Читать книгу The Bounty Hunter's Baby - Erica Vetsch - Страница 13

Chapter Four

It seemed Thomas had barely closed his eyes when he was jolted awake. Rip bounded to his feet, letting out a low woof that had Thomas drawing his gun from the holster he’d placed at his side before falling asleep.

He scanned the starlit area in front of the house, wondering what had roused him. Years of hunting bad men had taught him to be on guard, but lack of sleep had dulled his wits. His head felt as if it had been stuffed with sawdust.

Then the sound came again. The baby was crying. Rip whined and went to the door.

Thomas forced himself to relax, laying the gun on the floor. If he got to the little fellow in time, perhaps Esther wouldn’t even wake up. He levered himself up and placed his hand flat on the front door, easing it open.

He was just bending over the cradle when her bedroom door opened and candlelight shone over him.

“What are you doing in here?” She gathered the lapels of her housecoat around her. Her eyes glistened in the candle flame, dark and wide, and her hair tumbled about her shoulders in a river of chocolate-toned curls.

His breath snagged in his chest. He’d never seen her with her hair unbound before. Her bare toes curled against the floorboards, and the flush of sleep rode her cheeks.

“I heard him crying.” He lifted the baby out of the basket.

“From clear out in the bunkhouse?” She had more starch in her voice than a brand-new, store-bought shirt collar.

“The bunkhouse isn’t fit to live in right now. I rolled out my blankets on the front porch.” Thomas cradled the baby’s head in one palm, his little rump in the other. “Hush there, little fella, there’s no need to get all worked up.”

The baby disagreed. He drew his legs up, eyes screwed shut, mouth wide as a fresh-hatched bird. “Is he hungry again? What time is it?” Thomas squinted at the clock on the wall. “Seems like he just ate.”

“He did, not more than an hour ago.” She gathered her hair into a bunch on her shoulder. “Does he need a new diaper?”

“Not so I can tell.” Thomas shifted the baby to his shoulder, grappling with the child, the blanket and his own awkwardness.

“Maybe he needs to bring up more wind?” Esther used her candle to light two others on the table.

Thomas patted the infant, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. “Is he in pain?” The thought of something so little and helpless hurting made Thomas’s gut clench.

“Let me try.” Esther took the child, cradling him, crooning and shushing. She rubbed small circles on his little back. “Don’t cry, baby.” She looked up. “We really should give him a name. We can’t keep calling ‘baby.’”

Thomas paced, scratching his cheek, his whiskers rasping. “His mama didn’t live long enough to tell me what she planned to name her son. Any suggestions?”

“Did she tell you anything at all? The baby’s father’s name?”

He stopped. “She said his name was Jason.”

“Jason.” She swayed, rocking the baby. “Maybe we could pick a name with the same first letter. What about John? That’s a good, sturdy name. He can be Johnny when he’s little and John when he grows up.” She had to raise her voice over the pitiful cries.

“Johnny.” Thomas tested the name. “I like it.”

John Swindell, if she only knew.

“What can we do for him?” Thomas hooked his thumbs into his back pockets. “He’s killing me with that crying.”

Esther took the baby to the table and laid him down, peeling back the blankets. “Maybe he has a pin sticking him.” She checked him over, but the safety pins were closed. Being unwrapped seemed to make things worse. Johnny’s face reddened, and he jerked his legs up toward his little tummy.

“Maybe wrap him up tight like a papoose.”

Rip paced and whined, tall enough to get his muzzle up near the edge of the table, sniffing. He let out a low woof.

“We’re trying, fella.” Thomas scrubbed the big dog’s head.

As Esther cocooned Johnny and lifted him up, he brought up a stream of sour milk that hit the floor. The crying stopped, reduced to a bout of hiccups and snuffles. “I guess his tummy was upset.”

“Think he’ll sleep now?” Thomas grabbed a towel from the shelf near the stove. “I’ll clean up. You sit with him.” He steered her toward the rocker and then knelt to mop up the mess.

Esther settled Johnny in against her chest, his head tucked under her chin. In the candlelight they looked like they could be mother and son. Something squeezed in Thomas’s chest. If he hadn’t ridden away five years ago, would she have ever considered marrying him against her father’s wishes? And if they had, would they have kids? Would she be sitting there with his son in her arms?

Knock it off. Those are pipe dreams. The fact is, you left, and it was for the best. She deserves better than you.

“I’ll fetch some water.” Thomas picked up the bucket beside the door and headed out toward the windmill and pump. The moon had already started its descent, and stars coated the sky. Far away a coyote yipped, and its mate answered.

