A Mother's Love by Ruth Wind Read Free Book Online

sorry.”
    The older woman stood, Amanda cradled in her fleshy embrace. “Just tuck her close to you, sweet,” she said and shifted the baby into Kyra’s arms. “Yes, like that.”
    Kyra half expected the baby to start crying again, but she simply looked up at her curiously, somehow quizzically. “Hi, again,” Kyra said.
    Amanda blinked big blue eyes.
    â€œSit down, Kyra,” Emma said. “Be comfortable.”
    Kyra moved carefully over to the rocking chair and settled into the cushioned seat. In this position it seemed easier, her elbows falling into place at her sides, the baby braced against her upper arm, her bottom against Kyra’s belly. In yoga there was a teaching that said, Find the ease in the pose. The injunction calmed her. Ease was in feeling how a baby needed to be held. Close but not rigid. As she relaxed, the baby relaxed, too.
    Kyra began to hum under her breath, a song she had been singing under her breath as long as she could remember. It must be something from her childhood, but she had no idea what. Amanda gazed upward, moving legs and arms in a curious way, one that Kyra suddenly realized was just exploratory— What does this thing do?
    She laughed and put her palm against the sole of the baby’s tiny foot. “That’s your foot,” she said and gently pushed. “Push back.”
    Amanda pushed back, her eyes lighting up when Kyra playfully pushed a little more, bending the tiny knee. “That’s it,” she cooed. “This is your ankle and this is your leg and this is your tummy.” Everyone said babies this small didn’t smile, but Kyra would have disagreed. As she worked her way up the tiny baby body, ending with kisses to the tiny fingers, Amanda wiggled happily, her eyes shining, her mouth curled into a baby smile. “You like that, don’t you?”
    Amanda wiggled all over and Kyra laughed.
    â€œLooks like you’re getting the hang of it,” Dylan said.
    Kyra looked up, and a bolt of high-voltage electricity blasted through her chest. He was so very, very sexy, with that rakish hair and the vivid eyes and his—oh, that kiss!—skilled mouth. Way too much for her, she told herself. “I think she likes this game.”
    â€œYou relaxed.”
    Kyra nodded and lowered her gaze gently back to Amanda, who made a funny sound— ack! —that made Kyra laugh. “You silly. What was that?”
    â€œIt’s Welsh,” Dylan said.
    â€œOh, really.”
    â€œIt means ‘I need my uncle Dylan to cuddle me right now.’”
    â€œAh.” Kyra grinned. “That can be arranged.”
    He bent over and scooped the baby out of her arms. It was a fast, sure gesture that lasted no longer than a second or two, but Kyra felt every detail—his forearm against her ribs, a whisper of his black hair brushing her mouth, his scent of sea and rain washing down her body like water, soaking her every pore.
    She pressed her hands to her thighs, smoothing her skirts, and jumped up. “You can have the chair.”
    â€œThat’s all right. Sit.” He had Amanda braced against his left arm, her bare legs dangling over his forearm, and without any fanfare he began to sing in a strong, vibrant voice. “If she were mine and loved me well, Life would be naught but pleasure…”
    Kyra blinked, and for one luxurious moment she gave herself up to the lure of Dylan Jones. That liquid voice, his strong tanned hands, the power in his corded forearm, the movement of his throat as he sang. She let herself soak in every detail—the breadth of his shoulders, the loose clasp of his denim jeans over narrow hips, the tumble of wavy hair over his brow.
    But the real appeal was the cheery tenderness, the calm knowing he showed in handling the baby. He was fond of her. He knew what to do. He was utterly natural, a born father.
    His kiss came back to her, and unbidden came a vision of