The Rancher's Miracle Baby. April Arrington

and keeping him busy might help. Hope you don’t mind. And I found a banana and cereal in the kitchen that I gave to him. The paramedics stopped by a couple of hours ago, and I sent them in your direction. Did they make it to you okay?”

      He nodded, swallowing the thick lump in his throat, and gestured to the white bandage covering her temple. “How’s your cut?”

      Her fingers drifted up and touched it as though she’d forgotten it was there. “Oh, it’s fine. I told them it was nothing, but they insisted on patching me up anyway.” She waved a hand in the air, then shoved it in her pocket. “They checked Brody out, too, while they were here. He’s just like you said. Not a scratch on him.”

      Brody stood behind her, holding a stick out with a chubby hand and staring at the dog snuffling around in the dirt at Alex’s heels. The boy’s eyebrows rose, and his mouth parted. He pointed his free hand at the pup and shouted.

      The dog poked his head between Alex’s ankles. He eyed Brody, then bounded across the grass and leaped for the stick Brody held, knocking the boy down in the process.

      Brody plopped down on his backside and sat, stunned, for a moment. His brown eyes widened and a wounded expression crossed his face before he took up crying.

      Alex froze, a strangled laugh dying in his throat and escaping him in a choked grunt. Years ago, he’d seen Dean hit his butt in the same position with an identical look on his face. Except Dean had been twelve years old and the cause of it had been the kickback from a shotgun. One he’d swiped from his dad’s gun cabinet and used without permission, accidentally shooting out a window on his dad’s truck.

      Dean had insisted he’d outgrown his BB gun, but he hadn’t been too grown to shed tears that day. He’d taken one look at that shattered glass and cried, “My dad’s gonna kick my ass good for this one!”

      Of course, his dad hadn’t. He’d fussed a great deal but had been relieved that Dean and Alex hadn’t been injured. That they’d emerged from what could’ve been a deadly incident without a scratch on them. Like Brody.

      A boy who would grow up without ever knowing how great a man his father had been.

      Alex dropped his bag, turned his back on the trio and stifled a guttural roar, the rage streaking through him almost uncontainable.

      “Oh, it’s all right, Brody.” Tammy’s soothing words quieted the baby’s sobs. “You’re okay, and there are a lot more sticks where that one came from.” There were shuffling sounds, then she asked, “This little guy a friend of yours, Alex?”

      He glanced over his shoulder to find her kneeling on the ground, petting the dog and hugging Brody to her side. Her eyes met his, and the smile on her face melted away, a concerned expression taking its place. The kind he knew all too well.

      Unable to answer her, he spun away, stalked up the front porch steps and entered the kitchen. He went straight to the cabinet, grabbed a bottle, then upended it, drinking deeply. The fiery liquid burned a trail down his throat and lit up his gut, forcing him to set it down and gasp for breath.

      He watched through the window as Tammy got to her feet and took a hesitant step toward the house. She stopped, frowned up at the front porch, then walked away. The squeak of wheels rang out and the consistent clang of sticks being thrown into the cart resumed.

      Alex gripped the edge of the counter and closed his eyes. She probably thought he was a crazy, selfish bastard. And to a certain extent he was. But how could he explain it? How could anything he might say help her understand?

      He was truly grateful that Brody had survived the storm and that Tammy had escaped without serious injury. Last night as he’d grieved at Dean’s side, he’d even thanked heaven that he, himself, had managed to emerge from yesterday’s carnage still breathing. That he wasn’t buried beneath the broken walls of his house being pummeled by rain.

      But no amount of gratitude would ease the anger of knowing that death had stolen Dean and Gloria. Or change the fact that, sometimes, life could hurt like hell.

       Chapter Three

      A body rests easier after doing the right thing.

      Alex stood on the front porch and waited as Tammy finished changing Brody’s diaper on the grass, recalling the words Ms. Maxine had repeated to him a thousand times over the years. Ones she’d spoken when he’d gotten suspended from middle school for smoking, then reminded him of when he’d returned to his foster parents’ house after sneaking out for a weekend party binge as a teen.

      It was a phrase he’d grown to know well. And one he’d strictly adhered to after mending his ways and proposing to Susan.

      But there were some things a man couldn’t control.

      He adjusted the bag of cookies under his arm and gripped the can of soda in his hand tighter, hoping the toothpaste he’d rubbed over his teeth masked the whiskey on his breath. Abstaining from the bottle between the hours of five in the morning and nine at night was a rule he’d taken pride in for nine years. But, surely, his grief from losing his best friends excused today’s slip.

      Only, his shortcomings were easier to deal with—and accept—when there were no witnesses to them.

      Alex winced and rolled his shoulders to ease the tight knot at the base of his neck. He couldn’t stay holed up in the kitchen all afternoon, tossing back shots, while Tammy cleaned up the front yard and took care of Brody. The only thing left to do was pull his shit together and at least be hospitable. It was what any gentleman would do. And he still knew how to be one. Even if it’d been years since he’d put his good manners into practice.

      A little longer. That’s it. Make them comfortable for a few more hours, and soon Ms. Maxine would whisk Brody away to a new home and the wrecker would cart Tammy and her overturned truck back to the highway. Then he could curl up with a bottle for hours and grieve in private.

      Alex nodded curtly and eased his way down the front steps to Tammy’s side. “Figured you might be thirsty,” he said, handing the soda to her as she knelt next to the baby. “Power’s still out, so it’s warm. Sorry about that.”

      “Thanks.” She lifted Brody to his feet, then took the soda and popped the top.

      Her slim throat moved as she drank deeply, drawing Alex’s eyes to the flushed skin of her neck and upper chest. The dog climbed onto her knees and jumped to lick the can. She pushed him away with her free hand, causing the collar of her T-shirt to slip to one side. It revealed a faint tan line below her collarbones that contrasted sharply with the ivory complexion of the upper swell of her breast.

      Alex had a sudden urge to trail his lips across her warm skin and breathe in her sweet scent. He peeled his gaze away, ignoring the heat simmering in his veins, and caught her eyes on him. She lowered the can, straightened her shirt with her free hand and pushed to her feet.

      Ah, hell. A gentleman didn’t ogle a woman, and this was becoming a habit.

      Cheeks burning, he cleared his throat and gestured to the trash bag on the ground nearby. “I see you found the diapers. There’s some baby food and juice in there, too. Not a lot. But enough to get him through at least one more day.”

      Something tugged at his jeans, and a frustrated squeal erupted. He looked down, finding Brody attempting to climb up his leg, his small arm stretched out and tiny fingers grabbing for the bag of cookies under Alex’s arm.

      Tammy laughed. “I don’t think he’s interested in baby food. Looks like he’d much rather get a hold of those cookies.”

      A soft breeze ruffled Brody’s hair, and the boy blinked wide, pleading eyes up at him. The brown strands and deep chestnut pools were the same shade as Dean’s, and his small cries were impossible to resist.

      Alex’s chest constricted so tight he could barely breathe. “A social worker is coming for him,” he rasped, reminding