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what she said that he had to do.
Once that was accomplished, she had him throw away the used wipes. Then she handed him the diaper rash ointment and told him to gently rub it on. And then, she showed him how to fold a diaper into the slots on the pair of plastic pants. Finally she had him take Becky’s little feet and lift up her bottom and slide the diaper and plastic pants underneath her.
After that, it was pretty simple. He folded the sides up and pressed the Velcro tapes together.
“Now,” she said, “we’ll wrap her back up nice and cozy in this light blanket and you can hold her for a few minutes. I’ll stick a bottle in warm water. Be back in a flash.”
She was gone before he could order her to stay. A dim light went on somewhere in the playroom.
How long did it take to warm up a bottle?
Too long, more than likely.
Becky looked like she might just start crying again. So he picked her up very carefully and put her on his shoulder the way Ms. Miller had shown him before. And then he stood there, feeling like ten kinds of oafish idiot, patting her little back and listening to Ms. Miller in the other room, bustling around in there, doing whatever had to be done to get Becky’s nighttime snack ready.
Becky made a little, experimental sort of fussy sound.
He did not want her starting to yowl in his ear. Maybe if he rocked her…
Yes. That would be good. Babies liked rocking. Didn’t they?
He carried her to the rocker and carefully lowered the two of them into it. He rocked very gently, thinking that would be more soothing, though he felt just frantic enough to keep having to remind himself not to pick up speed.
Becky whined. And then she cried. She also burped. He felt that. It was a wet burp and it made a warm, soggy spot on his shirt. That was when he remembered that he should have put a diaper on his shoulder before holding a baby there.
He went on rocking.
Becky went on crying.
And finally, Ms. Miller reappeared with a bottle.
He didn’t know whether to hug her or yell at her.
She went to the rows of shelves over the changing area and got the diaper that he’d forgotten to use. And then, finally, she padded over to him on her pretty white feet. She set the bottle on the little table by the rocker.
“Here,” she said, calm and competence personified. Gently she peeled Becky off his shoulder.
He looked up at her. “What now?”
“Now you can feed her.”
He started to argue, just on principle. But then he thought that feeding her might not be near as bad as rocking her while she wailed. She’d have a bottle in her mouth, right? And that meant she’d be quiet.
So he allowed Ms. Miller to lay his daughter in his arms, then to hand him the bottle. The rest was easy. He touched the nipple to Becky’s mouth and she latched on and started sucking away.
Piece of cake.
He grinned down at her, pleased with himself, pleased with Becky—and also pleased, though he probably shouldn’t have allowed himself to be, with Ms. Miller.
“You’ve got drool on that nice blue shirt,” Ms. Miller said softly.
He smiled down at his gorgeous, hungry daughter. “Breaks of the game.”
“Here.” She bent close. She smelled warm and sweet, of woman and baby lotion and some faint, light perfume. She smoothed the diaper on his shoulder. He didn’t even realize he’d stopped rocking until she pulled away and he lost the scent of her. Slowly, cautiously, he started the chair moving back and forth again.
“When she’s done, burp her—you remember how to do that?”
He didn’t look up. It seemed safer that way.
She continued, “Then put her in the crib again. On her back. Tuck her in nice and cozy. You think you can handle that?”
He wanted to say, “Maybe not. Maybe you’d better stay…” But where the hell would that get them? She was a smart-mouthed, well-meaning social services worker from Anywhere, Oklahoma. The kind who married, settled down with one guy forever and raised a passel of kids. And he was a man with no interest in anything that had settling down in it—let alone forever.
All right. He’d admit it. She held a certain…attraction for him. He didn’t understand it, because he never dated the homey, settling-down type. Not ever. And he never went after the help. It was a cardinal rule with him.
He didn’t understand it.
But did he even need to understand it?
He realized he didn’t, since he knew it would pass. His interest in any one woman always did. It would be the same with Ms. Miller—except that, in her case, he would never lay a hand on her. She’d teach him the things he needed to know about taking care of his little girl. And she’d find her own replacement, someone steady and dependable, someone minus the leaf-green eyes and the chestnut hair, the shapely feet and the virginal but see-through white nightgown.
“Mr. Stockwell, can you handle it?”
He looked up at her then. “Where were you born, Ms. Miller?”
She hesitated, but then she did tell him. “Oologah. That’s in—”
“I know where Oologah is. Birthplace of Will Rogers. Have I got it right?” She nodded. He asked, “What did your daddy do?”
Another hesitation. Then a sigh. “He ran a gas station. I was pretty little, but I still remember those gasoline trucks pulling into our station to fill up the tanks. They had your name on the side of them. Stockwell Oil.”
“Your folks still live there, in Oologah?”
Something happened in her face, a barrier descending behind those green eyes. “No, Mr. Stockwell. They do not. And you haven’t answered my question. Do you think you can put Becky to bed by yourself?”
“Yes, Ms. Miller. I believe that I can.”
“The monitor’s on the windowsill. I’ve got the receiver in my room. Just speak up if you need me.”
He held her gaze for much longer than necessary before he answered, “Thanks. But I’m sure I can manage just fine on my own.”
She turned for the door. He glanced down at Becky. Looking at his daughter kept him from watching the bit of white gown that fell below the hem of her robe, and the outline of Ms. Miller’s calves beneath it, not to mention the unconscious invitation in her gently swaying hips as she walked away from him.
Chapter Five
Kate Stockwell called Hannah on the house line at eight the next morning. “Is she awake? I thought I’d stop in before I go down to breakfast.”
Hannah smiled. “Yes, she is.”
Not five minutes later, Kate breezed into the nursery. “Okay, I’m here. Do I get to hold her?”
Hannah passed the baby over, and Kate gathered her close. Whatever shadows Hannah had seen in those deep blue eyes the evening before had been banished, apparently, with the new day.
Kate sat in the rocker and cooed to her niece. She was wearing a silk pantsuit that must have cost more than Hannah brought home in a month. However, like her brother, Kate didn’t seem to care in the least if Becky drooled all over her designer duds.
Eventually Kate spared a glance for Hannah. “Interviewing for your replacement today?”
Hannah lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Maybe. I should at least get the ads in the papers and call the agencies. The agencies might manage to get some applicants over here today—and