Single Dad In Her Stocking / A Puppy And A Christmas Proposal. Alison Roberts

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      ‘You need to follow the directions on the tin for how many scoops. Level scoops, like this…’ Maggie scooped the formula and showed Max how to level it off with the back of a knife. ‘Put it into the bottle of warm water. Attach the nipple and ring and cap like this…and then shake it.’

      Maybe baby Alice could smell the milk being prepared and she was sick of waiting. Or maybe she didn’t like the unfamiliar male arms that were holding her right now. Whatever the reason, her unhappy whimpers were steadily increasing into shrieks that were pulling the tense knots in Max’s gut tighter by the second.

      ‘Are you sure you can’t stay, Maggie?’

      ‘I’m sorry, Max, but it’s impossible. I’ve got my daughter, Ruth, arriving and she’s nearly eight months pregnant and on her own. She’ll be exhausted after that long drive up from Cornwall and I haven’t had proper time with her since that bastard of a boyfriend walked out on her a few weeks ago. We’ve got a lot of talking to do about how she’s going to cope.’ Maggie took the cap off the bottle and upended it. ‘Shake a few drops onto your wrist, like this. If it’s the right temperature it won’t feel either hot or cold. There…that’s perfect.’ She held the bottle out to Max. ‘Try that. She’s probably eating solids now as well and there’s plenty of baby food in with all that other shopping that’s in the pantry but she’ll be wanting her milk for comfort right now, I expect.’

      He took the bottle and offered the teat to the baby. Alice turned her head away and arched into his arm as if she was trying to escape.

      ‘Take her into the drawing room with the others,’ Maggie suggested. ‘This is all new and strange for her too, and it might help if you’re sitting in a comfy chair with her brother and sister nearby.’

      Max walked out of the kitchen and into an entranceway that looked like it had exploded into a collection point for a children’s charity over the last thirty minutes or so. A portable cot had a few stuffed toys and books in it. There were car seats and a pram and even a high chair, along with boxes of baby supplies like nappies and formula and suitcases that he’d been told were full of clothing. The social worker who had delivered the children and their belongings had been apologetic but in a hurry to get away before the snow started settling on the country roads and Maggie, who’d done far more than anything her part-time position with the Cunninghams had ever expected of her, was obviously worried about leaving the men to cope but also anxious to get back to her own family.

      ‘You go, Maggie,’ Max told her. ‘I’ve got this.’

      The older woman gave him a searching look. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked quietly. ‘I don’t want to leave you in the lurch. Ruth would understand if…’

      Max shook his head. ‘These children are my responsibility,’ he said. ‘Between us, Dad and I will figure it out.’ He joggled the baby in his arms and, for a merciful few seconds, the howling seemed to lessen.

      ‘You’ve got that lovely Emma to help, for tonight at least.’ Maggie was heading for the coat rack. ‘If you’re sure, then… I’ll come back as soon as I can in the morning if the roads are clear enough.’

      As she opened the door, Max could see a car disappearing down the driveway. Emma had spent a good deal of time assessing that unexpected patient who had turned up but she hadn’t summoned an ambulance or come to find his father so he had assumed things were under control. Some things, anyway. Baby Alice was crying again as he went into the drawing room.

      His father was sitting in his usual chair by the fire but Pirate had disappeared beneath the chair, which was highly unusual. On the sofa next to the chair were the two older children, Ben and Matilda. They were both sitting silently, side by side, holding hands. Six-year-old Ben was clutching a very small artificial Christmas tree in his other hand that was devoid of any decorations. Four-year-old Matilda had a toy rabbit with long legs and rather chewed-looking ears clamped under her arm. They both looked accusingly at their uncle when he came in carrying their miserable baby sister.

      Max sat in the matching leather wing chair on the other side of the sofa, settled Alice into the crook of his elbow and tried to get her to accept her bottle again. Her renewed cries were so loud he didn’t hear the door opening. He didn’t notice that every other head in the room had turned to see who was coming in or that Pirate had wriggled forward enough to peer out from under the chair.

      What he did become aware of was that fresh lemony scent he’d noticed when Emma had come into his office in what was beginning to feel like a previous lifetime. And when he looked up, it felt like the depth of understanding in Emma’s eyes told him that she knew exactly how far out of his depth he currently was. That, no matter how determined he was to do the right thing for his nieces and nephew, it felt like he was drowning. But there was something else in her eyes that looked as though she was tapping into something much deeper. Darker.

      Fear…

      But why would Emma Moretti, of all people, feel afraid when faced with a miserable, hungry infant? She’d been the first to offer cuddles or bottles to their small patients in that paediatric ward, the first in line to be present at a birth or do the newborn checks on those slippery, squiggly little bundles that Max had found quite alarming at the time. If anything, he would have expected her to scoop Alice out of his arms and rescue the situation like some sort of Christmas angel, albeit with dark eyes and hair and olive skin instead of peaches and cream and blue eyes and golden hair.

      But she was just staring at him and…yes…he was sure he could see fear in those astonishingly dark eyes.

      What on earth had happened, he wondered, to have changed her like this?