Mail-Order Christmas Baby. Sherri Shackelford

few cordial words. His insistence on treating her kindly was a ubiquitous quirk of his character. He’d always been an amiable rogue with a quick wit and ready smile. But his deference meant little since he treated all the girls, young and old, with that same lazy charm.

      “I just make the deliveries.” The Wells Fargo man tugged on the hem of his smart green coat. “I’ve only worked here a month, sir. This is my first mail-order baby.”

      A ripple of amusement met his announcement.

      Otto held up one hand. “A little respect, please.” The foreman rolled his eyes and accepted the paperwork. “Says here the child was posted in Butte.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Leaning past Otto, Sterling carefully enunciated each word. “Do you happen to know who posted this child?”

      “No, sir. I just do what I’m told. The baby came on board in Butte with instructions for delivery to Sterling Blackwell.” The young man grinned proudly. “I thought she was going to be real fussy, but she was fine. The lady passengers helped. As soon as they discovered there was a real, live child in the parcels, they made certain she was fed and they changed her nappies and things like that. They were real obliging.”

      A grin twitched at the edges of Otto’s mouth. “That was awful nice of those ladies.”

      His comment drew another wave of titters.

      “I don’t care how she got here.” Sterling shook his head in bewildered confusion. “She’s got nothing to do with me.”

      The child reached out, and Heather instinctively clasped the tiny hand.

      Sterling caught sight of her and pinched the brim of his hat in greeting, then offered a winsome half smile. “Miss O’Connor. That’s a lovely bonnet. Is it new?”

      A flush started at the roots of her hair and rushed through her entire body, down to the tips of her toes. “Uh-huh.”

      “It’s quite becoming on you.”

      “The price had been marked down.”

      “An excellent bargain.”

      Marked down? What was the matter with her? For some inexplicable and annoying reason, she lost the ability to speak in complete sentences when he turned his attention on her. He had the discomforting habit of focusing his concentration too closely. Even with all that was happening around them, his latent charm rose to the surface.

      “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “About your father.”

      Considering the late Mr. Blackwell’s feelings about her, she’d avoided the funeral.

      “Thank you.” He ducked his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Dillon’s coming back soon. He inherited half of the ranch. Thought you should know.”

      Her conscience pricked at the somber subject, but at least they’d cleared the air. “I know.”

      What did he expect her to do? Flee town rather than face the embarrassment? She’d tried that once. After Dillon left, she’d stayed for a few months with a friend, Helen, who’d moved to Butte after she married. When the school year started back up, Heather had returned. Valentine was her home. With Dillon absent, the gossip had died a natural death. Even Mrs. Dawson had tired of the old news by then.

      The train whistle blew, and a burst of steam sent the pistons chugging.

      Heather motioned toward the child. “Don’t forget about your special delivery, Sterling.”

      “Gra!” the child declared.

      A curtain of languid indifference descended over Sterling’s expression once more. “Someone has an awfully strange sense of humor. They’ll show their face soon enough.”

      Passengers poked their noses through the half-drawn windows, eager for a glimpse of the commotion. The Wells Fargo man grasped the handrail and leaped onto the slow-moving train.

      He shook his papers. “I have a schedule to keep. Since this man won’t sign for his delivery, I’m leaving the child with the unclaimed packages.”

      Shocked silence descended over the spectators. Even Sterling had been stunned mute.

      Heather gaped. “You’re abandoning her?”

      “I’m treating her the same as any other delivery.” The young man saluted with a touch to his tidy gold-braided cap. “If she’s not claimed in three months, you can send her back.”

      Anxiety quickened Heather’s pulse. This had gone beyond a simple prank. This was an actual living, breathing child.

      “Somebody do something!” she demanded.

      “Everyone just settle down here.” Otto waved a hand toward the departing train. “The wheels are rolling. We can’t load a child onto a moving train.”

      “This is absurd!” Heather called to the Wells Fargo employee. “She’s little more than a baby. She’s not a—a packet of buttons that can sit on a shelf for three months.”

      The bell clanged and the steam engine chugged.

      “Don’t make me no never mind. I done my job.” The train jerked forward, and he clutched the handle. “If you send her back, don’t forget the return postage.”

      His green cap disappeared inside the railcar, and the crowd exploded into shocked chatter. As the train picked up speed, the curious passengers inside lost interest. Windows slid shut and velvet curtains twitched into place to block the afternoon sun.

      The postmaster snorted. “That boy don’t have a lick of sense.”

      “What now?” Old Mrs. Dawson spoke, her shrill voice carrying over the prattle. “What are you going to do, Sterling?”

      The spectators immediately turned their attention toward the tall man.

      “Me?” Using his thumb, he eased his hat off his forehead. “I’m as baffled as the rest of you. I ordered the sheep, not the baby.”

      The crowd laughed, and Heather smothered a grin. She’d forgotten all about the sheep. Since taking over the ranch, Sterling had cut back on cattle trading and had turned his attention toward sheep instead. He’d ordered four dozen from a ranch in Butte to supplement his growing herd. Mr. Carlyle at the feed lot had been vocally annoyed by their arrival. The animals kept escaping from beneath fence rails sized for cattle.

      The rest of the town was almost equally divided over whether Sterling was crazy or inspired for supplementing his beef operation with wool.

      “Well, someone has to do something.” Mrs. Dawson harrumphed. “That poor child is all alone, and we can all agree it’s your name on the manifest.”

      “I’ll agree to one thing,” Sterling drawled in his cordial, dark-timbered voice. “This is all a big mistake.”

      The crowd murmured and eyebrows lifted in speculation, but no one stepped forward to claim responsibility. Folks were certainly curious, but feet merely shuffled and no one quite met anyone else’s eye.

      The child contently chewed her envelope and drooled.

      Heather held one hand against the front of the child’s eyelet lace frock and cupped her fingers on the back of the bonnet. She really was a cute little thing. Her blue-green eyes were framed by thick lashes, and her plump cheeks begged for a pinching. Heather’s gaze snagged on the glimpse of scarlet curls peeking out from beneath the child’s bonnet. Too bad about the red hair.

      Heather’s aunt and uncle had dubbed her a troublemaker simply because she’d been born with a certain color hair. She’d always had to be behave twice as well as other children to be thought of as half as obedient.

      Mrs. Dawson waved her embroidered square, drawing Otto’s attention. “Maybe there’s something in that envelope. Has anyone checked?”

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