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By Robin Wells


Chapter Two

A gust of cold March wind caught the glass door of the Dallas County Health Clinic as Holt pushed it open, causing the door to bang heavily against the doorstop. The temperature was in the low thirties, quite a difference from the balmy seventy-three degrees he'd left behind in New Orleans that morning.

Well, it was only appropriate that the weather should be chilly here. It matched the bone-chilling fact that he was about to become a father.

No, not become, he mentally amended; technically, he already was one, and had been for the last six months. But since he hadn't even known the baby existed until two weeks ago and he hadn't been sure it was his until two days ago, he figured his official foray into fatherhood would start today, when he took custody.

Custody. Fatherhood. A baby. The concepts made his stomach roil. He still couldn't really believe it, but a DNA test had confirmed it to a 99.99% certainty the day before yesterday: Isabelle Elizabeth Sinclair Landen was indeed his child.

It had all happened so fast—so fast his head was reeling. His attorney's voice had been somber as an undertaker's when he'd called with the news. "The test results are in, Holt. Are you sitting down?"

Amazing, how quickly one's world could change. One minute he was an unencumbered bachelor, and the next...Boom! He was a single father, responsible for raising a child he'd conceived with a woman he scarcely knew.

Thinking about Ella made Holt close the clinic door harder than necessary. He stepped through another set of glass doors into a drab reception area, where a dozen or so people sat on black plastic chairs lined against the white walls.

The receptionist seated behind the low gray counter appeared to be trying to make up for the lack color in the décor. She wore a parrot green dress and bright red lipstick, and had a nose that resembled a hooked beak. "May I help you?" she chirped.

"I'm Holt Landen, and I have an appointment with Mrs. Tucker."

The woman tilted back her head and peered through her round glasses at a computer screen. "Oh, yes! You're here to pick up your daughter."

Your daughter. The words jolted him. He wondered how long it would take to get used to the idea.

She slid a sheet of paper toward him. "Sign here, please. And I'll need to see some I.D."

Oh, right—as if he'd impersonate someone to get in this situation. Holt silently pulled out his slim leather wallet and extracted his driver's license.

The woman cocked her head to one side and examined it. Apparently he passed muster, because she handed it back with a smile that made her nose look even longer and more curved. "Mrs. Tucker is picking up your baby from the foster home. She should be here shortly." She picked up a clipboard and handed it to Holt. "In the meantime, I need you to fill out this form, please."

Holt took the form and sat between a round-shouldered middle-aged woman and a young Hispanic mother holding a sleeping toddler. He scribbled in his name, address and other vital information, then hesitated at the line marked "Relationship to child." It was the first time he'd acknowledged, in writing, that he was the child's father. He scribbled the word hurriedly and moved on.

Holt scrawled his signature on the bottom of the form, rose from his chair and carried it back to the bird lady. He'd just taken his seat again when the door at the front of the reception area opened. "Mr. Landen?" said a dark-haired woman in flower-patterned scrubs.

Holt jumped to his feet.

"You can come on back."

Holt followed her down an antiseptic-scented corridor, his heart pounding hard. The wail of a baby echoed from the far end of the hall. Was that his daughter? If it was, she sure had some lung power.

The woman led him to a small office where he was greeted by a plump, pleasant-faced woman in a navy pantsuit. "I'm Virginia. Tucker," she said, holding out her hand.

Holt shook it. "Holt Landen."

She gestured to one of the two black vinyl chairs in front of the large, government-issue desk. A nameplate on the desk read. Dr. J.E. Smithers. Three diplomas on the wall testified to the fact that he'd completed college and medical school, and was a board-certified pediatrician. "Please—have a seat. I have a few things to go over with you, then I'll get the baby."

"That crying—is that Isabelle?"

"Yes." Mrs. Tucker drew two forms out of a brown folder and attached them to a clipboard. "Now, first all, I need you to sign these release forms." Mrs. Tucker handed him the clipboard. Holt scrawled his signature across the bottom line.

"Why is she crying?"

