Snowbound with a Baby
Author
Melissa Senate
Reads
18,1K
Chapters
18
Chapter One
Det. Reed Dawson pulled open the door to the Bear Ridge Police Department with three things on his mind: (1) ordering in a chicken Milanese sandwich with a side of fries and a fizzy lemonade from Pimoni’s Italian Café, (2) writing up two reports for the chief on a lead he’d followed this afternoon on one case and the potential suspect he’d questioned for another, and (3) getting home before the impending snowstorm—a blizzard unwelcome anytime in Wyoming but particularly in mid-October—made getting anywhere impossible.
He would have been back a half hour ago, but he’d gotten a call from the temp at the front desk that Whiskers, an orange tabby cat, had gotten out of her house and was missing. The McAllister family had searched for hours, six-year-old Brady inconsolable at the idea that poor Whiskers wouldn’t get home before the storm hit. Reed to the rescue. For the past thirty minutes he’d driven the family around in his SUV, checking places he figured a cat would go to get warm on an unusually cold day. Nearby drainage pipes. A car with a window accidentally left open. He’d actually come across one and alerted the owner to close it before the car filled with wind-whipped, heavy wet snow—but no cat. Neighboring garages and barns had also been a bust. Ten minutes ago, he’d been lucky to find Whiskers sleeping in the bed of a pickup truck at a ranch a quarter mile away from the McAllister’s house. The utter relief on the boy’s face made it all worth it. And knowing Whiskers wouldn’t become a catsicle tonight.
Reed gave a hello-nod to the front-desk temp covering for their regular attendant. Diana, in her early twenties, was on the station landline phone and looked stressed. No doubt she wanted to get home too. The phones had been ringing off the hook all day with residents worried about the storm, if the power would go out, if their plow service didn’t show. All six lines on the phone were lit up. Reed sighed and glanced at his watch—5:15 p.m. He’d get his reports done fast, then help out the temp by sending her home and taking over the phones until the two night-duty officers arrived at 6:00 p.m. That was when the snow was supposed to start in earnest, the worst of the storm getting going by 7:00 p.m.
As Reed pushed past the wooden gate to the bullpen, he could see something big and pink on his desk in the back. What the heck was that? It looked like an infant car seat.
He took one more step and stopped in his tracks.
It was an infant car seat. As he rounded his desk, he could see there was a baby nestled inside. Fast asleep.
Um, what?
Reed looked left, right, in front of him, behind him. For a parent. A guardian. Someone, anyone.
And no one was here except for the clerk and him. The six desks in the bullpen were empty; Reed’s cousins Rex and Ford, both officers, were out on patrol, and the rookie was shadowing the other detective on a cattle-rustling case. The chief was likely in his office, but if he’d seen someone put a baby on Reed’s desk, he would have called.
Reed stared at the infant. What was she doing here? And who’d left her? He looked over at the two restrooms across the station. Both doors were ajar, so no one had set the carrier on his desk to use the facilities for a few minutes. The break-room door was open, the lights off, so no one was in there, making a cup of coffee.
At the sound of a car peeling out of the parking lot, Reed ran to the window, just in time to see red taillights speeding down the side road. The person who’d left the baby? Had they waited until they were sure he’d gone inside? It was dark already, and he could barely make out that the car was compact and charcoal-colored. He tucked away that tidbit.
Reed took off his leather jacket and draped it around the back of his chair, his eyes on the sleeping infant. He instinctively went into detective mode, noting details. Newborn, no more than two or three days old, he’d say. A girl, given all the pink, from the carrier to the fleece pj’s to the cotton cap to the blanket tucked up to her chest. Breathing: check. The baby looked healthy, coloring good. He grabbed his phone from his back pocket and quickly snapped photos from the left and right, just in case he’d need them for evidence and a time/date stamp.
“Diana,” he called out to the clerk. “Who left this here?” He pointed at the car seat.
She looked over at him, then at the carrier. From her position, he doubted she could see that there was a baby inside. “Oh—a woman did, about ten minutes ago. I was on the phone, of course. She said she had something important to drop off for you, but I didn’t even pay attention to what it was, sorry.” Diana turned her attention back to the phones.
“Diana,” he called again. She put the caller on hold. “What did the woman look like?”
She thought for a moment. “Long wavy red hair. Oh—and she had on big black sunglasses and a long black puffy coat.”
Reed wracked his brain. Long red hair? Did he know anyone with long red hair—and a compact dark gray car? Wearing sunglasses indoors on an overcast day in October at 5:00 p.m.
