A Baby in the Cowboy’s Arms (Preview)

Chapter One

Colorado Territories—1863

Jack Chester pulled his horse to a stop at the edge of the stream. The animal dipped its head, sucking up the cold liquid with its dry muzzle. He swung his aching body out of the saddle and lifted the water bottle to his lips, enjoying the coolness that slipped down his throat. He gulped down a few more mouthfuls, then took off his neckerchief and knelt to wet it in the stream. He caught sight of his reflection as he wiped his face with the damp material.

His skin, browned by the sun after ten years of working on farms and ranches, looked older than his twenty-five years. Jack gazed into the bubbling water that tumbled over the rocky ground, and a pair of sparkling blue eyes looked back at him. There was a deepness about them, an unsettling quality. He knew why. 

They’ve seen more sadness than any boy or man should have to endure.

Transfixed by his image, Jack wondered where his looks had come from: the jutting jaw; the dark, soft, wavy hair; and those blue, blue eyes. 

Who gave them to me? Do I have my father’s face, my mother’s eyes? Which one had the same fine, almost black hair that sticks to my head when I wear a hat? 

The questions crossed his mind every time he looked into a mirror. He had no idea who his parents were or why he had spent all his childhood years in an orphanage. Was he a naughty child that they couldn’t bear to keep? Was he an unwanted accident, the outcome of a fleeting love affair? He didn’t know. 

He watched himself in the twinkling water as he ran his finger across his right eyebrow, tracing the line of the scar. It was a constant reminder of where he had come from. Most times when he noticed it, he pushed the memory to the back of his mind. He didn’t want to remember those days, weeks, years of loneliness, desperation, hurt, and uncertainty. 

Jack closed his eyes, removing his own watery image from his head. He stood, looking up at the darkening sky. It would be nightfall soon. He took the saddle and blanket from the back of the horse, tying the animal to a tree trunk that over hung the trickling brook. The horse whinnied, shaking his mane. 

He’s hungry, too.

Reaching inside his saddle bag, he found the last of the fruit and vegetables he had saved. His horse grabbed the carrot in his hand, munching noisily. Jack looked around at the rugged landscape with its deep ravine and jagged rocks. The wildness of the uninhabited, small valley appealed to his sense of solitude. This was his ideal spot. No one for miles around, just nature. 

He unrolled his blanket, placing it a yard or two from the water’s edge, then lowered his long body onto the hard ground. He sat, finishing one of the two apples he had left, and listened to the soothing sound of the stream. He peered into the distance at the misty horizon. His destination wasn’t far away now, perhaps a day’s ride. 

Settling back against the side of a rock, Jack stared at the dark blue sky that had lost the golden shine of the sun, giving way to the light of a new moon. He had laid like this many times since he had run away from the orphanage at barely fourteen years old—in a strange place, alone. One thought always filled his mind: life must be better somewhere else. So, he had kept moving, until now. 

Now, he had a different plan.

Jack’s eyes were heavy, and he could feel sleep overcoming his body. He felt unusually relaxed, ready to rest, when a flicker of light in the distance caught his attention. He blinked. There seemed to be nothing that could cause the sudden flash of yellow. He sat up quickly, staring hard at the strange orange glow that grew as he watched it. 

Fire. It was a fire, and it was getting bigger.

As he saddled his horse, he kept his eyes on the light that now shone red. A frightening thought ran through his mind. Was it a wildfire? It had been hot enough in the past week for the ground to be tinder dry. The valley was lined with trees. Considering how quickly it spread, he needed to get out of its way. 

Following the edge of the stream, Jack rode the horse as hard as he could over the uneven ground. From what he could see in the darkness, the only way out of the valley, without having to climb up through the rocky pass, was to go around the fire. That meant he needed to go toward it before he could veer off through the forest. 

The stream ran slightly downhill, heading directly to the site of the fire. Jack could feel the horse’s reluctance pulling against the reins as it sensed the danger of the heating air. He dug his heels into the animal’s side, rubbing its neck.

“S’alright. I won’t let no harm come to yer,” he said quietly.

As he got closer, he could just make out the shape of a small camp and a wagon, its roof ablaze. The sound of gunshots made him pull the horse to a grinding halt. It wasn’t a forest fire; it was a raiding party attacking a traveling group. 

Jack’s mind reeled as he held his horse perfectly still. Whoever was at the camp couldn’t see him, he was confident about that. He could just ride farther out and avoid whatever was happening there. Maybe he should just hightail it to the plain and continue his journey. Where he was now, he was safe.

