Dorsey Kelley - Nevada Cowboy Dad

She tried to hand over the child, but Fritzy scoffed, peeling another potato.

“It’ll be all right, Lucy, you’ll see. Now, why don’t you go down to the corrals? Baby just loves to see the horses.” She turned her back and filled an enormous pot with water, salted it, and then began slicing potatoes inside.

Alarm replaced Lucy’s growing apprehension, spiked up her spine like a hand running over barbwire. Fritzy was determined that Lucy help in child care, of this she had no further illusions. Slice went Fritzy’s paring knife, plop went the potato into the water. Frustrated, Lucy stared at Fritzy’s broad back.

Fritzy ignored her.

Slice. Plop. Slice. Plop.

This was ridiculous. How dare Rusty neglect to mention this almost-brand-new child to her!

She’d come to the Lazy S searching for peace, for quiet and tranquility.

Not squalling voices and grabby fingers and... peepee!

“I will go down to the corrals,” she said aloud. If Fritzy was going to be stubborn, she’d get Rusty to take the child. It was his niece, wasn’t it? “Nothing personal,” she whispered into the baby’s shell-like ear. Suddenly she noticed that the baby’s scent was different from anything she’d ever smelled before. Different but good, and thank goodness nothing like that disgusting diaper pail. No, more like fresh-from-the-oven buns or soft, lovable puppies.

She shook off the thought. “I’m just not the motherly sort,” she whispered. “You understand, don’t you?”

Baby cooed.

With a fleecy blanket Fritzy handed her, Lucy managed to wrap the child up against the cooling air, clamp it to her chest and march out.

Autumn was beginning to cloak western Nevada in hues of russet and claret, turning the leaves of grouped alder and spruce trees into a fall-colored kaleidoscope. Winter sun had nearly sunk behind the fanged upthrust of the Humboldt mountains.

Outside the house, Lucy paused a moment to draw a breath. Pure, lung-expanding air filled her chest, scented of sage and the faintest hint of a branding fire. For once, the tyke made no sound, merely nestled her face into the crook of Lucy’s neck. The sensation wasn’t so bad, she thought, not really minding the child’s wet mouth anymore. And she so enjoyed the chirrup of the coming night crickets and the breeze soughing serenely through the trees’ brittle leaves.

There was no honking of angry commuters, no blare of city sirens, no suffocating exhaust fumes. One could relax here, find solace from the frenetic pace of city life.

These qualities were why she’d come to the country, she thought, pleased. Others should have the chance to enjoy this wonderful environment. How easily she could picture groups of twenty or so—nice, hardworking city folk who needed a place to relax, appreciate country sunshine, wildlife, the great outdoors.

As a child, her short time here had bolstered her for the hard years to come. Always when life mired her in difficulty, she could close her eyes and travel in her mind to the ranch and find relief.

Rusty could be persuaded to see her side, surely he could. He was set in his ways and proud, she could see that. She would just have to explain matters more thoroughly.

But he couldn’t be allowed to get away with his deception about the child. With determined strides, she crunched her way over the gravel-lined drive to the corrals, where at least eight men appeared to be just finishing their work.

At the far end of the large enclosure, a man worked, mounted on a deep-brass-colored horse. Why Lucy’s eyes should focus so swiftly on Rusty she didn’t know—but she didn’t even have to look for him. He was dressed the same as, and he worked the same as, the cowboys inside. Yet the unique tilt of his black Stetson and the confident set of his broad shoulders somehow set him apart from other men.

Across the corral Rusty concentrated on swinging his rope overhead. He took his aim, made his throw and captured the first of two hefty remaining calves. Then he dragged the animal to the men waiting at the branding fire. He was bone weary from the full day’s work and the unsettling meeting with his former stepsister. It wasn’t every day a man had to sell off half his heritage. He grimaced.

When the men were finished, they released the calf, which lurched to its feet and trotted over to its bawling mother. The mama cow sniffed her calf, determined it was fine and wandered off, trailing the reassured young animal.

Still on horseback, Rusty caught sight of Lucy and signaled for one of the others to rope the last calf. He coiled his rope and guided his horse to where she stood holding Baby, on the other side of the rail fence.

Drawing rein before her, he leaned one forearm on the horn and the other atop that. Nudging back his hat with a thumb, he observed, “I see you’ve made Baby’s acquaintance.”

“I certainly have,” she acknowledged, a tart hint of warning in her voice.

She was so pretty, he admitted for the second time that day. Her jet hair blew attractively across her face and the skin of her cheeks and lips had pinkened in the crisp fall air. Another man, one who might be interested in pursuing a woman like Lucy, would definitely think her lips kissable. If she thought her oversized sweatshirt was hiding the thrust of her breasts, she was mistaken. And her slim thighs and hips were damn near hugged by her snug jeans.

Stiffly he straightened in the saddle. It was a good thing he wasn’t interested in her. He was her reluctant business partner, and she was someone who would find herself tossed off the Lazy S in twelve short months.

“She’s quite a little surprise,” Lucy went on. “I wonder how it is that you didn’t mention her before.” She waited, eyeing him steadily and not, he thought, with an approving expression.

He grinned, enjoying her discomfort. “Aw, you’ll get used to her. We’re all crazy about Baby around here.” He guessed he’d have to start some sort of adoption proceedings soon, make things legal.

As she juggled the squirming child with inept hands, Rusty’s grin widened. She’d been married, but obviously didn’t have any kids. Hadn’t she ever coped with a six-month old?

She glared at him over the top of the auburn head, her annoyance palpable in the air between them. “You might have told me.”

“Why?” He shrugged. “You were so anxious to buy into the place—Well, Baby comes along with it.” He leaned forward, saddle creaking, and murmured to the child in cutesy tones he hoped would irritate Lucy.

Hearing his familiar voice, Baby gurgled happily, and when Rusty’s sorrel gelding snuffled her head, she launched into a bout of giggles that ended in hiccups.

Lucy had her arms full, and by her awkwardness, Rusty’s original thought was confirmed: it was plain as the whiskers on his gelding’s nose that the woman had no experience at all with children.

Baby jounced happily, banging the top of her head against Lucy’s chin. Lucy freed a hand to rub her jaw, her scowl at Rusty intensifying.

He tried not to laugh. It served her right, forcing him to sell her half the Lazy S as she’d done. Too bad it wouldn’t do her much good. In twelve months’ time, he’d have the money—no question about it. And fetching as Lucy was, she would not be allowed to dissuade him.

Myriad fund-raising ideas filled his head; tonight he’d make calls and see if he could sell gypsum, a produce used for insulation, plaster and wallboard, from a pit on the farthest reaches of the property. His brothers had always resisted mining on the Lazy S, but Rusty knew they’d made poor decisions. He realized, grimly and with some pain, that he could no longer afford to stand on principles.

The baby jounced again and Lucy nearly dropped her. At last Rusty took pity. “Take Baby back to the house. Fritzy can handle her.”