothes on. On the bright side, clothes would make her feel less vulnerable. It was clear she needed coffee. Bad. Because under normal circumstances she wouldn’t give a rat’s backside what the heck Jake Fletcher thought of her.
Jake watched as Rachel disappeared through the doorway. Moments later, down the hall a door closed with just a little more force than was necessary. He made himself sit down with the baby, even though he was itching to follow Rachel and demand to know what the hell was going on. Because he had a feeling she knew more than she’d said. He badly wanted to know what Rachel Manning was hiding and why she had his brother’s baby.
Glancing down at the small, warm body in his arms, Jake felt the hole he always carried inside him open wider, followed by an aching sadness. This new baby reminded him of everything that had been taken from him. But he wasn’t a kid now. And it wasn’t going to happen again. Not to his brother. He would see to it.
Leaning back, he snuggled Emma to his chest and glanced at the doorway where Rachel had disappeared. Her guarded expression when she’d opened the door to him said a mouthful. She’d told him once that he was butting into his brother’s life, throwing his weight around. Takes one to know one. And he knew her kind—a straight-up, straight arrow, by-the-book, toe-the-line, card-carrying buttinski. She wouldn’t know the meaning of minding her own business if it bit her on the fanny.
Under the circumstances he wouldn’t have expected it, but that thought made him smile. Little Miss Muffet wasn’t his type, thinking she knew what was best for the whole world. But she had one fine fanny. And in those pajamas that covered next to nothing, the rest of her wasn’t bad, either.
The baby squirmed and squeaked and he gently settled his palm on her abdomen. It nearly covered her from chest to ankle. She was so little and the need to protect and care for her body-slammed him. This child was his niece—his family. And he was going to do right by her. This time no one would get in his way.
Almost as if Rachel had heard that thought, she came back into the room. In buttercup-yellow shorts and a matching tank top, with her golden hair mussed as if a man had run his fingers through it, she looked like a walking sunbeam. He noticed she’d washed the mascara from beneath her eyes.
She walked over to him. “I’ll put Emma in her bassinet now.”
She leaned over and slid her hand into the crook of his arm beneath the child’s head, then nudged the other under the baby’s bottom and lifted. Where Rachel’s hands had touched him, a trail of warmth lingered. When her gaze locked with his, he wondered why he’d never noticed before that her eyes were so big. And brown. Normally blondes had blue eyes and the unusual coloring was nice. Almost before the thought formed, she left with the baby. Then a few moments later, she returned and closed the door that separated her living room, kitchen