Sounded like someone had disguised herself to drop off the baby.
Who? And why?
He studied the infant for any signs of familiarity in the sweet little face—there were none at all—then very gently moved the pink cotton cap to check the hair color and type: brown wisps. The eyes were closed but he figured they were newborn slate blue. Reed shifted the blanket and gently felt along the sides; he found two tiny diapers, a baby bottle, a sample jar of baby formula and a burp cloth.
And a folded piece of paper. A clue? He snatched it up, hopeful it would reveal the baby’s and parents’ names.
It was a brief letter, typed on plain white paper.
Detective Dawson, I’ll be back for her, I promise. Just a few days. Take good care of her as I know you will. She doesn’t have a name yet but I’m thinking Summer.
Whoa.
No signature. Nothing to indicate who’d written it.
But the baby belonged to someone who knew Reed. In what capacity? The “Detective Dawson” suggested it was a professional basis—and he used that word loosely. Could be anyone he’d come into contact with as an officer of the law. And likely someone from Bear Ridge versus from his old life in Cheyenne. The city was three hours away—a long trip for someone who’d just been released from the hospital yesterday or today.
He carefully picked up the car seat from the bottom, so as not to disturb potential fingerprints on the handle, and brought it over to the chief’s closed office door. He slipped out a hand to knock.
“Come on in,” called Chief Alex Taylor.
Reed got the door open and went in, his boss looking up and then at the car seat. The chief raised a graying eyebrow.
Reed explained the situation, and Alex let out a hard sigh.
“I suppose Wyoming safe-haven laws apply,” the chief said, “given that the infant was left in a police station and she did sort of alert the front desk clerk. What do you make of the note?”
“The parent or guardian is clearly someone who trusts me,” Reed said. “If I take the note at face value. Something about the wording feels genuine, but who knows? I’ll work on figuring out who might have left her for me. At the moment, though, I’ll take her over to the clinic to get her checked out. She looks healthy enough.”
The chief nodded. “They’ll alert Family Services. Definitely get this squared away before the snow starts. Weather app says the first flakes are coming at 6:00 p.m. Keep me updated.”
Family Services. Reed’s brain hadn’t even gone there yet. The anonymous note was specific—addressed to him, asking him personally, if Reed’s interpretation was correct, to keep the baby until she or he could come back—in a few days.
His brain hadn’t latched on that bit either. A few days. How could he possibly babysit a newborn for an hour, let alone a few days? He certainly didn’t want to.
“Will do,” Reed said, and went back to his desk. He set down the carrier, eyeing the baby, who was still sleeping. Let’s go get you checked out, he silently said, shrugging his jacket back on. So much for his chicken Milanese sandwich, the reports or giving the temp a break; the chief would likely send her home at 6:00 p.m., anyway. He grabbed the carrier, grateful that the Bear Ridge Health Clinic was just half a mile down Main Street.
And that’s when he heard the first cry.
His gaze darted to the baby. Her tiny eyes were lifting a bit, into slits. They fluttered shut, then opened wide. Her face scrunched some, and she let out a wail.
Amazing that such a loud sound could come from such a tiny human.
The temp popped up and looked his way, phone to her ear, eyes wide.
Reed put the carrier back down on his desk and unbuckled the harness, very carefully lifting the infant out. The crying stopped.
The temp went back to her call.
As Reed cradled the newborn gently in his arms, swaying just slightly, he had the sudden thought that maybe he was over his past. That this didn’t hurt a bit. Holding a baby. Rocking a baby.
Like he’d once done.
But then the raw ache hit him, hard and deep in his chest. He blinked, trying to force away any memories that might dare come. But come they did. The face, the voice, the laughter of a baby, a three-year-old now, who he’d thought of as his own—but who he hadn’t seen or heard a thing about in a year. His ex-wife had been pregnant with another man’s child when Reed had married her, and she’d been quick to remind him during the separation and divorce mediation that Kayla wasn’t his biologically. That he had no claim to her.
His heart had said otherwise.
Reed looked at the little one in his arms. Every time he encountered a baby or a toddler, he’d feel a little pinch, just for a second, but holding one was rubbing that old ache in his chest raw all over again.
Was he really going to take care of this infant for days? Possibly longer? Till the mystery parent returned? If they returned?
How? He had a busy job. And a past that insisted he keep whatever distance he could from the tiniest of civilians, no easy feat for a cop or a man with a big family and a lot of young relatives.
But duty came first—far ahead of his own feelings. For now, he’d get the newborn to the clinic. Before the snow started. Before keeping her in his arms twisted the knife in his chest any deeper.
