She couldn’t keep it, but she ought to move the box into the kitchen and heat a saucer of milk for the poor thing before she abandoned it for the day.
Something jumped as she opened one flap and Lori started.
She shuddered, then peeled open another flap, tentatively this time. She could still only see the brightly colored fabric someone had draped inside. Well, at least whoever had packed this little surprise had been generous with cushioning. The quilt or whatever it was filled the bottom half of the huge box.
The mewing started again and grew louder. Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Lori jerked the last two flaps open. Whatever was inside sprang again.
Lori gasped in surprise, then fell to her knees.
The jumping thing was a tiny foot, kicking at a blanket. And the human baby, who’d only been tuning up so far, emitted an earsplitting angry cry.
“Oh, my God!” Tears gathered in her eyes. “Oh, God,” she whispered again, “oh, my.” She couldn’t seem to quit repeating it. “Oh, my,” she crooned, reaching automatically for the child.
Lori unstrapped the babe from the infant carrier that had been placed in the bottom of the box. As soon as she lifted and gathered the child to her shoulder, the crying started to ease. The sobs turned quiet, which was even more heartrending than the insistent crying. He snuggled and curled against her.
She wasn’t sure how long she sat on the floor, the tiny baby against her chest. She only knew she was in shock. She knew the throwaway baby needed her warmth as much as she suddenly needed his.
A throwaway child.
A cap of dark hair curled slightly up at the ends and surrounded his face like a soft halo. His miniature head fitted into the palm of her hand. Tiny fingers curled and then spread spasmodically against her chest. He was so perfect, so... so helpless.
Lori couldn’t stop shaking any more than she could stop the fierce, tender mix of emotions that spread from the tiny body straight into her quietly breaking heart.
The baby wiggled, turned his head, opening and closing his mouth. Even with her lack of experience, Lori realized the tiny thing was starving. She lowered him to her lap and settled him in the hollow she’d created when she’d dropped to sit, cross-legged, on the floor.
The baby flung his arms back, fighting against the imprisoning folds of the blanket, protesting his new position. His face contorted in fury. She wasn’t prepared for the infuriated wail he let loose. The kid had lusty lungs. A positive thing, she decided. It must mean he was healthy.
“But I don’t have a thing to feed you, sweetie,” she said almost desperately. Surely, surely, she prayed, his mama wouldn’t leave him without anything to eat.
Reaching for the top of the box, she tipped it over. Several things clacked together, then thudded against the cardboard side of the box and the well-cushioned floor.
With one hand bracing the screaming, squirming baby’s tummy, Lori fished around a second blanket with the other. A handful of disposable diapers. She tossed them aside. A tiny outfit of some sort.
“How do women do this?” she muttered, feeling awkward and inadequate as she held on to him and worked one-handed.
The baby turned his piercing cry up a notch in volume as if berating her for wasting time with stupid, unimportant questions. He was hungry.
“I’m trying,” she whispered, pushing the carrier aside and out of the way. The blanket came next, spilling additional diapers beside her. There, on its side, was a plastic bottle, filled and topped with a flat lid to keep it from spilling. “Thank you, God,” she whispered.
She took the cap off and realized she had no idea what to do with it. Give it to the baby like this? Maybe she’d be able to think if he would stop screaming for a minute.
“It’s okay, baby.” She comforted him with a frantic pat against his tummy.
Two cans lay against each other in the bottom of the box. Applying a little more pressure to keep him where he was, she leaned on one hip to reach one of them. She read the side of the can, then cast it aside. No instructions? How could a can of formula not have instructions? It rolled back and clinked against the other one.
“Sorry, baby.” He was strong, wriggling against her hand. But she was certain she detected his tiny body weakening. His cry seemed to hold less energy than it had only seconds ago. “This has to be okay.”
She braced him with her forearm so she could use both hands to remove the snug cap. A minute later, she held the nipple to his mouth. He suckled once, then pushed at it with his tongue and turned his head.
She pulled it away. Oh, great! She was doing something wrong.
He opened and closed his mouth, still seeking. His chest rose and fell sharply a couple of times. His arms and legs stiffened and jerked. His face turned a rosy red. She knew she was in for another angry scream.
“Wanna try again?” she begged softly. “I don’t know what else to do.”
This time, he made a face, tried to draw away, then began a hesitant sucking. He accompanied the motion with the same quiet mewling that had alerted her to his presence in the first place.
What if she had just pushed the box inside, locked the door and went her merry way? She felt weak, thinking it might have happened that way. The knots in her muscles eased a bit as she sighed with relief. “It’s a good thing you cried,” she told the tiny, tiny infant, though she was no longer sure if she was talking to herself or the baby.
“Who,” she exclaimed, “on God’s green earth would leave you here? With me?”
The words reminded her of the slip of paper she’d seen beneath one of the milk cans. The baby continued to drink, oblivious to her movements now as she looked eagerly at the box again.
“There it is.” The paper looked miles away and she noted her current limitations. How did you hold on to a baby, hold on to a bottle and do anything else? She lifted him carefully from her lap and into the crook of her arm. He was light, barely weighed anything. He couldn’t be very old. Maybe a few days? Hours? she thought in wonder.
He watched her with unseeing, fuzzy blue eyes as she wiggled closer to the opening of the box. Hunched half in, half out of it, she wedged the bottom of his bottle between her neck and chin. Stretching as far as she could reach, she pushed at the cans and ran her hand along the bottom until her fingers felt a different texture.
“We got it,” she said triumphantly, then dropped it to grab for the bottle that came loose when she spoke.
Adjusting him, the bottle and herself, she groped for the paper again. We got it! she thought. Her back felt as though she was developing curvature of the spine. Her arms ached. She scooted out of the box and wiggled back to lean against the door she didn’t remember shutting. One-handed, she smoothed the folded notebook paper against her raised knee.
The message was in a carefully penciled print. I know you won’t let anything bad happen to my baby.
The simple words swam before her eyes. She gulped at the lump blocking her throat. She blinked rapidly to push the tears away, then let them stream, unheeded, down her cheeks.
Kissing the tiny head cradled in her arm, she vowed, “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” I won’t, she promised.
CHAPTER ONE
ANDREW McAllister peeled the well-worn envelope from his door. Hadn’t his neighbors ever heard of Post-it notes? With his thumb, he scrubbed at the small spot of residue left by the tape. As he inserted his key in the lock, he glanced at the original address on the recycled envelope. Lori Warren, Apartment 339, had been x’d out. His own name had been hurriedly