He raised the reins, then stopped. He had never walked away from an unfair fight before, and he had seen many during his growing up years. He had been at the mercy of people throughout his young life, and his sense of injustice at any kind of violence grated. If he could help, he would. He brought the reins down on the horse’s back, guiding it toward the fire as he unhitched his rifle. Riding fast, hoping to catch the raiders by surprise, he galloped into the camp.

When he got close enough to feel the heat of the fire, Jack could see that the small camp had been destroyed. His heart beat wildly as he thundered into the clearing, pointing his gun from side to side. He swung out of the saddle before the horse had come to a stop, using his reins as a tether to keep himself hidden behind the animal. He stayed hunched up for several seconds before dipping his head around the horse’s side.

He could see no one moving. The site was eerily quiet except for the crackling of the wagon as it disintegrated. Any attackers that had been there were gone. Jack jumped up and headed toward the fire. He needed to put it out. There was always the risk of it spreading, which might stop him leaving the valley. Using his water bottle, Jack went back and forth to the stream, dousing the wagon until the flames subsided, leaving a gray trail of smoke snaking skyward.

When he turned around, he shivered as he took in the devastating scene in front of him. The three lifeless bodies lay close together on the ground. Red stains covered the back of the man that was lying on top of the other two people. 

The man was trying to protect them with his own body.

The thought made Jack’s knees sag. He knelt for a moment, closing his eyes. How much love would there have to be in someone that they were prepared to give their life for someone else? He couldn’t imagine. He had never seen that kind of love, ever. 

The small family had probably been on their way to the next town, where Jack was headed too. They’re only a day away. He looked around at the scattered belongings on the ground. A chest that had once housed their food rations had been smashed, the contents ground into the dirt. Bags of clothing and kitchen items were discarded, partly burned, or slashed with a knife. There was only one conclusion that Jack could make.

Whoever attacked the family meant to leave nothing unharmed. They just wanted to destroy. 

In the darkness, Jack thought about the desolation of the scene and how close the family had come to reaching their destination. It was so cruel. Life wasn’t kind. He knew that more than most people, but this was just so pointless and brutal. They had been a family—a loving one, from what he deduced from the man’s attempt to protect his wife and child. They deserved better.

Jack took a deep breath. There was nowhere to dig a grave, even if he had the tools, but he could at least protect the people from any animals or birds of prey that might come.  He set about collecting several large stones from the rocky water’s edge. From the broken wreckage of the smouldering wagon, Jack retrieved two pieces of wood, tying them together with a length of string from his pocket. He placed the cross in the center of the stones. 

“I’m sorry there’s nothin’ more I can do for you folks,” he said as he looked down at the makeshift tomb. 

With his heart heavy, he walked away from the scene toward his waiting horse. As he stepped to put one foot into the stirrup, he heard a sound. Jack froze. Someone or something was nearby. He heard the noise again. It sounded like the soft cry of a wounded animal. It seemed to come from behind the smoking wagon. 

Holding his rifle in one hand, Jack edged his way around the broken wreckage, peering through the smoke and darkness. He held his breath as he caught sight of a small figure sitting against the side of a carriage wheel. The crunching of Jack’s feet on the stony ground made the shape turn, and in the glinting, silvery light of the moon, he saw the little boy’s tear-stained face and heard his childish cry. 

Jack guessed the child was about a year old. He was wearing a pair of homemade dungarees and a blue cotton shirt. His feet were bare, and he clutched a small blanket, the end of which was wound around his hand. The boy’s eyes shone with tears as he stared fearfully at Jack. He must have looked a scary sight—his hands were thick with blood and dirt, and his rifle was pointing directly at the child. 

Jack let his arm relax, aiming the barrel of the gun at the ground. He knelt, placing the weapon a little way away. The boy’s face creased as a loud, desperate wail escaped from his mouth.

“Papa!”

“Now, don’t take on so. I’m not your papa, but I’m all there is at the moment.” 

Jack meant his words to be a comfort, but the boy wailed again, louder. Jack shuffled forward, moving closer. He reached in his pocket, retrieving his last apple, and held it out in front of him. The boy looked at the food then at Jack’s face. Jack nodded encouragingly, and when the child still didn’t take the fruit, he rolled it slowly on the ground toward his leg. The boy looked at the apple for a few seconds as it touched his leg, then he picked it up with both hands and put it to his lips, rubbing his mouth over the skin.

