The Rancher's Miracle Baby. April Arrington

      Alex held his breath and tried to suppress the heat welling in his chest and searing his cheeks. Deer Creek was a tiny community by anyone’s standards, and everyone knew Ms. Maxine. Most everyone also knew Ms. Maxine had served as Alex’s social worker from the time he’d turned five until he’d aged out of foster care at eighteen. She’d attended his high school graduation and his wedding. And had been the first guest at his and Susan’s housewarming party eleven years ago, with an armful of gifts in tow.

      Ms. Maxine was one of the brightest spots of a naively hopeful past that he wanted to forget.

      “Sheriff said she should be at your place this afternoon to collect the child. I told him about that overturned truck at your place, too, and he said he’ll send someone out as soon as he can.” Jaxon sighed. “Wish we could’ve gotten here sooner, but things are so crazy right now. That storm was a monster, and it damaged a lot of houses, though this was the worst I’ve seen so far. Listen, I know you and Dean were close, and if you need anything...” His voice trailed away. “Well, you know where I am.”

      “Thanks,” Alex said, barely shoving the word past his lips.

      It’d be more polite to turn around and offer his hand or try to dredge up a smile, but he couldn’t manage either. The expression of pity on a person’s face was something he’d become unable to stomach.

      The heavy presence at Alex’s back disappeared, then a second set of doors slammed shut. An engine cranked, and the ambulance drove away, sloshing through the deep mudholes left in the dirt driveway of Dean’s property.

      Alex stared blindly at the rubble before him, frowning as the sun cleared the horizon. It blazed bright, tingeing the scoured landscape in a golden glow and coaxing the birds to sing in ravaged trees. There wasn’t a single cloud marring the deep blue of the sky.

      His skin warmed, and his soggy shirt and jeans clung uncomfortably to him. The damp band of his Stetson began to dry against his forehead, turning tight and stiff.

      It was a hell of a thing—the sun rising on a day like this. The damned thing shouldn’t have the nerve.

      He scoffed and shook his head, squeezing his eyes hard enough to clear them, then started sifting through the mess on the ground for anything worth saving. A dented microwave, filled with muddy water, was lodged between broken staircase rails and a cracked cabinet door. Two recliners and one sofa were overturned, and the cushions were twisted within a tangle of curtains, sheets and wood beams. The remnants of a smashed crib littered a large, heavy pile of broken bricks.

      Alex flinched, his boots jerking to a stop. This shouldn’t have happened. Dean had walked the line all his life, married a good woman and had a healthy baby boy. This house should still be standing with their small family safely in it.

      “I’m sorry, Dean,” Alex said, plucking a bent nail from the ground and cringing at the tremor in his voice. “I should’ve built it stronger.”

      He gritted his teeth, flung the nail into the distance and kept moving, carefully investigating each stack of wreckage and methodically collecting the few scattered remains that might be of use. He shoved a few unbroken jars of baby food, several intact juice boxes and a half dozen dry disposable diapers into a stray trash bag. One hour later, he started back to his ranch, wanting nothing more than to guzzle a bottle of whiskey, collapse onto his bed and escape into oblivion.

      But that wasn’t a possibility. A woman and baby were still on his ranch—whatever little there was left of it—and he had to remain hospitable for at least a few more hours. Then they’d both be on their way and he’d have the comforting silence of privacy back.

      The thought should’ve been a welcome one. But the relief he felt at their expected absence was overshadowed by a pang of loss. One that was accompanied by the warm image of Tammy’s bright green eyes and the remembered feel of Brody’s small, grasping fingers against his chest. All of which were ridiculous things for a man like him to dwell on.

      Shrugging off the unwanted sensation, Alex picked up his pace and searched each empty field he passed for any sign of his horses. He’d made it past the downed power line and across the road when a sporadic pattering sounded behind him. It continued with each of his swift strides, then stopped abruptly when he stilled, a soft whine emerging at his back.

      He glanced over his shoulder. A puppy—Labrador, maybe?—stood frozen in place, his yellow fur dark with mud and grime. The dog’s black eyes widened soulfully, then he ducked his head and took up whining again.

      Alex turned, then eased his bag to the ground. “Where’d you come from?”

      The pup wagged his tail rapidly, then rolled belly up and wiggled. The leaves clinging to his matted fur and the pine needles stuck to his paws were an indication that he might have spent the night in the woods.

      Alex lowered to his haunches and rubbed a hand over the puppy’s thick middle before checking the rest of him for injuries. The dog was healthy, unharmed and looked to be about seven or eight weeks old.

      “You belong to Earl, buddy?” he asked, scratching behind the pup’s ear.

      Old Earl Haggert bred and sold Labs. Could be one of his. Earl’s place was about a mile up the road, and it was possible the dog might’ve wandered that far. With the storm they’d had yesterday, it seemed like everything had been displaced.

      The dog stopped whining, licked Alex’s fingers and nuzzled a wet nose into his palm.

      Alex grinned, a soothing heat unfurling in his veins. “Well, hell. What’s one more?” He stood, picked up his bag and started walking again. “You might as well come on.” He patted his thigh with his free hand. “You can stay today, and I’ll get you back to Earl tomorrow.”

      The dog followed, bounding forward with as much gusto as his short legs would allow.

      “But it’s only fair I warn you that there’s not much to my place anymore.” Alex slowed his step until the pup fell into a comfortable pace at his side. “Not after that tornado. My stable is shot, the fences are busted and my horses are missing. Got a damaged roof and broken windows all over the house. ’Bout the only thing not ruined was my bed, and a woman and baby are piled up on that.”

      The dog yelped up at him, and Alex cocked an eyebrow.

      “I know, right? Only thing worse than all that is a man talking to himself.” He grimaced, gripped the bag tighter and increased his pace again. “That’s a damned shame in itself.”

      Alex clamped his mouth shut and forged ahead.

      Rhythmic thuds echoed across the ravaged field as they drew closer to his house. He stopped a few feet from the end of the driveway, the dog skittering to an awkward halt against his shins.

      Tammy pushed a wheelbarrow from one side of the front lawn to the other, pausing every few feet to pick up a broken tree limb and toss it into the cart. The wheels squeaked with each shove, and the contents clanged every time it bumped over uneven ground. Brody tottered close at Tammy’s side, his brown hair gleaming in the sun. He followed her lead, bent to grab a stick and stumbled.

      “Whoa, there.” Tammy stopped the wheelbarrow and steadied him with one hand. She waited as he fumbled around in the grass, then straightened and held out a twig. “Good job,” she praised, pointing at the wheelbarrow. “Can you put it in the cart?”

      Brody stretched up on his tiptoes, flung the wood into the wheelbarrow and squealed.

      “Nicely done,” Tammy said, clapping.

      Brody smiled, smacked his hands together awkwardly, then waddled toward another stick. Tammy laughed, her face lighting with pleasure.

      The rich sound traveled across the front lawn and vibrated around Alex, sending a pleasurable tingle over his skin. He tried not to stare as she chased after Brody, her long brown hair falling in tangled waves over her shoulders and her slim legs moving with grace. They wore their clothes from last night and, though dry, her jeans and Brody’s overalls