The Doctor's Second Chance. Missy Tippens
eyes, she stared at the baby.
Had she been crying or— “Are you high?”
She sighed. “No, I’ve been clean for a year.”
“Then come on, don’t be talking crazy.”
“You owe me, Jake.”
He’d heard those words the last time she’d popped into town—long enough to steal his wallet. “I don’t owe you anything.” His conscience pricked. Maybe he did. Maybe he was the whole reason for her problems.
A freebie diaper bag plastered with hospital and baby product logos slid down her shoulder. She plunked it on the floor, the gesture so final he flinched.
“You’re not leaving that baby here with me,” Jake said. “Take her to your parents.”
“No, I want you to raise her, and I put a letter in her bag saying so.”
A quick glance at Remy’s stomach showed her as thin as ever. “You are her mother...aren’t you?”
She nodded.
“And the father?”
“He died. No family.” She drew in a stuttering breath. “All her papers are in the bag, including a medical consent form.”
“Come on. Let’s sit down and talk this out. You have other options.”
One tear slid down her cheek, and she slapped it away, her expression remaining stony. “Don’t you dare let her down.” She glared at Jake, her eyes full of agony. “You’re the responsible one, the good kid, remember?”
Words his aunt and uncle, who’d raised him, had always said about him as they’d measured their rebellious daughter against his be-good-so-they’ll-keep-me behavior.
Remy reached out as if she wanted to touch her daughter but shoved her hands into the pockets of her wrinkled jeans instead, her gaze so full of longing it made Jake’s chest hurt.
“Come on, let me fix you some dinner,” he said, trying to sound friendly, upbeat. “I’ll make your favorite. We’ll talk.”
“You can’t make everything all better with a peanut butter and banana sandwich anymore, Jake. Now I need you to take care of her.”
“Come on, Rem.”
“Promise me.”
“Remy.”
“I mean it.” Desperation flashed in her widened eyes. “Promise.”
What could he do? Refuse? “I promise.”
She turned and strode out the front door and down the steps toward an ancient beat-up sedan.
The hot July sun on the western horizon forced him to shield his eyes. “Where are you going?” he called. “You need help, Remy.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m just not mother material.” She climbed in the car and started the engine.
Torn, he glanced back inside the house, afraid to leave the baby alone. He quickly went back to grab the carrier. By the time he made it outside, his cousin had peeled out of the driveway and sped down the street, too far away to catch the license plate number.
Tension in his neck sent throbbing pain to his head. With a palm mashed against his temple, he watched her vehicle slip into the distance.
He didn’t know a thing about babies. He had a construction company to run. Had to be on site the next day. Not a place for infants.
Loud squalling dragged his attention back to the child, her chin quivering, fists and feet pumping.
Yes, there was a nearly newborn baby in his grasp. A baby he was now responsible for. And she was crying her little head off, turning wrinkled and red.
“Lord, help me.” He headed back inside and set the carrier on the couch.
The little gal was buckled in some sort of car seat contraption with straps that looked like something from a race car. It took him a minute to figure out the harness. He finally worked her out of it and very carefully lifted her to his chest, gasping when he realized just how tiny she was. “You’re no bigger than a minute.”
She seemed so...breakable. As she cried, she rooted against his rough work shirt, dirty from the job site. He moved her to the crook of his arm, terrified he would lose his grip. Like holding a football, he reassured himself.
He rocked his arms a bit, and the crying stopped. She seemed to try to focus on his face, yet he wasn’t even sure she could see him.
Such delicate features. And that head full of wispy black hair so much like Remy’s made her seem even more vulnerable. His heart warmed. But fear, yes, fear prevailed. What would he do with a little baby?
“I don’t even know your name.”
With a mewl, she scrunched up her face again. Was she in pain? Was all this crying normal?
His heart jammed up in his throat. He needed help. Someone to check her out to make sure she was okay. Someone to tell him what to do—at least until he could track down Remy to insist she come back and get the baby.
Surely Remy would come back to get her daughter.
Think, Jake. Calm down and think.
First, the baby needed to be checked by a doctor. But Jake’s uncle, the town pediatrician, had recently sold the practice and was living in south Florida.
The new pediatrician? Jake hated to take his tiny charge to Violet Crenshaw. Just thinking her name made his blood pressure shoot up. The doctor had come in with her big-city lawyer, negotiating his uncle and aunt down to a rock-bottom price, practically stealing the struggling business from them at a time when they were worn down from dealing with Remy’s problems and disappearance.
The baby’s peeping threatened to turn to a wail. As he grabbed the diaper bag and dug through it looking for a bottle, his movements seemed to soothe her and stalled a full-blown fit.
Bouncing to keep her moving, he located several bottles. All empty. Then he discovered a can of formula. “Yes!” He shook it.
Powder?
The baby couldn’t drink powder, so was Jake supposed to add water or milk? And did he need to boil it first? He twisted the can to read the label.
Another mewl sounded, and then she revved up like a band saw.
The little thing sure had a set of lungs on her.
Was something hurting her?
Shoving aside resentment of the new pediatrician, he returned the child to her car seat and quickly rebuckled her. Slinging the diaper bag over his shoulder, he headed to his truck.
He opened the back door of the crew cab, set the carrier on the seat and tried over and over to figure out where the seat belt was supposed to attach. The car seat appeared to be yard-sale quality, scratched and tattered, and if there had ever been instructions, they were worn off.
Doing the best he could, Jake got the seat strapped in and prayed for a safe drive.
As much as it galled him, he needed Violet Crenshaw’s help. And badly.
* * *
Violet Crenshaw bid her assistant and receptionist goodbye and locked the door behind them. Then she stepped into her office, which was blessedly quiet, to enter figures into the computer. The tiny, utilitarian room hadn’t been updated in years, probably decades. Rickety metal desk, worn-out computer chair, plain two-by-four wooden shelves spray-painted and set on brackets, boring beige walls. Violet’s mother would have a conniption if she saw it. Would insist on calling in her favorite decorator to gut it and start fresh.
Of course, Violet’s mother wouldn’t see this office. Wouldn’t see her cute rental home, either.