Missy Tippens - The Doctor's Second Chance

She grabbed a cloth diaper from a freshly washed stack he’d left on the counter. “I’ll clean her up.”

“Thanks.” Jake went to his room to change shirts.

When he returned to the kitchen, Violet was sweet-talking Abigail. She’d changed her into a clean onesie—a new word he’d learned since becoming a temporary guardian. Violet also had the child calmed.

“Thanks. I think my laundry has multiplied tenfold with one tiny little gal.”

“Has she acted sick this morning? Is that why you were outside so early?”

“I’m sorry if we disturbed you.”

“No, I’m not complaining. Just wondering if everything’s okay.”

“She woke early and has been fussy. Looks flushed.”

Violet placed her lips on Abigail’s forehead. “She feels a little warm to me. Did you take her temperature?”

He winced because he had hundreds of dollars of baby paraphernalia but not the equipment he needed. “I apparently missed buying a thermometer.”

“I have one. Be right back.” She handed over the infant and hurried out the door.

Worried about Abigail and not wanting to drag her to the work site again, he decided he would skip going as planned. There wasn’t a lot Jake needed to do that morning anyway, other than check on the cabinet installers and hurry up the interior painters. He texted Zeb. When Zeb didn’t reply, he called the man’s voice mail to check in and leave instructions.

Violet returned with a bag and pulled out a funny-looking gadget. “Here we go.”

“That doesn’t look like the thermometers I remember.”

She laughed as she gently placed it against Abigail’s temple. “You’ve got to admit this is much more pleasant than the alternative—which, by the way, is my preferred method to measure an accurate temp.”

The instrument beeped, and she showed him the result. One hundred degrees. Now what?

He glanced at the doctor, searching for signs of concern. “From what I read online this morning it isn’t considered a fever until a hundred point four.”

“That’s a good guideline, but we worry more about the young ones.” She brushed back the baby girl’s wispy black hair. Felt her neck.

She didn’t look too concerned, but his stomach churned anyway. He was not fit to parent a baby. He could set budgets, place orders, coordinate schedules, direct multiple crews of workers and make tough decisions all day long. But throw in a variable like four-tenths of a degree of body temperature and he turned into a bumbling idiot.

Abigail whimpered.

“Why don’t we take her temp again?” he said. “Just to make me feel better.”

“Sure. I’ll show you how.”

They went to the living room, and he laid Abigail on the couch. Violet gave him the thermometer and directed him on using it.

Ninety-nine point nine. “Should we be concerned?”

“I doubt it. But I brought my bag, so let me check her over.”

His phone vibrated. A new text message.

While she looked in Abigail’s ears, he checked the text from Zeb.

Owner said kitchen tile wasn’t right color. I checked the order. Is exactly what you told us.

Frustration cinched his gut. Changes cost money and time. I’ll look into it. Baby may be sick, he texted back.

“Ears are fine.” Violet warmed a stethoscope and listened to Abigail’s lungs. “Honestly, she seems fine. Did she cry again last night?”

“From about nine to midnight.”

“Looking more like we’re dealing with colic.”

His phone buzzed again. “Excuse me just a minute. I have a problem at work.”

“Go ahead. I’ll walk with her outside and see if I can calm her.” Violet swaddled the baby in a receiving blanket, then went through the kitchen and out the back door.

The text was from Zeb again. Mrs. E says she hopes you won’t let babysitting interfere with your job.

Mrs. Emerson was the owner of one of the homes they were building. She tended to walk around the work site in a business suit and three-inch high heels, breathing down everyone’s neck. But Jake wanted her to love her home.

He got Zeb on the phone. “Tell Mrs. Emerson not to worry. I want my customers happy.”

“Will do.” Zeb snickered. “Baby is fussy, huh? Sounds like you’re a regular Mr. Mom.”

Jake had seen the man with his grandkids. Zeb had a tough-as-nails exterior and a marshmallow-puff interior. “Yeah, you keep making fun. Next time I see you swinging beside one of your grandkids at the park, you’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Well, Mr. Mom has a backbone after all.”

Jake snorted a laugh. “The girl has been fussy. Temp is a little elevated.”

“When in doubt, go to the doctor. Another excuse to get cozy with the cute new pediatrician who about chewed your rear off Saturday.”

Wondering how many people had overheard that discussion made his face burn. “The doc is actually here checking her now. But I assure you, there’s no coziness where Violet Crenshaw is concerned.” A quick glance out the back door gave him a good excuse to avoid the topic. “In fact, I need to go check on them.”

“You do that, Jake.” Zeb was laughing as he disconnected.

* * *

Soft, jet-black hair that smelled like baby shampoo brushed against Violet’s cheek, melting her insides. Calm and relaxed, she was pleased her first appointment wasn’t until eight-thirty. She didn’t need to hurry home.

And Abigail seemed to be relaxing, too. Was getting sleepy.

Jake came out the back door. The sight of him in a T-shirt that molded to his work-toned muscles instantly shot her heart rate up, undoing any soothing from holding Abigail.

“How’s she doing?” he asked.

“Better.” She smiled at him, knowing he could use some encouragement.

He held up the thermometer he’d brought with him, then took another reading. “Ninety-eight point seven.” His shoulders dropped. “That’s good. I feel stupid for worrying.”

“Don’t apologize for erring on the side of caution. Little ones like this can get sick quickly.”

“I was afraid I’d done something wrong bathing her last night. Was afraid she’d gotten chilled. She wasn’t a happy camper through that nightmare.”

Violet bit back a smile. “Bathing will get easier.”

“I hope. I think I took too long. She was okay at first, but then the water got cool. She started squalling, all stiff and furious. I bundled her up afterward, making sure she warmed up.”

Violet’s chest squeezed. The image of this tall, brawny man doing something sweet like warming a chilled baby battered at her heart.

He held out his arms for Abigail.

Hating to give up the warm, sleeping bundle, she handed her over, willing a steel rod into her spine instead of the gelatin this man had put there. “You’re doing fine, Jake. Do you think the fussiness this morning seemed different from the crying she’s done at night?”

“Definitely. This morning’s fussiness hasn’t been as severe. At night, no matter what I do to comfort her, she continually shrieks—which, for the record, is horrendous.”

“I can imagine.”

“I walk the floor, rocking her, singing, cracking dumb jokes, doing everything but standing on my head. It’s as if I’m not even there.” He shrugged, his eyes troubled. “I’ve never felt so helpless in my life.”

Warning, warning! No melting of heart allowed.

“Today, though, I could console her briefly. She didn’t all-out cry, just whimpered and whined.”

“Hmm. That does sound more like a baby feeling ill. There’s a chance she has a tummy ache or some gas. Are you remembering to burp her after her bottles?”

“Yes. But she has been drawing up her legs as if her stomach hurts. One of my subcontractors mentioned a change of formula curing his grandchild’s colic.”