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“I already sacrificed my other shirt to wrap him up after he was born, and now he’s christened this one.”
Hospitality demanded that Esther come to his aid, but she had a hard time forcing the words out. “There are clean shirts in the bureau in my father’s room. You can borrow one of those, and I’ll wash yours tomorrow. You can put that one to soak in the washtub.” Esther pointed to the second bedroom door at the back of the house, and took Thomas’s place in the rocker and offered the bottle to the baby again.
“I’m making a lot more work for you. I’m sorry.” He disappeared into her father’s room and returned, buttoning up a faded blue shirt that was tight across the shoulders and chest. He left the cuffs unbuttoned and rolled up the sleeves. Seeing him coming out of her father’s room made Esther’s heart ache. Her father wasn’t coming back, and she wasn’t being disloyal by loaning out one shirt. She tamped down her feelings, striving for the calm demeanor she’d been practicing ever since that moment the ranch foreman had come to the door to tell her that her father was dead.
“Sorry about the extra work,” Thomas apologized again.
“A couple more shirts won’t tax me.” This time, Esther took the precaution of putting a cloth against her shoulder before burping the baby.
“Thank you for letting me stay on while I figure out what to do with him. That’s the good thing about the way I live. All I need is six feet of space to spread my bedroll.”
“You plan to stay here?” She brushed a kiss on the baby’s hair, unable to stop herself. He was just so sweet. The notion of Thomas staying on the ranch sent her senses reeling, and she concentrated on the infant in an effort to get herself under control.
“Sure. Where else would I go? I want to be close to keep an eye out on the little guy.”
Esther nestled the baby into the curve of her arm, grateful that he had dropped off to sleep again, when a thought occurred to her. “You aren’t staying in the house.”
Thomas’s eyes went wide. “Of course not. I’ll be out in the bunkhouse, like I used to be. Probably in the same bunk that used to be mine.” He scrubbed his hand against the back of his neck. “I figure a few days, a week at the most, and I’ll have sorted out what to do with the baby. Then I can get back on the trail.”
If he planned to sleep in the bunkhouse tonight, he’d have his work cut out for him. Nothing on this ranch was the same as it had been when he’d worked here, not the buildings, not the livestock and certainly not her.
“That’s fine.” She lay the baby in the basket and put her hands on her hips. “Since you provided the fixin’s, I might as well make some supper. Then I’m headed to bed. It’s been a long day, and I am looking forward to a good night’s sleep.”
* * *
Thomas shouldered his saddlebags, snapped his fingers at Rip and headed out into the moonlight. He rubbed his stomach. That was the best meal he’d had in a long time. Biscuits, fried ham, red-eye gravy and green beans. Someone had taught Esther to cook during the last five years, since he recalled her saying once that she was glad they had domestic help because she barely knew a whisk from a wagon wheel and was hopeless in the kitchen.
Tumbleweeds and brush clogged the yard and piled up in the corners of buildings and fences, but the moonlight hid most of the faults of the buildings and grounds. He checked on the horses in the corral beside the barn, making sure they had water. The ground inside the rails was overgrown, so they’d have plenty of fodder for the time being.
A shame about this place, really. It had so much potential. Good grass, good water, close to town. When he’d worked here, it had been a prosperous ranch. Plenty of cattle, good horses, a full crew.
So much had changed since he was a stripling kid, digging post holes, stringing wire, taking the jokes and ribbing of the older cowhands, barely dreaming of something more than working for fifteen dollars a month.
Falling in love with the boss’s daughter.
Yep, a lot had changed. He was older, more trail worn. The Double J had gone to seed. And he had shouldered a responsibility that had him leg-roped to one place for the first time in years.
And yet, one thing hadn’t changed a bit. Esther Jensen still had the power to stir him. From the moment he’d first laid eyes on her years ago, his heart had started thumping and his wits had scattered to the wind. Her, with her brown hair and light brown eyes, the sassy toss of her head and the swish of her skirts, everything about her fascinated him.
But more than her heart-stirring looks...she had been kind. Kind to everyone from her father to the Mexican girls who cooked and cleaned for them. And lively. She loved to ride, and she was good with animals. Orphaned calves, dogs, young horses, she had a knack with all of them. Her love of animals was more than half the reason he’d gotten Rip and brought him home when he was just a puppy.
