A Tiny Miracle at the Veteran’s Door (Preview)

Chapter One

Narrow Creek, Montana Territory, 1873

Once a month. Once a month he went into town to get supplies, and it was always this bad. Always. 

Dave kept his head high; gaze fixed on the road ahead of him. The day was a sweltering one, the sun burning angrily down on the neat little town as if it had a grudge against the place. Dust swirled in the light breeze, and he could feel it gritty against his skin. He’d want a bath when he got home, and that meant dragging out the tub and heating endless hot water. It didn’t seem to matter how much water he prepared, the bath was always tepid by the time he got in. 

A crisp-looking lady in a fine, flounced lavender dress passed him by, keeping resolutely to the opposite side of the street. Generally, he would have met her eye and made a polite nod in greeting, but she had angled her parasol to avoid looking at him at all, so he didn’t bother. 

“Mama, Mama, look at that man!” chirped a young voice. Pausing, Dave glanced over. The lavender confection of a woman had stopped too and was frantically trying to hush a small boy at her side. The child had apparently been hidden by the woman’s wide skirts, but now he was pointing at Dave with earnest curiosity. Her fine parasol had dipped in her grip, the lace at the edges trailing in the dust. 

“What’s wrong with him?” the boy cried, voice echoing. The woman flinched, casting a quick, terrified look at Dave. When she found him already watching, she paled, ducking her head. 

“Don’t say that!” she hissed at the child, seizing his hand in one kid-gloved fist. “And don’t look at him. He’s dangerous.”

Dave briefly considered asking her why she thought such a thing but suspected that she might start to scream if he addressed her. Instead, he put his back to the battling pair and continued on his way. 

The next challenge was the general store. The boy’s comment rang in his mind. He kept thinking about it, over and over again as the owner of the general store glared balefully at him and counted his money three times, as if convinced Dave was going to try and short-change him.

What’s wrong with him?

The thing about children was that they were honest. Cruel, sometimes, but then the truth could be a nasty thing. At least the boy hadn’t said anything that Dave didn’t already know. 

“Thank you kindly, sir,” Dave said politely to the storekeeper. The man offered a brittle smile, not meeting his eyes, and immediately turned to the next customer. On his way out of the store, Dave passed a freshly cleaned window, the glass shiny and reflective. He caught a quick glimpse of a tall, hulking man, built for labor but carefully putting his weight on his left leg, not his right. 

He hastily turned away before he could get a good look at his own face and limped on down the road. One more errand, then he could go home, where it was cool and quiet and nobody was staring at him. Conjuring up a memory of his own reflection, Dave smiled grimly. 

Can’t blame them for turning away, can you? 

Nobody answered Dave’s ‘Hey, there’ at the blacksmith’s store, and the forge was empty. There was no sign of Gus, which meant that he must have closed down the forge for the day and retreated to the inner rooms of the blacksmith’s shop, where he lived. With a sigh, he gingerly set down his basket of groceries by the door and stepped on inside. 

“Gus?” he called. “You around?”

“In the kitchen,” came a muffled reply. 

With a sigh, Dave made his way inside. Gus wasn’t exactly a vain man, but there seemed to be mirrors everywhere in his house. It was hard to know where to look. 

He reached the kitchen at last, a ramshackle space in need of thorough cleaning and tidying. Gus never had been one for housework. 

The man himself sat at the kitchen table, a half-drunk bottle of whiskey sitting out in front of him.

“Come on in, sit down,” Gus greeted, gesturing to an empty chair opposite. “Have a glass of something.”

“It’s midday, Gus.”

Gus belched. “It sure is. You know what today is?”

Dave bit his lip. “Thursday?”

“No. It’s the anniversary. The anniversary of…of her leaving.”

“Oh.”

There was a moment of silence. Dave eyed the whiskey and imagined its burn down his throat. One glass with Gus always turned into three, and that would leave him parched and a little tipsy for the long ride back home. 

On the other hand, Gus appeared to be on the brink of tears. He lived alone, the forge was cold, and it wasn’t likely that he’d get many guests today. 