“Ain’t you got no teeth, kid?” Jack asked softly, moving a little closer. He had no idea whether a child that age should have teeth. What did he know about kids? Not much, only what he had learned in the orphanage, and most of that was not what other kids knew. Jack stared at the child hungrily trying to get something from the fruit. The skin seemed too hard for his searching mouth.

“You need it peelin’?” Jack said, as he took his knife from its holder. 

Seeing the blade, the boy screamed, lurching to his feet and taking several, small, unstable steps away from Jack before toppling onto the ground, dropping the apple. Jack looked down at the knife. The boy was plainly terrified of it. A horrible thought shot through his mind that maybe the kid had seen whoever burned the camp holding a similar weapon. If he had, it was not a memory he would forget easily, Jack was sure. All the awful things he had seen in the orphanage were imprinted on his young brain forever.

Jack moved carefully toward the fallen body of the small boy, replacing the knife in its sheath as he did so. Scooping up the struggling, crying child, Jack sat him in his lap, retrieving the apple at the same time. He smiled at the boy, then took a big bite of the fruit, revealing the yellow flesh. The child’s huge eyes stared back. Jack felt the little body relax as he held the apple toward him again. The little fingers closed around it, and the boy put it to his mouth, sucking loudly. It was then that Jack could see eight bright white teeth, four on the top and four on the bottom, digging into the apple. It was fascinating to watch as the boy ran them up and down, grating the fruit into his mouth. 

Jack was mesmerized by the boy, who had a round face with eyes that seemed to fill it—clear blue eyes, very much like his own. His skin was pale, as though he hadn’t seen much of the sun. Must have come from the north, was Jack’s guess. His parents were probably seeking their fortune in the gold hills, or looking for a place to make their own, like him. He glanced over to the mound of stone. 

Didn’t do ‘em much good. Should’ve stayed where they were. They might be alive today if they had.

Jack didn’t know how long he sat with the little child perched on his legs, happily munching, until his small head started to droop. The apple core fell from his hand and he leaned against Jack’s chest, asleep. 

Jack straightened out his legs, thinking what he should do next. If the raiding party were to return, he and the kid would be in danger. Even if they didn’t, he wanted to get away from the sad scene. He needed to sleep as much as the kid in his arms did. 

He looked down at the sleeping child. This hadn’t been part of his plan in coming out West. He was looking for a new life in the territories, owning his own land. It was all waiting for him. All he needed was the price of a small fee and he was set. Jack put his hand in his waistcoat pocket, feeling the soft velvet pouch. That should be enough, and maybe some over to buy grain or seed to start his farm. He looked down at the reddening cheeks of the baby in his arms, two thoughts crossing his mind. 

Could I leave the child for someone else to find? If I did, would the boy survive?

Jack knew only too well what it was like to be abandoned. It sucked the heart out of your body. It made you feel worthless, unwanted, deserted and desperate. It didn’t matter how many times he told himself that he was as good as any other man—the fact that he had been left on the doorstep of an institution told him otherwise. 

Could he desert this innocent orphan, leaving him to an unknown fate? 

The child stirred at that moment, curling his tiny fingers around Jack’s forefinger. His heart jumped. The boy’s eyes were closed, his long eyelashes resting on his cheek like so many spiders’ legs. He really was a handsome child. With the features of his mother, Jack realized sadly, recalling the pale face and curved lips of the woman on the ground.

Slowly, he stood up, still cradling the child in his arms. The blanket the boy had been holding was at his feet. Jack reached down and picked it up. He had seen many women tie their children to their backs with similar pieces of cloth. Jack looped the blanket around his waist, placing the boy in the center of the material. Then he brought the ends of the blanket around to his front in a criss-cross fashion. The boy’s face hung below him, his heart beating gently. He was better there than on his back. He would be safe and, Jack admitted to himself, he wanted to be able to see him.

Once he was in the saddle, his horse moved at his command, picking his way through the stony stream until the ground flattened out and the tough prairie grass brushed his forelegs. Jack led him into a slow canter, mindful of the sleeping child. The dawn wasn’t yet on the horizon, and he needed at least a couple of hours’ sleep before then. 

When they came across a flat piece of land sheltered by trees, Jack tied his horse to the trunk of one then, still carrying the child, built a small fire. The warmth would help them both sleep, he thought. He spread the saddle blanket on the ground, cradling the boy close to him. The soft breathing was soothing. Jack lay down on his back. He didn’t want to wake the child by removing the makeshift sling, so he settled him with the boy’s head just under his chin. 