She just seemed to make the world a brighter place for being in it. She had made his life brighter, too.
And now he was back, however briefly. This time he vowed to leave her better than he found her, to try to make some amends for the hurt she’d suffered.
Thomas shouldered his way into the bunkhouse, grimacing as the door sagged on its hinges and ground along the wooden floor. He let his bags drop and dug in his shirt for a match, striking it with his thumbnail and holding it up to survey his temporary sleeping quarters.
“This is not encouraging.” He found a battered lantern with a little kerosene in it on the table and lit it, shaking out the match flame. Turning up the wick, he spied the bunk he’d been assigned when first hired on. The one right by the door, where the wind and dust and cold seeped in and where every cowhand passed by on his way to his bed. Lowest in the pecking order got the bunk by the door.
Rip nosed about, investigating corners. He sneezed and flapped his ears.
“Little dusty?” Thomas asked. He kicked the bunk, then picked up the mattress and shook it, wondering how many rodents might be nesting inside. Maybe he’d be better off in the barn or in his bedroll under the stars. This place needed a thorough cleaning before he could sleep here.
“Let’s check out our other options.” He snapped his fingers at Rip, picked up the lantern and his bedroll, and headed outside.
The barn wasn’t any better. No hay or straw, and if he didn’t miss his guess, bats had taken over the loft. He blew out the lantern and hung it on a peg inside the barn door. “Guess it’s outside for us, pard.”
They skirted the meager woodpile and the washtubs and kettles, ducking under the clothesline, as they headed toward the house. “The porch will be better than the dirt, don’t you think?”
A soft light glowed from Esther’s bedroom window and then went out. The bedsprings creaked, and then the only sound was the wind in the grasses and a far-off coyote yip.
Quietly, Thomas spread his bedroll on the porch floor and stretched out on it. Sleep dragged at his eyelids as Rip circled and flopped down beside him. Thomas buried his hand in Rip’s fur, glad for the warmth the big dog gave off.
Even with all he needed to think about, Thomas couldn’t keep his eyes open. Long days on the hunt, a sleepless night delivering a baby, a desperate ride to get the little fellow to help and an encounter with the only woman he had ever loved had taken their toll. Time enough tomorrow to think about what he should do about the baby’s future, about getting back on Swindell’s trail and about helping out Esther as much as she would let him.
Chapter Four (#u1cd32bdb-ef11-5922-82a8-2283fade8527)
It seemed Thomas had barely closed his eyes when he was jolted awake. Rip bounded to his feet, letting out a low woof that had Thomas drawing his gun from the holster he’d placed at his side before falling asleep.
He scanned the starlit area in front of the house, wondering what had roused him. Years of hunting bad men had taught him to be on guard, but lack of sleep had dulled his wits. His head felt as if it had been stuffed with sawdust.
Then the sound came again. The baby was crying. Rip whined and went to the door.
Thomas forced himself to relax, laying the gun on the floor. If he got to the little fellow in time, perhaps Esther wouldn’t even wake up. He levered himself up and placed his hand flat on the front door, easing it open.
He was just bending over the cradle when her bedroom door opened and candlelight shone over him.
“What are you doing in here?” She gathered the lapels of her housecoat around her. Her eyes glistened in the candle flame, dark and wide, and her hair tumbled about her shoulders in a river of chocolate-toned curls.
His breath snagged in his chest. He’d never seen her with her hair unbound before. Her bare toes curled against the floorboards, and the flush of sleep rode her cheeks.
“I heard him crying.” He lifted the baby out of the basket.
“From clear out in the bunkhouse?” She had more starch in her voice than a brand-new, store-bought shirt collar.
“The bunkhouse isn’t fit to live in right now. I rolled out my blankets on the front porch.” Thomas cradled the baby’s head in one palm, his little rump in the other. “Hush there, little fella, there’s no need to get all worked up.”
The baby disagreed. He drew his legs up, eyes screwed shut, mouth wide as a fresh-hatched bird. “Is he hungry again? What time is it?” Thomas squinted at the clock on the wall. “Seems like he just ate.”
