The Bounty Hunter's Baby. Erica Vetsch
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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.
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,