The path to the windmill was hard-packed, and Thomas imagined Esther had walked it hundreds of times, filling up washtubs and kettles day after day. What she needed was a pipe and spigot, so the water from the tank would flow down to where she washed the clothes without her having to carry it. He hooked the windmill to the pump handle, letting water gush out into the tank for a moment before sticking the bucket under the spout. Already he was tallying materials and the tools needed to plumb a line. Shouldn’t take more than a day.

When he returned to the house, Esther was asleep, the baby snuggled in her arms. Thomas set the bucket down gently and tossed the soiled towel into it to soak. He eased into a chair, content to watch Esther and Johnny sleep. A yawn cracked his jaw, and he rested his elbow on the table and his head on his fist for a moment. Surely now, everyone could settle down and get some rest.

* * *

Esther squinted at the clock, wondering if it was even worth it to go back to bed. For what seemed the hundredth time that night, Johnny cried out. She’d tried feeding, rocking, changing, singing and everything else she could think of. Thomas had tried, too.

“It’s got to be his tummy. Maybe it’s the canned milk that isn’t agreeing with him,” Esther said, wanting to cry herself. “It’s the only thing left I can think of.”

Thomas ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. Red rimmed his eyes, and his whiskers darkened his cheeks. “That’s it. I’m heading out at first light to get a nanny goat.” He rubbed his hands down his face, yawning. “I feel terrible feeding him something that upset his innards so much.”

Esther nodded. The only place Johnny seemed to get any rest at all was in the center of her chest with her housecoat wrapped around them both. The poor little mite had thrown up repeatedly, his abdomen hard, his legs drawing up tight. They’d washed him from head to toes twice to get the sour milk smell off, using up the last of her special soap in the process.

Thomas had stayed with her all night, even when she knew he would probably love to bolt from the house and find somewhere to get some rest. He’d even shared in the walking and rocking and patting, though Johnny seemed to want Esther most. Rip had worried and walked right along with them, and now the big dog lay sprawled next to the rocking chair.

At long last, dawn began to pink the sky, fingers of light reaching through the front windows and chasing the shadows to the corners of the room. Thomas leaned over and blew out the almost guttering candles.

Johnny slept on, his tiny fist resting on Esther’s collarbone, his cheek pillowed in the hollow of her neck.

“I’d grind beans for coffee, but I’m afraid of waking him up again.” Thomas eased down onto one of the wooden chairs, putting his head on his crossed arms on the table. “Who knew one little baby could rout two grown adults, horse, foot and artillery? If I had known I wouldn’t get back to my bedroll, I mightn’t have been so quick to leap out of it when he first started to cry.”

She didn’t know whether to be glad or exasperated that Thomas had elected to sleep out on the porch. When she’d come out of her bedroom and seen him bending over the baby, he’d nearly frightened her out of her wits.

But now...

Tousled hair, bristled chin, rumpled clothing, sleep-deprived and in need of coffee, he’d never looked so appealing to Esther.

“I know it’s Sunday, but after last night, I don’t think I’ll be going to church. Unless you want me to hitch up the buggy for you.” He said the last on a yawn.

“Don’t bother. The church has been without a preacher for months. Folks in town have a prayer meeting that moves from house to house, but I don’t know who is hosting it this week.”

She felt herself drifting toward sleep and forced herself to open her eyes. “I’m going to try putting him in the basket again. Hopefully he’ll sleep long enough for me to dress and start breakfast.”

Thomas let out a snore.

Esther smiled. In the words of her Kentucky grandma, he was worn slap out.

Carefully, holding her breath, she eased Johnny into the blanket-lined basket. He stirred and relaxed, staying asleep, and she exhaled.

She gently closed her bedroom door, glancing in the mirror on her bureau. With a gasp, she reached for her hairbrush. She looked like she’d been dragged through a knothole backward. Her mop of curly hair had bushed out like a sagebrush, and dark smudges circled her eyes. Working to tidy her hair, she gazed out her bedroom window. Standing on tiptoe and angling her head, she could just see the porch floor where Thomas’s blankets lay, half tossed aside from where he’d jumped out of them.

His rifle lay on the boards, and his pistol at one end of the bedroll, the cartridge belt wrapped around the holster.

A chill chased up her back at the sight of the pistol. She hated guns, but pistols especially.

Her hands went slack on her half-fashioned braid as she remembered back to that horrible day. Thomas had been gone from the ranch for almost a week, and at that time Esther still hadn’t given up hope that he would return. She’d been fixing her hair then, too, hoping to look pretty just in case Thomas came back.

Carlita had called to her from the front room, and her heart had skipped a beat as she finished pinning up her braid.