Dave sat, poured himself a drink, and took a sip. The whiskey was cheap and terrible, of course. 

“You know the worst part of all this?” Gus whispered, staring at nothing. “I can’t even mourn her. We weren’t married.”

“You don’t know that she’s even dead, Gus.”

“Then why hasn’t she returned?”

“Look, Gus, I know this is hard, but you must know that you and Erma Rose could never have been together. She’s Mayor Carson’s daughter, and you…you’re a blacksmith.”

“Other fathers just want their daughters to be happy,” Gus argued stubbornly. “I could have made her happy. She loved me.” 

“I know that’s true, Gus. But there’s no sense in thinking of what-ifs and maybes. This is the world we live in, and Mayor Carson didn’t want his daughter marrying a blacksmith.”

“Well, we were going to run away together,” Gus sniffed. “Until he caught on and took her away. Sent her off. I still think of her coming back, you know. That’s why I can’t leave; I have to wait for her to get back. It’s been a year, though. How long should I wait?     ”

Dave said nothing. Privately, he thought that poor Erma Rose had probably been bullied into marrying some suitable man shortly after arriving at her relative’s house back east. The mayor had been carefully vague about where she’d actually gone. 

It wouldn’t help Gus to know this, of course. Instead, he took another sip of whiskey and stayed quiet. 

“I hate him,” Gus said suddenly, with a heavy bitterness. “He got between us, I know it.”

“Well, Gus, if Erma Rose could let herself be talked into going away, into leaving you…”

Gus shook his head stubbornly and reached out for a second glass of whiskey. “It’s not like that. She’s not like that.”

Dave gave up. Sitting back, he glanced around the kitchen. Yet another mirror caught his attention, and he glanced away hastily before he could get a good look at himself. 

“You were married, weren’t you, Dave?”

The question took him by surprise. He blinked, clearing his throat. 

“Why, yes, I was. Stella died on the journey here, which would be about four years ago. Right before we landed here in Narrow Creek. I was twenty-seven when I lost her, and I remember sitting on the step of our wagon and just staring, wondering what I’d do without her. But I managed,” he added severely, catching Gus’ eyes. “And so will you. Stella would have been furious to think of me going to pieces without her, and I imagine that Erma Rose would want you to be happy too, getting on with your life just as she’s getting on with hers.”

“Where’d you even come from? Back east, wasn’t it?”

“I lived here and there.”

Gus sighed. “Well, I’ve lived around here for far too long. I’m not like you, Dave. I’m thirty-five, I’m not strong like you. Women don’t like me. Only one woman ever did.”

Dave cleared his throat again. “Women don’t like me either. I don’t know about strong or noble – although I sure do have at least a foot of height on you – but you’ve got a nice face, Gus. I can’t say the same.”

He gestured at his own features, fingertips almost brushing the ridged, knotted skin of his scars. Over time, washing and shaving meant that he had to get used to touching his own scars, but the difference in the textures of his skin – scar tissue on one half and smooth, ordinary skin on the other – always felt unpleasant. 

Gus eyed him, pushing out his lower lip. 

“I guess that love isn’t in the cards for either of us, then,” he said at last. 

Dave bit his lip, glancing away. His gaze kept straying back to the mirror, as if he wanted to torture himself. 

“No,” he said, raising a glass. “I guess it ain’t.”

Gus clinked his smeary glass against Dave’s cleaner one, and they drank in silence. 

Chapter Two

Apparently, nobody was getting off the stagecoach at Narrow Creek. Dorothy had to squeeze out from between two other occupants, a skeletal woman with a huge basket, and a plump man who had snored all the way here. With a twinge of panic, she imagined the coach setting off again with her stuck inside, making her miss her stop. 

The other occupants of the coach shifted and sighed in annoyance when she clambered past them to get out. The coach driver tossed down her case without any care at all and ignored her tut of annoyance. 

And then the coach was off, leaving a trail of choking dust behind it. The dust clung to Dorothy’s skirt, which irritated her. This was her good dress. Of course, wearing it while traveling was a huge mistake, but she had so wanted to make a good impression. 

