Mail-Order Christmas Baby. Sherri Shackelford

all right,” Heather soothed. “Give me the envelope. I promise I’ll give it right back.”

      The two engaged in a brief tug-of-war, which Heather easily won. The trembling lip grew more pronounced, revealing two lower teeth, and then the babe sucked in a deep breath. Tears threatened in her enormous blue-green eyes, and her face turned a brilliant shade of red. Thinking quickly, Heather yanked on her bonnet ribbons, then presented the distraction.

      The child promptly crushed the brim with her damp hands while simultaneously gumming a silk rose. Heather grimaced. The bargain hat was all but ruined. At least she wouldn’t be reminded of Sterling’s offhand compliment and her awkward reply every time she donned it.

      Sterling reached for the envelope, but Otto was closer and intercepted her grasp.

      “Let’s get to the bottom of this,” the foreman declared. “I’ve got work to do this afternoon.”

      “Those sheep aren’t going to shear themselves,” the postmaster joked, much to the crowd’s delight.

      Something flashed in Otto’s eyes, a spark of anger or embarrassment, Heather couldn’t quite tell which. The foreman quickly masked the telling expression with one of his ready smiles.

      “That they don’t!” he tossed over his shoulder.

      Sterling lifted his eyes skyward. “You’ll all be thanking me this winter when you’re warm and cozy by the fire in your nice wool sweaters.”

      “Enough about those sheep.” With a slight grimace on his beefy face, Otto plucked at the soggy paper using the tips of his fingers. “We’ve got a mystery to solve.”

      Heather glanced askance and caught Sterling staring at her exposed hair. The fiery red color caught the afternoon rays, turning her head into an orange beacon.

      This time his smile was tinged with pity, and she self-consciously smoothed the strands. Her infatuation with Dillon had been just that—an infatuation. Sterling’s brother had been quiet, almost brooding. There was a part of her that always wanted to fix things for people, and Dillon seemed to need her, at least for a time. She’d mistaken his gentlemanly kindness for interest. She knew better now.

      “Ah-ha!” Otto declared, shaking out a wilted slip of paper. “This here is a Return of Birth.”

      The crowd surged forward.

      “What’s a Return of Birth?” Mr. Carlyle hollered.

      “It’s the paperwork for when a baby is born,” the postmaster explained. “The Return of Birth is filed with the county seat. Since Montana is still a territory, Silver Bow is the only county I know of that requests any paperwork.”

      “Stop wasting time.” Mrs. Dawson huffed. “What does it say?”

      There hadn’t been any good scandals for months, and Mrs. Dawson was clearly chomping at the bit. She’d be holding court at the Sweetwater Café this afternoon with the rest of the ladies, relaying every minute of these events in exaggerated detail.

      “Don’t rush me.” Otto squinted. “The lettering is real fancy. The child’s name is Grace.”

      His eyes tracked the writing and paused. His jaw dropped, and his face turned a brilliant shade of scarlet.

      “Well, um, uh,” he stuttered. “I don’t know what to make of that.”

      “Let me see.” Mrs. Dawson snatched the Return. “You’re taking too long. I don’t have my spectacles but I can make out most of the lettering. A Christmas baby. She’ll turn two on December 25—that’s two months away. Place of birth is Butte. The child’s name is Grace. Otto got that right.”

      “The parents,” the postmaster prodded. “Who are the parents?”

      “The father’s name is listed as Sterling Blackwell.” Mrs. Dawson snorted.

      The smile slipped from Sterling’s face, and a moment later all the color had drained away. “That can’t be.”

      “Thank the stars your father isn’t around to see this scandal.”

      Fighting back an unexpected tide of jealousy at the thought of Sterling fathering a child, Heather peered over the edge of the paper. She was unpardonably curious about the child’s parentage.

      “What about the mother?” Another voice saved her from asking.

      “No married name printed. Her maiden name is listed as—” Mrs. Dawson shrieked and clutched the paper against her chest. “Oh my.”

      The platform of gawkers froze.

      “Who is it?” someone called.

      “Oh my word.” Mrs. Dawson took a dramatic breath. “The mother’s maiden name is listed as—” She paused to ensure she had everyone’s attention. “Heather O’Connor.”

      * * *

      Sterling searched for his voice, which seemed to be locked somewhere in the back of his throat. Otto covered his eyes with one hand and shook his head.

      Mrs. Dawson shot Heather a withering glare with enough heat to melt the shingles off a roof. She collapsed onto a bench and threw her wrist over her forehead. “I’ve been shaken to the core.”

      Mrs. Dawson was shaken, all right—she was practically vibrating with excitement. The woman thrived on gossip like a hog on slop.

      Heather O’Connor.

      She’d gone so pale, even her lips were leached of color.

      No one was looking at him anymore; all eyes were focused on Heather and the baby—the baby with a glimpse of red curls peeking out from beneath her eyelet bonnet. Ladies leaned their ears toward one another and spoke in shocked whispers. Gloved hands hovered over rapidly moving lips. Sterling’s ears buzzed. The talk had already begun.

      His gaze skittered around the platform and clashed with Heather’s. She blinked rapidly, and her mouth opened and closed. Her fingers fluttered against her ashen cheek. The crowd split their attention between the postmaster’s frantic fanning of Mrs. Dawson and Heather’s hand cupping the back of the baby’s head.

      A jolt of pity spurred him into action.

      He crossed the platform in two long strides and caught Heather’s elbow. “I would have helped you. Why didn’t you simply ask?”

      “No.” She gasped. “There’s been a mistake.”

      “I’m going to strangle Dillon.” Heather’s arm trembled beneath his fingers, and he struggled against a white-hot wave of fury. “He’ll do right by you, I promise you that.”

      “We didn’t...she isn’t...you don’t understand!”

      His chest tightened. The blame rested solely on his shoulders. He’d been responsible for her split from his brother, after all. His intentions were sound, though the outcome was proving calamitous. Their pa wasn’t an evil man, but he’d been manipulative and controlling. As the eldest son, Dillon had suffered the most. Their ma had warned the brothers about trying to please a man who only found fault, but Dillon craved their pa’s approval. Nothing he ever did was good enough, and the crushing pressure was shaping Dillon into a man Sterling didn’t recognize. He’d known instinctively that if he hadn’t removed his brother from their pa’s oppressive influence, he’d have grown into a miserable man.

      And Dillon would have stayed in Valentine for Heather. Anybody would. She was the sort of woman who made a man want to settle down and stay put. Sterling had convinced his brother to join the cavalry with only the barest hint of regret. The sweethearts were young. He’d talked himself into believing the flirtation was superficial and too new to last. Dillon’s easy acquiescence and their subsequent separation had convinced him that he’d made the right choice.

      Except he hadn’t anticipated a child. The stark pain in Heather’s eyes