Jack closed his eyes, hoping sleep would come soon, but the weight of the child and the feel of his wispy hair against Jack’s hard, stubbled chin troubled him. Jack was heading for the town he had chosen to set up his first and only home. It was a day’s ride away. He couldn’t be dealing with a stray kid.

 When I get there, I’ll take the kid to the sheriff and report the camp attack. The sheriff will know what to do about the boy. Maybe the church could help.

There hadn’t been many times in his life that he had been so driven to find a place to be and to get there as quickly as he could. He had drifted, moving on so many times he had lost count of the towns where he had laid his head. He only ever stayed for a short time. Not long enough to make friends, just enough time to make a dollar or two to tide him over the next week. 

Sometimes it didn’t matter to him that people thought he was different, strange, maybe, or just difficult. He didn’t feel the need to explain himself to anyone. He’d stopped doing that when he realized it didn’t matter what he said. Sooner or later he would get a beating, for no reason, from the people running the orphanage. His silence had become his strength. It was disarming to most people and came across as rude to many. The way he saw it, that wasn’t his problem.

 What was his problem right now, he thought as he looked down at the pale head in his lap, was what was he gonna give the kid to eat when he woke up. The boy had eaten his last piece of fruit; the horse had had the only carrot. He had nothing in his saddle bag. Water was the only thing he had left.

Jack opened his eyes, not sure if he had slept at all, but the morning sun was beginning to crest on the horizon and the little bundle on his chest was stirring. Jack sat up, carefully pushing the boy a little away from him so that he could see his face. The child had just woken and was looking at Jack with a big toothy smile.

“Ah, so you’re awake now, kid? You had a good sleep. Not sure if I did, but seein’ as how we’re both awake, I think it’s time we hit the road.”

When Jack had settled himself back on the horse with his passenger still tied to his front, he laughed. What am I doing, talking to a baby? The boy gurgled, and when Jack looked down, his face was shining back at him.

“I ain’t got nothin’ for yer,” Jack said, realizing he sounded defensive, even to himself. It wasn’t often that someone smiled at him, unless they wanted something.“Just water—that’s all we got until we hit town, kid. You want some?” 

Jack unhitched the water bottle, removing the stopper and putting it to the baby’s mouth. He gulped a couple of times, then a trail of water oozed out his lips onto his clothes.

“Does that mean you’ve had enough?” Jack said, taking the bottle to his lips. The boy watched him, furrowing his brow. For a second, Jack thought he was going to cry. He pulled the bottle away and stuck his tongue out at the boy. It was a moment before the child reacted, a huge grin filling his face as he copied Jack.

“Oh,” Jack laughed again, “so you’ve got a sense of humor, kid? You wanna keep that one hidden. Don’t give too much away too soon.”

The boy reached up to touch Jack’s chin. His face creased as he ran his soft fingers over the growing beard.

“I know, I need a shave. It’ll have to wait until we get somewhere,” Jack said, tucking the boy’s hand inside the makeshift sling. “Now, you hold on tight, cause I’m gonna be riding mighty hard.”

With that, Jack slapped the horse’s neck with the reins.

“Giddy up! Got me a delivery to make and some land to buy.”

 

Chapter Two

Wrightwood—1863

The sign on the front of the shop was newly painted, the words now bright blue instead of black. Melanie smiled in satisfaction. They had removed the old letters, turning Matthews Mercantile Store into Melanie’s Emporium. She hadn’t minded the original sign, but it made sense to change it.

“Then people will know what they can buy,” she said to Henry when he arrived. He was the daily help that she had inherited with the shop when both her ma and pa had perished with the fever the previous year.

“But it’s always been called Matthew’s Mercantile Store,” Henry said unhappily, “Was always alright for your ma and pa.”

Melanie liked Henry. He was loyal and reliable. His father’s closest friend, Henry had worked with him up until he died, and now he felt the loss almost as much as Melanie. He was a little bit slower than he used to be, she noticed. He must be over sixty, she thought as she grabbed his arm affectionately.

“I know, Henry, and it’s not because I don’t like my family name. It’s just that I don’t sell what Ma and Pa used to. My stuff is more… modern. I’ve got my own remedies that my grandma taught me how to make. There’s the materials and ribbons that the new haberdasher in River Valley gets from someone called the Oriental. All different types of colors and patterns, all kinds of silks and cottons. No one in town has anything like it. Melanie’s Emporium just sounds right.”