Swallowing hard, Dorothy turned away from the disappearing coach and scanned her immediate surroundings. 

Thomas had warned her that Narrow Creek was not a large, bustling place, not at all like the home she was used to. Two lines of stores and wooden structures formed a sort of rough main street, and people idled their way up and down shaded wooden boardwalks on either side. A large saloon squatted directly opposite, and Dorothy hastily turned away from that. Night was approaching, and in an hour or two it would be dark. She hoped to be settled in her new home well before then. 

Nobody came toward her with a smile. Nobody called her name. The few strangers milling around shot her a look of vague disinterest and shuffled on by. Swallowing, Dorothy dug in her pocket, bringing out Thomas’ latest letter. He had always been sparing but efficient with his words and had of course thought of every aspect of her journey and arrival. There, at the bottom, was the all-important postscript.

The coach will deposit you at the bottom of      Main Street, near the Saloon. I shall of course meet you there, and we shall walk home together. If, however, I am somehow unavoidably detained, then my home is only ten minutes’ walk from there. Go up the street and ask anybody to direct you to the home of Thomas Mackenzie. 

Well, he was not here. 

Unavoidably detained, she thought miserably, stuffing the letter back in her pocket. It was not a good start. After all, what could possibly detain a man from meeting the woman he was about to marry? 

Sighing to herself, Dorothy picked up her case. She had brought rather too many of her books, unable to leave any of them behind, and the case’s weight reflected that. Thinking uneasily of her second bonnet, which had been left behind, she wiped the dust off her current bonnet and set off at a brisk stride. 

There were not as many people as she’d hoped. She did not want to ask a man to direct her – one could never tell with strange men – and there were no women to ask directions from. Growing desperate, Dorothy made up her mind to ask the next pleasant-looking man she came across. At that moment, as if the Fates had arranged it, a hulking fellow stepped out from between two houses. 

He was shockingly tall, well over six feet, with shoulders to match and the sort of limbs one might expect to see on a lifelong ranch worker. However, he walked with something of a limp in his right leg, which somehow eased the edge of his fearsomeness. 

“I beg your pardon, sir!” Dorothy called, hurrying toward him. 

He turned to face her, eyes wide with surprise. There was a sort of burned patch on one side of his face, with ridged scar tissue running from his chin to his temple, curling around the sharp edge of his jaw. The rest of his face seemed mostly untouched, including a pair of sharp, bright blue eyes beneath heavy black brows. 

“Are you speaking to me?” he managed, almost incredulously. 

“Yes, I am,” Dorothy puffed. Her corset was digging into her sides. Thomas had warned her that Montana was hotter than she was used to, but that felt like an understatement now. The sun steamed down furiously, even at this time of the afternoon. Her pale skin already felt as if it were pinkening. Mournfully, she imagined another hundred freckles or so appearing on her face.

Sweat prickled, growing damp under her arms and at the small of her back, and she could feel it beading along her hairline, probably flattening her auburn hair to her forehead. Her landlady had convinced her to cut in a few short pieces at the front, to curl them up in a way that would look very fashionable. She regretted that choice heartily. She had curled them before leaving for the journey, but they’d long since wilted. 

“What can I do for you?” the man managed. He hadn’t quite shaken off his surprise, but he was every bit as courteous as one might have wished. If Dorothy hadn’t been on her way to greet her fiancé, she might have admired him a little.

“I am looking for the house of Thomas Mackenzie,” she breathed. “He has a timber company, I believe. I am expected. He was supposed to meet me at the stagecoach, but he didn’t.”

She was babbling. This fellow didn’t need to know all of this. The man drew those thick black brows together.

“I don’t come into the center of town much,” he confessed. “I don’t know Mr. Mackenzie. But if I remember rightly, you can find his house at the bottom of that lane, if you go on for about a mile. It’s the only house in that area, you can’t miss it.”

She let out a sigh of relief. A mile. Only a mile. She could manage a mile. 

“Thank you very much, sir. I’m greatly obliged.”

He nodded, offering a faint, curious smile. “Safe travels.”

