A Mother's Love by Ruth Wind

much-too-appealing Dylan Jones.
    Why did that idea give her such a hole in her heart?
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    D YLAN SAFELY DELIVERED his mother to her sister’s house, where she was tucked in and properly fussed over. Doris clucked and brought Emma in to sit and have some tea. She was suffering simply from too much work. “Taking care of a baby at her age!”
    And yet, as Dylan left, there was still so much Emma tried to cram into his brain. “Mother,” he said. “If I find some disaster I cannot handle, I promise I will call you.” Pressing a hand to her shoulder, Dylan murmured, “Kyra and the baby will be all right.”
    But when he walked into the cottage an hour later, he was not entirely sure that was true. Mother and daughter sat in the rocking chair, both of them crying—Merry with great gulping sobs, and Kyra simply weeping, tears streaming down her pretty cheeks, her nose running.
    â€œI am an absolute failure at this,” she said when he came in.
    â€œNo, no,” he said, gently taking the baby. “Has she been crying like this for long?”
    â€œShe did for about ninety minutes, then she fell asleep, then she started up again about, oh, twenty minutes ago. I’ve changed her. I tried feeding her.”
    Merry snuffled into Dylan’s shoulder, rubbing her face hard on his shirt. “Why don’t you go wash your face and take a little break? I’ll heat a bottle and we’ll see if that does the trick.”
    Kyra nodded wearily. “How is your mother?”
    â€œShe’ll be fine.”
    In the kitchen, Dylan took out a prepared bottle and popped it in the microwave for a minute. The baby cried piteously on his shoulder, wiggling her little body, everything in her rigid and irritated. He patted her back and murmured nonsense words to soothe her, and still she mewled, exhausted.
    His sister’s youngest had been a very colicky child, and he knew it exhausted both baby and mother. Holding her close, he pressed little kisses on her nose, her cheeks, and she turned her head fast, trying to nurse on his nose. Her eyes were swollen from crying. “Why are you giving her such a hard time, huh? She loves you.”
    When the timer dinged, he took the bottle out, tested it for temperature and rubbed the nipple against the baby’s cheek. She halted midcry and turned, her mouth opening avidly. She clamped down with ferocity and began to nurse.
    Kyra came into the kitchen. “And in five minutes you have her calmed down. I don’t know what I did wrong.”
    â€œNothing,” he said. “Sometimes babies just cry. She wore herself out and now she’s hungry, and when we put her down, I’m guessing she’ll sleep a good long stretch.”
    â€œSo will I!”
    â€œYou don’t have to wait up. I’ll stay the night, too. We can share the care of her.”
    â€œI’m not going to say no—at least to the staying overnight. I slept on the couch for a while, though. I’m not ready to go to bed yet.” She tugged on a sweater that hung on a hook by the door. “I’ll be outside.”
    Merry gulped the bottle, and Dylan expertly burped her, then put her down in her bed. She fell asleep in minutes. Dylan looked down at her for a long time, avoiding the moment he would have to join Kyra. There were so many wildly conflicting emotions warring in his head. His heart. Merry was part of it, his sense of connection to her, his sense of responsibility to Thomas.
    But most of it was his confusion over the intensity of his reaction to Kyra herself. Even now, knowing she was sitting out there in the cool night, he wanted to go out there and simply hold her. It was much deeper than a sexual feeling, though of course he wanted her sexually, as well. But this was a sense of having waited for her.
    Or maybe he was a romantic idiot.
    A whisper of an idea wafted through him, ridiculous and sensible at once: what if they