Henry huffed and puffed. “Well, you haven’t mentioned the other stuff, the things that people really come in here for—flour, sugar, coffee, salt, and…” Henry hesitated, looking sideways at Melanie, “your cakes and breads. The smell of them brings people in, make no mistake.”

Melanie laughed at Henry’s unusual compliment. He wasn’t a man to call something out unless he meant it. “Why, thank you, Henry. Appreciate it.” 

Looking up at the sign, Henry added under his breath, “I don’t like the color of the paint, neither.”

She opened the door and had the familiar feeling of being in the right place. The store had always been her favorite hideaway, right back from when she was a little girl and her papa would let her choose a candy from the big jar on the counter.

“Only one, mind. Don’t wanna get greedy, and don’t tell your ma!”

Melanie missed the sound of her papa’s voice. It was rich and deep, coming from way down in his wide chest. It was comforting, solid, like it would always be there—and then, one day, it wasn’t. 

She had been distraught when Doctor Pearman had told her they had both passed on the same night. 

“Seems like one didn’t want to be without the other,” he had said, pulling the thermometer from her own mouth. He had looked at the instrument, wiped it on his sleeve, and stared into her tear-filled eyes.

“Nearly normal. You’ll be up in a day or so. No point in wasting time on mourning, missy. What your ma and pa would want you to do is carry on with what they started. That store needs someone to keep it going. The town’s abuzzin’ with prospectors and would-be landowners. They’re all gonna need clothin’ and feedin’.”

The doctor was right, but it had been hard adjusting to life without her parents—especially her ma, from whom she had inherited her chestnut wavy hair and hazel eyes. She discovered that she also had her ma’s talent for home cooking, spending most of her teenage years at her side, learning the best way to proof dough and make feather-light pastry.

Melanie seemed to have a natural skill for baking. Her ma would proudly present her plates of cornbread and fruit pie at the home bake sale, saying as loud as she could, “My girl made these, you know, and she’s only just turned ten.”

In the same way, her adored grandma had made sure that Melanie knew the art of making home remedies.

“You don’t wanna be goin’ to the doc for things like stings and upset stomachs—everything you need is in the ground.”

With her long gray hair left unfashionably loose, she would take Melanie’s hand and lead her out to the grassy prairie, a basket holding a sharp pair of scissors rocking on her arm. She had the same fair skin and dusting of freckles that Melanie saw in the mirror every day. 

“Look for the little flowers, the ones that hide themselves away. They’re the best.” Her grandma had pointed to a bluish-purple cluster of flowers with a fuzzy appearance. “This one is pasque flower. It can help with any number of things. It’s a powerful pain reliever—it helps with the cramps, baby’s colic, and even childbirth. Not that you’re gonna need that for a while.” 

Her grandma had looked at Melanie then. 

“How old are you now?” she’d asked abruptly as she ran her eyes over her slender body.

“I’m eleven, next birthday,” Melanie had replied. 

Her grandma had smiled. “Well, we got plenty o’ time to think about that, then.”

When she died the following year, Melanie had collected up her grandma’s notebooks and roughly sketched pictures of herbs, plants, and flowers that she’d used to help treat many of the townsfolk. The dog-eared pages and faded drawings were now propped up on the shelf in her kitchen, ready for her to use. The bottles of ointments and potions Melanie sold were popular, and she knew how important it was that the people in the town trusted her to sell quality goods at reasonable prices. 

The shop had a good situation, right at the start of the main street, before the general store, which was further up, opposite the boarding house. Many new settlers would happen upon the Matthews store first. The long-standing locals also walked the extra couple of hundred feet, bypassing the general store, for a slice of homemade cherry pie or a fresh rye or cornbread loaf.

Melanie put down her basket of homemade goods, breathing in deeply. She had just started experimenting with the combination of rye and corn meal, and the sweet smell filled the shop. The doorbell clanged, and she heard the familiar slow steps of Henry.

“Not many deliveries today, Henry, just to the Jameson’s and Finkestern’s,” she told him. “I’ve already packed up most of their order. Just need to put the fresh stuff in.” She took a loaf of cornbread and two fruit pies from the basket, placing them in the delivery boxes.

“I suppose you spent all last evening baking?” Henry said.

Melanie recognized the opening line of a sermon that he frequently gave her about to start.

“I suppose you never thought about showing your face at the community dance. It was a hoot, especially for the young ‘uns—like you—dancin’ and play actin’—havin’ fun.”

