Smiling down at Andy, she asked, “Will you get Shayna’s blanket? I bet she’d like that.”
Given a purpose, he pivoted and ran to get it, but also grabbed the small stuffed animal. “My baby.”
“Yes, your baby cried, didn’t she? Babies do that sometimes.”
As he ran back, the argument outside grew more heated—at least on Ruthie’s side.
“Thank you, Andy.” Pixie tucked the lightweight blanket around the baby and used one corner to partially cover her eyes. “You’re such a good helper.”
He made grabby gestures with his hands.
“You want me to hold you?” She wasn’t sure how she’d manage that.
“My baby.”
“Oh.” Despite the nasty scene happening outside her door, her mouth twitched. “How about I hold the baby for now, and you can hold her in a little bit?” Without a thought, she kissed the baby’s smooth, sweet-smelling forehead. “Shayna is falling asleep. Do you think you can whisper?”
Putting a finger to his mouth, Andy said, “Shh.”
“Yes, perfect. Thank you, sweetheart. We’re going to be very, very quiet, okay?”
From outside, she heard, “Goddamn it, you will listen to me!”
Pixie cracked the door open and saw that Brogan had moved away from the entrance, probably in an attempt to shield the kids from the shouting. Arms crossed and feet braced apart, he looked every bit the warrior protecting his ground.
Ruthie stood several feet in front of him on the gravel driveway.
Still in a controlled tone, Brogan said, “I imagine all of Bramble has heard you.”
Ruthie took a step forward, but when Brogan didn’t so much as flinch, she stopped again. “You don’t even care, do you? You’re such a coldhearted bastard, nothing touches you.”
Brogan didn’t reply.
To call him a bastard was an awful insult. Pixie badly wanted to go to him, to show Ruthie that she was on his side, but she didn’t dare.
He was no longer a little boy. He was a man, and Pixie had full confidence that he could handle even Ruthie’s obnoxious taunts.
Fortunately, Andy had wandered back to the blanket that Shayna had been on, crouched down, and was going through the diaper bag again.
Seeing that as her only chance, Pixie opened the door a littlemore so she could better witness what was happening. There was no way Andy could slip out past her, and neither Brogan nor Ruthie noticed her.
Jutting up her chin, Ruthie said, “Your father is sick.”
“He drinks too much. Nothing I can do about it.”
Infuriated by that reply, Ruthie kicked gravel in his direction. “Do you even care if he dies?”
“Is he dying?” Brogan asked with mild curiosity.
“Yes!”
Pixie froze.
Brogan didn’t. “What hospital is he in?”
“Like I’d tell you.”
“You’re here—so if he’s dying, who’s with him now?”
