She nodded once. “Okay.”
He took that as permission and continued. “If you step in, it would be an emergency placement. Temporary. It doesn’t make you the baby’s legal guardian, and it doesn’t mean adoption.”
Naomi stared straight ahead. “It means taking temporary responsibility.”
“Yes, but with oversight.”
Micah explained that child services would run an immediate background check. They’d take her fingerprints. Draw up paperwork. There would need to be a home visit and eventually a court hearing.
“They’d rather place a newborn with a known, stable adult than send her straight into foster care,” he continued.
Naomi’s fingers tightened. “I looked into foster certification once.”
Micah glanced at her, surprise flooding him. “Did you? When was that?”
“I started about a month before Sarah was killed.” Her voice stayed even, but he heard the effort it took. “I didn’t finish the process.”
That tracked. Grief had a way of freezing good intentions in place.
“It won’t transfer automatically,” he said. “But if you’ve already had background checks and training, that could speed things up.”
“That’s good to know . . .” She crossed her arms over her chest. “However, I don’t want to do anything that would endanger the shelter. The home visits . . . people might ask questions.”
“We could get Karen Watson involved. She knows the truth about Refuge Cove, right?”
Naomi nodded, her eyes brightening. “Yes, she does. Caleb and I know her from church and felt like we could trust her.”
The hospital sign loomed closer now, the lot half full even this late. Micah felt the weight of what he was about to say settle deeper in his chest.
“Taking this baby home will complicate your life,” he added. “Even with Karen involved, people will put you under a microscope.”
Naomi finally turned to look at him. “People already have us under a microscope.”
He didn’t argue with that.
Micah pulled into a space and cut the engine. For a moment, neither of them moved.
But there was something else on his mind, something he needed to say.
“Listen, Naomi,” he started. “You don’t owe me answers. But there’s something I need to ask.”
She waited.
“You know Richard Harding,” Micah said. “You know what he’s capable of—even while in prison.”
Her jaw tightened. “Yes, I do.”
“I need you to keep those things in mind. He’s a dangerous man.” In other words, Micah was worried about her. But he couldn’t tell her that. Not directly.
Naomi closed her eyes for a brief second, then opened them. “Believe me, I will.”
He blew out a breath. He’d said what he needed to say.
And Micah had known what her response would be. He knew there would be no changing Naomi’s mind, whatever she decided—nor did he have the right to try to sway her decision.
But he was worried about this situation.
He opened his door and stepped out, scanning the lot out of habit.
Sedans. SUVs. A minivan with a car seat visible through the back window.
And there, three rows over near the edge of the lot where the light didn’t quite reach . . . was a red pickup.