“He did, not more than an hour ago.” She gathered her hair into a bunch on her shoulder. “Does he need a new diaper?”
“Not so I can tell.” Thomas shifted the baby to his shoulder, grappling with the child, the blanket and his own awkwardness.
“Maybe he needs to bring up more wind?” Esther used her candle to light two others on the table.
Thomas patted the infant, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. “Is he in pain?” The thought of something so little and helpless hurting made Thomas’s gut clench.
“Let me try.” Esther took the child, cradling him, crooning and shushing. She rubbed small circles on his little back. “Don’t cry, baby.” She looked up. “We really should give him a name. We can’t keep calling ‘baby.’”
Thomas paced, scratching his cheek, his whiskers rasping. “His mama didn’t live long enough to tell me what she planned to name her son. Any suggestions?”
“Did she tell you anything at all? The baby’s father’s name?”
He stopped. “She said his name was Jason.”
“Jason.” She swayed, rocking the baby. “Maybe we could pick a name with the same first letter. What about John? That’s a good, sturdy name. He can be Johnny when he’s little and John when he grows up.” She had to raise her voice over the pitiful cries.
“Johnny.” Thomas tested the name. “I like it.”
John Swindell, if she only knew.
“What can we do for him?” Thomas hooked his thumbs into his back pockets. “He’s killing me with that crying.”
Esther took the baby to the table and laid him down, peeling back the blankets. “Maybe he has a pin sticking him.” She checked him over, but the safety pins were closed. Being unwrapped seemed to make things worse. Johnny’s face reddened, and he jerked his legs up toward his little tummy.
“Maybe wrap him up tight like a papoose.”
Rip paced and whined, tall enough to get his muzzle up near the edge of the table, sniffing. He let out a low woof.
“We’re trying, fella.” Thomas scrubbed the big dog’s head.
As Esther cocooned Johnny and lifted him up, he brought up a stream of sour milk that hit the floor. The crying stopped, reduced to a bout of hiccups and snuffles. “I guess his tummy was upset.”
“Think he’ll sleep now?” Thomas grabbed a towel from the shelf near the stove. “I’ll clean up. You sit with him.” He steered her toward the rocker and then knelt to mop up the mess.
Esther settled Johnny in against her chest, his head tucked under her chin. In the candlelight they looked like they could be mother and son. Something squeezed in Thomas’s chest. If he hadn’t ridden away five years ago, would she have ever considered marrying him against her father’s wishes? And if they had, would they have kids? Would she be sitting there with his son in her arms?
Knock it off. Those are pipe dreams. The fact is, you left, and it was for the best. She deserves better than you.
“I’ll fetch some water.” Thomas picked up the bucket beside the door and headed out toward the windmill and pump. The moon had already started its descent, and stars coated the sky. Far away a coyote yipped, and its mate answered.
The path to the windmill was hard-packed, and Thomas imagined Esther had walked it hundreds of times, filling up washtubs and kettles day after day. What she needed was a pipe and spigot, so the water from the tank would flow down to where she washed the clothes without her having to carry it. He hooked the windmill to the pump handle, letting water gush out into the tank for a moment before sticking the bucket under the spout. Already he was tallying materials and the tools needed to plumb a line. Shouldn’t take more than a day.
When he returned to the house, Esther was asleep, the baby snuggled in her arms. Thomas set the bucket down gently and tossed the soiled towel into it to soak. He eased into a chair, content to watch Esther and Johnny sleep. A yawn cracked his jaw, and he rested his elbow on the table and his head on his fist for a moment. Surely now, everyone could settle down and get some rest.
* * *
Esther squinted at the clock, wondering if it was even worth it to go back to bed. For what seemed the hundredth time that night, Johnny cried out. She’d tried feeding, rocking, changing, singing and everything else she could think of. Thomas had tried, too.
“It’s got to be his tummy. Maybe it’s the canned milk that isn’t agreeing with him,” Esther said, wanting to cry herself. “It’s the only thing left I can think of.”
Thomas ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. Red rimmed his eyes, and his whiskers darkened his cheeks. “That’s it. I’m heading out at first light to get a nanny goat.” He rubbed his hands down his face, yawning. “I feel terrible feeding him something that upset his innards so much.”
