longer between feedings at night.”
“She takes a bottle at night, too?”
“She sleeps through most of the night but wakes up around five in the morning for a feeding. The good news is she goes right back to sleep after that, and usually doesn’t wake up again until about eight.”
No wonder the mystery detective was ready to hand the infant off to him. She was probably sleep deprived. Only what kind of mother would trust a man like him with their child?
Either Detective Brittany Garner had no idea what he was like or she was one totally irresponsible mother.
“I need to go to Houston and talk to Detective Garner,” he said. “I hate to ask, Hadley, but if you’d watch Kimmie just for another day or two, until I can get the paternity test and sort all this out, I’d really appreciate it.”
“You want me to take her back to the Dry Gulch Ranch?”
“Just for a few days.”
“I can manage that.”
“But no more than a few days,” R.J. cautioned. “If Kimmie turns out to be your biological daughter, then she’s your responsibility. Yours and the mother who dropped her off like a stray kitten.”
R.J. was a fine one to give advice on parenting. Cannon was willing to bet he’d never in his life changed a diaper or gotten up at five in the morning to poke a bottle at a crying infant.
If the test came back positive—which he was almost certain it wouldn’t—Cannon would at least make a stab at being a dad. There had to be a book that would help.
Sure, parenting by the book. About like a guidebook could teach a man how to stay on a mad, bucking bull for eight seconds.
“Are you driving back to Dallas tonight?” Cannon asked.
“We’re flying back,” R.J. said. “Tague Lambert, one of our neighbors, flew us down in his private jet. He’s waiting at the small airport just west of town.”
“So if you’ll just take Kimmie with you, I’ll drive to the ranch when I finish my business with Brit Garner,” Cannon reiterated.
“You can fly back with us,” R.J. offered. “Get the testing done in Dallas, might even be able to schedule it for tomorrow. Then you can wait until you have the facts to contact Kimmie’s mother. You can use one of the vehicles at the ranch to take care of business.”
“I don’t go anywhere without my pickup truck,” Cannon said, dismissing the offer. The less time he spent around R.J. the better.
The conversation dried up and died while his mind searched for reasons this baby couldn’t be his and why some woman was trying to screw him over.
Once Kimmie had her fill and spit the nipple from her tiny, heart-shaped lips, Hadley set the almost empty nursing bottle on the table and shifted the baby in her arms. “Don’t you want to at least hold her and say hello before we go?”
Cannon shook his head, though he figured it made him look like a jerk. “I’ve never held a baby before. I’m afraid I’d do it wrong and hurt her.”
“You won’t.” Hadley stood and walked to his side of the booth. “Stand up and hold out your arms. I’ll show you how to cradle her.”
He stood, but kept his arms to his sides. “I don’t think I should....”
“Nonsense.” Hadley handed the baby off to him.
He took her reluctantly, standing stiffly while she fit the baby into his arms.
Kimmie’s eyes fluttered, eyes the same general color as his, only lighter. Cannon’s breath caught in his throat.
The infant was practically weightless, but not still. She squirmed and started to fuss as if she knew he didn’t have a clue what he was doing. At least she was smart.
Cannon touched her chin with a fingertip. Her skin was as soft as silk. She made a gurgling noise and kicked and swung her little arms like a wind-up toy.
Her short, chubby fingers somehow caught and wrapped around the one he’d used to touch her cheek. An emotion he didn’t recognize shot through him and settled in his heart.
He had never been more afraid in his life.
* * *
BY THE TIME Cannon returned to his hotel room, the shock had worn off enough that the aches and pains had checked back in. He headed straight for a shower, shedding his clothes as he went. For the first time he noticed the rip in his jeans and the dirt stains blotching his Western shirt.
Stripped naked by the time he reached the bathroom, he glanced in the mirror. The area around his rib cage was already turning an ugly shade of purple.
Macabre was no doubt sleeping comfortably in his stall, probably dreaming of what he’d do to the next sucker crazy enough to climb on his back.
Cannon turned the knobs on the shower until the spray was steamy hot. He stepped in and let the water sluice over his head and run down his aching body.
He closed his eyes, but the relief he’d hoped for didn’t come. Instead, an image of Kimmie rocked his mind. Could she possibly be his daughter? He racked his brain trying to remember his schedule for last December.
Nothing stood out. His life was a steady stream of rodeos and towns he barely saw except for the arenas where the action took place. After years on the circuit, they ran together like gravy ladled over a plate of biscuits and sausage.
He remembered the big events. Dallas. Austin. Houston. San Antonio. Phoenix. Las Vegas. Hell, he even made it up to Montana on occasion. It all depended on the points he needed and how big the purse was.
There had been women. Not that many, but a few. Never married ones, at least not knowingly. And he stayed clear of the underage buckle bunnies who hung around the arenas and flirted shamelessly with any cowboy who’d give them the time of day. Plenty did. They could get a man in big trouble.
More to the point, he kept a supply of condoms handy—just in case.
The way he saw it, there was damned little chance that Kimmie was his daughter.
So why had he felt that quake deep in his gut when Kimmie had accidentally latched on to his finger? Couldn’t be because he had some kind of secret longing to father a child.
He had his future all planned out. His winnings from the rodeo were his ticket to making it happen. A kid would put the skids on his dreams faster than a bull could clear the chute.
He should call Brittany Garner tonight and tell her she had the wrong man.
No. Better to see her face-to-face. If he had sex with her, he’d surely remember her once he was looking at her. If he’d been sober enough to get it up, then his brain cells should have been functioning at least at a minuscule level.
He soaped his body, gingerly, especially over the bruised flesh. Then he rinsed and stepped out of the shower. He grabbed one of the bleached white towels from the shelf and wrapped
