The Black Sheep’s Baby

and the barn, accompanied by two smaller shapes which romped and frisked in excited circles around the bulky one. Mike, apparently, because a moment later there was a soft tapping at Devon’s door, and Lucy put her head in.

“Hi-” her voice was scratchy-soft, her smile strained. “I just wanted to check and make sure…Mike and I have to go out and do chores. Since Eric’s not…uh… Can you keep an ear out for the baby in case she wakes up?”

Suppressing panic, Devon gulped and said, “Oh-sure, yeah, that’s fine. No problem.”

“Eric’s gone out.” Lucy gave an embarrassed little shrug and left it hanging.

“So I gathered. But, if you don’t mind my asking-” Hell, she’d ask it anyway, in utter exasperation. “Where could he possibly go, in this?”

Lucy’s smile slipped, became gentler, less strained. “Oh-the barn, I imagine.” She stepped into the room, still holding the doorknob, and leaned against the partly open door. She was wearing quilted snow overalls, Devon saw, over a thermal turtleneck pullover. “It’s where he always used to go when he was upset about something…or mad at us.” Devon hadn’t said a word or changed her expression, but Lucy suddenly shrugged and looked uneasy. “Well, you know how kids get.”

“Not really,” said Devon in a companionable sort of way. “Never having had any myself.”

Lucy made a sound like swallowed laughter. “Well, you were one-and not so very long ago, either. You must remember what it was like.”

“Not really,” Devon said dryly.

Lucy looked at her for a moment as though she didn’t believe her, then smiled again, that same soft little smile, and for some reason this time it seemed almost unbearably poignant. “You said your sister was headstrong and rebellious? That pretty much describes Eric, when he was growing up. Maybe that’s part of what drew them to one another, do you suppose? Kindred spirits…”

Her eyes flew to the windows and she drew herself up, looking fierce and faintly embarrassed. “I’ve got to see to my animals. Sorry to bother you-just wanted to make sure-”

“Go ahead. I’ll look in on the baby, no problem.”

“Okay…well…shouldn’t be long…” Halfway out the door, Lucy turned back to sweep Devon with a quick, appraising look. “If you need any warmer clothes, help yourself to whatever’s in the closet. It’s mostly just things I haven’t gotten around to giving away, anyway.”

“Okay, thanks.” Devon stepped quickly forward when Lucy would have closed the door. Wedging herself into the open space she said in a low voice, terrified that she might wake the sleeping baby, “Uh, you said Eric’s in the barn? I really do need to talk to him. Do you think it would be okay if I…”

“I’d wait a little while,” Lucy said, and her smile was more wry, now, than sad. “Give him time to work it off.”

Thwarted once more, Devon gave a little huff of frustration. “Work what off?”

“Whatever it is,” Lucy said softly, “that’s eating him up inside.”

Chapter 4

A fter Lucy had gone, Devon went back into her room and for a few minutes stood with her toes curled up inside her oversized slippers, frowning at nothing and dithering over her choices. Her choices seemed annoyingly limited.

She needed to talk to Eric-that was absolutely number one on her priority list. But Lucy had asked her to wait awhile, so she couldn’t do that. At least, not right this minute, which was when Devon preferred to do things.

In the meantime, though, she could get dressed. Should get dressed. But the clothes she’d taken off last night were still unpleasantly damp, and neither they nor anything else she’d brought with her for what she’d expected would be an overnight stay in a nice hotel seemed remotely appropriate for an Iowa farm in a blizzard. Lucy had invited her to help herself to whatever she might find in the closet, and as unappealing as that prospect was, she supposed she’d have to take her hostess up on her offer unless she wanted to spend the entire day in borrowed pajamas and an old flannel bathrobe.

Perhaps she could take a shower. Oh, she longed to take a shower; not only could she have used the morale boost, her hair was also sorely in need of the taming only a good shampooing could give it. And no time like the present, when she had the house all to herself.

But then she realized-if she took a shower, she wouldn’t be able to hear the baby if she cried.

That was when it hit her-she was alone in the house…with a baby! An extremely tiny baby, moreover. A helpless infant no more than a few weeks old.

Panic seized her. Her heart pounded; she began to sweat. Oh, God-what did she know about babies? She couldn’t remember ever having touched one, let alone picked up one, fed one, changed a diaper. Oh, God, she thought, what am I going to do if it wakes up?

A series of images flashed through her mind, vivid as a slide show: a tiny fist waving against the backdrop of a masculine pec that was enticingly adorned with a smooth brown nipple. A big hand with long, sensitive fingers rhythmically patting a blanket covered with pink bunny rabbits and yellow ducklings. A tiny head covered with red- gold down bobbing just below an angular beard-stubbled jaw.

She gave a snort, laughing at herself-though mysteriously, her heart still pounded.

Get a grip, Devon. Think about it-if he can do it, how hard can it be?

She could handle one little tiny baby. She was a grown woman, more intelligent and capable than most. Of course she could do something millions of people, all kinds of people, even some not-all-that-bright people, managed to do quite capably every day. And just to prove she could, she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

The door directly opposite hers was open. Devon could see a tumbled bed, and on it what was unmistakably a fuzzy yellow…her heart gave a leap before she recognized it as a bathrobe, the one Lucy had been wearing this morning. The master bedroom, then. The door next to it was open, too-obviously a sewing room or workroom of some sort, eclectic and joyously cluttered. The door at the far end opposite the stairs was the bathroom. That left only one door-the one next to Devon’s.

That door was closed. Never one to waste time once she’d made a decision, before she could even think about chickening out she marched up to it, seized the doorknob and turned it. Quickly and silently she pushed open the door and stepped inside. Then she just stood there, absolutely still, while her heart banged itself silly against her ribs.

Eric’s room. She knew instantly that it was his, and that almost nothing in it had changed since he’d left it, probably as an eighteen-year-old heading off to college. The bedspread and curtains were faded blue denim, the furniture old, scarred and brown. There was a desk topped with a hutch, the shelves of which were filled with books, mostly paperbacks. A stereo and a revolving carousel that held an assortment of both tapes and CDs took up most of the space on a long, low dresser, along with a lamp with a parchment shade and a base shaped like a horse’s head.

One surprising thing: on the walls, where she would have expected to see posters of rock concerts or sports stars, maybe some shelves lined with athletic trophies, instead there were photographs-dozens of photographs, of people and animals, buildings and landscapes, both in color and black-and-white, all expertly matted and framed. Devon recognized several shots of the barn she’d seen from her window this morning, one bathed in glorious sunset light, another-this one dramatic in black-and-white-against a backdrop of a stormy sky, still another in happy primary colors, red, green and blue, like a child’s crayon drawing. There were portraits-lots of portraits, mostly casual-of people Devon didn’t know. There was a very pretty, wholesome-looking girl with freckles and a perky smile, and an incredibly old but still beautiful woman with tragic eyes and a face that looked as if it might, at any second, break into laughter. She did recognize Mike and Lucy, photographed both together and separately. And, good Lord, was that-no, it couldn’t possibly be-but it was-Rhett Brown, the former president of the United States, standing beside an old rope swing hanging from a huge tree limb. And sitting in the swing was none other than Dixie, the First Lady!

All this Devon observed in a few seconds while she was trying hard not to look at the one thing in the room that was trying to demand her attention. Which was a nest surrounded by pillows in the middle of the blue denim bed, and in the nest, what appeared to be a small snowdrift of pink bunnies and yellow