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up.”
    “But what if I do? Mess it up?” he asked, with a concern that revealed a raw vulnerability his gruff attitude had concealed.
    Her heart was wrung at the evidence of his fear of failing his son. She could think of no other reason why such a strong willed and private man would open himself to her. More than ever she renewed her vow to help father and son connect.
    “I’ll help you.”
     
    “The first thing you need to do is take off your shirt.” Nikki opened a jar of baby food, poured the peaches into a bowl and set it on the table next to where Mickey sat sleepy-eyed in his highchair at the end of the table.
    Out of near identical green eyes, Trace sent her a candid stare. “Must we go over the rules again, Ms. Rhodes?”
    “Please. You have a one-track mind. I was thinking of your cleaning bill, not your manly form. You can take it off now or change it later. First lesson in feeding your child: babies are not neat.”
    “Thanks for the warning.” Trace stripped off his khaki shirt and draped it over the back of the couch.
    “Hey, I’m here to help.” Nikki admired the snug fit of pristine white cotton stretched over wide shoulders when he returned to the dining area. She shook herhead silently mourning the T-shirt’s pending desecration. Oh, well, neat and tidy was an ongoing battle when you had kids.
    “You take that side—” she waved Trace to a seat close to the highchair “—and I’ll sit over here.” They settled across from each other at the table on either side of Mickey.
    “Okay, go ahead and give him a bite. Second lesson is never leave the baby unattended with the food, or you’ll be cleaning the whole kitchen.”
    Trace took the bowl of puréed peaches, dipped the baby spoon in it and held it out to Mickey.
    Mickey looked from the spoon to Trace, to her. He did not open his mouth.
    “Move it closer,” she encouraged Trace. “That’s good,” she said, when the spoon reached within an inch of Mickey’s little mouth. “Sometimes you really have to shovel it in, but I’d rather he came to the food this first time between you.”
    Instead of going for the bite of peaches, the boy pushed away, leaning his head on the back of the highchair.
    Huh? Nikki glanced over at Trace, to find him watching her with a “what now?” expression.
    “Maybe he doesn’t like peaches?” he offered.
    “No. A lot of baby food is orange. Carrots, sweet potatoes, apricots—they make a whole guessing game of it at baby showers. I suppose if he didn’t like one of those your mother-in-law may have catered to him and not fed him any orange foods. Did they leave a list of his preferences?”
    “No. She wasn’t in any shape to put anything like that together, and my father-in-law was too overwhelmed to think beyond dropping the baby off.”
    “Of course. That’s understandable.”
    “There was nothing but formula and cereal in his diaper bag. There may have been some food in the refrigerator at my in-laws I could have picked up when I got his stuff last weekend, but I didn’t think to look.”
    “She was still feeding him formula?”
    “Yeah.” He angled his head to the right. “There are several cans in the cupboard.”
    “If she still had him on formula maybe she hadn’t even started him on baby food yet. Basic rule of thumb is formula for the first year, adding baby cereal at three or four months, and moving to baby food and other solids around seven to nine months.”
    Trace’s jaw clenched and his eyebrows lowered in a grim scowl. Anger and shame flashed in his eyes, and she knew he blamed himself at this further evidence of his mother-in-law’s smothering influence.
    “Listen, those are just parameters. Like my sister says, there are as many theories as there are doctors. Mickey isn’t suffering from malnutrition.”
    To distract him further, she scooted the empty bottle of peaches toward him. “There’s baby food in the cupboard. Someone must have tried to feed him something