"Babies do that," she said. "There are lots of possible reasons."

Holt drew his brow together. "Well, shouldn't someone be doing something to calm her?"

Mrs. Tucker smiled. "Don't worry, Mr. Landen. She's with another social worker who's wonderful with children. I'm sure she's doing everything she can."

Holt pulled his brows together. If a professional can't stop the baby from crying, what the hell am I going to do? "Is something the matter with her?"

"Some babies cry more than others. The doctor will be in shortly, and he'll explain everything," Mrs. Tucker said soothingly.

But Holt refused to be soothed. Her tone set off alarm bells in his mind. "What do you mean, everything? What needs to be explained?"

Mrs. Tucker hesitated. "Well, I need to discuss a matter with you, Mr. Landen." She tapped the stack of papers on her lap, straightening them into a neat pile. "The first foster mother who watched Isabelle reported that she was rather... difficult."

Holt hadn't even met his daughter, yet he took offense at anyone sticking such a negative label on her. "Difficult how?"

"Well, she cries a lot, and she isn't easily calmed. And she resists human contact. We were concerned enough about her behavior that we took her to Children's Hospital for a thorough evaluation."

The door opened abruptly, and a tall middle-aged man in a white coat walked in.

Mrs. Tucker's face registered relief. "Here's Dr. Smithers. He can explain it all much better than I can. Dr. Smithers, this is Holt Landen. I was just starting to explain Isabelle's condition." Holt shook the doctor's hand, impatient to get to the bottom of this. "What condition?" he demanded as the doctor seated himself behind the desk. "Is something the matter with her?"

"There doesn't appear to be anything physically wrong," the doctor said, his blue eyes somber. "But she's not gaining weight the way she should, and she's developmentally behind for her age. She's nearly six months old, but she looks and acts like a baby two months younger."

Holt leaned forward. "So what's problem?"

"She's got a non-specific condition called Failure to Thrive. Given her history and the fact that she seems to dislike human contact, I'm afraid she's developing Attachment Disorder."

Holt tensed. "What's that?"

The doctor tapped his long fingers together. "Well, all infants need to form a strong attachment to one main caregiver. If that attachment isn't formed, the child can develop all kinds of mental and behavorial problems."

Oh, man. This sounded serious.

"Attachment disorder isn't usually diagnosed until a child nears adolescence, but by then, the damage is done. The best course of action is to identify at-risk children and do what we can to prevent it from causing permanent problems."

The doctor flipped through the pages of her medical chart. "From what we can ascertain, the baby has had seven different caregivers—nine, if you count the two foster mothers—during her first six months of life. She hasn't had adequate time to develop an emotional bond with any of them."

"You said we could maybe head off future problems. How do we do that?"

"You need to give Isabelle stability." The doctor pushed up his glasses on his forehead and rubbed his nose. "She needs one person who'll be with her for the long haul. Someone extremely patient and empathetic, who'll hang in there despite all of her fussing and fuming and pushing away."

"She's got me."

"The doctor smiled. "Well, then, she's a lucky little girl."

"So what do I need to do?"

"For starters, you need to arrange your schedule to be with her around the clock."

Holt froze. "Around the clock—as in twenty-four seven?"

"Exactly."

"For how long?"

"At least six months. A couple of years would be better."

Holt's stomach sank. "I can't do that. My business would collapse if I took off for six months! And my current clients would sue my pants off."

"Well, it doesn't have to be you. It just needs to be someone who'll commit to being with the child for the foreseeable future." He leaned forward. "The worst thing that could happen would be for her to get attached to someone and then abandoned again. That would make her withdraw even further. "

"I've hired a nanny." Actually, his secretary had handled the hiring. She'd also handled having all of the baby's belongings moved from Ella's home to Holt's, where a spare bedroom had been converted into a nursery. "Can the baby form attachments to both a nanny and to me?" Holt asked.