She readjusted her grip on the case and scurried off, heart hammering against the insides of her restricted ribcage. Her back itched as she went, as if she were being stared at, and she twisted to look behind her, fully expecting the man to still be standing there, staring at her. 

The road was empty, however, and there was no sign of him. Oh, well. 

A mile seemed longer than usual on the rutted, dirt track that the stranger had pointed out for her. The shadows were lengthening, the sun dipping toward the horizon, but the heat still felt oppressive. She was obliged to slow her pace, and regularly dabbed her face – and her underarms, surreptitiously – with a handkerchief. 

Thomas was not an expressive man. His letters were pleasant, but really rather curt. He was clear about what he wanted. He wanted a wife to run his home, cook his meals, and keep him company. He had no children, although he did not mention the possibility of them having their own. 

I am used to children, Dorothy remembered writing. I work in an orphanage, the same place that raised me, so I am quite comfortable with managing children of all ages. 

She couldn’t remember if he’d replied to that. His timber company, he said, was a modest one, but he could afford a comfortable life. A quiet life, too. Well, Dorothy wouldn’t mind a quiet life. Single women spent most of their time avoiding the inevitable, constantly worrying about their futures, so a little security and certainty would be nice. 

The path gradually curved up, and when she reached its summit, saw that a ranch house nestled a little way below. A light glowed in one window, and her heart leapt. 

I hope he likes me, Dorothy thought, swallowing her nerves. 

They had not exchanged photographs of each other, only descriptions. Thomas’ description of himself seemed rather ordinary, and when written down, Dorothy’s description of herself seemed ordinary, too. She had been told by other people that she was pretty, and in truth the face that greeted her in the mirror was fairly pleasant, but that seemed too vain to put in the letter. Besides, what if Thomas did not agree? 

She started down the road toward the house, heart hammering faster than ever. 

What shall I say to him? This will be the first time we’ve come face to face. The first time we meet in person. If he changes his mind… 

No. She couldn’t let herself think that. He could not change his mind, because there was nowhere for Dorothy to go. No home to return to. The orphanage would not have room for her, even if she could afford to travel home, which she could not. Everything she had in the world was packed up in the case which banged against her leg. 

Everything except her second-best bonnet, that is. 

Hello, Thomas, she rehearsed in her head, flashing a jaunty smile at a rabbit in the hedge. I believe I am expected. 

No, that wouldn’t do. No glibness. He didn’t seem to be a very glib man. In fact, in his letters, he seemed very serious indeed. 

Good evening, Thomas. It’s me, Dorothy. Might I come in? 

Yes, that was better. Pleasant but straight to the point, with no implication at all that she blamed him for leaving her to make her own way here from the stagecoach. 

She stepped into the round courtyard in front of the house, and paused, drawing in a deep breath. 

This is it. The beginning of the rest of my life. 

Squaring her shoulders, she strode confidently across the courtyard, stepped into the porch, and knocked twice at the yellow-painted door. 

And waited. 

A minute passed, and then two. She was just considering another knock when there was movement behind the screen door. A lock clicked, and the door opened. 

“Hello, Thom…” Dorothy began at once, and trailed off. 

A woman stood there. She appeared to be in her late twenties, perhaps four or five years older than Dorothy herself. She was wearing a stiff black dress with a lace collar, and the color made her seem very pale and drab indeed. 

“Who are you?” the woman demanded brusquely. “What do you want?”

“Forgive me, I…I think I must have come to the wrong house,” Dorothy stammered. “I’m looking for Thomas Mackenzie’s home. Can you direct me there.”

The woman continued to stare at her     , almost angrily so. 

“This is Thomas Mackenzie’s house,” she said shortly. “What are you doing here?”

Dorothy offered a tentative smile. “Why, I’m his bride-to-be. We exchanged      letters, and he arranged for me to come here. And…And here I am.”

Silence flooded in between them. 

Is he already married? Dorothy thought abruptly, with a rush of panicked horror. Licking her lips, she made herself speak. 

“You seem surprised,” she managed weakly. “You…You aren’t his wife, are you?”

The woman reared back. “His wife? How dare you. I am Violet, his sister.”

