Erica Vetsch - The Bounty Hunter's Baby

Thomas took the child, sinking into the chair and cradling the infant as if he were made of soap bubbles. The baby’s face screwed up and reddened, his cries sounding so heartbroken.

“What should I do?” he asked.

Esther didn’t miss the panic in his voice, and it was a bit comforting to find something he wasn’t confident about.

“Rock him, pat him, sing to him.”

The chair creaked as he set it in motion, and Rip got up, pacing and bumping Thomas with his nose, giving soft whines as if to say “make that puppy stop crying.” Esther tested the milk—finally warm enough—and poured it carefully into the bottle. Figuring out the tight, rubber nipple took longer.

“Can’t you hurry? He’s about to throw a shoe or something.” Thomas shushed the baby.

“You haven’t tried singing.”

“I can’t carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on it. He’d probably cry harder.” Thomas raised his voice above the wailing.

She finally snapped the nipple into place over the neck of the bottle and handed it to him.

“Aren’t you going to feed him?” Worry clouded Thomas’s eyes.

“I have full confidence in you.” She smiled, taking a bit of pleasure in his being flustered.

Rip whined again, and Thomas grimaced. “That makes one of us. Hush that caterwaulin’, buster.” He shifted the baby to lie more securely in his arm and offered the bottle.

After a bit of fumbling and fussing, the baby caught on and began sucking with long, steady pulls. “There you go. You’re making hay now.”

The tenderness in his voice affected Esther, as if she’d just taken a sip of hot chocolate on a chilly day, warming her when she didn’t even realize she was cold. She turned back to the laden table.

“This is an awful lot of food.” More than she would purchase in a whole month on her own. She hefted a can of peaches. How long had it been since she tasted something so luxurious? Not that she’d considered canned peaches a luxury once upon a time.

Until it had all come crashing down. Her throat went tight and her insides cold again.

Thomas looked up from the baby. “I figured if I was going to impose on you, I should at least provide some grub. Your cupboard looked a mite bare.”

She stiffened. “I don’t need charity.”

“Now, don’t get into a lather. It isn’t charity. I’m the one who brought more mouths to feed. Five if you count Rip and the horses. I pay my own way, same as you.” He gave her a be-reasonable look that had her pressing her molars together. “It’s really for the baby, when you come to think about it. Taking care of him is bound to be hard work, and you need to keep your strength up. And I have to eat, too. Anyway, what’s a little food between friends?”

Friends. Was that what she and Thomas were? He had such a logical way of looking at things, downplaying things. And he was usually right. But this was too much. There was enough food to last for weeks, well beyond the time he would be here. She opened her mouth to refuse, but he cut in.

“Oh, just take it. It’s not like I can take the stuff back to the store. It will go to waste if you don’t use it.” He held up the bottle. “Look at that. Half gone already. He sure likes his grub, doesn’t he?”

Stifling the feeling of being pushed around, Esther said, “I think you’re supposed to help him get his wind up.” She cast back to what she’d seen mothers do. “Little babies can’t get their air out by themselves. You have to sort of pound on their backs a bit.”

Thomas gave her a skeptical glance and set the bottle on the edge of the table. He lifted the fussing baby to his shoulder and gave him the lightest of taps with his fingertips.

“I think you have to do it harder.” Esther crossed her arms at her waist.

“I’m afraid to break him. He’s lighter than an oat stem.” He patted again. The infant squawked and bobbed his head like a baby bird, bumping his nose on Thomas’s shoulder. “You sure about this?”

“I’m sure. He’ll have awful gas pains if you don’t help him burp. Try rubbing in circles.”

The infant cried harder. “Mad about being taken away from his feed trough, isn’t he? Wish he’d just belch and get it over wi—” Before Thomas could finish the word, the baby obliged, sending a currant of milk sloshing onto his shoulder and down the front of his shirt.

Esther couldn’t help but laugh at the expression on Thomas’s face. The baby quit crying, almost as if his feat surprised him. She was still laughing when she took the boy. “Good job, little one. You sound like a range-hardened cowhand.” She wiped his mouth and chin, snuggling him close while Thomas peeled his sodden shirt away from his skin and looked around for a towel.

“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.