The Cowboy Seal's Christmas Baby

The crown of her head was matted. Leaves and small twigs had caught in the longer sections.

“I’d have offered to brush it for her,” he said to the horse, “but that might be overstepping, you know? Although I’d be at a loss to come up with a more bizarre situation. Hope you’re up for a long, slow ride back to the cabin.”

Gideon figured once the weather improved, he’d get the woman and her baby settled on Jelly Bean. He had misgivings about entrusting the skittish mare with such precious cargo, but there was no other choice. Upon reaching his place—or, if he got a signal in the high mountain meadow—he’d call for help. “Until then,” he said to the horse, “we’re on our own.”

He removed Jelly Bean’s saddle and blanket, then brushed her down. Fed her a few handfuls of feed, then picked his way over the treacherous ground back to the fire.

Now that the woman and baby were as clean as could be expected, he could no longer put off cutting the infant’s cord.

After slicing three inches of nylon from each of his bootlaces, he chucked both pieces into the pot, along with his best bowie knife. This was hardly a sterile environment, but he’d do his best to ward off infection.

Smoke from the fire rolled out from under its shelter, filling the temporary camp with a sweet-smelling normalcy that couldn’t be further from the truth.

In all his time with the Navy SEALs, he’d never encountered anyone with amnesia. It was unsettling.

While the water came to a rolling boil, minutes ticked by.

He pretended to know what he was doing, but now that he’d tossed cordage and his knife into the pot, how did he get it all out while maintaining sterility?

The only logical conclusion was to let the water somewhat cool, pour some out to wash his hands, then pluck out the cord and knife. If he didn’t touch the blade, the procedure should be no big deal.

He put the heavy cast-iron lid on the pot to keep sleet from getting in, then used his coat sleeve for a hot mitt to heft the pot from the fire.

Gideon trudged back to the tent, and since he couldn’t exactly knock on a tent wall, he stood outside, clearing his throat. “You decent?”

“Almost.”

He glanced beyond the tent’s flap and caught flashes. Her creamy-skinned collarbone. Long dark hair swinging like a curtain over her cheeks before she swept it behind her ears. Her breasts’ pale underbellies.

She glanced up.

For a heartbeat, her piercing clover-green stare locked with his. Feeling part rescuer, part voyeur, he lowered his own gaze.

Sleet fell harder. Thunder rolled.

“You okay for me to cut the cord?” Gideon tugged his hat brim lower against the sleet’s assault.

“Please. Come in.” Her voice barely rose above nature’s racket. She’d cleaned herself and her baby, but the tent floor was still a mess. “I guess now’s as good a time as any since my son is sleepy from his meal.”

“Yeah.” My son. Gideon hadn’t even thought to ask. In another world, he’d longed for a son. Now he knew better. His time in the Navy had left him reactionary. Trapped in a crisis loop. He fixed impossible situations. A long time ago, broken people. Now, horses. Still a good thing, right? But according to his ex, his capacity to genuinely care? To give a shit? He’d left that ability in Iraq along with his—No.

Not going there today.

He stepped into the tent, then poured hot water over one hand, then the other, letting the runoff flow onto the already-wet floor.

“This should only take a sec.” He tried conveying a sense of calm that was a bald-faced lie considering the pounding of his heart.

Lightning cracked. Thunder boomed.

Sleet fell hard enough to make the tent’s ceiling appear as if it were writhing.

“This can’t be good,” the woman mumbled.

“Nope.” Gideon set down the pot to check on their sole means of transportation. Careful not to touch his freshly rinsed hands, he used his elbow to nudge the tent flap back to check on Jelly Bean.

“What are you looking for?” the woman asked.

“A horse. Or, in other words, our ride out of here.”

“Is he okay?” She gingerly sat up.

“Kind of hard to tell.”

“Why?”

“She’s gone...”

Chapter Two (#u9bc114c8-0b12-5bcd-bd5d-295a14abb1b2)

“Sorry.” The man set the cast-iron pot alongside her, then headed back into the storm. “But I’ve got to find the horse. You’re too weak to walk out of here, and—”

“Go. I’m fine. No need to explain.” And there wasn’t. She might not be able to remember her name, but she knew enough to realize Mother Nature wasn’t doing them any favors. The faster the man found their ride, the better.

Once he’d gone, leaving her alone again with her panic, minutes seemed stretched into hours.

What if he was hurt, and she was on her own again? Instinct told her she was a strong woman. If she’d survived giving birth in a tent, she’d somehow make her way back to civilization. But it would sure be a whole lot easier with a friend—not that she and the cowboy could be called friends.

She didn’t even know his name.

But she wanted to.

She eyed the pot he’d set beside her and lifted the lid. Beneath a thin layer of water were two nylon strings and a mean-looking knife. Everything needed for her to cut her son’s cord herself. Once they were separated, she could bundle him, then help her new friend find his horse.

Her backpack was within reach, so she tugged it closer, taking a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer from the front pocket. How could she have known it was there, yet not know her name or who’d fathered her child?

None of this made sense.

Her runaway pulse made her breaths choppy.

Lightning stabbed the earth with enough force to make her jump. Where was the cowboy? He shouldn’t be out in this weather.

Operating with newfound urgency, she exposed her son’s tummy, then enough of her own abdomen as low as she could comfortably reach. She squirted hand sanitizer into her palms, rubbed them together, then tied one nylon string roughly two inches from her baby’s navel. She recalled reading about this procedure and knew there were no nerves in the cord, which is why cutting it didn’t hurt. Doctors clamped it to prevent bleeding. The string would serve essentially the same purpose. She made quick work of tying the second string as low as physically possible, then took the knife from the pot, careful to touch only the bone handle.

Drawing her lower lip into her mouth, she clamped down with her teeth, then made the first cut. The knife was sharp, easily cutting the cord. The second cut was completed as smoothly and while she might have expected to feel a certain melancholy, her current drive to save the stranger who had saved her overrode sentimentality.

Before her son’s delivery, she’d had the forethought to make a pallet of clothes. Those were blood-soaked and ruined. She’d covered herself and the baby with more clothes.

Now she rose, eyeing the stranger’s saddlebags that he’d left inside the tent.