Baby 101. Marisa Carroll
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wrapping presents to give to another woman’s child.
At the top of the stairs the hall was dark, the window at the far end painted over. It might as well be the middle of the night. What if it wasn’t a homeless young mother on the other side of the transom-topped door, but a drug-crazed kidnapper? If that was the case, then she was not only foolish but plumb crazy to do what she was about to do. She put her ear against the panel, heard nothing, then stepped back, took a deep breath and knocked with the end of the bat. If some wild-eyed, wild-haired psycho opened the door, she’d grab the child, kneecap the bad guy with the Louisville Slugger and take off running like a bat out of hell.
She stepped into the shadows and waited.
“Who’s there?” A male voice, low and rough with a hint of cowboy drawl, came from behind the closed door.
“Lana Lord.” Her hands were shaking, her knees wobbly, but her brothers had taught her the best defense was a good offense. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” she demanded.
The door opened and sunlight spilled out, framing the man standing before her. He wasn’t particularly tall, an inch or so under six feet, but broad-shouldered and well-muscled. Strong enough to make short work of Lana and her baseball bat despite the tiny baby he held cradled against his chest with one long-fingered hand. But it was also obvious he wasn’t a deranged kidnapper. He was wearing chinos and a blue dress shirt with the collar open and the sleeves rolled past his wrists. The baby was holding a handful of his shirtfront in his tiny fist. The cotton was damp, as though the baby had spit up on him and he’d tried to wipe away the stain.
“I wasn’t imagining things. I did hear a baby crying.” Lana couldn’t take her eyes off the infant. So tiny, so fragile, especially in contrast to the hard wall of the man’s chest.
“That’s all he seems to do. Cry.”
“You’re holding him wrong,” Lana blurted.
“What are you, some kind of expert?” Dark brows drew together over eyes whose color she couldn’t quite make out.
“In a way. I own the baby store downstairs. And I’ve done a lot of baby-sitting in my day.” In fact, she and Beth had worked summers and weekends at a day-care center all the way through college. Her hands itched to reach out and touch the little one. “But that doesn’t answer my question. Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“My name’s Dylan Van Zandt, and I own the building.”
“You’re Van Zandt Development Corporation?”
“In the flesh. Look. Thanks for checking up on us. It’s good to know I have such conscientious tenants. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see to my son.”
Lana usually spoke her mind, and this was no exception. “I think it’s time you take your son home. Whatever you’re doing up here in the dust and dirt can wait until tomorrow.”
His frown deepened. “We are home.”
“What?”
“You heard me. This is our home.”
“But…here?” She couldn’t quite see over his shoulder into the room behind him. “No one told me—” She’d been away from the store since Friday afternoon. She’d spent the weekend at her brother Garrett’s ranch and hadn’t returned to Austin until early that morning to collect her gifts for the birthday celebration.
“I haven’t exactly had time to send out engraved announcements.” The baby screamed. Dylan Van Zandt didn’t budge, just stood there stiff and unmoving.
Lana leaned the baseball bat against the door frame, tucked the little flashlight into her pocket, and held out her arms. “Let me have him.”
“What?”
“I said let me have him. He’s probably afraid you’re going to drop him.” She wiggled her fingers. “Come here, sweetheart.”
Still frowning, Dylan let her take the child. The infant was tiny, a newborn, light as a feather in her arms. Where is his mother? She wanted to ask but didn’t. Instead she cuddled him against her breast, one hand under his bottom, one hand gently patting his back. He didn’t stop crying. His legs were drawn stiffly up against his belly, his face screwed into a scowl that was a perfect match for his father’s.
Dylan Van Zandt stood aside and let her precede him into the apartment. And it was a residence, not unused office space as the real estate agent had led her to believe. The ceilings were high, with ornate plaster cornices. A small marble fireplace graced one wall. Light streamed onto the hardwood floor, dulled by years of neglect, from long windows that looked onto Kings Avenue. The room was empty except for half a dozen cardboard packing boxes piled in the middle.
“This way.” Dylan Van Zandt gestured toward another doorway. It led into the kitchen, Lana discovered. Green and white thirties-era linoleum covered the floor. Glass-fronted cupboards reached to the ceiling above a granite countertop. The refrigerator was so old it had a round compressor on the top, but it was humming away. The gas stove belonged in a museum. A brand-new microwave oven was on the counter, probably because the gas had been shut off up here years ago. She wondered if the water was also shut off. There was no way he could take care of a baby properly with no water and no heat or air-conditioning, although it was surprisingly cool in the big high-ceilinged rooms.
The kitchen was long and narrow. A small table and two chairs sat in one corner. An overstuffed recliner, a man’s chair, held pride of place by the window. Beside it an end table held a lamp, a combination radio and CD player and long metal tubes that looked as if they contained blueprints or architect’s drawings. The bathroom was directly ahead of her. She could see the corner of a claw-footed tub and a pedestal sink with a black leather shaving kit on the rim. The only baby items in view were a diaper bag and a glass bottle of formula with a screw-on nipple top like the ones they gave new mothers when they left the hospital. And a top-of-the-line infant carrier, draped with yellow and blue blankets.
“He doesn’t like you holding him any better than he does me,” Dylan said over his son’s continuing screams. He was standing behind her, and she couldn’t tell if she heard frustration or anger in his tone.
She turned. “He’s colicky. Does he cry like this often?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I…I haven’t been around him that much. He’s only been out of the hospital two weeks. He was a preemie. He weighed three and a half pounds when he was born.”
Lana took a closer look at the baby. “How old is he now?”
“Ten weeks.”
“He’s so tiny.” The sound of her voice penetrated the infant’s self-absorbed misery. He opened cornflower blue eyes and stared at her for a long moment while Lana held her breath. He was the most beautiful baby she’d ever seen. Perfect little ears, creamy skin, a button nose and silky hair the color of winter sunshine.
He didn’t look anything like the dark-haired, hawk-nosed man in front of her. Maybe he had kidnapped the child, after all.
“What do you do for colic?” Dylan was asking her.
“What?”
“How do I stop him from crying?”
“You really don’t know anything about babies, do you?”
“No.” There was no smile, no self-effacing shrug to soften the denial.
What if he was a kidnapper, after all? Maybe he was in the middle of a nasty custody battle with the child’s mother. It happened. You read about it all the time. What had she gotten herself into? Lana looked at his hands. He was wearing a plain gold wedding band. He caught her looking at him. Followed the path of her gaze. Something of what she was thinking must have shown on her face.
“My mom’s been taking care of him. She fell