The Bounty Hunter's Baby. Erica Vetsch

When Thomas had ridden away five years ago, the rancher had been in good health, with a profitable ranch and big plans for his daughter’s future. Plans that hadn’t included Thomas.

      The condition of the Double J shocked Thomas. The disrepair and despair everywhere was a punch in the gut. The weather in south-central Texas could be hard on buildings and equipment, but this seemed extreme for only five years. If he was going to stay, he could fix up a few things. Too bad he couldn’t spare the time. Jase Swindell’s trail grew colder by the minute. He might be halfway to the Rio Grande by now.

      Esther emerged from the house, the baby in her arms. Her eyes looked pensive, and a little furrow had developed between her eyebrows. Thomas helped her into the rig; the touch of her hand in his sent a familiar jolt up his arm. Climbing aboard himself, he glanced at her hands as he picked up the reins. They were so different than when he’d first known her. Then they had been pale and slender, moving constantly when she spoke. Often she wore fingerless lace gloves, wielding a fan or some fancy needlework as she rocked on the porch in the evening. Now they were reddened and work worn, the hands of a woman older than the twenty-four years he knew her to be.

      He chirruped to the horses, slapping the lines.

      Rip rode in the back, sticking his snout between Thomas and Esther from time to time, sniffing the wind. Sunshine slanted toward the horizon as dusk approached, and Thomas drove into town from the south, turning right onto the main street. He studied Silar Falls, comparing it to his memory.

      Not much appeared to have changed, perhaps a couple of new businesses, but on the surface, things seemed the same.

      The brightest lights shone from Big Aggie’s Saloon, halfway down the block. He recognized Danny Newton’s horse tied at the hitching post out front. The saddle and harness shop had closed for the day, and the telegraph office was shut up tight. One team and wagon waited down by the livery. At the west end of the street, the church steeple pierced the pink and orange sky.

      Thomas hopped down and tethered the team before circling the buckboard to help Esther alight. She didn’t meet his eyes, keeping her head down and walking up the steps to the store. He followed and reached the door in time to open it for her.

      As they stepped inside, Rip followed, tail wagging, determined to stick close to Esther and the baby. The proprietor, Frank Clements, looked up from his ledger. “Evening, Miss Esther. Don’t often see you at this time of day. I was about to close up and head upstairs.” He tucked his pencil behind his ear, and Thomas smiled at the gesture he remembered so well. The shopkeeper’s eyes widened when he noticed the bundle Esther carried, and his eyebrows shot up when he saw the dog.

      Thomas held out his hand. “Hello, Frank. Been a while. How’s your wife?”

      The shopkeeper blinked, tearing his gaze away from Esther and Rip. “Well, as I live and breathe. Thomas Beaufort!” A smile stretched his cheeks. “How long has it been, son?”

      “Too long.” Thomas shook his hand, happy to be remembered, though he’d only spent one summer in Silar Falls. “Glad we made it in before you closed. We need to pick up a few things.” Glancing around, he hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. Nothing seemed to have changed inside the mercantile, either. The candy jars still sat beside the glass display case of fans and scarves and combs. Canned goods stood in pyramids on the shelves behind. The sharp tang of vinegar from the pickle barrel mixed with the scent of beeswax polish and new boots.

      Thomas snapped his fingers and motioned to Rip to lie down. The big dog dropped to his belly, watching and waiting for the next command. “Wait there and don’t make a nuisance of yourself, boy.”

      Esther eyed the stock on the shelves, her lips pressed together. The baby slept sweetly in her arms, and she gently rocked from side to side. Thomas wondered if she was even aware she was swaying.

      “What can I do for you?” Frank pressed his hands on the countertop, leaning forward, the lamplight gleaming off his bald dome. He was clearly curious about the baby, but he didn’t ask. From what Thomas remembered about Frank, the store owner didn’t have to ask. If he waited, the information he wanted usually flowed his way. That or his wife ferreted it out.

      “Esther?” Thomas turned to find her fingering a bolt of fabric, a wistful expression on her face.

      She started and then collected herself. “Frank, we need some supplies for this baby.”

      “Be glad to help. Flannel, canned milk? Bonnets and booties?” Frank asked.

      “Do you have any diapers made up? And some sleeping gowns?” Esther asked.

      Frank shook his head. “I have flannel lengths for sewing them up yourself, but nothing ready-made.”

      Esther sent Thomas a what-do-you-want-to-do look.

      “Can you sew?” He tried to remember if he’d ever seen her making garments. Seemed to him she’d been a fair hand at fancy needlepoint stitching, but her dresses and such had come from a dressmaker. He’d been told by her father to drive her into town several times for fittings and the like.

      “Yes, I can sew.”

      “Get whatever she needs, Frank.” Thomas stifled a yawn as weariness crept over him. He hadn’t slept in more than forty-eight hours, and his eyes felt like he’d rubbed them full of sand. “I’ll have a look around while you pull things together for Esther.”

      He perused the groceries, remembering how bare Esther’s cupboard had been when he’d fetched the lone can of milk off her shelf. She was doing him a mighty big favor. The least he could do was add to her larder. If she would let him. She could be a proud little minx.

      Edging past a table full of ready-made menswear, he paused beside a shelf holding lengths of fabric, letting his rough hand trail across the blues and purples and yellows. The bolt Esther had been touching caught his attention. Pale blue with little pink flowers scattered over it. A smile tugged at his lips. Wouldn’t Esther look something in a dress made of this?

      From across the store, Thomas studied her, taking in her clothing. She wore a greenish dress so faded from washing it was almost gray. It was too big for her, drooping on her slender frame. The scuffed tips of a pair of sturdy boots peeked out from beneath her hem. And she wore no hat or bonnet. When he’d known her before, she’d worn pretty gowns with lots of ruffles and lace, and she had shoes and parasols to match. Gloves and bonnets and fans. Her father had given her everything she could want. He remembered back to the blue dress she’d worn to the church social the night before he left Silar Falls. Her hair had been all piled up, and her eyes shone. Every young man in the place, Thomas included, couldn’t take his eyes off her.

      Maybe he should’ve stood up to her father all those years ago. When Elihu Jensen had learned that one of his hired hands was falling for his lovely daughter, he’d taken Thomas aside and given him an ultimatum: ride on and leave Esther alone, or be run off.

      “You’re penniless. There is no way you can support my daughter. You’re a nobody, and I have bigger plans for her. Pick up your pay and your bedroll and clear out. She’s too young to know her own mind right now, and she deserves better than a saddle tramp.”

      And because he’d been young and impressionable, Thomas had listened. He hadn’t been in a position then to support a wife, certainly not one as well off as Esther had been. He had no skills beyond cowboying. And he loved Esther and wanted the best for her. Though it had about killed him to leave her, he’d gone. He’d become a bounty hunter after learning new skills, but he’d never forgotten her.

      He’d known then he wasn’t good enough for her, that she deserved better than him. He was a nobody who didn’t even know who his parents were. A foundling, a drifter. As a bounty hunter, he was accustomed to being seen as a necessary evil, moving on the outskirts of society, a manhunter who most folks didn’t want to associate with.

      And still not good enough for Esther Jensen.

      “How many yards of this flannel?” Frank asked Esther.

      She shifted the baby