Erica Vetsch - The Bounty Hunter's Baby

Nothing. If not for Rip, he’d think the place deserted. Easing forward, he crossed the dry, open yard and stepped lightly onto the porch. A fly buzzed past his nose, but he ignored it, concentrating, letting his experience and instinct guide him. Gathering himself, he plunged his boot into the door, shattering it at the frame, and leaped into the cabin.

“Hands up, Jase!” The door banged against the wall and shot back toward Thomas. He shouldered it aside, raking the room, swinging his rifle from side to side. Rip bounded inside, fangs bared, and skittered to a halt.

Swindell rocketed to his feet from where he’d been kneeling by the bed, his eyes wide, face filthy with sweat and dirt. A woman lay on the bunk.

A woman?

The outlaw crouched in front of her, and Thomas couldn’t risk a shot, not with his rifle. The bullet might go clean through the fugitive’s miserable hide and hit the woman.

A low moan came from the bed, followed by a lung-racking cough. Rip, who had been snarling and barking at Thomas’s side, went silent.

A strange sensation skittered up Thomas’s spine, that feeling he got when something unexpected and unwelcome was about to happen.

In that moment, Swindell leaped toward the open back door of the shack. Thomas snapped off a shot as Rip bounded after him. The room filled with the smell of burnt powder, and the woman screamed. Thomas bolted after his quarry, but as he passed the bed, the woman grabbed him by the sleeve.

“Don’t shoot him!” she begged.

Knowing he had to get outside, he shook off her grasp. If Rip didn’t get to Swindell in time, the outlaw would surely shoot the dog in order to escape.

Thomas jumped out into the sunshine as Rip hurled himself at Swindell, who was trying to climb into the saddle. The dog’s powerful jaws clamped down on the man’s left forearm, half dragging him from the horse’s back. The outlaw used the butt of his drawn pistol to club the dog, sending Rip to the dust in a yelping, tumbling heap. Thomas raised his rifle and snapped off a shot, too quickly, and knew it went wide. Swindell legged his horse into a gallop, racing toward the cover of the thickets fifty yards away, snapping pistol shots over his shoulder as he shouted to his mount.

Thomas steadied his breathing, knelt in the dirt and took careful aim at the fleeing killer. A bullet from Swindell’s gun whined past his ear, thudding into the shack behind him. The sun glared into his eyes and he blinked, focusing hard on the rapidly diminishing horse and rider. As Thomas held his breath and began to squeeze the trigger, something slammed him in the back, knocking his aim off, sending the bullet whining harmlessly into the air and loosening his hold in his rifle. The Winchester bucked into his shoulder and clattered to the dirt.

He whirled as the woman toppled into a heap at his feet.

Snatching his rifle, he raised it again, but Swindell was gone, disappeared into the brush. Anger clawed up his windpipe. How had a simple arrest gone wrong so quickly? He took his hat off and whacked his thigh, sending up a cloud of dust. “Lady, I’m going to arrest you for obstruction of justice, aiding and abetting a known fugitive and interfering with a peace officer.”

The woman didn’t stir, and he frowned, kneeling and putting his hand on her shoulder to roll her over. He leaped back, noting her round belly. “Bullets and buckshot, lady!” What on earth was Swindell doing with a woman way out here, and a woman near to bursting with a child at that?

She clutched her stomach and moaned, eyes squeezed shut.

“Tell me you’re not having a baby now.” Thomas jammed his Stetson on his head. They were miles from anywhere, and what he knew about birthing babies could be poured into a thimble and still leave room for a decent-size cup of coffee.

Rip approached, stiff-legged and slow, sniffing and growling. Thomas ran his hand over the mutt’s head, looking for signs of injury where Swindell had clubbed him, but other than a jerk of his head when Thomas touched the spot, Rip seemed all right.

“Let’s get her inside, boy.” He bent and scooped the woman into his arms. Even being so close to her time, she weighed next to nothing, her bones sharp under her skin. He edged the door aside, shoving with his boot when it ground against the uneven floor.

The smells of burnt grease, unwashed bedclothes and neglect hung in the air. A sun-rotted curtain hung at the broken window, unmoving in the still afternoon air. Thomas set her gently on the rumpled bedding. “Stay put while I tend to things outside.”

She stared up at him with frightened eyes, her hair straggling over her face and shoulders. “Did he get away?”

“Yeah, for now, thanks to you.” He headed outside to retrieve his horse. Keeping his rifle handy, he scanned the area. Swindell had been hightailing it south, but the nearest settlement that way was well over a hundred miles. From what Thomas had seen, the outlaw had no supplies with him, so he’d need to head to a town soon. Which meant he was probably headed to Silar Falls or Bitter Creek, swinging wide around the cabin and riding to the northeast by now.

Thomas hoped the trail led to Bitter Creek. He hadn’t been to Silar Falls in five years, and he doubted his welcome would be cordial.

He would have to get the woman on her horse and take her in, but she would slow him considerably. She looked ready to pop, and he wanted her under a doctor’s care, pronto. Untying his sorrel gelding, he led the horse to the corral and caught the remaining horse, leading them both to the cabin. The sooner they got started, the sooner he could get back on Swindell’s trail.

“All right, let’s go.” Thomas pushed open the door. “We need to make tracks if we’re going to reach town before nightfall.”

The thin, white-faced woman stared back at him, frightened, her tangled hair hanging half over her face. Her tatty dress rode above her knees, and she closed her eyes, her hands gripping her pregnant belly. Through tight lips, she groaned, “Help me. Please.”

Silar Falls, Texas

Esther Jensen bent over her scrub board, back aching, hands stinging, scrubbing yet another pair of pants.

“Only ten more pairs to go,” she muttered. Dropping the denims back into the water to soak a bit more, she turned from the scrub tub, picked up her wooden paddle and went to the heavy, iron kettle chained to a tripod over the fire. She swirled the shirts and drawers and socks as they rolled and tumbled in the boiling water. How many hundreds of times had she filled that pot, lit the fires, hung out clothes, collected her coins, only to get up and do it all again the next day?

Her life stretched out before her, an endless procession of buckets of water and miles of clotheslines, an abyss with nothing to break her fall. Wiping her reddened hands—forever chapped by harsh lye soap—on her apron, she blew her hair out of her eyes.

“You’re not very good company today, Esther Marie. As melancholy as a morose mule,” she chided herself, looking up from the laundry. She tried to stay positive, to remember her blessings, but some days were easier than others.

She surveyed her little kingdom, the legacy of her departed father. A sturdy stone house, a weathered barn, a shambling bunkhouse, a windmill with more baling wire than nails holding it together. Five years was a long time. Five years since her father had passed away, since the ranch hands had left, since she’d found herself alone on the edge of town and needing to make her own living, a living that didn’t stretch to building repairs or hired help.

The road into Silar Falls went by her place, but few folks stopped in...mostly the cowboys who dropped off their clothes to be washed and mended. None of them ever really saw her; some didn’t even say hello, just plopped down their bundles, touched their hat brims and rode on.