Stunned, Evan searched his mind and realized that, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the baby’s name.
The woman’s amused expression was intensifying. Muttering under his breath, he shifted baby and seat over onto his hip and he dug into his pocket. Evan had taken the note he’d found pinned to the baby’s shirt with him to scrutinize later and perhaps somehow identify whoever was responsible for this dilemma he found himself in.
Pulling it out now, he looked down, scanning it. “Rachel.”
He looked up at Claire with a mixture of hope and expectation, waiting for her to agree.
Libby was at his side, peering at the note in his hand. Mama had taught her how to read a few words, but everything on that paper looked like scribbles to her.
“You have to write down your baby’s name? Don’t you know it?” Libby’s face puckered as she tried to puzzle out his behavior. “Everybody knows their baby’s name,” she stated with the confidence of the very young. “How come you have to write it down?” Compassion, learned at her mother’s knee, filled her expressive eyes as she continued looking up at him. “Doesn’t your remembery work?”
Claire affectionately passed her hand over the curls. “Memory,” she corrected.
“Memory,” Libby repeated, nodding in agreement. She didn’t mind being corrected. Mama had told her that was the way she learned, and she loved to learn.
He felt as if he was being ganged up on by a gang comprised of one and two-thirds women, if he counted Rachel in on it.
“My memory works just fine, and she’s not my baby,” Evan snapped. He didn’t know who needed more convincing of that, his neighbor, Libby or him.
Ingrained instincts had Claire’s hand tightening on Libby’s shoulder, moving the girl behind her in an age-old gesture of protectiveness.
“You don’t have to shout,” Claire admonished him, raising her own voice.
Why was she pushing her daughter behind her? Did the woman think he was going to strike her? Where the hell did she get that idea? He was just frustrated, but he wasn’t a monster.
“I am not shouting.” And then, because he was, Evan lowered his voice, struggling with exasperation. “I am not shouting,” he repeated. “It’s just been a very trying morning.”
She heard the weary note in his voice and saw the confusion in his eyes that he was trying to hide. Normally given to sympathy, Claire relented. He wasn’t as certain that he had no hand in fathering this baby as he was claiming, she thought.
“I can see that,” she said quietly.
Something within him reached out to the sympathy in her voice before he could think better of it. He didn’t need sympathy; he needed a baby-sitter.
“You know, I don’t even know your name,” he realized out loud.
“I’m not surprised.” After all, he’d made no attempt to talk to her the few times their paths had crossed. Quite the opposite, actually. Whenever she did see him, he’d hurried away, as if exchanging any sort of pleasantries was superfluous behavior.
“Mama’s name is Claire,” Libby announced. “She’s got another name, and it’s like mine. Walker. What’s your other name?” Libby had asked the man his name before, but he’d never told her. She thought now was a good time to find out, since they were talking about names.
Claire. It made him think of someone old-fashioned. Someone quiet. So much for a perfect match. “Quartermain,” he told Libby, but his eyes were on Claire. “Evan Quartermain.”
A smile, still amused, but softer somehow, he thought, graced her mouth.
“How do you do, Evan Quartermain?”
“Lousy,” he answered honestly. Apparently unable to find satisfaction by trying to eat her foot, Rachel began to fuss again. He really didn’t have time for this. Evan held out his burden toward Claire. “So, Claire, will you?”
He still hadn’t made the terms clear, and she knew the danger of agreements made without boundaries. “Will I what?”
Was she being obtuse on purpose? “Will you take care of the baby? Rachel,” he amended. Then, when she gave no answer, he said, “Her!” For emphasis, Evan thrust the baby seat even farther toward Claire.
Because she felt sorry for Rachel and because she was afraid of where Evan might decide to swing the seat next, Claire grabbed hold of the sides and took it from him.
“You’re going to make her sick,” she chided with a sternness she used on Libby only when the girl was particularly trying.
Both her tone and her expression softened as she looked down at the small, puckered face that was about to let out another lusty yell. She angled the seat so that Libby could get a good view, as well.
Claire ran the side of her finger along the silky, damp cheek. “It’s okay, honey, I’ve got you now. No more wild rides with Mr. Grump.”
Claire raised her eyes to his. The soft expression faded slowly, like sunlight descending into shadows. He couldn’t tell exactly what she thought of him and he really didn’t care—as long as she helped him out.
Something told Claire she was going to regret this, but she couldn’t bring herself to just turn her back on the baby. She knew others who could, but that wasn’t her way. Claire pressed her lips together, prepared to make the best of this.
“How long a time are we talking about? An hour? Two?”
He could lie to her, Evan supposed. But he hated lies. For one thing, the truth was difficult enough to keep track of. Lies were impossible, even little ones.
“For openers,” he began, watching her face, “the rest of the afternoon.”
Openers? And what exactly did that mean? She had a strange feeling that she didn’t want to know. What had started out as a neighborly response to a cry for help was quickly turning into something else. She was beginning to feel like an innocent insect that had flown unknowingly into a spider web.
But one look at Rachel’s face told her that struggling was useless. Still, she couldn’t let him know that. He seemed the type to take advantage.
Claire began to shake her head. “I don’t—”
He wouldn’t lie, but he was not above bribery in matters that counted. And he was desperate. Without thinking, he placed his hands on her arms in supplication, framing her body.
“Look, I was serious when I said I’d pay you. I will, really. Any amount, I just—” He was babbling like a fool, he upbraided himself. Evan took another deep breath, making a heartfelt appeal to, he hoped, her better instincts. “I’m just really in a bind.”
The idea of fatherhood really had him baffled, she thought. Claire glanced at Rachel before looking back at Evan. Just what was the story behind the gentleman and the baby? Rachel obviously looked as if she was his daughter. They had the same black hair, the same green eyes. Most babies’ eyes were blue when they were this young. To have a distinct color so early really pointed a finger at her parentage.
“I can see that.”
Relief began to surface in Evan, only to founder when she added, “And your sense of smell isn’t too keen, either.”
Eyebrows narrowed over a nose that sculptors only prayed they could duplicate. “Sense of smell?”
She didn’t think she was talking in code. He was so hopelessly out of his league right now, it was as if all his faculties had been anesthetized.
With a quick nod for his benefit, Claire indicated Rachel. “Your daughter’s ripe, Mr. Quartermain. I’d say she needed changing about fifteen minutes ago.” He should have attended to that immediately. That he didn’t just