Esther nodded. The only place Johnny seemed to get any rest at all was in the center of her chest with her housecoat wrapped around them both. The poor little mite had thrown up repeatedly, his abdomen hard, his legs drawing up tight. They’d washed him from head to toes twice to get the sour milk smell off, using up the last of her special soap in the process.
Thomas had stayed with her all night, even when she knew he would probably love to bolt from the house and find somewhere to get some rest. He’d even shared in the walking and rocking and patting, though Johnny seemed to want Esther most. Rip had worried and walked right along with them, and now the big dog lay sprawled next to the rocking chair.
At long last, dawn began to pink the sky, fingers of light reaching through the front windows and chasing the shadows to the corners of the room. Thomas leaned over and blew out the almost guttering candles.
Johnny slept on, his tiny fist resting on Esther’s collarbone, his cheek pillowed in the hollow of her neck.
“I’d grind beans for coffee, but I’m afraid of waking him up again.” Thomas eased down onto one of the wooden chairs, putting his head on his crossed arms on the table. “Who knew one little baby could rout two grown adults, horse, foot and artillery? If I had known I wouldn’t get back to my bedroll, I mightn’t have been so quick to leap out of it when he first started to cry.”
She didn’t know whether to be glad or exasperated that Thomas had elected to sleep out on the porch. When she’d come out of her bedroom and seen him bending over the baby, he’d nearly frightened her out of her wits.
But now...
Tousled hair, bristled chin, rumpled clothing, sleep-deprived and in need of coffee, he’d never looked so appealing to Esther.
“I know it’s Sunday, but after last night, I don’t think I’ll be going to church. Unless you want me to hitch up the buggy for you.” He said the last on a yawn.
“Don’t bother. The church has been without a preacher for months. Folks in town have a prayer meeting that moves from house to house, but I don’t know who is hosting it this week.”
She felt herself drifting toward sleep and forced herself to open her eyes. “I’m going to try putting him in the basket again. Hopefully he’ll sleep long enough for me to dress and start breakfast.”
Thomas let out a snore.
Esther smiled. In the words of her Kentucky grandma, he was worn slap out.
Carefully, holding her breath, she eased Johnny into the blanket-lined basket. He stirred and relaxed, staying asleep, and she exhaled.
She gently closed her bedroom door, glancing in the mirror on her bureau. With a gasp, she reached for her hairbrush. She looked like she’d been dragged through a knothole backward. Her mop of curly hair had bushed out like a sagebrush, and dark smudges circled her eyes. Working to tidy her hair, she gazed out her bedroom window. Standing on tiptoe and angling her head, she could just see the porch floor where Thomas’s blankets lay, half tossed aside from where he’d jumped out of them.
His rifle lay on the boards, and his pistol at one end of the bedroll, the cartridge belt wrapped around the holster.
A chill chased up her back at the sight of the pistol. She hated guns, but pistols especially.
Her hands went slack on her half-fashioned braid as she remembered back to that horrible day. Thomas had been gone from the ranch for almost a week, and at that time Esther still hadn’t given up hope that he would return. She’d been fixing her hair then, too, hoping to look pretty just in case Thomas came back.
Carlita had called to her from the front room, and her heart had skipped a beat as she finished pinning up her braid.
Bark Getty had stood in the doorway, his hat in his hand, shifting his weight from boot to boot. The ranch foreman hadn’t come to the house often.
“Good morning, Mr. Getty. My father isn’t here. He was up at first light and out of the house. I’m not sure if he went to town or if he is out on the range.” She rolled down her sleeve and buttoned her cuff.
“That’s why I’m here, Miss Esther.” He looked at the floor, out the window and over her shoulder, but not in her eyes.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” She tried to ignore the skitter of unease that brushed her skin.
“No, thank you.” He twisted his hat brim. “Miss Esther, I don’t want to have to tell you this, but your pa...”
“What?” Her hand went to her throat and unease turned to panic.
“He’s dead, ma’am.” Mr. Getty finally met her eyes, his troubled under their heavy brows. He brushed his hand down his long, dark whiskers.
“Did he fall from his horse?”
“No, ma’am. It wasn’t an accident. He...” He took a deep breath. “Your pa shot himself.”