"Oh, sure. Most children attach to two or more people. But they attach first to one specific person—normally their mother. Their security in that primary, one-on-one relationship is what allows them to trust other people. That's what Isabelle has been missing." He steepled his hands together. "You need to make sure this nanny is willing to make a long-term commitment."

Holt nodded. "Six months to two years."

"Oh, no. That's just the amount of time needed for the intense, bond-forming stage. Ideally, this primary caregiver would remain in Isabelle's life indefinitely. At least until she's school age."

"Holy Schmoly," Holt muttered. Where was he going to find someone who'd agree to that?

The doctor placed his hands palm down on the desk, as if he were about to stand up. "Do you have any questions?"

Too many to ask. Holt didn't know the first thing about regular babies, much less babies with issues. "Any special instructions?"

"Try to get her to take a bottle as often as possible. She needs to gain weight. And she should be under the care of a local pediatrician. If she doesn't put on weight pretty soon, she'll need to be hospitalized and put on a feeding tube."

Holy Diaper Pails. Holt swallowed back a rising sense of alarm.

"What do I feed her?"

"Formula mixed with a supplement."

"We have all of that written down." Mrs. Tucker handed him a typed sheet of paper. "Here you go." The doctor pulled a sheaf of papers out of the folder, and handed them to Holt as well. "And here are Isabelle's medical records. You'll need to get her next immunization in a two weeks."

"Okay." Holt folded the papers and shoved them in his jacket pocket.

The doctor rose and circled the desk. "It was nice meeting you. Good luck."

Mrs. Tucker smiled, as if the need to find a nanny who'd make a five-year commitment and the potential of feeding tubes were cheery things to contemplate. "Well, why don't I go get little Isabelle? I'm sure you're anxious to meet your daughter."

An unaccustomed wave of nervousness washed over Holt as she bustled out the door. The crying grew louder and louder, and then Mrs. Tucker walked back in the room, carrying what looked like a screaming pink dress.

There was a baby hidden among the layers of frills and ruffles, but her face was the same shade as her clothing. Holt stared at the child. His child. This was his child, his flesh and blood. She had a tuft of white-blond hair, blue eyes and chubby cheeks, but the features that most drew Holt's eye were her bright pink tonsils, which she was showing to full advantage.

"Isabelle, here's your daddy," said Mrs. Tucker.

Holt hesitantly reached out his arms, and Mrs. Tucker placed the baby in them. Isabelle stiffened, kicked her toothpick-thin legs against his chest, then cranked up the volume of her yowls.

"Hey, there, sweetheart," Holt said. The baby pulled drew back and screamed even louder.

What the heck was he supposed to do now? He looked questioningly at Mrs.Tucker, but she was smiling like a sunbeam, as if everything were perfectly fine. She held out a pink ruffled diaper bag. "She's just been fed and changed, so she's all set to go. Do you have a baby seat in your car?"

Holt nodded. Equipment was a topic he could understand; you couldn't play a sport or tackle a job without the right equipment. He was fully outfitted with baby gear. Unfortunately, he didn't know how to use any of it. A man at the car rental agency had helped him fasten the baby seat into the back of the rental car.

Man, it was hard to think over the baby's screams.

"Well, good. Sounds like you're all set."

All set? Surely they weren't going to just turn the child over to him, with no training or further instructions. Holt looked questioningly at the Mrs. Tucker. "You mean...we're done?"

Mrs. Tucker nodded. "She's all yours. We don't need to do any further since you're the natural father. "

He was the biological father, which was quite a different thing from being a natural. It seemed completely irresponsible of these people to just hand a baby over to him—especially one who was screaming like Isabelle.

He raised the child higher on his shoulder and awkwardly patted her bony back. She stiffened and pulled her head away, as if she wanted as little of her body touching him as possible, and yelled all the louder.

"Good luck," Mrs. Tucker called.

Man, am I ever going to need it, Holt thought as he headed down the hall, gingerly carrying the screeching baby, the pink diaper bag dangling from his arm. From the way this fatherhood gig was starting off, he was going to need boatloads, truckfuls, entire cargo carriers of luck delivered daily to his door.

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