“Well, I wasn’t to know that,” Dorothy stammered. 

“I am his sister, and there has been a change of plans.”

The cold dread which had followed Dorothy all the way from home, whispering to her that something was going to go wrong, returned in full force. Nausea tightened in her stomach, and the sweat on her forehead began to feel cold. 

“What?” she gulped. “A change of plans?” 

“Thomas is dead,” Violet announced shortly. “A logging accident. My brother was working late, and I assume was tired enough to make a mistake. Crushed by logs, can you believe it? A chain snapped, and that was that. He has been dead these three weeks.”

The world shifted around Dorothy. The handle of her case slipped out of her sweaty grip, landing on the porch with a thump. Violet glared at the offending case, incredulous. 

“Don’t leave your things here,” she snapped. “If Thomas arranged for a wife, then I am sure that is his business, not mine. You missed the funeral.”

“The…The funeral?” 

Violet sniffed. “Yes, the funeral. As I said, he died three weeks ago. His estate was easy enough to settle. As his only living relative, this house of course belongs to me. I had no idea that you even existed.”

Dorothy swallowed hard. Saliva seemed to have gathered in her mouth, pooling around her tongue and threatening to choke her. 

“Dead,” she echoed, voice cracking. “Oh.”

“So I’m afraid we really have nothing more to say to each other. I am sorry for your wasted trip.”

Violet began to close the door, which snapped Dorothy into action.

“Wait,” she blurted out. Reluctantly, Violet stopped closing the door. “I…I wonder if I could stay with you, for a little while? Not long, I promise, just a night or two, just enough to…to decide what I’m going to do next.”

Violet sniffed again. “Certainly not. There’s no room here for a stranger who was supposed to marry my dead brother, for heaven’s sake. I don’t approve of correspondence marriages, and Thomas knew that. I am sorry I can’t help you, Miss…” she faltered, apparently realizing that she hadn’t asked Dorothy’s name. 

“Please,” Dorothy begged. “I have nowhere to go, nowhere at all. This was my last chance.”

“I’m sorry,” Violet answered firmly. “I really can’t help you.”

She closed the door tight, and a lock clicked on the other side. Dorothy stood where she was, eyes wide, swaying a little on the spot. Above her, the sky had abruptly begun to get dark. 

What now? 

Chapter Three

The last of the sun had just about gone by the time Dave spotted his ranch in the distance. His horse, Dandy, increased her speed, probably envisioning her warm, comfortable stall and some fresh oats. 

“Nearly there, girl,” he murmured, reaching forward to pat her neck. 

Once again, he’d forgotten to leave a light burning on the porch. Now, as he approached his home, all he could see was darkness. The ranch house, low and dark, stared uninvitingly back at him from the bottom of the dirt track. It would be dark and quiet inside, he knew that. With a bit of work, the house could be livened up. He could light some candles, get the kitchen stove going, heat up some leftover stew for himself. He had a bottle of whiskey clanking at the bottom of his grocery basket, a gift from Gus. That man always had whiskey. If the silence got too loud, Dave could always open up the bottle and soothe himself to sleep. 

Tempting, but it was a slippery slope. That was how Gus had started on his long days of whiskey and misery – just a little something to take the edge off. No, Dave already knew that he was going to put the bottle of whiskey into a cupboard in his kitchen and forget about it. That was the sensible thing to do. 

They trotted into the courtyard, Dandy’s hooves ringing out on the cracked cobblestones. The horse came to a stop at her usual spot, huffing in apparent relief to get home. 

Swinging himself down from the saddle, Dave automatically glanced over at the porch. Where was Tiger? The striped tabby always curled up there, sitting proudly on Dave’s own rocking chair as if he owned it. Today, though, there was no sign of the cat. 

Probably off hunting mice, Dave told himself, putting aside a twinge of unease. Maybe sulking with me because I came back later than I should. 