Aimee Gallagher had just gotten the call she’d been waiting for since she’d started the process of becoming certified as a foster mother a year ago. A child—a newborn—needed a rush placement. Was she available? Oh yes, she was.
She pulled her SUV into a spot in the parking lot of the Bear Ridge Health Clinic, where she was to meet Det. Reed Dawson. In the cargo area of her vehicle, she had an infant’s rear-facing car seat, a child’s seat and a booster seat. She had diapers in every size. A bag of clothing and pj’s in every size. An emergency stash of child-friendly snacks. A bag of stuffed animals and toys. Aimee had long prepared for this moment—and for any-age child that might come into her life.
A social worker with the Wyoming Department of Family Services in Ketchum County, Aimee hadn’t been very surprised to hear about the baby that had been left on a police officer’s desk. Five years in, Aimee was sure she’d heard and seen it all. She didn’t judge, she didn’t speculate; she simply acted—did what was necessary based on state law and the needs of both the particular case and the individuals involved. All she knew at this point was that Reed Dawson had taken the newborn to the clinic to be checked out. Her last text from her boss indicated that the baby had a clean bill of health and Aimee should pick her up. The moment she took guardianship of the infant she’d be on leave with Family Services and begin her fulltime service as a foster parent.
She got out of her car, her heart racing—nerves, excitement, sadness all in there. A baby was off to an unusual start at just two or three days old. I’ll take good care of you, I promise, she silently sent to her tiny charge. As Aimee locked her car, she glanced up at the overcast sky. There was not so much as a flake falling as of yet. Good. She wanted to get the baby home well before the storm hit.
The cold, humid, misty air definitely hinted at the snow to come. But maybe it would be a bust—just a couple of inches and not the forecasted blizzard that folks in the area had prepared for. Flashlights, nonperishables in case the power went out, shovels, and bags of sand and rock salt were impossible to find in the shops. Thankfully, Aimee had a walk-in closet full of all that stuff already.
As she approached the automatic double doors, she immediately spotted the detective. He stood facing away from the doors in a small waiting area, and he was holding the infant, swaying very gently. She could just make out the baby’s head, the wispy brown curls, every time he moved slightly to the left.
“Detective Dawson?” she called. He sure was tall. At least six-two, lean and muscular. He wasn’t in uniform, which she supposed he wouldn’t be, since he was a detective and they wore “plain clothes.”
He turned, cradling the infant so tenderly in his arms that she was rendered speechless for a second. Intense blue eyes—the man’s, not the baby’s—took her in. “I’d extend a hand, but tiny as she is, I’m afraid to hold her one armed. The pediatrician said she’s likely three days old.”
“Aimee Gallagher,” she said, stepping closer, her gaze on the newborn. “Wyoming Department of Family Services. What a beautiful baby.” She stared at the infant girl in wonder for a moment, unable to drag her eyes off the sweet face. Three days old. A marvel. She wore pink-and-white fleece pajamas. Her eyes, that newborn slate blue, were just barely open.
My first placement. Her heart practically soared out of her chest. She wanted this baby in her arms, to shower her with love and affection, to care for her.
“She was crying a few minutes ago, which is why I took her out of the carrier,” the detective said, gesturing at the chair where the car seat sat, a pink cotton cap beside the handle. “She’s emotionally stable now,” he added, his deep voice as gentle as the rocking motion he continued to make.
Emotionally stable. She smiled to herself at that. The man was all business, which was good.
And he clearly cared, which was also good.
“Well, I’d like to get her home before the snow starts coming down,” she said. “But if you could just briefly relay everything that happened, from finding the baby on your desk. My boss at Family Services filled me in, of course, but I’d like to hear it all firsthand.”
He was staring at her, eyes slightly narrowed. “Get her home?” he repeated.
“Well, yes. I’m not only a social worker with Family Services, I’m certified as a foster parent. I’m taking custody of the baby until the person who left her is found and/or next steps are determined.”
Except he wasn’t nodding or putting the baby back in the carrier. In fact, he was stepping back a bit, his eyes narrowing even more. “The note I found in the carrier was addressed to me personally. ‘Detective Dawson, I’ll be back for her, I promise. I’ll only be gone a few days. Take good care of her as I know you will.’”
“Right,” she prompted. You will be taking good care of her by turning her over to me, the foster mother.
“So I’m not sure about just handing her over. The mother or father or whoever left her asked me to take care of her for a few days.”
