Sylvia Muldoon’s handiwork, no question about it. There was nothing about the decor that had even a hint of Peyton in it.
But when he stepped up to the second floor, he immediately relaxed. Nothing breakable or priceless there. It felt lived-in. Like a family could breathe there and not worry about spilling soda on the carpet or sitting on a crayon on the couch.
“Peyton?”
She stepped out of a doorway to what he assumed was a bedroom, Trace’s son—Seth—held against her shoulder, wailing pitifully.
Peyton’s eyes were wide. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just panicked and Emma’s gone for the weekend and isn’t answering her phone and Bea isn’t here—not that she’d be useful anyway—and I refuse to call Trace and bother him and—”
“Slow down.” Taking a chance, he walked to her and smoothed a hand over her hair, now falling from some messy bun thing she’d pulled it back into. “Now breathe.”
She gulped in air like a fish on land, and he realized the kid was making her tense, which only made the kid more tense in response. Bad cycle. So he reached over and, as gently as he could, took the child from her. Not entirely sure of himself, he cradled the poor, sad baby against his shoulder, doing his best to mimic the pose she’d held him in. In response to the shift, the kid only screamed louder.
How in the hell did something no bigger than his boot make a sound that loud?
Peyton turned away from him, her hands on her head, and he watched as her shoulders rose and fell. He knew she was trying to compose herself so he walked across the living area with the child. The movement seemed to soothe him, though he didn’t stop crying. But at least the volume lowered a few notches.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw Peyton watching him, a little color back in her skin.
“Is he hurt? Or sick?”
She shook her head. “No fever, no injuries. He just won’t stop crying. For anything. None of the usual stuff is working.”
He jiggled the bundle a little in his arms. “Maybe he just misses his dad?”
“I’ve had him alone before. I’ve had him longer than this. I see him daily. I’m not exactly a stranger.” Peyton swiped under her eyes. “I would have called the doctor but I felt like an idiot doing that when there’s no fever, he’s not puking or anything else. He’s just pissed off. Which now makes two of us,” she ended with a mutter, kicking at the edge of the sofa with her bare foot.
Red gave himself a moment to follow the line of her leg up. She wore short shorts, the hem of which barely peeked out under an oversized Minnesota Twins sweatshirt that looked older than she was. With the sleeves hanging over her hands, her hair completely disheveled and her eyes looking exhausted, he thought she looked like a sleepy treat he wanted to nibble on for hours while they rolled around under the warm covers.
A high-pitched sound snapped his attention back to the fifteen-pound pile of anger in his arms. The kid stared up at him, almost pleading to make whatever was upsetting him stop. Though the trick was to figure out what that was.
“So where is Trace? Will he be back soon?” As soon as he asked, he remembered Trace was gone for a two-day event a few hours away. “Never mind. I remembered. Are you sure you shouldn’t call him though? It’s his kid, after all. He might know what’s wrong.”
“I refuse. Seth’s a baby. I should be smart enough to handle this.” Peyton’s mulish face made him smile.
“Yeah, but isn’t there that whole parental intuition thing? Maybe he’d have better ideas. You’re not a mother.”
“Thanks for stating that, Captain Obvious.” The simple truth seemed to piss her off even more. “I’m going down to get a bottle. He just ate, but I’ll offer another one, see if he’s going through a growth spurt or something.”
She disappeared down the stairs, and Red took the opportunity to sit down and hold the kid on his lap. He’d held Seth once in the barn, but the boy had slept through almost the whole thing. Did he realize he was being held by a stranger now? He wondered how much babies understood, and at what ages.
“Hey,” he said quietly, though with all the screaming, the kid might not have even heard him. “I’m Red, a friend of your dad’s. And your Aunt Peyton’s,” he added, though right now his thoughts on her weren’t friendly so much as, well, more than friendly. “You mind if I hang out with you a while?”
The child’s response was a lip wobble and another cry.
“Yeah, I know, I know.” He patted the diapered bottom gently, going on intuition and what little his mind remembered from seeing kids in movies or on TV. “Something’s wrong and nobody will listen.” He traced the tip of one finger down the boy’s nose, over his cheeks, around the pouting lips.