Still, the unease continued. After all, Dave’s ranch was buried deep in the woods, and there were a lot of things out here that would happily kill and eat a cat. Tiger had been there right from the beginning, given as a kitten to Stella a lifetime ago, as a going-away present from a friend. Dave’s chest tightened. Tiger never had been the sweet, dainty little cat that poor Stella envisioned. He would sit on their laps and curl up on their bed, but he also dragged in eviscerated mice as gifts, and the occasional decapitated bird, and Stella could hardly stand that. In the end, Dave was the one who loved Tiger the most. 

“Tiger?” he called, even though he knew fine well that the cat wouldn’t come when called. “Where are you, kitty? Got a little fish for you. Fresh-caught yesterday, Gus said. Thought we could share it?”

Unsurprisingly, there was no response, no answering rustle. The cat didn’t come bounding out from under the porch or padding across the courtyard toward him, eyes vivid green. No, that was silly. 

If I want a pet that comes when I call him, I should get a dog, Dave thought tiredly, shaking his head. The day had reached the awkward time when the heat of the day evaporated, making room for the intense night-time cold to creep in. It could be a shocking contrast from a newcomer. 

At the thought of newcomers, Dave immediately remembered the woman who’d spoken to him earlier. He could tell at a glance that she wasn’t local, even if she hadn’t asked him for directions. With her fancy dress that must be giving her hell in the heat, she looked like a tourist. Pretty auburn hair, a pale, freckled face that would do poorly in the sun, and those wide, earnest hazel eyes. A proper hazel, the sort of color that changed between amber and gold and green depending on the night. 

Dave tightened his jaw. Pretty. Very pretty. And that was just the sort of thing he shouldn’t notice. It wouldn’t do him any good to notice. 

She didn’t mention my scars. She must have seen them, there was no way to avoid seeing them. There was no horror in her face, no shock. 

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing in town. Something fun, no doubt. There’d been an air of suppressed excitement about her, and eagerness to get somewhere and do something. Well, whatever it was, he wished her the best. 

Night time was coming on fast, and so Dave wisely chose to light the porch lantern before taking Dandy round the corner to the barn. By the time he’d got the horse settled, darkness would be here properly. And then he had his supper to make before dropping into bed, exhausted, with tomorrow’s chores all lined up and ready for him. 

Another day, another dime. Another twenty-four hours of silence. 

The silence was the worst. Not that Dave was opposed to a little peace and quiet. Even when Stella was alive, they’d both been content to sit by the fire, feet up on the fender, reading or sewing or whittling or doing whatever it was they wanted to do, staying quiet, enjoying the silence and each other’s company. 

Turned out that there was a big difference between the silence around another person to real silence. Even the silence of waiting, waiting for somebody to return was something different. That was a pleasant kind of silence. 

What was it that he’d read once in one of Stella’s books? It was a play, if he remembered correctly, some comic tale about twins and mistaken identity and love. Something about music being the food of love. Stella had read the passage to him, and he could still hear it in her voice. He wanted to hear the music, over and over again, until he made him sick and no longer cared to hear it. He wanted his love to be the same, to get worn out by attention and listening, so that it no longer held the same power over him. 

I guess silence is my music, and I’ve had so much that I’m sick of it. It still won’t go away, though. 

He reached the dark entranceway to the barn, door yawning open. 

That made Dave pause. 

Well, I definitely closed this door before I left. Left it on the latch, too, so the wind can’t have blown it open. 

“Hello?” he called uneasily. “Anybody in there? If you’re a drifter looking for a roof for the night, no need to fret. I mean you no harm. Come on out.”

Nothing moved. Inching closer, clutching Dandy’s reins, Dave peered inside. It took an instant for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but once they did, he saw that the barn was just as it always was. Nothing seemed to be disturbed, and aside from the piled-up hay in the hayloft, there was nowhere much for a person to hide. 

It occurred to him belatedly that sticking his head in the door, blind in the darkness, was a good way of getting his skull caved in. A risk is what it was. Back in the old days, he never would have taken such a risk. His instincts wouldn’t have allowed it. 

“Looks like all these years of just pottering around and collecting my military pension have made me soft,” he muttered to the horse, who whickered gently and pushed her soft nose against the back of his neck. 

