feet.
He looked down and damned if there wasn’t one of those baby carriers by the door. And damned if the wailing wasn’t coming from a real live kid!
As he stood there, too stunned to react, the headlight beams shifted, arcing across the porch as the driver swung the vehicle around.
Sebastian charged down the porch steps. “Hold on! You can’t leave a baby here like some stray dog! Come back, damn your hide! How’m I supposed to know what to do with a damned baby?” He ran a fruitless few yards, memorizing the license plate before he gave up and headed back to the porch, where the baby was still crying.
He let loose a string of oaths, his breath frosting the air as he stomped up the steps. If this didn’t take the cake. Sure, he’d had the usual puppies and kittens dropped at his place. City folks seemed to think a ranch was like the local Humane Society, the perfect place to leave unwanted pets. But a baby! He couldn’t get his mind around the concept.
At least he had noted the license plate of the car. Not that anyone who would do such a thing deserved to have the kid back. He’d like to see them prosecuted, though, and that was reason enough to see they were tracked down. For the time being, he’d better get this little bundle into the house where it was warm.
He started to reach for the infant seat, and in the soft glow of the porch light noticed a note was pinned to the baby’s blanket.
“Sebastian?” Charlotte, barefoot and wearing only his bathrobe, approached the open front door. “Do I hear a baby out there?”
Sebastian picked up the red-faced, crying infant in its carrier and walked into the house. “Somebody dropped it off,” he said, disbelief lacing his words. “Just drove up here, unloaded the kid and took off.”
Charlotte backed up, a wary look on her face. “Why would they do a thing like that?”
“How should I know?” He shoved the door closed with one booted foot and switched on the overhead light by the front door with his elbow. “There’s a note.”
“I hate crying babies,” Charlotte said.
“You’d cry, too, if somebody just left you on the porch.” Sebastian leaned closer to read the slip of paper and his breath caught. This was no random drop-off. The note was specifically addressed to him. His gaze cut to the signature. Jessica. He hadn’t seen her in months, not since his birthday last year. Eleven months ago. His heart rate skyrocketed and cold sweat trickled down his spine. He peered at the little red face, but he was no judge of how old a baby was.
“What does the note say?” Charlotte asked.
Sebastian was afraid to read it. God, he’d been drunk that night. They’d all been drunker than skunks—him, Travis and Boone. But not Jessica. She’d good-naturedly driven them back to their rented cabin near the ski lodge, given them all vitamins to ward off a hangover and pushed them toward their individual beds. They’d flirted with her outrageously. He remembered pulling her down to the bed as she tucked him in, teasing her for a kiss….
“Sebastian, you’re driving me nuts! What does the blasted note say?”
With the baby still crying, he forced himself to read it.
Dear Sebastian,
I’m counting on you to be a godfather to my little Elizabeth until I can return for her. Your generosity and kindness are exactly what she needs right now. Believe me, dear friend, I wouldn’t do this if I weren’t in desperate circumstances. Please don’t contact the authorities. It’s best if no one knows where Elizabeth is.
In deepest gratitude,
Jessica
A godfather. She didn’t say he was the father, only that she wanted him to be a godfather to this little baby. Maybe this kid was older than she looked. But the fact remained that Jessica was in trouble, and she’d delivered her baby to his doorstep. That was pretty damned incriminating.
“Well?” Charlotte’s impatience was obvious.
He glanced at her. “Know anything about babies?”
She held up a hand and backed up a couple more steps. “Not a thing, sugar, except how you make one.” She tilted her head toward the wailing child. “Did you make this one?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s what they all say. Funny how amnesia strikes when a guy faces a moment like this.”
That did it. He really didn’t like Charlotte. “Well, whether I am or not, I have to make her stop crying.” He carried the infant seat over to the sofa and set it down.
“Her?”
“Her name’s Elizabeth.” He worked at the straps holding the baby in and finally got them undone. Then he paused, realizing that didn’t solve anything because he didn’t know what to do next. He should probably pick her up, but he was afraid to. She was so small, and so red in the face. He leaned toward her. “Don’t cry, Elizabeth, honey. Don’t cry, okay?”
Elizabeth didn’t seem to understand. She opened her mouth wide and cried louder. Nothing wrong with her lungs, at least.
“I’m getting dressed and skedaddling out of here.” Charlotte headed toward the bedroom. “I can’t take this.”
“Wait!” Panic rose in him. “You can’t leave me alone with her!”
Charlotte turned back to him. “Look, I’m no good with babies. Never wanted any and never learned what to do with them. I suggest you call somebody who knows what they’re doing. Or drive her in to see Doc Harrison in Huerfano.”
“I can’t—” He started to say he couldn’t tell anybody about the baby yet, until he’d figured out if he was the father. But that was ridiculous. He had to find someone to help him take care of her, and fast. “Look, you’re a woman. You must be better at this than me. At least show me how to pick her up. I’ve never held a kid this young.”
“That makes two of us, bud. You’d better call somebody. I’m getting dressed.” With that she whirled and went into the bedroom.
About the only bright spot Sebastian could see in the situation was that he hadn’t made love to Charlotte, a woman he really, really didn’t like. Otherwise, he couldn’t remember being this confused, clumsy and uncertain in his life, except maybe the time he faced the row of girls lined up on the far side of the gym at the eighth-grade social. He didn’t think he should even touch this baby without washing his hands first. He might be carrying some deadly germ.
So he patted her where the blanket covered her up, but his pats seemed to have no effect. She was getting very red in the face. He couldn’t see her eyes because they were squeezed shut. Her head was covered with some knit thing that reminded him of the cover on a golf club, and her hands, the tiniest hands he’d ever seen in his life, were clenched and waving in the air.
Charlotte reappeared, tugging on her wool coat. As she buttoned it, she gazed at him and shook her head. Finally she sighed and stomped into the kitchen.
Hope surged through him. She was going to get something, do something, work some feminine
