“You’ll need to burp her after that bottle,” Police Chief Chance Morgan said, glancing over his shoulder on his way past Bryce Camden’s temporary desk.
Bryce looked down at the tiny baby in the crook of his arm. She barely seemed to weigh anything, her rump resting in the palm of his hand and her tiny hands opening and closing in the rhythm of her drinking. The small Colorado town of Comfort Creek was the remote location of his disciplinary action for having punched a fellow officer in the kisser. He’d arrived that morning with an angry simmer in the pit of his stomach that barely covered the sour taste of humiliation, and the police chief dropped a newborn in his lap.
He’d never burped a baby in his life.
“Is that an order, sir?” Bryce asked.
“Yes.” The chief shot him an amused look. “Consider this part of your sensitivity training.”
The baby had been abandoned at the station in the wee hours of the morning, an out-of-date car seat left on the doorstep. Whoever had left her had pounded on the door and slipped away. When Bryce clocked in for the start of this two-week debacle, they’d immediately put him on baby duty.
So far, sensitivity training looked a whole lot like babysitting, and he’d never been very comfortable around kids, something he had in common with his dad. Some things were hereditary, like the combination of black hair and blue eyes. He was confident that his discomfort with kids came from the same genetic source. His father had been a lousy parent, and he had it on good authority—from his overworked and chronically frustrated mother—that he was just like his old man. And if anyone wanted confirmation on that, they could ask the officer with the split lip.
Christian cops weren’t supposed to go around venting their anger with their fists, no matter how good their reasons, and while he’d never been the preachy type, his faith was pretty common knowledge. On Sunday mornings when he was on shift, he’d stand in uniform at the back of his local church and listen to the sermon from there, his radio dialed down to a whisper. So there were certain expectations when it came to him. When anyone else on the force messed up, there was a well of commiseration. They were all human, and a badge and a gun didn’t change that. But when the Christian cop messed up, there was a little more judgment, a little more surprise. He’d let them all down.
For the last few hours, Bryce had been calling the baby “Piglet.” It just seemed to suit the little thing, and as she drank the last dregs of the bottle, he was forced to stand by the nickname. She released the nipple with a pop and he put the bottle onto the desk, then lifted her gingerly. He’d already been schooled on supporting the downy head, and when he tipped her forward onto his chest, she squirmed again and let out a little whimper of protest.
“Okay—” Bryce patted at the tiny back tentatively. “How do I do this exactly?”
The last few burpings and diaper changes had been taken over by some officers who had kids, so they knew the ropes when it came to infants. Now it was his turn, and no one seemed to pity him. He heard the front door open and close behind him as he attempted to position the baby on his shoulder.
A female voice said, “Where is the baby now?”
He heaved a sigh of relief. Reinforcements were here. That was probably the promised foster care provider. He patted the baby’s back gently, afraid of pummeling the infant too hard. In response, she let out a resounding burp.
“Nice one, Piglet,” he congratulated the infant, and he turned to see who would be relieving him of his duty when he stopped short.
She wasn’t the matronly type that he had anticipated. This woman was young with short-cropped blond hair that swept over her forehead and brought out her big blue eyes. She had a smattering of freckles over her nose, too, that struck him as sweet. A white sundress patterned with stemmed cherries swung around her knees, and she wore a pair of low sling-back heels that completed her feminine look.
“Just over here,” the police chief said. “This is Officer Bryce Camden. He’s here in Comfort Creek for a short time.”
There was a depth of meaning behind those words, and the young woman regarded him with one arched brow. Did she know what that meant—that he was here completing disciplinary action? He gave her a curt nod. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too. I’m Lily Ellison—your temporary foster care.” Her eyes crinkled when she smiled, and her face was transformed from pretty to stunning. “Now, who do we have here?”
“No name provided,” the chief said with a shake of his head. “I suppose you could do the honors, Lily.”
Lily leaned closer to Bryce, a delicate fragrance of vanilla wafting around him momentarily as she slipped the infant out of his arms. Her skin was silky as it brushed against his when she took the baby, obviously more practiced than he was. She smiled down into the baby’s face. “Hi there, cutie. You need a name.”
Lily stood next to Bryce, so close that her skirt brushed his pant leg where he sat at the desk he’d been assigned for the next couple of weeks. A bottle, a cloth and a few diapers sat on the desktop next to him, and he wondered if he should gather them up for her, but he wasn’t sure where she’d even put them, so he left them where they were.
“What have you been calling her?” Lily asked, glanced down at Bryce.
“I’ve been calling her Piglet.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s awful.”
“Wait till you see her go to town on a bottle,” he retorted.
“How about Emily? If I ever have a little girl, I want to name her that, so I could share it, I suppose.” Lily looked down at the baby again. “Little Emily. Does that suit you?”
When the police chief headed off toward his office to grab the paperwork, Bryce eyed her speculatively.
“You look really young for this,” he said.
“For what?” she asked, brushing some hair out of her eyes.
“Foster care. Normally foster moms are—” he paused, uncertain how to say this delicately “—more mature.”
In his experience, foster moms were a tough lot of women—they had to be. Sometimes they had raised large families of their own, and they’d seen a lot, been through the wringer with the system more than once. They knew what troubled kids looked like, and their big hearts took thorough beatings.
“I’ve helped raise four younger brothers,” she said. “I’m qualified. Trust me.”
“Four.” He joked, “I’m sorry. That sounds painful.”
Her expression melted into a more relaxed smile. “You think you’re funny, but you haven’t met my brothers. So, you’re Bryce Camden?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re staying at my bed-and-breakfast.” She turned her attention back to the baby, although her words were meant for him. “Two weeks, paid in full. You’re my first guest, actually. I assume
