are you talking about?” Daria frowned, but the expression melted into a smile when the baby reached for her. She let him catch her finger in his tiny hand.
“Fox found him on his doorstep and is certain he isn’t the father.”
“Your house isn’t exactly easy access,” Daria replied.
“I said the same thing,” the sheriff murmured. The baby’s attention went to the star on his navy blue uniform shirt. “Someone went out of their way for you to have him, Fox.”
“But he cannot possibly be mine,” Fox insisted. “Isn’t there someone you call when this happens?”
Daria backed toward the door, the pacifier clutched in her hand. “I’ll go wash this.”
“I can call child services,” Trey offered. “If you’re sure that’s the route you want to go.”
Child services. “Foster care?” Fox rolled his shoulders, trying to release the sudden pinch between his shoulder blades. “Is that the only option?”
“No note, no identification, no reported lost baby.” Trey shrugged as he nestled the baby back into the car seat. “I’m afraid that’s the best I can do,” he said. “It’s standard procedure.”
Fox stared at the baby. Standard procedure would have landed him and his sister in foster care after their parents died. At that time, his family had stepped up and his aunt and uncle adopted them, given them family roots and the Colton name.
He rubbed at his forehead. “No.” The sheriff was right, his house wasn’t easily accessible, which meant someone had gone to some trouble to leave the baby with him. And been careful enough not to be seen.
“No what?” Trey asked.
“No foster care,” he said, making the decision as the words left his mouth. “There’s been a mistake, clearly.” This was not his child. “But I’ll take care of him until I can track down the person he belongs to.” Maybe one of the hands at the Crooked C was the father and whoever had dropped off the baby chose Fox’s porch in an effort to be discreet. His red barn was certainly easier to find in the dark and fewer people would be around.
“We’ll keep an eye out here, too,” the sheriff promised.
Daria returned with the pacifier. “All clean. You should get one of those leash thingies for it. And maybe call a pediatrician in the morning. Just to make sure he’s okay.”
He figured there were a lot of “shoulds” in his immediate future. Fox would ask his sister about the pacifier leash and all the rest. He almost swore. Those questions would have to wait until Sloane and her family returned. For now, the internet would have to suffice.
“I’ll check into it,” he said, trying not to snap. The deputy sheriff was only trying to help. He started to leave and stopped short. “Can someone check the car seat thing? I may not have it installed right. I was in a hurry.”
“On it,” Daria volunteered. At the truck, she made the proper adjustments to the base and got the baby seat locked in for the ride back home. “It occurs to me you may have another problem, Fox.”
Super. “What’s that?”
She gently closed the door. “I admit the Avalanche Killer is foremost on my mind.”
As she was lead on the case, that made perfect sense to Fox. He knew what it was like to get lost in solving a problem, in the lab or on the ranch. Another reason not to add a baby to his list of responsibilities.
“Playing a dangerous ‘what if’ game here,” she began. “But if the baby’s mother has been taken, the killer might have dropped the baby on the nearest doorstep.”
Great. Like he didn’t have enough to worry about. “You’re welcome to come out and take a look around. I heard a car on the gravel and a squeak on my porch step.”
“That’s all?”
Her disappointment didn’t come close to matching his frustration.
“The driver drove off without lights. I didn’t hear a crash or see anything on my way into town, but that’s a hard road to navigate in the dark.”
“I’ll come by tomorrow.”
With a nod, Fox climbed into the driver’s seat and headed for home, with a baby. How on earth had this happened? Though his first run at fatherhood was definitely temporary, he found it utterly terrifying.
With sunset painting the horizon in vivid golds and deep indigo, Kelsey Lauder paused at the end of the gravel drive that led to the big red barn. Finally, she’d reached the offices of Foxworth Colton. Two hours late, but she was here.
Being late embarrassed her—so unprofessional—but showing up with her cheeks on fire would make it worse. Everyone who’d learned to drive understood car trouble was never convenient. She’d done all she could to keep Mr. Colton informed with a call to his office that went straight to voice mail and sending a quick email reiterating that she would arrive as soon as possible.
Leaving her car on the side of the road, hazard lights flashing, she’d taken only her purse, eager to move quickly, still hopeful she might be close to on time for her interview. A rideshare service wasn’t an option and although she’d caught a ride with a trucker heading into Roaring Springs with a load of produce, she’d had to hike the last couple of miles to the ranch.
Having made a practice of looking for life’s silver linings, she found the first hopeful glimmer in that sunset and the second in the long hike that led farther away from the town and main roads. She appreciated distance and privacy, having had so little of it in labs and dorms.
Her extended, up-close look at the southern acreage of the Crooked C ranch was even better than she’d expected. Kelsey had done her research online and been thoroughly impressed by the articles and professional pictures, but in person, the property was far more than photogenic spin. She soaked up layer after layer of beautiful views, gorgeous horses, fenced pastures, well-kept barns and buildings and wide-open fields framed by the rugged mountains.
For years she’d been on a quest to achieve her top personal goals of peace and safety. Those warm feelings enveloped her almost from her first step onto the property, as if the ranch itself was gladly accepting her, buffering her from anything untoward. Small fantasies like that buoyed her spirit from one endeavor to the next as she searched for the place where she could sink deep roots.
Would it be here in Roaring Springs breeding quarter horses at the renowned Crooked C? She was about to knock on her idol’s door and find out.
Her nerves jumping, Kelsey pressed her hand to her belly. She paused under the shade of a big tree and pulled out her hair tie. She brushed out her long strawberry-blond hair until the strands were tangle-free again, then she wound it back into a bun to keep it out of her face. She might be late, but she would nail this interview.
Since graduating from college and defending her master’s thesis in equine genetics, she’d been bumping along from one internship or short-term study to the next. Not a bad system and it had given her time to