Well, if the horse wasn’t concerned about entering the barn, that probably meant that nobody evil was lurking inside. Animals’ instincts were always sharper than a person’s. They stepped inside, Dandy going straight to her stall. He carefully removed her bridle and saddle, using handfuls of straw to rub the sweat from her back and sides. 

He was just pouring oats and hay into her bucket when he saw it. 

There, on the floor by the stall nearest the door, was a footprint. 

The barn floor was covered in hay, mostly      old hay that needed sweeping up, but in places, the hay pulled back to reveal a dusty wooden floor. And there, on the floor, was a footprint. A boot print, too small to be Dave’s own. 

His throat tightened, and Dave’s spine stiffened. Almost without thinking, he adjusted his stance, falling into the traditional sparring stance taught to them in military training. The movement made pain shoot up his bad leg. He winced, shaking his head. He could ignore the pain, but there was a weakness in his leg now. Too much pressure, and it might fold at the knee like a jackknife and then there’d be trouble. 

“Hello?” he called again, an edge in his voice. “I know that somebody’s here. You aren’t in trouble, but if you keep hiding from me I’ll just assume that you mean me harm. Like every other rancher, I have shotguns and knives. I served in the army, and if this comes to a fight, I reckon I’ll win.”

And he probably would, against some skinny, frantic drifter. A group of hardened bandits would be another matter, but Dave was pretty sure he could fight off an ordinary criminal, bad leg notwithstanding. 

His shotgun, however, was not in the barn. No, it hung above the fireplace. 

Fat lot of good it’ll do me there, he thought grimly, rolling his shoulder.

Silence drifted in again. Nobody responded, nobody moved. Dandy pushed impatiently past him, ducking her head into her bucket of oats and hay, and began to munch. 

Then he heard it. 

Something rustled up in the hayloft. There was a low, thin noise, like a cry but far too weak. 

Swallowing, Dave angled himself toward the hayloft, eyeing the ladder. 

“I don’t want trouble,” he stated. There was no answering shuffle, no response, nothing. Setting his jaw, he seized the ladder, moving up slowly and carefully. At any moment, somebody might leap out of the hay and attack him. He’d be vulnerable, on the ladder. 

He could see more and more of the hay as he climbed, piled up in fluffy mounds. In the middle, it was depressed. Straw rustled. Dave’s heart pounded. 

And then Tiger sat up, tail flicking, and regarded him with annoyance. 

Dave let out a ragged gasp of relief, flinched hard enough to rattle the whole ladder. 

“It’s you, you little wretch,” he muttered, shaking his head and biting back a smile. “Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Tiger tilted his head. He was purring already, a low rumble in his throat that filled the silence. Dave half-expected to see some lady cat curled up there behind him. Well, just because Dave had no chance of finding love again didn’t mean that his cat didn’t. 

“Come on, get down from there,” Dave stated, reaching      out to curl a hand around the cat and pull him to his chest. “We ought to get inside. Cold night coming.”

To his surprise, however, Tiger raised a paw and coolly batted his hand away. Then he lay down again, curling around something in the hay. Frowning, Dave risked stepping up another rung and peered down into the golden depths. 

A baby. It was a baby. 

Wrapped up in a flour sack, which did nothing to keep out the chill, the baby had gone a grayish sort of blue color. Its little face screwed up, hands jerkily waving. The hay curled around it like a nest. Had that been done by whoever left the baby, or had Tiger scratched up all the hay? As he watched, Tiger curled himself tightly around the baby, probably providing the body heat which had kept the baby alive for as long as this. As he watched, horrified, the baby opened a gummy mouth and let out another thin, frail little cry. 

Dave snatched up the baby before he could think twice. The temperature was dropping rapidly, and there was no time to waste. He clambered one-handed down the ladder, and Tiger leaped nimbly down after him. Rushing out of the barn, Dave headed straight for the house. He thought of the cold stove in the kitchen and groaned aloud. Warmth, the little thing needed warmth. 

Food, too, but what did he have that would suit a baby?

“You,” he gasped, directing his words to Tiger, “are a better parent than most. This little thing would’ve died, I reckon, if not for you.”