She tilted her head, unsure of the protocol in this situation. When he’d brought the baby to the clinic, a nurse had called Family Services upon hearing that the baby had been left on his desk. If Detective Dawson had mentioned his intention to care for the baby, per the note’s vague request, Aimee’s boss hadn’t mentioned it. And since her boss had mentioned that Aimee’s leave of absence would start immediately, as they’d planned if her first placement was under preschool age, the detective hadn’t told anyone he wasn’t turning the child over to Family Services.
Had he just decided? What was going on here?
“I’ve spoken to my chief about the situation,” he said. “Safe-haven laws apply since the baby was left in a police station and the front desk clerk alerted that something was being left for me.”
“Something?” she asked, her own eyes narrowing now. The baby wasn’t a thing.
“Well, the woman who left her, who seems to have been in disguise, didn’t specify that it was a baby. But as it stands, it’s not a criminal matter.”
Aimee bit her lip, her gaze dropping from the detective’s face to the baby in his arms and then rising back to the detective. “What are you saying exactly?”
He took in a breath. “To be honest, I don’t know what I’m saying. I just know I don’t feel right about turning her over to the state when she was specifically left in my care. Until I know who left her and why, I intend to...babysit, I guess.”
How was it that her heart deflated and inflated at the same time? Her first placement was quickly going south. But here was a man, a law enforcement officer, who had a serious sense of responsibility. She liked that. She respected that.
This was all very unexpected. Aimee wasn’t easily rattled, which her job demanded, but she was definitely thrown here. She came to the clinic expecting to bring a baby home. She glanced toward the door, the impending snow worrying her. “Well, Detective, why don’t we continue this conversation at my house? I’m all set up with a nursery. We can get this little girl fed and changed and put down for a nap if need be, and we can...further discuss. I’ll need to call my boss too.”
He eyed her. “You have kids?” His gaze slid to her left hand, which was bare and had been for over a decade.
For a split second, she wanted to say: Yes, four, actually. And then recount a cute story about the kids she didn’t have but wished she did. Just as she’d once imagined—heading toward thirty-five with her four children, two boys, two girls, maybe even two sets of twins, which ran in her family. But the life she’d expected, the one she’d thought she’d been on her way to having? Gone, poof. “No. No kids. I’m set up so I can be ready at a moment’s notice for any-age child I might be paired with.”
“Which was the case today, I assume—the moment’s notice.”
She nodded. “I’m newly certified, so this was to be my first placement.”
He seemed to be taking that in. “I agree we should tend to the baby’s needs and get her squared away. I’ll follow you to your house. And the name is Reed.”
“Reed,” she said, watching him settle the baby in the carrier. He gently put her cap back on, then tucked the blanket securely around her. He’d clearly done this before, given how comfortable he was. Her gaze went to his left hand. No ring. Not married? No kids? Cops were trained in baby care, so perhaps he’d just been paying very good attention during those lessons, given the way he’d handled the infant so far.
“And call me Aimee.”
He gave her something of a smile in acknowledgment. She expected him to hand her the carrier, but he didn’t. He held on to it and she led the way outside, where the snow was now coming down. The snowfall was still light at the moment, but the ground was already getting a fine coating.
“There’s my car,” she said, pointing to a small silver SUV. “I live here in Bear Ridge, about fifteen miles from the center of town. Old white cabin.” She gave him her address, just in case the blizzard came early and he lost sight of her car.
“With the red door?” he asked. “I know the place. Not many white cabins in town. Or anywhere.”
She smiled. “I grew up in that cabin. My mom was an artist.”
“Ah,” he said, then turned to his Bear Ridge police vehicle.
“Oh,” she called. “Detective. Reed,” she amended. “What’s her name?”
He turned around, the white snow a contrast to his thick dark hair. “The note said she didn’t have a name but that ‘I’m thinking Summer.’”
“Summer,” she repeated. “That’s pretty.”
He didn’t respond since he was busy attaching the car seat into the back seat of his SUV. He got the job done fast. Another sign he’d done that before.
Was she about to lose her first foster child before she’d even welcomed the baby into her life? Maybe. Both her boss and the director of the foster parent program had spoken at length about the dangers of becoming overly attached to a child in your care. She hadn’t even held this baby. But she already felt attached. To the little one herself. To her story, the mystery of why she’d been left, who her parents were. To who she was and what she meant to the detective. There was a reason the parent or guardian had left the baby on his desk with that anonymous but personal note.
Yes, she was attached already. So this whole thing was already off to a very unusual start. And that, Aimee Gallagher, with thirty-four years under her belt and five with the Department of Family Services, was well used to.