“It sure sounds like fun, Henry. I would’ve made it, but this new dough needs a lot of tending to get right. Before I knew it, it was past nine and, I was fair bushed. Took myself right off to bed and slept like a baby.”

“You need to get yourself out meetin’ folk, not working all the time. Why don’t you get someone to help you, give you a bit of time to yourself? Time for you to get out and meet—”

“Don’t say it, Henry!” Melanie knew her tone was sharp, but she had heard Henry’s plans for her before. He had repeated them every day for the past six months. 

She knew her father’s old friend was just looking out for her well-being, wanting her to “find a life for herself—and a husband” but Melanie wasn’t interested. She didn’t have time. There was always something to prepare, to make, to bottle, or to bake. Demand was high for everything she sold in the shop, and she had to keep on top of it. She couldn’t let the high standards of her parents slip, not even for a day.

Henry shook his head, taking the boxes from Melanie’s hands. He looked deep into her eyes, saying softly, “You know, your papa wouldn’t want to think that his leavin’ you the store was stopping you havin’ a life for yourself. He had your mama, and they were a partnership. Everyone needs someone.”

Melanie breathed a sigh of relief when she heard the store’s doorbell clang, stopping Henry’s next line. They both looked at the figure that stood in the doorway. It was still early, and no one usually stopped by at this time, so it was surprising to see a stranger standing there. What made their mouths drop open however, was the appearance of the man that looked back at them. He was a sight to behold. 

His straggling black hair stuck out from the sides of his hat. His tanned face was smeared with dust and a purplish mark, very much like a small handprint, was stuck to his cheek. The bulge on the front of his chest was moving, its little arms and legs poking out, waving wildly, and the noise coming from it was the howl of a hungry baby.

The stranger took off his hat and bowed slightly to Melanie. “Excuse me, ma’am, I was wonderin’ if you sold milk?”

Melanie shut her mouth quickly, nodding at the same time. The hat the man had been wearing had hidden his dark hair and his eyes, which she could see now were as blue as a summer sky. His skin was more than brown, the color of tanned leather. His sharp jawline and high cheekbones put the emphasis of his face to his curved lips and slender nose. Melanie drew a deep breath. 

He is the handsomest man I have ever seen.  

The noise from the crying child rocked Melanie out of her frozen expression. 

“Milk… yes, we have milk… I’ll get it.” 

She walked gracefully out to the cold store, letting the cooling air fan her heated cheeks. She was flushed and flustered. She gripped the bottle, holding it for a second against her face, before marching back into the store with, what she hoped, was a business-like air.

“That’ll be eight cents,” she said curtly.

The stranger dug deep in his waistcoat pocket, gently easing the moving figure strapped to his front to one side. He reached forward, his hand open with a ten-cent coin lying in his palm.

“Thank you kindly, ma’am. As you can tell, this little one is not good at waitin’.”

Melanie picked the coin from his hand, replacing it with the bottle of milk.

“I’ll get your change.” Aware that Henry was now staring at her, she turned to him. “Do you want to start on those deliveries, Henry?”

Her friend coughed and dipped his head. “Right, boss. I’m on my way,” he said. Turning to the stranger, he nodded, saying cheerily, “Mornin’.” 

The doorbell clattered behind Melanie as she fumbled in the cash box for the two cents. When she turned around, the stranger was sitting on an orange box, holding a baby’s bottle filled with milk to the lips of a small boy. The man let the baby take the sides of the bottle in his own hands.

“Seems hungry,” she said, handing him his change.

“He’s hungry alright. Been crying for the past ten minutes. He’ll quieten down when he’s full, then I just need to figure out what to do with him.”

“What do you mean?” Melanie was confused.

“Well, it’s like this, ma’am—me and this kid don’t know each other. Until a day ago, I’d never set eyes on the little critter. I picked him up at a destroyed camp, down in the valley. Looked like a raiding party had run riot. I’m heading over to the sheriff to let him know, as soon as this one’s finished his breakfast.”

“So, what happened to his parents? You say you picked him up… were they…?”

“Perished, all of ‘em. I gave ‘em the best burial I could under the circumstances, then found the kid hiding under the burnt-out wagon. Didn’t want to leave him there, so here we are.”

Melanie’s heart ached as she looked at the large blue eyes of the child in the man’s arms. They did look alike. It was an easy mistake to think the man was his father. The boy’s face was intense as he sucked at the teat, swallowing each mouthful quickly.

