“But why...” Brandt trailed off as he considered the baby on his doorstep again. “You’re not trying to suggest—”
“Yep. She’s yours. Congrats. You’re a dad.”
Brandt made an inarticulate sound as he sagged against the wooden exterior of the house, world going gray around the edges. No fucking way.
* * *
Shane had expected Brandt to be skeptical, perhaps even downright hostile. But he also hadn’t known what else to do. It had been a hellacious three days, and he was running on almost no sleep, and now here was Brandt looking like he might be about to pass out. Stepping closer, Shane reached out a hand to catch him if he fell, but honestly he was so wrung out that Brandt would probably take them both out if he collapsed.
“Do you need to sit down?”
“Nah.” Brandt glanced down at the step next to the baby like it might be a river of lava instead. “And no, no way. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Your name’s on both the birth certificate and the note Shelby left. She seemed pretty certain.”
“I’m on the what?” Brandt rubbed his hair, which was even longer than when Shane had seen him last, spilling down his neck. “How is that even legal?”
“Not sure. Want me to show you?” He reached for the bag at the same time as the baby let out another unhappy noise. Shane rocked the car-seat bucket, but the trick failed to work. “Listen, I know this news is a shock. And I want to show you the stuff from Shelby. But she needs a bottle, I think. And changing. Is there any way we could talk inside?”
“Inside?” Brandt inched close to the door, like Shane and the baby might be about to storm their way into his house.
“Yeah. You know, that place where hopefully you have hot water?” Shane gentled his voice when Brandt’s posture only got stiffer, more reluctant. “I swear, I’m not about to drop her on you and run. Promise. I only want to talk. And get her changed and fed. She’s miserable.”
As if she could understand, the baby squeaked, face getting pink again like she was building to an all-out wail.
“Okay. Okay. Here’s the deal. You can come in. And we’ll talk. But you dump the baby, and I’m calling the cops. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
Of that they were in agreement, but Shane didn’t have a lot of options. He had no clue what the right guy for this situation would look like, but Brandt Wilder was not it. Messy hair. Dirty white T-shirt speckled with three colors of paint. Ripped jeans. Out here in the middle of nowhere at a house that wasn’t even his, according to the intel that Shane had tracked down. Undoubtedly gearing up for another season throwing himself out of airplanes to fight wildfire. Yeah, he was far from ideal fatherhood material.
“Thanks,” he said instead as he picked up the baby’s seat and followed Brandt into the house, which was closer to a cabin, low with dark wood sides and a green roof, like the sort of building you might see at a summer camp. The front door led directly into a great room, an L-shaped space with sitting area, dining table and chairs, and open kitchen tucked beyond that. It seemed to be mid-renovation, toolbox on the counter, power tools on the dining table, half-painted wall behind the table, and sheets over the leather couches.
“Hot water’s in the kitchen.” Brandt’s face was tight and wary. He hung back as Shane crouched next to the baby on the rug in the seating area. Luckily, she was only wet, so he was able to do a fast change using the little pad that came with her diaper bag. Figuring his chances of getting Brandt to hold her were nil, he put her back in the car seat long enough to wash his hands.
Working quickly while the baby continued to fuss, he made the bottle, which was a lot easier in this airy kitchen than in the RV. Still, he was hardly an expert. Some formula powder sprinkled on the counter, and he forgot the part about needing to put a finger over the top before shaking it up. Something about baby stuff made him feel all thumbs. As soon as the bottle was done, he rushed it and the baby carrier to one of the couches in the sitting area.
“Here.” Brandt whisked the sheet on the couch away as Shane freed the baby again. Grateful, he took a seat. Sitting felt good after the epic journey he’d had. He’d made decent time while the baby had slept, but when she’d been awake, he’d quickly lost track of the number of stops it took to keep her calm. His throat was hoarse, like he’d performed back-to-back sets, and in a way, he had, singing endless songs to the baby because she’d fuss for the radio but quiet when he sang along.