A Very Special Delivery

the baby wouldn’t fall, but he’d been wrong about her staying asleep. Wide awake, blue eyes gazing up at Molly, the child gnawed at a tiny pink fist.
    “God has not given me the spirit of fear,” she mumbled as she pulled a straight-backed chair next to the couch to be near the baby. Maybe if she watched the child every second nothing terrible would happen.
    The baby kicked and gooed, squirmed and sucked at her fist, but she didn’t go back to sleep. Molly sat rigidly, afraid to move, afraid even to blink. After fifteen minutes her neck muscles ached and she needed to go to the bathroom, a dilemma that meant leaving the baby alone—unthinkable—or picking her up—terrifying. The last baby she’d touched had been dead.
    Her scalp prickled from the memory. Baby Zack, his little body still warm, limp and lifeless against her chest as she ran screaming, screaming into the front yard of her sister’s house. Neighbors had come running, she didn’t know where from, though it was late summer when folks still enjoyed puttering in their gardens and cooking outside. One man carried a garden hoe to frighten away an attacker. But there was no attacker. And all the concerned neighbors in Winding Stair, Oklahoma, couldn’t help baby Zack.
    The panic started to crawl up Molly’s spine once more. Her grip on the chair would surely leave the imprint of her fingers in the wood. She had to hold on. She could not suffer a panic attack while this child was in her care.
    No telephone to call for help. No Aunt Patsy to talk her through. This time she’d have to rely on God alone.
    A glance at the anniversary clock resting on the fireplace mantel told her that Ethan had been gone all of thirty minutes. At this rate she’d be crazy before he returned.
    She refocused her attention on the baby. With a jolt, she saw that Laney’s eyes were now closed. Was she asleep or—? The awful thought forced her to do what she dreaded most. Fingers trembling, she reached out, slowly, slowly, and laid a hand on the flannel-clad chest.
    A shudder of relief rippled through her at the gentle rise and fall of the sleeping baby’s ribcage. Some nameless emotion stirred in Molly’s chest at the soft feel of an infant. Even the smell of her, that wonderful baby mixture of milk and lotion, made Molly’s chest ache with longing.
    Until Zack’s death she’d always dreamed of getting married and having a big family. Lots of kids. That’s what she’d told everyone. But now that would never happen. Her sister Chloe’s healthy, perfect six-month-old son had died while in her care. She must have done something wrong. Or maybe she hadn’t watched him closely enough. That’s what her sister had said the last time Molly had tried to ask forgiveness.
    As much as she’d wanted children, she could never take such a chance again. Chloe was right. Babies just weren’t safe with her.
    Rubbing gentle circles on the chest of the one now in her care, Molly felt an undeniable sense of loss.
    “You sure are a pretty thing,” she whispered.
    Dark eyelashes curled against rose-over-ivory cheeks, and her round face was topped by a cap of fine, dark hair. Molly couldn’t help but wonder about the mother. What had happened to her? And why had Ethan’s face gone all tense when Molly had asked about her?
    Healthy and well cared for, the baby looked to be about three or four months old, younger than Zack, but not by much. Her pink sleepers, emblazoned with the words Daddy’s Girl were clean and neat. Whatever Ethan Hunter’s situation with Laney’s mother, he loved his little girl.
    Samson rose from his spot near the fireplace, stretched his long gray feline body then padded across the room. Before Molly saw what he was about, the cat leaped onto the couch and tiptoed quietly toward the sleeping child.
    “Samson, no. Get down.”
    The cat, as usual, ignored her. He sniffed curiously at Laney’s mouth, an act that must have tickled, for the baby’s face scrunched up and she turned her head. Suddenly Laney remembered the old wives’ tale that a cat could steal a baby’s breath.
    With more force than she intended, she grabbed Samson and sailed him onto the floor. The shocked animal stared at her in resentment, flicked his tail and stalked to his rug by the crackling fireplace.
    Feeling worse than ever, Molly returned to her post beside the sleeping child. Cautiously, she placed her hand on the little chest once again and felt the movements that assured