Erica Vetsch - The Bounty Hunter's Baby

If she stood on her porch, she could watch them all the way into town, less than half a mile on a straight road. Half a mile, but it might as well be a hundred for as often as she traveled it. She went to town only to pick up and drop off laundry. That and a monthly trip to get supplies composed her entire social life. If it wasn’t for her friendship with Sarah Granville and Trudy Clements, both older women who had stepped in to help when her father died, she might not talk to another person for weeks.

She hefted a basket of newly washed laundry and headed to the clothesline to peg it out. “It’s not like some handsome prince is going to ride down that road, sweep you off your feet and take you away from all this.”

Esther had half the shirts hung up when the sound of hooves on the hard-packed road made her turn around.

Another cowboy. He must not need much washing done, since the bundle in his arm was so small. She didn’t recognize him as a regular. Shading her eyes, she watched him, even as she stooped to pick up another heavy, wet shirt.

Before she could dig a clothespin out of her apron pocket, a huge dog bounded up out of the road ditch alongside the rider. He loped ahead, turning through the gate and headed her way. His brindled coat and powerful build sent a memory ricocheting through her heart.

The shirt fell from her numb hands into the dirt, and her knees took on the firmness of damp washcloths. It was Rip. And if Rip was here...

Thomas Beaufort.

The pain she had often pushed to the back of her mind over the years came rushing forward like a stampede. A curious, empty feeling opened in her chest, crowding out her breath. She couldn’t move as he rode closer. He would go past her gate and on into town. He wouldn’t stop.

And she didn’t want him to. Not after she’d stood in almost this same spot five years ago and watched him ride away, taking her heart with him.

No, more like leaving her heart in the dirt at her feet as he chose a bounty hunter’s life over her. He had informed her of his intentions without showing even a hint of emotion. Had she imagined that he had come to care for her? She had fallen in love with him so easily, and she had thought he felt the same, though nothing had been spoken between them.

She jerked, her limbs suddenly awakening from their numbness, and stalked to the porch.

Rip trotted up the lane toward her, tail wagging, tongue lolling, as casual as if he hadn’t been away for years. She remembered when Thomas first brought the dog to the ranch, a little fuzz-ball baby, all yips and puppy fat and mismatched eyes. Thomas had been one of her father’s employees in those days, thoughtful, kind, winning her heart with no effort at all.

The dog bounded onto the porch and nudged her leg, letting out an exuberant bark. She prayed Thomas would ride on by without a look, even though she knew she was lying to herself. She wanted him to ride up. Perhaps if she saw him again, she could finally put to rest her feelings for him. Perhaps he wasn’t as handsome and kind and capable as she remembered. Her breath stuck in her throat when he turned off the road and into her yard.

He pulled to a stop. “Miss Jensen. Esther. It’s good to see you again.” He smiled, the dimple in his left cheek showing in spite of a few days’ growth of whiskers.

A wave of nostalgia, for all those times when he’d smiled at her and sunbeams had burst in her heart, washed over her. She steeled herself, remembering the hurt he had caused her, and she crossed her arms, hugging herself.

“Hello, Thomas.” Esther was proud of her flat, disinterested tone. She’d rather show up in church in nothing but her shift than let on that she had ever fancied herself in love with him.

“Hello, Esther.” He cast a glance over the warped boards on the porch, the cupping shingles, the weedy yard, so different from the prosperous young ranch he’d ridden away from. “What happened here? Where are the ranch hands?”

Shame licked through her at her run-down place, but she raised her chin. “Gone. If you’re looking for bandits or rustlers here, this place is a dry hole.”

He frowned, cocking his head. “Is your father around?”

Esther was helpless to stop the wave of grief that cascaded through her.

“My father is dead. He died a week after you left.”

Thomas at least had the grace to appear shocked. “I didn’t know. Esther, I’m so sorry.”

She backed up a step as he moved to dismount. “I can’t wash your clothes. I don’t have time for any more customers at the moment, so you had best ride on.” She motioned toward the bundle in his arms.

“Wash my clothes?” Puzzlement froze him, leg swung over the saddle, halfway to the ground.

“That’s what you came for, isn’t it? That’s all anyone comes here for these days.” She motioned toward the washtubs and clotheslines. Pushing her straggling hair off her face with her shoulder, she wished she didn’t look quite so much like she’d been washed over a scrub board herself...then chastised herself for caring at all what Thomas Beaufort thought of her looks. Where’s your pride, girl?

“I’m a laundress now.” She infused the statement with all the dignity of a duchess.

Rip looked from one of them to the other, head tilted to the side. He gave a little whine, no doubt picking up on the tension in the air, and plopped his rear on the porch.

Thomas didn’t even slow his steps. “Esther Jensen, would you just hear me out? I came to you because you’re the only person I could trust.”

“Trust?” Her voice went high. The last thing she would ever do was trust Thomas Beaufort, or any man, ever again.

Without another word, he peeled back the fabric in his arm to reveal the sleeping face of a baby, and from the looks of it, fresh as a bean sprout.

Her veins felt as if sand trickled through them, draining out and leaving her empty. Thomas had a baby? Where was his wife? All those dreams and ideas that Thomas had shattered when he left her five years ago exploded into finer bits of dust.

She opened her mouth to ask, when the baby stirred and gave a pitiful little mewl.

Thomas shot her a terrified look. “Can we at least go inside? I want to get him out of the sun.”

The baby began to cry in earnest, and the sound pierced her lonely heart.

Esther stepped aside, and Thomas tromped up the steps and into the house. Rip wriggled close, hopeful, but she shook her head. “Stay.” She pointed to the floor, and the big dog dropped down and put his chin on his paws, looking up at her with his mismatched eyes, one tawny yellow, one pale blue, both sorrowful and pleading.

Thomas jostled the baby, who continued to cry. Esther laced her fingers and pressed her thumbs to her lips.

“What do I do?” His brow wrinkled. “Hush, little fella.”

So the baby was a boy. “Where is your wife?”

“Wife? I don’t have a wife.” He shot her a bewildered look and adjusted the crying baby in his arms to no avail.

She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disgusted. “Then where did you get a newborn?”

“I plucked him out of a cactus flower, where do you think? I was hot on the trail of...a fugitive...when I came on a woman in trouble. I helped her deliver her baby last night.” He quit bouncing and started swaying, speaking over the baby’s wails.

“Where is she then?”

He shook his head. “She died early this morning. She was a consumptive, and with the strain of the birthing...”

Esther couldn’t stand the crying any longer, and she reached for the newborn. “Give him to me.” Though she had little experience with babies, something in her needed to hold him. She cradled him against her shoulder, fitting his little head into the hollow of her neck. His dark hair was plastered to his head, and his eyes were screwed shut. “Didn’t you even wash him off?”