The Bounty Hunter's Baby. Erica Vetsch
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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?”
Thomas held up his hands. “There was no water at the cabin where I found them, and when I did reach a creek, I didn’t think it was proper to just dunk him in. I figured getting him to shelter was more important. I wet my bandanna and wiped his face, but no, I didn’t take time to give him a full-blown bath.”
“Dip some of the water from the stove into the basin.” Esther soothed the baby. “Have you fed him yet?”
“With what? All I have is some jerky and beans.” Thomas grabbed the porcelain basin off the washstand and strode to the stove. “Do you have a cow?”
Esther sat in her rocker under the window, laying the baby on her lap and peeling back the man’s shirt wrapped around the infant. “No.”
She had sold the cow to help pay the taxes on the property the first year after her father died. “I have a can of milk. In the cupboard.”
Thomas brought her the basin and the cloth that hung on the peg by the washstand. The baby continued to snuffle and whimper, so helpless and new Esther’s eyes burned, and she blinked fast. She dipped the corner of the cloth into the water and wiped the baby’s face and neck. “He needs a proper bath, with soap.”
Rip whined from the open doorway, and Thomas chuckled. “He’s taken a shine to the little fella.”
“That’s fine, but he still has to stay outside.” Esther unwrapped the baby further, finding a bandanna fastened around him as a diaper. It needed to be changed. “I’m pretty sure you have to warm up milk before you feed it to a baby this small. Open that can and get it heating on the stove. You’ll need to thin it with a bit of water.”
Thomas found the can, a saucepan and her matches. With a minimum of effort, he had a fire started in the stove and the milk warming, as efficient as ever. She had always admired his resourcefulness and capability, but to have him using those skills in her kitchen, as if no time had passed, had her battling resentment. He dusted his hands together. “What else can I do?”
“Here, hold him while I fetch some things.” Esther transferred the baby into Thomas’s arms, ignoring the jolt to her heart as their hands touched. The items she wanted were in the trunk in her bedroom, and she refused to let Thomas in there. She went to the end of her iron bedstead and knelt in front of the trunk—the one her mother had brought with her from Virginia as a new bride, first to Tennessee, then to Missouri. After she’d died, Esther had used it when she and her father had come to Texas for a fresh start.
Inside the trunk was a pair of clean towels, a safety pin and the last slivers of castile soap she’d been hoarding. She paused, placing her hands flat on the domed trunk lid. Thomas was back, with a newborn. Her head whirled, and her mouth felt dry. She needed a moment to collect herself, to think. But the baby cried again, a weak, hopeless little sob, and she pushed herself up, gathered her things and returned to the main room.
Thomas, worry lines bunching his forehead, patted the baby, his big hand dwarfing the child. Esther relieved him of his tiny burden, and Thomas stepped back, wiping his palms on his jeans. “I’ll go tend to the horses.”
Esther spread a towel on the table and laid the baby down. She soaped a washcloth in the warm water from the stove’s reservoir, testing it to make sure it wasn’t too hot. The baby snuffled and squirmed, turning his head every time her hand brushed his cheek. He had hazy blue eyes that didn’t seem to focus too well, and a sweet little chin that quivered. She swirled the soapy cloth into all the creases and crevices and quickly rinsed him off. Before he could grow chilled, though it was a mighty warm day, she bundled him into a soft, clean towel, raising him to her shoulder and inhaling his fresh, brand-newness.
Thomas ducked back inside, this time remembering to remove his hat. He carried his saddlebags slung over his shoulder and his rifle in his hand. His holstered pistol rode his right hip, and bullets studded his gun belt.
Esther bristled at the sight of the firearms. She hated guns. Hated what they represented and what they did to people. Thomas carried his arsenal to hunt men. Guns never used to bother her, but now she could barely stand the sight of a pistol.
“Can’t you leave those outside?”
“Leave what outside?” He glanced toward the doorway, where Rip sat, looking in.
“The rifle. And your sidearm.” Particularly his sidearm. She cradled the baby against her shoulder. “I don’t like guns.”
“I never leave my guns unattended.” He leaned his rifle in the corner. “Guns never bothered you before.”
“A lot of things have changed since you left.”
She settled into the rocker, the pan of milk beside her on the table. Using her smallest spoon, she dripped milk into the baby’s mouth. His eyes opened, and he swallowed, pushing half the milk out again. Esther wiped the dribbles from his chin and gave him a few more drops. He smelled so good, felt so sweet in her arms. Her heart, cold and lonely for so long, warmed a bit, which made her pause. Do not let yourself get attached to this little scrap of humanity, Esther. He isn’t yours, he never will be, and they’re both leaving soon. Leaving is what Thomas does. It’s what every man does.
Thomas leaned over her shoulder to watch. “Say, he’s really putting it away. At this rate, he’ll grow six foot tall by morning.”
Discomfited to have him so close, Esther breathed in the scent of leather