Sherri Shackelford - Mail-Order Christmas Baby

The Wells Fargo employee, distinguishable from the townsfolk crowding the train platform by his round green cap trimmed with gold braid, squinted at his manifest, then lifted his chin.

“No mistake, sir.” The freckle-faced young man extended his paperwork and pointed. “The recipient for this child is listed as Mr. Sterling Blackwell of the Blackwell Ranch, Valentine, Montana. I’ll need you to sign here.”

The attention of the growing crowd swiveled toward the delivery in question. A young child perched atop an enormous wooden crate. The afternoon sunlight had chased away the chill of the October day, and the child’s coat was unbuttoned, revealing her frilly dress. Clad in a pink frock with a matching pink eyelet lace bonnet tied beneath her chubby chin, she merrily gummed the edges of an envelope.

Mrs. Dawson, the local purveyor of all things scandalous and salacious, gasped and pressed a handkerchief against her lips. “Has the whole world gone mad? That child is hardly weaned. What sort of person sends an infant through the post?”

Heather guessed the babe’s age to be somewhere between two and three years. She hovered in that awkward phase between baby and child, babbling words that made little sense to anyone but herself.

“I’m not signing for anything.” Sterling flinched and stumbled backward, as though he’d been speared. “This is obviously a mistake or a...a prank or something.”

Heather’s stomach dipped. She knew little of Sterling beyond what his brother had conveyed during their fleeting time together. Their pa had been a fierce and unyielding man, and both brothers had fought with him over the years. Mr. Blackwell’s unexpected death had brought Sterling home two months earlier. He was as handsome as ever, and now that he owned half of the Blackwell Ranch, he was the most eligible bachelor in town.

Against her better judgment, her gaze swept over him once more. Given his looks, he could have been penniless and the girls would still swoon over him.

The tall rancher had dusky blond hair, blue eyes that seemed to melt into gray, and the muscular build of a lumberjack. As if that weren’t enough, he possessed an intriguing cleft in his strong chin. The embarrassing twinge of relief at having worn her best dress that day meant nothing—a temporary attack of vanity. Her brief, disastrous involvement with his brother had rendered her immune to his handsome face.

And if she kept repeating that to herself, she might even believe her own lies eventually.

“What’s all the fuss?” a familiar voice drawled.

Otto Berg ambled into view, his beefy arms propped on his hips. Otto was the foreman at the Blackwell Ranch, and had been with the family for as long as anyone could remember. According to Dillon, he’d been more of a father to the boys than the late Mr. Blackwell.

Otto looped his thumbs through his suspenders and shifted his weight to one hip. “What seems to be the trouble?”

The hushed crowd leaned forward in unison.

“Him.” The Wells Fargo employee jabbed an accusing finger in Sterling’s direction. “This man won’t accept his delivery.”

“You mean the child?” Otto demanded, his expression incredulous.

“Yes!” As though posting a babe through the mail was perfectly normal, the freckle-faced employee pointed at the girl with a huff. “All he has to do is sign for her, and then I can leave.”

The foreman glanced between Sterling and the odd delivery. A frown puckered the single brow stretching over Otto’s close-set eyes.

Sterling reached heavenward with both hands. “Since when does Wells Fargo deliver children?”

Heather slanted a glance his way, but his attention remained on the babbling child. Not that he was under any obligation to acknowledge her. She was, after all, the penniless schoolteacher who’d precipitated his brother’s career in the cavalry. Yet she knew from experience if she caught his gaze, he’d tip his hat and offer a few cordial words. His insistence on treating her kindly was a ubiquitous quirk of his character. He’d always been an amiable rogue with a quick wit and ready smile. But his deference meant little since he treated all the girls, young and old, with that same lazy charm.

“I just make the deliveries.” The Wells Fargo man tugged on the hem of his smart green coat. “I’ve only worked here a month, sir. This is my first mail-order baby.”

A ripple of amusement met his announcement.

Otto held up one hand. “A little respect, please.” The foreman rolled his eyes and accepted the paperwork. “Says here the child was posted in Butte.”

“Yes, sir.”

Leaning past Otto, Sterling carefully enunciated each word. “Do you happen to know who posted this child?”

“No, sir. I just do what I’m told. The baby came on board in Butte with instructions for delivery to Sterling Blackwell.” The young man grinned proudly. “I thought she was going to be real fussy, but she was fine. The lady passengers helped. As soon as they discovered there was a real, live child in the parcels, they made certain she was fed and they changed her nappies and things like that. They were real obliging.”

A grin twitched at the edges of Otto’s mouth. “That was awful nice of those ladies.”

His comment drew another wave of titters.

“I don’t care how she got here.” Sterling shook his head in bewildered confusion. “She’s got nothing to do with me.”

The child reached out, and Heather instinctively clasped the tiny hand.

Sterling caught sight of her and pinched the brim of his hat in greeting, then offered a winsome half smile. “Miss O’Connor. That’s a lovely bonnet. Is it new?”

A flush started at the roots of her hair and rushed through her entire body, down to the tips of her toes. “Uh-huh.”

“It’s quite becoming on you.”

“The price had been marked down.”

“An excellent bargain.”

Marked down? What was the matter with her? For some inexplicable and annoying reason, she lost the ability to speak in complete sentences when he turned his attention on her. He had the discomforting habit of focusing his concentration too closely. Even with all that was happening around them, his latent charm rose to the surface.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “About your father.”

Considering the late Mr. Blackwell’s feelings about her, she’d avoided the funeral.

“Thank you.” He ducked his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Dillon’s coming back soon. He inherited half of the ranch. Thought you should know.”

Her conscience pricked at the somber subject, but at least they’d cleared the air. “I know.”

What did he expect her to do? Flee town rather than face the embarrassment? She’d tried that once. After Dillon left, she’d stayed for a few months with a friend, Helen, who’d moved to Butte after she married. When the school year started back up, Heather had returned. Valentine was her home. With Dillon absent, the gossip had died a natural death. Even Mrs. Dawson had tired of the old news by then.

The train whistle blew, and a burst of steam sent the pistons chugging.

Heather motioned toward the child. “Don’t forget about your special delivery, Sterling.”

“Gra!” the child declared.

A curtain of languid indifference descended over Sterling’s expression once more. “Someone has an awfully strange sense of humor. They’ll show their face soon enough.”

Passengers poked their noses through the half-drawn windows, eager for a glimpse of the commotion. The Wells Fargo man grasped the handrail and leaped onto the slow-moving train.

He shook his papers. “I have a schedule to keep. Since this man won’t sign for his delivery, I’m leaving the child with the unclaimed packages.”