Hour of Need (Scarlet Falls #1)(19)

“Colicky?”

“She cries at night.”

“Oh.” Grant wrote all of the baby feeding information down on a notepad by the phone.

She fixed Grant with a doubtful look. “I wouldn’t let the dog get too close to the baby. Have you ever cared for an infant, Major? Because the foster family informed me that this baby is a challenge, even for an experienced caregiver.”

“Yes.” Technically, he’d only babysat Carson a few times each year during his annual visit, but she didn’t need to know that. He gave her a level stare.

“Can you change a diaper?”

“Yes.”

Her brow wrinkled as if she didn’t share his confidence.

“If it’s too much for you, the children can always go back into foster care,” she said, and he decided he didn’t like her very much.

Carson’s grip tensed, the bony arm around Grant’s throat pressing against his windpipe and threatening to strangle him. This was not the time to have this discussion, not with a terrified kid within earshot. Carson needed the same confidence in Grant’s abilities as the troops he’d led into enemy territory.

“Ma’am, I’ve cleared buildings in a-hundred-and-thirty-degree heat wearing seventy pounds of body armor. Faith is a baby, not an IED. I assure you. We will be fine.” He wasn’t worried about feeding the kids or changing diapers. Those were tasks. Tasks were learned, but the emotional and psychological aspects of caring for two orphans terrified him. How did he talk to Carson about his parents’ deaths? “My sister will be here tomorrow, and I’m expecting to hear from my brother any time.”

“All right, then.” She placed a business card on the table. “Call me if you need anything. We’ll need to have a discussion about permanent arrangements for the children.”

“Thank you.” He showed the insensitive bitch out, with Carson clinging to him as if they were neck-deep in floodwaters.

Returning to the kitchen, he sat down. Carson’s legs were wrapped around his waist. They sat in the quiet kitchen for a few minutes. What should he say to the kid? Faith made a fussy sound, breaking the silence.

“You hungry?” Grant asked Carson. “Sounds like Faith might be.”

Carson shook his head.

“I guess it’s time I figured out how to feed your sister.”

Carson gave him a squeeze, then climbed off his lap. God, he was small, all bony arms and legs. His sad blue eyes peered out from under a shock of straight blond hair and freckles.

“Can you feed her?” Carson’s look was more hopeful than doubtful.

“I’ll get the hang of it,” Grant bluffed. How hard could it be?

With a serious nod, the boy went to the tote bag and pulled out a bottle. “You put the powder in here. Then you add water and shake it up.”

“Good to know. I’m probably going to need your advice from time to time.” Grant rooted through the bag and came up with a can of formula. “Is this it?”

Carson nodded. Grant read the back of the can and mixed up the formula. The baby’s fussy sounds escalated into crying. A high-pitched shriek pierced the kitchen. Grant jumped and fumbled the bottle, catching it just before it hit the floor. Faith launched into a scream that sent a flood of apprehension through Grant. Holy . . .

“Hurry up!” Carson covered his ears with his hands.

“Hello, Faith.” Grant crouched in front of the wailing baby and unsnapped the car seat’s harness. He picked her up, his efforts to be gentle hampered by her stiff body and kicking legs. He hadn’t held a baby since Carson was born. He’d forgotten how fragile they seemed. He settled in a kitchen chair and tucked her in the crook of one arm. She took the bottle with a greedy mouth, her big eyes staring up at him with rapt attention while she sucked away between hiccups. He snatched a tissue from the box on the table and wiped the tears from her face. A small current of relief eased though him as she calmed and drained the bottle.

“Now what about us, Carson?” he asked.

“I’m not hungry.” Carson sat next to him, resting his head on a bent arm, watching. At least while he’d been helping, he’d been reactive. Purple smudges underscored his eyes. Freckles popped on fair skin. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“I am. Any suggestions for lunch?”

“Waffles.” Carson slid out of the chair. On his way past, he gave his baby sister an affectionate pat on the head.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” Grant said. “I could sure use a nap.”

Carson pulled a box of waffles from the freezer. He dragged a step stool to the counter, eyed his uncle, and then loaded the toaster. When the waffles popped out, he put them on a plate. “Daddy always eats four, and you’re bigger than him.”

Eats. Present tense.

The ache in Grant’s heart swelled until he wasn’t sure he could swallow food. He cleared his throat. “Thanks. I don’t think I can eat so many, though. Are you sure you can’t help me out?”

Carson plunked a bottle of syrup down on the table. He went back to the cabinet for another plate, forks, and knives. “Mommy likes me to set the table.”

“You’re doing a great job.” Grant kept his voice clear. Obviously, Carson wanted to talk about his parents, so talk they would, even if Grant would prefer to bury his grief until it had formed a solid scab like the thickened skin over the bits of shrapnel in his leg. His to-do list rearranged itself. Lee’s estate issues got bumped. Call school about grief counseling shot up to number one, and buy books on children and grieving took the number two spot. He’d need to read a baby book, too. Kate probably had one or ten around the house.