The Bounty Hunter's Baby. Erica Vetsch

“Is he hungry again? What time is it?” Thomas squinted at the clock on the wall. “Seems like he just ate.”

      “He did, not more than an hour ago.” She gathered her hair into a bunch on her shoulder. “Does he need a new diaper?”

      “Not so I can tell.” Thomas shifted the baby to his shoulder, grappling with the child, the blanket and his own awkwardness.

      “Maybe he needs to bring up more wind?” Esther used her candle to light two others on the table.

      Thomas patted the infant, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. “Is he in pain?” The thought of something so little and helpless hurting made Thomas’s gut clench.

      “Let me try.” Esther took the child, cradling him, crooning and shushing. She rubbed small circles on his little back. “Don’t cry, baby.” She looked up. “We really should give him a name. We can’t keep calling ‘baby.’”

      Thomas paced, scratching his cheek, his whiskers rasping. “His mama didn’t live long enough to tell me what she planned to name her son. Any suggestions?”

      “Did she tell you anything at all? The baby’s father’s name?”

      He stopped. “She said his name was Jason.”

      “Jason.” She swayed, rocking the baby. “Maybe we could pick a name with the same first letter. What about John? That’s a good, sturdy name. He can be Johnny when he’s little and John when he grows up.” She had to raise her voice over the pitiful cries.

      “Johnny.” Thomas tested the name. “I like it.”

      John Swindell, if she only knew.

      “What can we do for him?” Thomas hooked his thumbs into his back pockets. “He’s killing me with that crying.”

      Esther took the baby to the table and laid him down, peeling back the blankets. “Maybe he has a pin sticking him.” She checked him over, but the safety pins were closed. Being unwrapped seemed to make things worse. Johnny’s face reddened, and he jerked his legs up toward his little tummy.

      “Maybe wrap him up tight like a papoose.”

      Rip paced and whined, tall enough to get his muzzle up near the edge of the table, sniffing. He let out a low woof.

      “We’re trying, fella.” Thomas scrubbed the big dog’s head.

      As Esther cocooned Johnny and lifted him up, he brought up a stream of sour milk that hit the floor. The crying stopped, reduced to a bout of hiccups and snuffles. “I guess his tummy was upset.”

      “Think he’ll sleep now?” Thomas grabbed a towel from the shelf near the stove. “I’ll clean up. You sit with him.” He steered her toward the rocker and then knelt to mop up the mess.

      Esther settled Johnny in against her chest, his head tucked under her chin. In the candlelight they looked like they could be mother and son. Something squeezed in Thomas’s chest. If he hadn’t ridden away five years ago, would she have ever considered marrying him against her father’s wishes? And if they had, would they have kids? Would she be sitting there with his son in her arms?

      Knock it off. Those are pipe dreams. The fact is, you left, and it was for the best. She deserves better than you.

      “I’ll fetch some water.” Thomas picked up the bucket beside the door and headed out toward the windmill and pump. The moon had already started its descent, and stars coated the sky. Far away a coyote yipped, and its mate answered.

      The path to the windmill was hard-packed, and Thomas imagined Esther had walked it hundreds of times, filling up washtubs and kettles day after day. What she needed was a pipe and spigot, so the water from the tank would flow down to where she washed the clothes without her having to carry it. He hooked the windmill to the pump handle, letting water gush out into the tank for a moment before sticking the bucket under the spout. Already he was tallying materials and the tools needed to plumb a line. Shouldn’t take more than a day.

      When he returned to the house, Esther was asleep, the baby snuggled in her arms. Thomas set the bucket down gently and tossed the soiled towel into it to soak. He eased into a chair, content to watch Esther and Johnny sleep. A yawn cracked his jaw, and he rested his elbow on the table and his head on his fist for a moment. Surely now, everyone could settle down and get some rest.

      * * *

      Esther squinted at the clock, wondering if it was even worth it to go back to bed. For what seemed the hundredth time that night, Johnny cried out. She’d tried feeding, rocking, changing, singing and everything else she could think of. Thomas had tried, too.

      “It’s got to be his tummy. Maybe it’s the canned milk that isn’t agreeing with him,” Esther said, wanting to cry herself. “It’s the only thing left I can think of.”

      Thomas ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. Red rimmed his eyes, and his whiskers darkened his cheeks. “That’s it. I’m heading out at first light to get a nanny goat.” He rubbed his hands down his face, yawning. “I feel terrible feeding him something that upset his innards so much.”

      Esther nodded. The only place Johnny seemed to get any rest at all was in the center of her chest with her housecoat wrapped around them both. The poor little mite had thrown up repeatedly, his abdomen hard, his legs drawing up tight. They’d washed him from head to toes twice to get the sour milk smell off, using up the last of her special soap in the process.

      Thomas had stayed with her all night, even when she knew he would probably love to bolt from the house and find somewhere to get some rest. He’d even shared in the walking and rocking and patting, though Johnny seemed to want Esther most. Rip had worried and walked right along with them, and now the big dog lay sprawled next to the rocking chair.

      At long last, dawn began to pink the sky, fingers of light reaching through the front windows and chasing the shadows to the corners of the room. Thomas leaned over and blew out the almost guttering candles.

      Johnny slept on, his tiny fist resting on Esther’s collarbone, his cheek pillowed in the hollow of her neck.

      “I’d grind beans for coffee, but I’m afraid of waking him up again.” Thomas eased down onto one of the wooden chairs, putting his head on his crossed arms on the table. “Who knew one little baby could rout two grown adults, horse, foot and artillery? If I had known I wouldn’t get back to my bedroll, I mightn’t have been so quick to leap out of it when he first started to cry.”

      She didn’t know whether to be glad or exasperated that Thomas had elected to sleep out on the porch. When she’d come out of her bedroom and seen him bending over the baby, he’d nearly frightened her out of her wits.

      But now...

      Tousled hair, bristled chin, rumpled clothing, sleep-deprived and in need of coffee, he’d never looked so appealing to Esther.

      “I know it’s Sunday, but after last night, I don’t think I’ll be going to church. Unless you want me to hitch up the buggy for you.” He said the last on a yawn.

      “Don’t bother. The church has been without a preacher for months. Folks in town have a prayer meeting that moves from house to house, but I don’t know who is hosting it this week.”

      She felt herself drifting toward sleep and forced herself to open her eyes. “I’m going to try putting him in the basket again. Hopefully he’ll sleep long enough for me to dress and start breakfast.”

      Thomas let out a snore.

      Esther smiled. In the words of her Kentucky grandma, he was worn slap out.

      Carefully, holding her breath, she eased Johnny into the blanket-lined basket. He stirred and relaxed, staying asleep, and she exhaled.

      She gently closed her bedroom door, glancing in the mirror on her bureau. With a gasp, she reached for her hairbrush. She looked like she’d been dragged through a knothole backward. Her mop of curly hair