Ben's Bundle of Joy

Sara nodded as she glanced around the cozy room. Books everywhere—that didn’t surprise her—and a few unpacked boxes coupled with very few personal touches. In spite of the volumes of philosophy and poetry and religious tomes, in spite of the clutter and typical male chaos, it looked as if Ben was just a visitor here—not really settled in yet. Maybe that was why he was afraid of taking on little Tyler. He wasn’t ready for any permanent commitments, either.

Since she knew that feeling, she shrugged. “I like it. It has potential.”

“Somewhere underneath all the old paint and leaking roof, and all my many messes, yes, there is a lot of potential for this to once again become a showcase.”

Sara thought the current occupant had a lot of potential, too, but she didn’t voice that opinion. “I’d better get out to the lake,” she said instead. “It’s getting late and we both have an early day tomorrow.”

Ben held up a hand in protest. “I could warm up some of that stew Emma sent over. Or we could just go for the oatmeal cookies.”

“Reverend, are you stalling the inevitable?”

Ben lowered his head. “Yeah, I admit it. I’m terrified about being alone with that baby. What if I don’t know how to handle his cries?”

“Your cats seem to be thriving—even if they are fur balls instead of humans. You must know something about nurturing babies.”

He grinned, then rolled his eyes. “Emma thinks I’m the humane society. But taking care of little Rat and his fuzzy companions is a tad different from providing for a baby.”

“Just hold him,” she said on a soft voice, her eyes meeting his in the muted lamplight. “That’s what most babies want and need the most.”

“Most humans,” he echoed, his voice warm and soothing, his eyes big and blue and vastly deep.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Because the conversation had taken an intimate twist, and because for some strange reason she herself felt an overwhelming need to be held, Sara placed the still-whining Rat on the braided rug at her feet and got up to leave. “You can call me, day or night.”

“Even at 3:00 a.m.?”

Imagining his sleep-filled voice at three o’clock in the morning didn’t help the erratic charges of awareness coursing through her body. “Anytime,” she managed to say. Why did his eyes have to look so very blue?

“I’ll hold you to that,” he told her as he escorted her to the front door. “Drive carefully.”

“I will. It’s only a few miles.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow.” She hurried out to her car, not daring to take a breath until she was sure he couldn’t see her. What on earth had come over her, anyway? Her first day in a new town, her first day on the job, and the first eligible man to walk through the door already had her nerves in a shamble and her heart doing strange pitter-pattering things that it shouldn’t be doing at all.

It’s just the stress, she decided. She’d been through so much—first Steven’s decision to transfer to Atlanta—with or without her, then her mother’s inevitable death, then the hospital telling her she might want to consider an extended leave of absence because she was exhausted and not too swift on her feet. It had all been just too much for one person.

Maggie’s call had come at exactly the right time, but now Sara had to wonder if she’d made the right decision, coming here. She only wanted to concentrate on the children in her care, enjoy the less stressful, much slower way of life here, go home each night to her quiet cottage, and stare out at the endless blue waters of Baylor Lake.

That’s all she needed right now—time to decide where she wanted to go in her life, time to heal from the grief of watching her mother deteriorate right before her eyes, time to accept that Steven wasn’t coming back for her and that she wouldn’t get that family she’d always dreamed about.

If she let herself get involved with the town preacher, she wouldn’t know any peace, none at all. But she could be a friend to Ben Hunter, and she could help him with little Tyler. That at least would ease some of her loneliness.

And his, too, maybe.

Ben’s kindness, his gentle sense of nobility, had touched on all her keyed-up, long-denied emotions. That was why she felt this way—all shook up and disoriented. Throw in an adorable, abandoned baby, and well, any woman would start getting strange yearnings for home and hearth, strange maternal longings that would probably never be fulfilled. Any woman would feel completely and utterly lonely, sitting in her car in the cold.

“I’ll be all right,” she told herself as she drove toward the charming cottage she’d rented at Baylor Lake. “I’ll be all right. I came here to find some time, to heal, to rethink my life. Not to get attached to a poetic preacher and a sweet lost little baby.”

But somehow she knew in her heart that she had already formed a close bond with those two, a bond that would be hard to forget, even given time and circumstance.

Chapter Three

In a blur of baby, blankets and bags, Ben Hunter stepped inside the outer reception room to his church office, thankful that the cold morning air didn’t have a hint of snow. That would come soon enough in November. And he couldn’t imagine having to dress a wiggling, tiny baby in a snowsuit. It had taken him twenty extra minutes just to get Tyler in the fleece button-up outfit Betty had thoughtfully supplied.

“Oh, there you are.”

Emma Fulton got up to come around her desk, her blue eyes flashing brightly as she cooed right toward Tyler. “Let me see that precious child, Reverend Ben.”

Ben didn’t hesitate to turn the baby over to Emma. The woman had five grandchildren, so she knew what to do with a baby.

“He had a good night,” Ben said, letting out a breath as he dropped all the paraphernalia he’d brought along onto a nearby chair. “He was up around four, but other than that, we did okay.”

“Of course you did,” Emma said, still cooing and talking baby talk. “Even if the good reverend does look a little tired.” Pointing her silvery bun toward the small kitchen just off her office, she said, “There’s pumpkin bread.”

“Bless you,” Ben replied, heading straight to the coffeepot. “Somehow I didn’t manage to get breakfast.” With a grin he called over his shoulder, “But Tyler sure had his. That little fellow can go through a bottle.”

“He’s a growing boy,” Emma replied as she danced a jig with the baby. “Oh, my, look at that. He’s laughing. He likes his aunt Emma.”

“Well, go ahead,” Ben teased as he came back into the room with a chunk of the golden-brown bread, “tell him you were Strawberry Festival Queen in…what year was that, Emma?”

“Never you mind what year, kid. Just remember who you’re dealing with here.” Her smile belied her defensive tone.

“I always remember who’s the boss around here,” Ben admonished. Then when he heard someone clearing his throat in his office, he turned to Emma. “Visitor?”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” She whirled with the baby in her arms. “Finish your breakfast first. It’s Mr. Erickson.”

Ben immediately put down his coffee and the last of his bread. “Maybe he’s heard something from Jason.”

“Don’t know,” Emma whispered, her expression turning sad. “Want me to take Tyler to the nursery for you?”

“Would you mind?” Ben gathered the baby’s things for her. “Tell Sara I’ll be over in a little while to check on him and give her a report about his first night with me.”

“I certainly will do that,” Emma said, getting her smile back in a quick breath, her eyes perfectly centered on the baby.

Ben knew that look. Emma would try to match him up with Sara. Somehow, the thought of that didn’t bother him nearly as much as it should—considering Emma had tried to match him up with every single woman in Fairweather, usually with disastrous results. With Sara Conroy, he couldn’t foresee any disaster, other than the one in which he might lose his heart. And he wasn’t willing to risk that just yet.

As he entered the quiet confines of his office, however, another type of disaster entered his mind. Richard Erickson stood looking out over the prayer garden, his hands tucked in the pockets of his dark tailored wool suit pants, his graying hair trimmed into a rigid style, just the way he ran the local bank and most of this town.

Ben dreaded another confrontation with the man, but his heart had to go out to Mr. Erickson. His only son, sixteen-year-old Jason, had run away from home several months ago.

“Hello, Mr. Erickson,” Ben said, extending his hand as the older man pivoted to stare at him with a look of condemnation mixed with a condescending air.

The handshake was quick and unmeaningful, but Richard Erickson was too polite and straitlaced to behave without the impeccable manners that befit a descendant of the founding family of the town. Ben gave him credit for that much, at least.

“Reverend.”