Why, oh, why did she have to be exactly what his son needed most right now?
Trace kicked back in his office chair and stared unseeing out at the reception/dispatch area of the small sheriff’s station. Instead of Lydia, his no-nonsense office manager, with a heart as soft as a marshmallow, he envisioned the soft golden beauty of his own personal Attila the Hun.
How had he lost control of his home so fast? His home? Hell, his life. Mornings would never be the same again. Though he admitted to a proud moment when Mickey had taken his first bite of peaches from the spoon. What a sense of accomplishment. They’d grinned at each other, as euphoric as if they’d scored a winning touchdown and then—he cringed to remember this—they’d both turned to Nikki, as if seeking approval of a job well done.
She’d lavished them with praise. Lord.
Where was his self-discipline? Where was his pride?
He’d totally lost control. To a five-foot-five bit of fluff in a tight skirt and ruffles.
Okay, she’d thrown him off with her ultimatum, demanding his participation in feeding Mickey; he just needed to regroup and replan, set a new schedule. He admitted he’d been hesitant about spending time with the boy. But this morning’s impromptu breakfast session proved he had nothing to fear. He could handle his son.
With a little tuition he’d become quite efficient. Then he’d send the distracting Ms. Rhodes on her way. They’d both be happier when she was teaching again.
For all her lack of structure, the woman had kept her promise to help. What had she said? “The benefit of open communication is you don’t have to do everything alone.” He had to admit he’d appreciated her assistance at breakfast. Sure he could handle it, but having someone there—it had been nice.
Another one of her precious gems of advice came to mind. “The good news is once you engage Mickey’s affections it’ll be almost impossible to lose it. Unconditional love is a powerful thing.”
It sounded good. Too good to be true for a man who didn’t know the first thing about love.
Nikki sat in one of her least-favorite places in the whole world: the doctor’s office. One of the unsung joys of being a military brat was the military health service. Every new visit to the doctor brought a new face, and a new person to poke and prod you.
After the breakfast session the other day, she hadn’t been surprised when Trace had insisted on a full checkup for Mickey. The idea that his son might have been suffering in any way drove Trace nuts.
She glanced at the little boy, quietly playing with blocks in his stroller. He was slight, but not noticeably undernourished. He might not have had a varied diet, but he’d had plenty. Still, the checkup couldn’t hurt, and if it put Trace’s mind at ease it might be worth this interminable torture.
“I’m only here for you.” She leaned over Mickey. “And let’s get one thing clear up front. I don’t do needles—uh-uh, nada, no way. If there are shots involved, your daddy is on his own. In fact—” she flipped a block with her finger “—this is the perfect opportunity for father and son to go it alone. Yep, the two of you can bond over tongue depressors.”
Mickey picked up the block to hand to her, but dropped it instead. He gave a small mew and shifted to look over the side of the stroller, then shifted his hopeful gaze to her. He looked so angelic, with his little bow mouth, baby-soft skin and windblown curls.
She handed him the fallen block and earned a smile. She sighed. “Okay, for you I can probably hang tough. But only if your dad asks for help. Otherwise I’m staying put.”
“Daddy.” He grinned.
“That’s right. You and your dad are a team.”
He went back to his blocks, and she returned to flipping leisurely through an entertainment magazine. She and three other women sat in navy short backed chairs. The walls and carpeting were beige on beige. An overflowing toy chest in the corner provided the only splash of brightness in the bland room.
The outside door opened and, like every other woman in the room with a sick child, looking for a distraction, Nikki glanced up. And, like every other woman in the room, her heart quickened at the sight of Trace. His broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped frame neatly filled the opening. His air of authority and control—elements he wore as easily as he did the crisp khaki uniform and gun belt—preceded him into the room. And shot up the temperature of every woman within viewing distance.
How unfair was it that the best-looking man in a fifty-mile radius had to be her boss? Not only did that put him both professionally and contractually off-limits, but the man was as disconnected from commitment as it was possible to be.
She sighed, and resigned herself to being his friend. At least he was finally here, and they could get this appointment over with.
The clock over the receptionist’s head read two-fifteen exactly. The perky blonde hopped to her feet, her bright smile aimed at Trace. “Sheriff Oliver? The doctor is ready to see Carmichael.”
Wasn’t that convenient? Nikki met Trace’s gaze and slowly stood. The flash of panic, so unlike him, revealed a vulnerability she couldn’t ignore. “Do you want me to go in with you?”
“Yes, please.” He took control of the stroller and followed the nurse to an examination room.
Trace quickly expressed his concerns to Dr. Wilcox, sparing himself not at all.
An older man, with a ring of graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses, the doctor listened intently, nodding occasionally.
“Well, let’s see what the real damage is.” Dr. Wilcox smiled at Mickey, who scowled back at the man. With good reason. The doctor asked Nikki to strip the baby, and the poking and prodding began.
For a usually docile child, Mickey certainly made his displeasure known, twisting and turning so Nikki almost lost her grip on the boy.
“Here, let me have him.” Trace stepped forward to trade places with her. He easily held the boy in place, but Mickey’s distress only increased. He lifted his little arms toward Trace. “Daddy.”
Trace’s jaw clenched, but he stayed tough.
Thankfully, the doctor soon ended the exam. “Okay, you can dress him.” He picked up his chart. “Do you know what inoculations he’s had?”
Nikki stepped forward to dress Mickey.
Trace reached in his pocket. ‘I went by my in-laws’ place this morning and found a few things. This is a list of the immunizations he’s had. I also called his pediatrician there, and asked for a copy of his file to be sent to you.”
“Thanks. That’ll be helpful.” Dr. Wilcox looked over his glasses to scan the list Trace handed him. “And this looks current.” He sat back and folded his arms over a barrel-size chest. “You can calm your concerns. Mickey is in good shape. The muscles in his legs are underdeveloped, which is consistent with your theory that he’s been held a lot, but his bones are strong and there are no signs of malnutrition.”
Nikki met Trace’s gaze, and in that moment felt a sense of connection in their relief and gratitude at the doctor’s news. Bouncing Mickey in her arms, she shot Trace a reassuring smile and let the tension drain away.
“Continue feeding him solids, and encourage him to use his muscles. I’ll do the blood work and read through his records when they come in, then I’ll give you a call. Basically, I don’t expect I’ll need to see him before his eighteen-month check-up.”
“Thanks, Dr. Wilcox, that’s good news.”
“He’s a precious gift, Sheriff,” the doctor said seriously. “Treasure him accordingly.”
Trace’s cool gaze