“Poor little mite,” she said, softly, stepping forward to stroke his light brown hair.

The baby raised his eyelids, looking straight into Melanie’s face. He pulled the bottle from his mouth, his lips breaking into the widest smile. She felt a lump in her throat, and her eyes filled with tears.

“He’s beautiful. What kind of evil murders a whole family, leaving a baby to die alone?”

“The kind that has no regard for life, ma’am. Seems like the folks had nothing of any value anyways, so what they might have got for their brutality, I don’t know.”

The man lifted the child into a sitting position on his knee and it instantly grabbed hold of his hand, wrapping his fingers around his thumb.

“Seems he’s taken to you, mister,” Melanie said, looking the stranger in the eyes.

“Well, I’ve been the only thing keeping him alive for the past two days, so it’s no wonder he’s a little needy. ’Cause he doesn’t know yet that he’s an orphan, and he won’t know until what that means hits him in the face, in a few years’ time.” The man stood up, holding the child like a sack of potatoes under his arm. 

Melanie put her hands on her hips, looking up at him, wishing she was a few inches taller so that she could look him in the eyes.

“Hold on a minute, mister. I’m an orphan. Both my parents died in the last bout of the fever. I was the only one in my family that survived, but I haven’t done too badly for myself.” Melanie spread her hands, sweeping her arms around the shop.

The man laughed, a hollow sound that rankled Melanie even more.

“Ain’t nothin’ to snigger about, mister. It’s true.”

The man pushed out his chin. “And can I ask how you got to be the owner, which I presume that’s what you are suggesting?”

“It is—was my parents’ shop.”

“Exactly what I thought,” the man said, shaking his head slightly. “So you didn’t build this shop with your own hands and work until blisters covered ‘em to make it what it is today, did yer? That was probably what your ma and pa did. You’re a lucky girl,” the man said dismissively and turned toward the door.

Melanie could feel her face reddening with anger. How dare this man make assumptions about my life.

“Hey,” she said loudly, “hang on a cotton-picking minute, stranger. You know nothing about me or my ma and pa. If you knew how many hours it has taken me to get this place the way it is today… I doubt you’ve done as much work as I have in the past year. What’s your line of business, anyway? Not much money in being a drifter.”

The man turned slowly, still holding the baby on his hip, staring into Melanie’s face. His eyes sparkled like a deep, blue ocean, cold and dangerous.

“The same applies to you, ma’am, if I may be so bold.” His voice was a whisper. “You know nothing about my life either, and believe me, it’s a life you wouldn’t have survived, with your pretty ribbons and sweet-smelling potions.” His eyes shone back at Melanie defiantly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m on my way to drop this package into someone else’s lap. I’ve done my share of babysitting.” 

Melanie moved quickly between him and the door, her back against the glass.

“Actually, I do mind. I ain’t finished with you, stranger. You come in here with a child that’s not yours, probably proud of yourself for saving it when anyone would do the same, and now you intend to dump him on someone else? He’s not a piece of meat or some belonging for you to get rid of. Where’s your sense of responsibility? From what you say, that child has known no one but you for the past day or so. You’ve fed him—of a fashion, I’m sure—and you must have given him a place to sleep. You’ve changed his diaper, I would hope…”

Melanie could feel the man’s breath on her face as he spoke, just as gently as before. “You’re right in every way, and like I say, I’ve done babysitting, I’ve got plans, I’ve got a life to start.”

“Do you think your life is more important than this child’s?” she asked passionately. “He knows you’re not his papa, but you’re the only living person he trusts right now. Hopefully, he’ll have no memory of what happened in that valley, but imagine if he does. How do you think that might feel? Not knowing your parents, who they were, what they were like?”

The man dipped his head, staring at his feet for a moment. When he raised his face to look at Melanie, she could plainly see a deep hardness, a resentment, a bitterness looking back at her.

“Like I say, ma’am, you know nothing about me. You say I assume too much, well, that makes you as guilty as me, ’cause you’ve just assumed somethin’ about my life that couldn’t be more wrong. Now, like I say, I don’t want to be rude. I’m mighty pleased for your help with the milk, but I’m gonna say so long.”

With that, the man slid his arm behind Melanie’s back, gently moving her away from the door. His face was inches from her own. Her heart skipped a beat as she felt his hand slide down her arm. He pulled the door and stepped backward quickly as a tall man pushed the store door open. 

