Cowboy In Charge. Barbara Daille White

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       Chapter Two

      Jason froze. Wasn’t it bad enough to have the kid yelling and fending him off as if he were a tiger ready to pounce? He didn’t need Layne standing there looking at him as if she considered him something much worse.

      With a jerky movement, he showed her the yellow plastic pacifier he was holding. “I didn’t know how long you’d be, and she looked like she was getting ready to start bawling up a storm again.”

      “Again?”

      Confusion replaced her rebellious tone, making him swallow his irritation. She must not have recovered from her earlier fainting spell as completely as he’d thought she had. He nodded. “She was crying when I carried you in here and going even stronger when you bolted.”

      “Oh.” Still looking shaky, she started across the room.

      “Sit on the couch. I’ll bring the baby to you.”

      When he moved forward, the boy tensed. “You’re not my—”

      “It’s okay, Scott,” Layne said quickly.

      “But Miss Rhea says—”

      “I know. But I’m right here, and I know this man.”

      Still eyeing him suspiciously, the kid stepped aside. “Okay. We can have soup now? I’m hungry.”

      The baby let out another screech. Jason put the pacifier in her mouth and bent over to lift her, supporting her head with one hand the way he’d seen Greg do with his daughter. Good thing he had. She couldn’t have weighed much more than a kitten, but she was twice as wiggly and not nearly as cute with that red, wrinkled face. Sort of like her mama right now.

      He’d think about that—and worry about whose kid she was—later. Layne looked ready to drop again, but if he didn’t move soon, she would probably refuse to wait until he carried the baby over to her. He hurried across the room. “Sit,” he said gruffly. “You don’t want to take the chance of standing with her and passing out a second time, do you?”

      She sank to the couch and took the baby from him. The girl immediately stopped crying and nuzzled the front of Layne’s robe like a calf looking for her mama’s milk.

      “What’s that about soup?” he asked.

      “That’s okay. I’ll get it in a minute.”

      “Mommy, I’m hung-ry,” the boy called. He still stood near the playpen as if he were afraid to get closer.

      “You’re not the only one, honey.” The baby nuzzled again, and Layne raised her hand to her robe.

      “Hey.” He backed a step. “I’m just standing around taking up space. My cooking skills stretch as far as opening a can and putting a pot on the stove.”

      “Thanks,” she said stiffly, “but we’ll do just fine on our own. I hate to ask you to leave...”

      I want you to go. Her eyes, looking like a couple of cold blue stones, got her point across as loud and clear and emphatically as her words had done a few years ago. Then, he had turned and walked out. Because he’d been a complete ass. Not without provocation, however. Seeing his packed bags at the front doorstep when he got home had warned him what to expect. Layne’s response when he’d entered the apartment had underscored the message.

      “Mo-mmy.”

      She looked past him to the boy and then back again. Now her gaze didn’t quite meet his. “All right. The soup’s not from a can. It’s homemade. And the bowl is on the top shelf of the fridge.” The baby let out a screech.

      He half turned to the boy. “Come on, pardner, let’s go get you some supper.”

      The boy looked at his mama, who offered him a nod of encouragement. Then he gave Jason a long, frowning look. “Okay,” he said finally, his brow clearing. Getting that seal of approval made Jason stand taller. “Soup for Scott for supper.”

      “Yeah. Show me the way to the kitchen.” The boy took off at a trot past the playpen. Jason’s boots pounded against the bare flooring as he followed at almost the same speed. He sure didn’t want to be around to watch Layne taking care of the baby.

      Red nose, rumpled hair and bloodshot eyes aside, she was still the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Seeing any more of her as she opened her robe would only stir up memories best tucked away for good.

      He found the soup where she’d directed and snagged a pot from the cabinet the boy pointed out to him.

      “I help.” His designated assistant...his son walked him through finding cups and bowls and spoons.

      In amazement, Jason watched the little guy. Once that front door had opened, events had moved too rapidly for him to take everything in. Now the situation hit him and, for a minute, his legs threatened to go out from under him the way Layne’s had.

      Back in Dallas, his thoughts had been on making sure the boy was okay, that Layne was taking proper care of him and not just shutting him out of her life, shunting him to a sitter. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d convinced himself that having this confirmation would help make up for his own shortcomings.

      Now he was home again and standing in an apartment not unlike the one he and Layne had shared when they got married. And he was getting supper ready...with his son.

      His legs felt shaky again.

      “I get napkins,” the boy said.

      “Sounds good.”

      He watched the child move around the room, seeming confident for a kid his age. That was the difference between being taught to be independent and having it forced on you, overwhelming you with the effort needed to survive. Assuming Layne had instilled that confidence in the boy, he gave her a lot of credit.

      They set the table together. The room was filled with the sounds of spoons clanking against the table and the smell of chicken broth wafting from the pot on the stove. He wondered if someone had brought the soup over for Layne. Maybe she had made it herself. If so, she had turned into more of a homebody than she’d been when they had gotten married. Back then, they had stayed too busy in the bedroom to give her a chance to develop much skill in the kitchen.

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