Tiger only blinked green-gold eyes at him. Dave shouldered open the door and stumbled inside the house. 

Some residual heat remained, which was better than nothing. He stripped off the flour sack in favor of some proper blankets. Underneath, the baby was swaddled in a striped, holey old rag. A couple of clean clouts fell out of the bottom of the sack, which was something. 

Within a few moments, the kitchen stove was lit, and the fire gradually grew stronger. 

“There, see? You feel that?” Dave murmured, pulling up his chair close to the fire – not too close – and cradling the baby against his chest. Surely having it close to his heart would warm it up quicker. “You feel that warmth? It’s nice, huh?” 

The baby mewled, a purplish hand jerking in the air. Dave took the baby’s hand in his, closing his fingers around it in an attempt to get some warmth into the baby’s skin. Its little hand was so small in his, so soft. He shifted his position, half-sitting up the baby on one thigh, its back against his chest. The fire flared, real heat starting to roll out of it. Good, that was good. Tiger jumped onto his other knee and began to purr again. The baby turned large, gray-blue eyes onto the cat and gave a weak, gummy smile, reaching out one unsteady hand to touch the cat’s soft forehead. To his amazement, Tiger allowed it. 

“You are a good kitty,” he murmured, running a quick hand down Tiger’s back himself. “You’re going to get all of that fish.”

Minutes ticked by, and the baby’s skin gradually returned to a normal color. A few more moments, and Dave risked changing the baby’s clout, which certainly smelled like it needed changing. Part of him hoped that there’d be some clue attached to the nappy, or perhaps to the blanket the baby was wrapped in. Something to explain why the baby had been left, and why here. 

All he learned was that the baby seemed relatively healthy, that she was a little girl, and that the blanket wrapped around her was so old and threadbare that it came apart in his hands. 

Sitting back down in front of the fire again, with the baby wrapped in a fresh blanket and clout, Dave let out a long, ragged sigh. 

“Well,” he said aloud to no one in particular, “now what?”

No answer was forthcoming. Now that the initial panic of finding a baby in his hayloft had faded, and it was clear that the baby was getting better, the worries were beginning to flood in. 

Putting the whys and wherefores aside – there were really a hundred reasons why somebody would abandon a baby in the first empty barn they found – he had more practical concerns to consider. 

I can’t look after a baby. I can barely look after myself. 

He glanced uneasily around the kitchen, gaze lingering on his unpacked basket of groceries. What was there that he could feed a baby? What about when he had to start washing clouts? What about when the baby cried all night and wouldn’t settle? What about a crib?

I’m going to have to go back into town, he realized bleakly. I need supplies, and I need advice. I can’t raise a baby. I don’t know how. Stella would have known. But she’d also have known when to ask for help. She knew what she could do as well as what she couldn’t. 

He and Stella had never been blessed with children. Stella had wanted children, he knew that, but no pregnancy presented itself, so that was that. Privately, Dave wondered whether they would ever have had children. It happened often enough, and knowing his luck, he would be the one who couldn’t make babies. 

It didn’t matter, though. Not now. Uneasily, he glanced down at the baby. She was staring up at him with wide, curious eyes, her hand half-jammed into her mouth. 

“Yeah, you’re quiet now,” he sighed, “but soon enough you’ll be hungry, or want something else that I can’t give you, and then the crying will start, huh?”

She gurgled incoherently. Tiger curled himself into a tight little ball, balancing admirably well on Dave’s other thigh, and began to purr furiously. 

“Somebody will help us, though,” Dave said, with a confidence that he didn’t feel. “They think that I’m a monster, but everybody wants to help a baby. And nobody wants to leave a baby with a monster,” he added wryly, pressing his lips together. 

The baby stared up at him. For now, at least, she seemed content. That was something. At least she wasn’t freezing in the barn anymore. Dave didn’t want to think about what would have happened if he hadn’t checked the hayloft. It would probably already be too late. 

“You don’t have a name, do you?” he murmured, tilting his head. The baby jerked her head weakly, copying him. “Or at least, you don’t have a name that I know about. Hope,” he said suddenly decisively. “I’m going to call you Hope.”