Protests formed but her lips refused to work, frozen with both cold and fear. One solitary thought remained in sharp focus—being captured by a wild man did not fit into her plans.
The wind held less bite. The cold’s sting moderated. Must be the bulk of the man protecting her.
The last remnant of warm blood jolted through her veins. She would not find protection in the arms of a stranger. She struggled to escape.
“Settle down. I’ll get you to a warm, safe place.”
The thought of warmth enticed. But safety? She might be safer in the storm. She opened her mouth to protest but the cold grabbed her throat. She couldn’t speak and her ineffectual efforts to escape allowed the snow to sneak under her cloak, robbing her of the bit of warmth his arms provided. She resisted for the space of another heartbeat, but the safety of his chest proved too alluring and she burrowed deeper into the bulky protection.
“That’s better,” he murmured, as he continued his hurried journey. His footsteps thudded hollowly as if his boots encountered wood, then he bent forward and took another step.
The wind ceased. A golden light washed over Vivian’s eyelids. Loath to face reality, fearing it might be unkind, she kept her eyes shut.
Her rescuer shifted and lowered her into a chair. “Let’s see what you have here.” His huge hands brushed her arm as he spread open her cape. Strong fingers began to unwrap her grip on the basket.
“No.” She jerked her eyes open as alarm returned so fierce and overpowering that her heart thudded against her chest. She stared into a square face, half buried in a thick fur hat. Eyes as blue as a spring sky regarded her with what she could almost describe as amusement. His mouth tipped to one side in a wry expression. The man was huge, towering over her, blocking everything except bright flames from the fireplace at her side. For a moment, she ignored her fears and her need to protect all that was hers and darted a longing look at the promise of heat.
“I’ll just have me a little look.” He again sought to open the basket.
The cold tormenting Vivian’s skin and bones balled up inside her heart and froze there. She clutched the basket more tightly to her chest and hunched her shoulders protectively as if she could defend herself against this giant. “Just let me sit here a minute until I’m warm,” she choked out.
His eyes narrowed. His mouth drew into a thin line. “I ain’t about to hurt you none.” He waited.
Did he expect her to believe him? She darted a look at his mitt-sized fist on the handle of the basket. He could crush her with one hand. The damage he could do to a smaller body, an infant, was beyond imagination.
She shivered, and not from cold.
The mewling sound came again, louder, more demanding. Was everything all right? She ached to be able to check but instead clutched the basket closer and prayed he would leave her alone.
“Let’s have a look,” the giant said, and lifted her hand easily from the handle even though she squeezed as hard as she could.
She sprang forward, ready to defend. Realizing how futile her efforts would be, she frantically tried to think what she could do. Seemed the best she could hope for was that she could move faster than he. She tried to force her muscles to coil into readiness despite their numb coldness and found them stiffly uncooperative.
He put the basket on a stool before the fireplace. The warmth of the yellow-and-orange flames made her ache to hunker down and extend her hands. But she didn’t dare move. Who knew what would trigger this man into action? And she wasn’t about to hazard a guess as to what sort of action he might take. Instead she waited, alert and ready to protect what was hers.
He bent over and eagerly folded back the blanket to reveal the contents, then jumped back as if someone shot him. “It’s a baby,” he muttered. The look he fired her accused her of some sort of trickery. “I thought you had a cat.”
His eagerness at thinking cat and his shock at seeing baby were such a marked contrast to what she expected, she almost laughed with relief. Fearing her amusement would spark anger in the man, she changed her mind before the feeling reached either her lips or her eyes.
He fixed her with a probing stare. “What you doing out in a storm with a baby?”
“I got lost.” Did he really think she planned to be out with this precious infant? The man who gave her a ride toward Quinten, her hometown and destination, had dropped her off with an apology that he must take the other road, and assurances she was only a few miles from town and could easily walk the distance.
He obviously hadn’t expected it to storm and if there’d been signs of its approach, she hadn’t noticed. The storm caught her in the face as unexpectedly as if she’d fallen. In the driving wind she must have gotten turned around. Once the snow engulfed her, all that mattered was protecting the baby.
The man leaned forward and peered cautiously into the basket. “A boy or girl?” The huge man shifted his gaze to her, his eyes curious.
Vivian smiled. “A boy.” The sweetest, fairest, most precious little boy in the whole world. She would never allow anyone to take him from her again. And she’d fight this giant of a man with everything at her disposal if she must.
“How old is he?”
“Almost two months.” Seven weeks, four days and—at last reckoning of the time—six hours.
The baby’s thin cry continued.
“I think he’s hungry. Maybe you should feed him.” The man nodded at her chest.
Vivian’s cheeks thawed instantly. He expected her to nurse the baby. “There’s a bottle in the basket.” She’d have to find a source of milk as soon as possible. She stilled the panic twisting her heart. Where would she find milk in this place? She suddenly had a hundred different details to consider. She knew nothing about caring for a baby despite the few lessons Marie had given her. Marie had always been the one to gravitate toward the infants in the orphanage, while Vivian sought sanctuary in the kitchen. And when she’d been sent out to work for the Weimers, there had been no babies. How would she manage?
The man tossed his hat to one side. His dusty-yellow hair tangled in a mess of curls. Something stirred at the back of Vivian’s mind. He seemed vaguely familiar. She tried to think where she’d seen him, but before she could figure it out he leaned over, scooped the baby from the basket and offered the bundle to Vivian.
She looked into a wrinkled and squalling face. Suddenly, an incredible ache filled her and she cradled her son to her chest, stilling a sob but unable to stop her eyes from growing moist. She might not know about caring for this little one but she knew about loving him and wanting him. The rest would follow.
“He got a proper name?”
She had not been allowed to name him legally but had, in her thoughts, given him her father’s name. “Joshua. After my father.”
“Big name for such a little bitty thing.”
“He’ll grow—” She slid an amused glance at the big man. “Some.”
He looked startled and then his eyes crinkled with understanding. “Ain’t too many get to my size, but his name will suit, I ’spect.”
Vivian smiled at the baby. “It suits him just fine.” For some reason it did. “Can you hand me the bottle?”
He pulled it from the basket, hesitated. “You want I should warm it?”
“Oh, of course.” She knew that. Just hadn’t thought of it. Again, doubts grabbed at her resolve. Someone else should be caring for this tiny scrap of humanity. Someone who knew how to tend a baby. Remembering the seven weeks, four days and six hours when someone else did, she forced away her uncertainty. No one else should care for this baby but her. She would learn how just like every first-time mother did.
As the