Daddy Daycare. Laura Altom Marie

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      The only way he’d gotten the apparently spoiled dogs outside was by flinging bologna onto the back porch as bait, then shooing them outside and shutting the door. Technically he wasn’t sure whether they’d made it to the shed or not. But they were dogs. What was the worst that could happen if they spent a summer night outside?

      His mind’s eye flashed on those dog pics.

      Then guilt settled in. The night was over now. No sense in rushing downstairs to let them in. But assuming they didn’t chew anything, maybe they could come inside on probationary terms.

      Travis reluctantly finished lathering and rinsing, then dressed in navy slacks, starched white shirt and red tie. In deference to his casual setting, he skipped the suit jacket. Always one step ahead of him, his receptionist had phoned his housekeeper and asked her to pack Travis a week’s clothing, then meet him at the airport.

      Libby had woken only once during the night, and after a quick feeding and diaper change she’d fallen right off to sleep.

      In her nursery he flicked on the crystal lamp topping the dresser, then crept to her ultragirlie crib. She looked so content amongst the fuzzy pink blanket and pink gingham sheets and crib bumper that he hated waking her. He’d been surprised to see the bumper and blanket, as they’d been gifts from him. Picked from a catalogue and shipped with a brief note, maybe they hadn’t held as much sentimental value as, say, a gift Marlene had received at her shower, but he was glad all the same that she’d at least liked them enough to have put them to use.

      “Hey, sleepyhead,” he crooned, scooping up his niece only to tuck her against his chest. How come he didn’t smell this great in the morning? The scent of her pink lotion and the no-tears shampoo he’d used for her bath the previous night was still strong.

      She gurgled, then fell right back asleep against him.

      For a split second, unsure what to do, he vacillated between calling his secretary or, even better, Kit. But in the end he knew he’d have to start figuring out how to be a parent sooner rather than later. Besides, what if he’d called the emergency number Kit had left and Levi answered? The guy was nice and all. But Kit was one of those women who was hot but in a squeaky-clean, Mother Goose sort of way. Travis didn’t much approve of her being in bed with any man—let alone a hardware store owner. Even if the guy was her fiancé.

      Okay, then, he thought, gingerly heading down the stairs. Who would he approve of Kit being in bed with?

      Offhand, no one.

      He didn’t have a clue why, but part of him felt proprietary where she was concerned, as if he’d had dibs on her under that mulberry tree all those years ago, and again at the swimming hole and even on her own bed the time her folks had gone to Little Rock for their anniversary weekend. Bottom line, if he couldn’t have her, then no one else should.

      Ridiculous, but there you have it. As if any of the rest of his current life made the slightest sense.

      In the kitchen he switched on the light, then eyed his sleeping charge. What was the protocol on morning feedings? Did he wake Libby to feed her? Or once he scoped out the daycare, would he find a spare crib for her to crash in? Even if there was a crib, would there be a blanket?—an appropriately soft and fuzzy one?

      Shaking his head, he tromped back up the stairs for the pink one from Libby’s crib, then tucked it around her chubby bare legs and arms.

      Back downstairs, it occurred to him that sometime during the day she’d probably need a diaper change. And what if it got cold? Sure it was June, but you never knew.

      Back upstairs, he shoved a few diapers and the wipes in an oversize pink canvas tote dotted with dancing hippos. In case of sudden frost, he grabbed a mini coat and sweater from the cedar-lined closet. From the dresser he snagged three pairs of white socks. All of his finds in the bag, he repositioned Libby to his left shoulder, slung the bag over his right, then took off again for the kitchen.

      Okay, back to the food issue. Now or later?

      Taking a peek at Libby under the blanket—save for a small airhole, he’d put it over her head, since all those blowing air conditioners had made the house chilly—he didn’t think she looked all that hungry, so he just grabbed a few bologna slices for himself.

      After adding three cans of formula, a can opener and a handful of bottle liners to the diaper bag, he was almost out the door when he figured the actual bottles might also be a good idea.

      He took the key ring labeled Barn from the rack, then aimed for the door, when the phone rang.

      He jumped, as did Libby, who then started to cry.

      “Crap,” he said, picking up the phone. “Yes?”

      “I take it you’re not a morning person?” Kit asked, her chipper tone a disgustingly happy cross between sunshine and daffodils.

      “Sure I am,” he said, jiggling a still-whimpering Libby back to sleep. “After a gallon of coffee and a six-mile jog.”

      “Six miles?” she whistled. “Impressive.”

      Why did he get the feeling she was mocking him? “There a reason you called?”

      “Just wanted to make sure you’re up. And to apologize for you having to work the early shift. Or, for that matter, having to work at all. I promise to find you a replacement ASAP.”

      “It’s not a problem,” he said. “If I can handle million-dollar mergers, I can handle a few little kids.”

      WAAAAAAAAAAA!

      “I want Mooooom-meeeeee!”

      Waaaahuh! Waaaahuh!

      “That’s not the way you do it,” said eight-year-old Lincoln Groves, who would, with any luck, march his know-it-all behind onto the IdaBelle Falls day-camp bus at seven-fifteen. As for Candy Craig, she’d called at six-ten to say she wouldn’t be in at all. Travis had then phoned Kit, but she was at a center in the next county.

      “Okay, then,” Travis bellowed above the racket caused by two howling babies and a freaked-out preschooler. Pausing before slashing the entire top from the packet of toaster-strudel icing, he asked, “How about telling me the right way to open this before your little sister blows her last gasket?”

      The freckle-faced kid with Batman glasses took the blunt-nosed scissors and the icing, calmly clipping the corner off the package before returning it to Travis. “Now you can draw her stupid hearts and flowers. Otherwise it would’ve gushed out in a big globbery pile.” Shoving his glasses up his nose, he added, “She won’t eat it if it doesn’t have hearts and flowers.”

      Eyeing the packet, then the kid, Travis figured Lincoln had a point on the smaller hole making for a more efficient drawing tool. Hmph. Learn something new every day. “Thanks.”

      “Uh-huh.” Lincoln patted his little sis on her back.

      A few seconds later Travis had drawn some semblance of a heart and a flower on Clara’s pastry, then plopped it on a paper plate and handed it to her.

      For an all too brief instant she looked down at it, then up at him, then started screaming all over again. “This isn’t right! I want Mooooooom-meeeeeee!”

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