rump, carving the tail with a hint of sassiness. The female of the trio was taking on a disturbing resemblance to Miranda. He whooshed out a breath. The frustrating woman wouldn’t return his calls. She’d kissed him yesterday and sent him on his way with an expression in her eyes that broke his heart.
Before he could mire down in another bout of depression, a shrill scream jerked him to attention. Tucker flashed by, running faster than he’d seen him move in years. Cutting the engine as he spun around, Cole dropped the chainsaw to the ground, tore off the safety goggles and sprinted toward Jackson. The boy rolled on the ground squealing and crying, while a swarm of yellow jackets buzzed around him. Scooping him up, he unhitched the tether, swatting away the bees as he raced toward the house. Sharp stings pierced his arms and back through the thin material of his T-shirt. Flinching at each jab, Cole took the porch steps in a leap, threw open the screen door, and slammed it behind him.
Little white dents surrounded by red welts pocked Jackson’s face and arms. Tears rolled down puffy cheeks as he screamed and thrashed. With his heart pounding out of control, Cole laid him on the couch, stripped off his clothes, and smashed a couple more bees. He forced down panic and tried to think. Antihistamine. That’s what he’d taken for his mild allergic reaction the last time he’d been stung.
“Hold on, boy. I’ll be right back.” Lowering Jackson to the carpet, he ran into the kitchen and jerked open the junk drawer. Scrabbling through it, he pulled out a pink and blue box, poured some tap water into a glass, and hurried back to the living room. After popping out a little pink pill, he snapped it in half and pushed one part into Jackson’s mouth then held the glass to his lips, praying he was doing the right thing. Water spilled down the baby’s chin and chest, but he swallowed the pill.
The stings on his arms burned like fire. Popping out two more pills, Cole downed them with the rest of the water. What now? The memory of his mother smearing white paste over a bee sting flashed through his frantic thoughts. Running back to the kitchen, he opened the pantry and pulled out the box of baking soda. He dumped it in a bowl, added some water, stirred it into a thick paste, then returned to kneel beside Jackson.
“Poor baby, I know it hurts.”
Jackson cried hiccupping sobs as Cole spread the soda paste over the stings, a dozen or so by his count. Did his nephew’s face and neck look even more swollen?
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Cradling the baby in his arms, he grabbed the diaper bag and packet of insurance papers off the table, then let the screen door slam shut behind him. “I can’t risk it. Let’s get you to the ER. Again. Christ, they’ll probably report me for child abuse.”
The drive seemed endless. Last time, he’d had Miranda’s reassuring presence beside him. This time he was on his own. Jackson had cried himself to sleep. The rise and fall of the baby’s chest, covered in bites and soda, took the edge off Cole’s surging panic. He was still breathing. Lord all mighty, if anything happened to the kid, he’d die. He flat out wouldn’t want to live, and not just because his brother would kill him. He loved Jackson more than anyone else in his life—except Miranda.
Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he hit redial. It immediately went to voice mail. With a round of creative curses, he left another message.
“Miranda, please call. Don’t panic, but I’ll be at the hospital. Jackson got stung, and…just call. I need you.”
****
Her phone beeped. Another voice mail. Miranda didn’t need to check the display to know it was from Cole. He’d called three times today and twice last night. The man deserved a medal for persistence.
Throwing down the book she was too distracted to read, she wandered out onto the deck. Working in the garden had given her too much time to think—and thinking about Cole
Before he could mire down in another bout of depression, a shrill scream jerked him to attention. Tucker flashed by, running faster than he’d seen him move in years. Cutting the engine as he spun around, Cole dropped the chainsaw to the ground, tore off the safety goggles and sprinted toward Jackson. The boy rolled on the ground squealing and crying, while a swarm of yellow jackets buzzed around him. Scooping him up, he unhitched the tether, swatting away the bees as he raced toward the house. Sharp stings pierced his arms and back through the thin material of his T-shirt. Flinching at each jab, Cole took the porch steps in a leap, threw open the screen door, and slammed it behind him.
Little white dents surrounded by red welts pocked Jackson’s face and arms. Tears rolled down puffy cheeks as he screamed and thrashed. With his heart pounding out of control, Cole laid him on the couch, stripped off his clothes, and smashed a couple more bees. He forced down panic and tried to think. Antihistamine. That’s what he’d taken for his mild allergic reaction the last time he’d been stung.
“Hold on, boy. I’ll be right back.” Lowering Jackson to the carpet, he ran into the kitchen and jerked open the junk drawer. Scrabbling through it, he pulled out a pink and blue box, poured some tap water into a glass, and hurried back to the living room. After popping out a little pink pill, he snapped it in half and pushed one part into Jackson’s mouth then held the glass to his lips, praying he was doing the right thing. Water spilled down the baby’s chin and chest, but he swallowed the pill.
The stings on his arms burned like fire. Popping out two more pills, Cole downed them with the rest of the water. What now? The memory of his mother smearing white paste over a bee sting flashed through his frantic thoughts. Running back to the kitchen, he opened the pantry and pulled out the box of baking soda. He dumped it in a bowl, added some water, stirred it into a thick paste, then returned to kneel beside Jackson.
“Poor baby, I know it hurts.”
Jackson cried hiccupping sobs as Cole spread the soda paste over the stings, a dozen or so by his count. Did his nephew’s face and neck look even more swollen?
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Cradling the baby in his arms, he grabbed the diaper bag and packet of insurance papers off the table, then let the screen door slam shut behind him. “I can’t risk it. Let’s get you to the ER. Again. Christ, they’ll probably report me for child abuse.”
The drive seemed endless. Last time, he’d had Miranda’s reassuring presence beside him. This time he was on his own. Jackson had cried himself to sleep. The rise and fall of the baby’s chest, covered in bites and soda, took the edge off Cole’s surging panic. He was still breathing. Lord all mighty, if anything happened to the kid, he’d die. He flat out wouldn’t want to live, and not just because his brother would kill him. He loved Jackson more than anyone else in his life—except Miranda.
Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he hit redial. It immediately went to voice mail. With a round of creative curses, he left another message.
“Miranda, please call. Don’t panic, but I’ll be at the hospital. Jackson got stung, and…just call. I need you.”
****
Her phone beeped. Another voice mail. Miranda didn’t need to check the display to know it was from Cole. He’d called three times today and twice last night. The man deserved a medal for persistence.
Throwing down the book she was too distracted to read, she wandered out onto the deck. Working in the garden had given her too much time to think—and thinking about Cole
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