I may never get around to reading more than the first three or four chapters of Dakota Child, a Love Inspired Historical by Linda Ford, but I enjoy an assumption made by the hero:
The mewling sound came again, louder, more demanding. [...]
He put the basket on a stool before the fireplace. The warmth of the yellow-and-orange flames made her ache to hunker down and extend her hands. But she didn't dare move. Who knew what would trigger this man into action? And she wasn't about to hazard a guess as to what sort of action he might take. Instead she waited, alert and ready to protect what was hers.
He bent over and eagerly folded back the blanket to reveal the contents, then jumped back as if someone shot him. "It's a baby," he muttered. The look he fired her accused her of some sort of trickery. "I thought you had a cat."