“Ethan!” Melanie forced down a note of irritation as she looked at the tall, strong-bodied man. He was looking smart in a white shirt with a blue string tie, his lined jacket matching the silk waistcoat. His dark brown hair was neatly slicked back. He smiled at Melanie, his light green eyes glinting like a hungry cat, then glared at the stranger. 

“Well, what’s goin’ on here then, Miss Matthews? I thought you didn’t open until eight. No trouble, I hope.” The man stared coldly at the stranger carrying the baby.

Melanie blushed. It was just like Ethan Wrightwood to turn up unexpected. He did that a lot. Always catching her unawares. He must have seen Henry leave and taken his chance, thinking she was alone. 

“I was just telling this… stranger, that the boarding house is at the end of the street. Seems like he’s looking for a place for him and his child to stay. He didn’t seem to agree with me about their charges, that’s all. No trouble.”

The stranger’s mouth twitched a little and he put his hand on the doorknob, saying, “Yep, that’s right. Told me what’s what and just where to go, so thank you, ma’am… Miss Matthews.” 

Melanie flinched at the amusement in his voice as he said her name.

“Wait,” she said, moving over to the counter and filling a small bag. “You forgot your purchases.” 

She put the package in the man’s free hand. He looked at her intently before glancing at the baby’s shoes and bonnet and the bag of muffins in the bag.

“Thank you kindly, ma’am, but I think you’ve forgotten the bottle of milk I asked for?” 

The smile on the stranger’s face lit up his blue eyes with a mischievous glint.

Melanie blew out her cheeks. He’s pushing his luck. She felt Ethan’s eyes on her and turned quickly, retrieving another bottle from the cold store and pushing it into the stranger’s open hand. The man nodded as he stepped into the street, skilfully slipping the boy into the sling tied around his body. She watched as he strode away, stopping a passerby. The woman pointed toward the corner at the end of the road, where the sheriff’s office stood. The stranger tipped his hat and walked on. 

Ethan’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Looked like you were having a bit of a heated discussion with that there stranger,” he said, moving closer to Melanie. She side-stepped him, putting the counter between them.

“Not at all,” she said as she set to work unloading a box onto the shelves behind the counter. “Just pointing him in the right direction.”

Ethan slipped beside her, catching Melanie around her slender waist. She stared into his eyes, thinking how different he was to the man that had just left the shop. Ethan Wrightwood was so full of his own charm, so confident that his dashing smile could convince anyone to do what he wanted. Melanie wasn’t impressed; she never had been. Everyone knew that, as the son of the most important man in the town that bore his name, Ethan was powerful.

“So, Miss Matthews, how about you pointing me in the right direction?” Ethan leaned forward as Melanie leaned back. She placed her hand on his chest.

“I’m flattered, Ethan, but, as I’ve told you many times, the shop is my life. I don’t have time for—”

“Marriage, babies, love?” Ethan said as he caught her hand, pulling her toward him.

“For anything else,” she said, gently wriggling her wrist out of his hold.

Ethan’s forehead frowned. “You turnin’ me down again, Melanie? That ain’t a good idea.” His voice was soft, but Melanie knew that tone.

She smiled, running her hands over the skirt of her dress. “Look, Ethan, you’re very charming, and I’d like us to be friends, but—”

“Well, friends is a good place to start,” Ethan said as he rubbed his hands together. “Can two friends have dinner together, tomorrow, at Stacey’s Tavern, say seven o’clock? I’ll come acallin’.” 

With that, he bowed dramatically at Melanie and strode to the door. Turning back to look at her, his voice low, almost threatening, he whispered, “I’ll be seein’ you tomorrow.” 

Melanie knew she’d been browbeaten. She also knew how dinner would go. He would ask her, again, to be his wife, and she would give every excuse she could to say no in the nicest way possible. She didn’t underestimate Ethan’s influence in the town. He’d many men at his beck and call and, if he wanted to, he could probably make life difficult for her. She just had to find a way to keep him at bay.

Melanie’s mind switched to thinking about the stranger, their conversation running through her head. Had she been harsh with him? She was only thinking of the child when she’d said he was irresponsible. The boy had obviously bonded with him. What did he mean by saying that she’d made assumptions about him? What had she said? She racked her memory. 

Melanie put her hand to her mouth, remembering her words. Had he lost his parents, too? Was that what he meant? She pulled the door handle toward her, flipping the Open sign to Closed. If it was how she thought, she needed to apologize. She didn’t want him thinking she was heartless.

She needed to see him. For his own sake.