She moved against him, getting comfortable. She was so warm and small and soft. She felt good, her tiny body curled into his chest. And she was blessedly quiet. For the moment, anyway.
He stood from his crouch and turned to Michael, who said, “I think you’ve got a knack with babies, Flynt.”
Flynt didn’t reply. What was there to say?
The other half of their foursome emerged from the bushes. “Nothing,” said Spencer. “If the mother was here, she’s not now.”
Tyler frowned. “Wasn’t there a note on the blanket?”
Michael held it out. “Right here.”
Tyler took it and read it aloud. “‘I’m your baby girl. My name is Lena…”’ He passed the note to Spence. “Well, great. Whose baby girl?”
Spence studied the square of paper. “Looks like there was some kind of salutation, somebody’s name. But now it’s water-smeared to nothing but a blotch.”
Tyler shook his head. “So. Great. We’ve got no idea who left her here—let alone who was supposed to find her.”
No one spoke for a moment. At Flynt’s shoulder, Lena hiccuped again, then sighed. He felt her tiny chest expand, felt the warm huff of air against his shirt.
Michael broke the silence. “Whoever left her, I’d guess one of her parents was supposed to find her. After all, the note says ‘I’m your baby girl.”’
Spence was nodding. “It also reads as if whoever it is doesn’t know the baby exists in the first place, doesn’t know he or she has a child.”
Michael grunted. “That’d be a pretty neat trick for a mother—to have a baby without knowing it.”
Spence shrugged. “So more than likely, it was the name of the father on that note.”
“The father,” Tyler added, “who very likely has no clue that he’s a dad.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “You three meet at the clubhouse every Sunday, right? You tee off at six-fifteen and by eight or so you’re always right here, at the ninth tee. Luke Callaghan, too.”
There was another silence, a heavy one. Flynt hardly noticed it. He had no idea what the other three were thinking. And he didn’t care.
His mind had started racing.
Damn. Could it be?
Blue eyes, black hair…
That didn’t match up, not with Josie, anyway. Her hair was the color of moonlight and her eyes were that damned unforgettable green.
Flynt’s hair was a sandy-brown. His eyes were right: blue, like his mother’s and his brother’s. But then again, didn’t most babies start out with blue eyes?
How old was this little girl? He wasn’t much at judging a baby’s age, but she could be two months or so, couldn’t she? That would make the timing right.
With great care, he lowered the baby from his shoulder and cradled her in front of him. She yawned, stuck her fist in her mouth, then pulled it free and seemed to study him, her face a blank, yet somehow infinitely wise.
She looked like…a baby. Small and plump, with a pushed-in nose and a tiny rosebud of a mouth. As for any resemblance—to him, or to Josie Lavender—damned if he could tell.
Still, it was possible….
Because he had not been careful that one forbidden night he’d spent with Josie. He’d screwed up royally that night, in more ways than one.
But why? Why the hell would Josie do this? It wasn’t like her to choose this crazy, irresponsible way to let him know he was a father. Not like her at all.
Yet, it did add up.
He’d sent her away after that night, and he hadn’t seen her since. She’d left town, only returned a few weeks ago—or so he’d heard. Rumor had it her mother was sick again and Josie had come back to care for her.
The rumors had never included anything about a baby, however.
Flynt gently put Lena back on his shoulder. He made eye contact with Tyler—briefly. Then both men looked away. Spence was still staring at the note. Michael was frowning, his dark gaze moving from Spence to Tyler to Flynt and back to Spence again.
Flynt thought they all seemed a little— What? Worried? Sheepish? Could they each, like him, be thinking that, just maybe, the note was meant for him?
No damn way to tell. And whatever might be going through his friends’ minds, Flynt knew what he had to do.
Somewhere in the trees near the cart path, the doves had started cooing again. A yellow bird hopped across the grass and took flight, vanishing into a big waxy-leaved magnolia at the edge of the fairway.
Flynt laid it out for them. “Listen, I’m taking this baby home to the ranch until I can figure out what the hell is going on here.”
The other three men looked at him as if he’d suddenly announced he planned to rob a bank and take a few innocent bystanders hostage.
After a charged moment, Spence asked in a carefully offhand way, “What did you say, there, buddy?”
So he said it again.
Spence looked pained. “Seriously bad idea, with all kinds of negative legal ramifications.” Spence was a lawyer; as a matter of fact, he was the local D.A. “Sorry, man. No way you can just take that baby home with you.”
Flynt curved a protective hand over Lena’s tiny, warm back. “Watch me.”
“Stop,” Spence said. “Think.”
“I am thinking,” Flynt told the lawyer. And he was. He was thinking of Josie Lavender. She could end up in big trouble for abandoning her baby like this—if Lena was her baby, which would mean she was also his baby, which meant he had every right to take her home.
“Come on, Flynt,” Spence said. “You know we have to call the police and get someone out here from Child Protective Services ASAP to take custody.”
“No need for any of that. I told you. I’m taking custody.”
“And I told you—”
“All right,” Flynt cut in before Spence could get rolling. “I’ll lay it right out for you. I have good reason to believe I’m the one that note was meant for, which means this baby is mine.”
The doves had stopped their cooing. The silence echoed. Each of the men seemed to be looking anywhere but in each other’s eyes. A small two-engine plane buzzed by overhead, heading out of the small airstrip at Mission Ridge a few miles away.
Tyler cleared his throat. Michael looked down at his shoes. Spence glanced up at the plane as it soared by overhead, then looked at Flynt—and then away again.
Flynt grew impatient with all those shifting