Bark Getty had stood in the doorway, his hat in his hand, shifting his weight from boot to boot. The ranch foreman hadn’t come to the house often.

“Good morning, Mr. Getty. My father isn’t here. He was up at first light and out of the house. I’m not sure if he went to town or if he is out on the range.” She rolled down her sleeve and buttoned her cuff.

“That’s why I’m here, Miss Esther.” He looked at the floor, out the window and over her shoulder, but not in her eyes.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” She tried to ignore the skitter of unease that brushed her skin.

“No, thank you.” He twisted his hat brim. “Miss Esther, I don’t want to have to tell you this, but your pa...”

“What?” Her hand went to her throat and unease turned to panic.

“He’s dead, ma’am.” Mr. Getty finally met her eyes, his troubled under their heavy brows. He brushed his hand down his long, dark whiskers.

“Did he fall from his horse?”

“No, ma’am. It wasn’t an accident. He...” He took a deep breath. “Your pa shot himself.”

She would never forget the shock, the pain, the bewilderment. Nor the sense of betrayal. How could he leave her that way? On purpose and so finally?

Esther didn’t remember much of the following days, except for the overwhelming grief. Others had prepared her father’s body for the funeral. Others had prepared the meal, the service, the gravesite. She hadn’t wanted him buried at the cemetery in town, and no one had objected to having him buried on the Double J. In fact, she surmised that some folks were glad not to have a suicide victim buried on church grounds.

His suicide was just one in a cascade of shocking events for her. The foreman had come to her to tell her that the bulk of her father’s cattle had been rustled, and the banker had informed her that there were considerable outstanding debts in her father’s name. She had no choice but to order the last of the cattle rounded up and all the horses, too. With the exception of the buckboard team, every animal on the place had been sold, along with most everything else of value. Within a month, the ranch hands had departed, and Carlita and Maria sought work elsewhere.

A week after the funeral, she’d mustered the courage to go into her father’s room. That’s where she’d found his note. The one that apologized for leaving her, for his lack of courage, for not seeing what was happening right under his nose. And he’d begged her to do everything she could to hold on to the ranch.

For the first time in her life, Esther had to fend for herself. Her few friends had urged her to sell her home and move into town, but she had stubbornly hung on, vowing to fulfill her father’s wishes. And each year, it had gotten harder. This year she might have to admit defeat. The taxes were due in about six weeks, and at the rate she was earning, she would be short the total amount.

She finished braiding and pinning up her hair. Thankfully, the baby slept on, and so did Thomas. They might’ve had a rough night, but somehow, as it always did, the sun came up, lifting Esther’s spirits. She could always cope better when the sun was up. It was at night that her cares and problems pressed in and swelled. The Bible verse about God’s mercies being new every morning came back to her.

“I could use some mercy right now, Lord. Thank You for the sunshine.”

And with sunup came chores. She wouldn’t worry about breakfast now, not with Thomas and Johnny finally asleep. Easing from the house, she paused for a moment to breathe in the fresh morning air. As quietly as she could, she rolled Thomas’s blankets and tied them, leaving them propped up against the side of the house. She couldn’t make herself touch the pistol.

Eight trips to the pump saw the washtubs and kettle filled, and she unpacked the bundles of laundry Danny Newton and his men had brought yesterday. If she could get a couple tubs of wash done first thing, she could use her afternoon to sew for Johnny. She smiled at how quickly the name had stuck.

Having kindled the fire under the kettle, she dumped Danny’s shirts into the water. Her woodpile was shrinking at a depressing rate. Soon she would have to head out into the mesquite thickets with her hatchet and lay in another supply, doing even more backbreaking work than bending over a scrub board. It was something she put off for as long as possible. She shaved a few slivers of homemade lye soap into her washtub, dipped some hot water from the iron kettle and got to work.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

She jumped and whirled, her hand to her chest. Thomas stood there, looking still half-asleep.

“You scared me, sneaking up like that.” Her heart raced. “Is the baby still asleep?”

“Yeah, though he’s getting restless like he’s going to wake up any minute.” Thomas yawned and stretched. “I wanted to be up at first light.” He frowned, and she smothered a smile. Lack of sleep obviously made him as cranky as a little boy.

“You needed some rest. It’s only been an hour or so since you dropped off.”

“You need sleep, too, but here you are scrubbing clothes and looking way too fresh and prettier than you’ve a right to, considering the night you just went through.” He rasped his whiskers, making a sandpapery sound so masculine Esther’s breath skidded in her throat. She knew she shouldn’t let him affect her, shouldn’t take his compliment to heart, but he’d never told her she was pretty before. Tucking that thought away to ponder later, she reached back into the washtub.