The Bronc Rider's Baby. Judy Duarte
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longer, until she’d grown bigger—like the size of a kid entering kindergarten?
If they had, he’d feel a lot better about dealing with her. At least she’d be able to talk and tell him if he was doing something wrong.
“Mr. Gallagher?” a soft, feminine voice said from behind him.
As he turned, he caught sight of a petite blonde in his peripheral vision. He might consider the attractive woman worth his full masculine attention if he’d met her in a bar, throwing back a shot of tequila with her friends. But here in a hospital, holding a patient file in her hands? All bets were off.
“Yes,” he said.
“I’m Anna Reynolds.”
Was he supposed to know her?
She must have sensed his confusion because she added, “I’m the social worker assigned to your case.”
Just the words social worker and case were an unsettling reminder of the years he’d spent in foster care and enough to stop him dead in his tracks. The only reason he’d stepped up and claimed paternity was to keep the tiny girl out of the system.
The woman—Anna, Ms. Reynolds or whatever he was supposed to call her—offered him a warm smile, no doubt meant to disarm him. “It’s standard procedure.”
For whom? The hospital? Or for the state of Texas?
He clutched the plastic handle and pulled the carrier close to his side, as if he could prevent anyone from taking the newborn away from him, his grip as tight as his gloved hand once held the braided leather rein on the back of a bronc charging out of a bucking chute.
“I’ll be stopping by your house regularly for a while,” she said.
Again with the smile. He had to admit it was a nice one. A pretty one. Under any other circumstances, he would look forward to having regular visits from the attractive blonde. But not when he knew she’d be checking up on him. Not when she had the power to remove little Jessica from his home.
And how weird was that? He was scared spitless to take custody of a child, a newborn, no less. Yet at the same time, he was hell-bent on keeping that baby safe.
And far, far away from Kenny Huddleston, the man responsible for her mother’s death.
Following Kenny’s brutal assault, Beth had gone into premature labor and later died of a brain bleed.
He wondered if the court had ordered the social worker’s involvement. “Does this have anything to do with Beth?”
“No, it doesn’t. Although I’m sorry for your loss.”
Nate nodded, accepting the condolences, although he couldn’t actually say he was grieving for Beth. Not that he didn’t care. He did. But he was more saddened by the child’s loss of her mother.
In truth, he really hadn’t known Beth all that well. If he had, if they’d been closer, he might have been able to talk her out of going back to Kenny and marrying him. Or, at least, he might have convinced her to leave the guy before that fatal beating.
“The hospital sends me out to check on the families of preemies or seriously sick babies,” the social worker added. “The parents usually have a lot of questions and concerns when they take their little ones home after a stay in the NICU.”
She had that right. He’d be stressed and concerned even if Jessica had been born the size of a teenager. He glanced at the tiny girl, who didn’t look a thing like him. But then again, she really didn’t resemble Beth, either.
When he returned his gaze to Ms. Reynolds, he tried to manage a disarming smile of his own. “I won’t be taking her home right away. We’re going to stay on the ranch where I work. I’ll have plenty of help there.”
“That’s good. I’m glad you’ll have some support.” She opened the file she was holding and jotted down a note.
What had she written? Was it something about his judgment, his competency, his ability to parent?
If she weren’t so pretty—and if she didn’t have any power over him—he wouldn’t even consider making an excuse to escape her attention.
“I understand that you were recently granted custody,” she said.
It had taken a few days to get that ironed out, thanks to the help of an attorney, an overworked foster system and his friend’s connections.
“The baby is mine,” Nate said. “I’m her...father.” At least that’s what Beth had claimed.
Nate had his doubts, though. They’d only dated a short while. And the two times they’d had sex he’d used protection. If he had to guess, he’d say there was a far better chance that the child was Kenny’s.
“Do we have the address of the place where you’ll be staying?” Ms. Reynolds asked.
“Yep. You sure do. Are you familiar with the Rocking Chair Ranch?”
“I’ve heard about it. From what I understand, it’s a home for retired cowboys.”
Nate nodded his agreement.
“What’s your connection with the place?” she asked.
Would she find him lacking if he admitted to being a ranch hand, to just being a cowboy? Maybe, but she was going to find out soon enough. “I’m employed there.”
“What kind of work do you do at the retirement home?” she asked.
“The Rocking C is also a working cattle ranch.” Nate glanced down at the sleeping infant in the carrier. “I guess it’s going to be a nursery now, too.”
Again the social worker smiled, reminding him of sunshine, warm breezes, spring flowers and all that was right in the world. But things were far from right. Even before this, his once-stellar career had been shot to hell.
And now he was going to be...a father.
“Are you a cowhand?”
He hoped she didn’t have any objections to that line of work, although he couldn’t rest on his laurels any longer, so he didn’t tell her what he used to do, what he couldn’t do any longer.
“My grandfather had a couple of friends who are living there, so they put in a good word for me. But don’t worry. I can support a baby. I’ve also managed to sock some cash away.”
At that she glanced up, her brow furrowed. “I’m not concerned about that. Of course, if you had any financial concerns, I could give you a few referrals to social services.”
He’d rather die than rely on someone else’s generosity ever again. “I won’t need anything like that.”
She smiled and gave a little shrug. “That’s good to know, but I’m just a phone call away.” She glanced down at her paperwork. “I assume we have your number.”
“Yep.” He nodded at the file in her hand. “It’s all there. But you might want to make a note that the cell phone reception on the Rocking C is almost nonexistent, so if you need to get a hold of me, you’d better call the ranch office.”
“All right.” Again she glanced down at the open file in her hands.
When she looked up, Nate noticed the unique color of her eyes. They were a honey brown. He supposed you’d call them hazel, with specks of gold and green.
But it doesn’t matter what color the social worker’s eyes are.
He returned his focus to the baby and a sudden need to escape what felt more like an inquisition than helpfulness. “Well, I hate to cut this short, but I have to get out of here. She eats every hour or two, so I want to get back to the ranch before she needs another bottle.”
“Do you mind if I walk you out?” Ms. Reynolds asked.
Actually, he could use