The Cowboy's Baby

He didn’t see Hugh but met the eyes of a bold stranger, recognizing immediately a man itching for trouble.

The man left the bar and moseyed over to flick a finger at Arty’s bottle, bringing a defensive grab from the older man. “This old drunk a friend of yours?”

There was a time in the near past when Colby would have jumped at the chance to respond. But no more. He thought of sweet Anna, who had once been his friend, and the way she’d looked at him, ordering him away like some kind of rabid dog. Yeah, she might have once had good reason to think so, but he’d win back her friendship if it took the rest of his life.

He hoped it wouldn’t take near that long.

“Let the old man alone,” he murmured in a soft, not-wanting-a-fight tone. “He ain’t hurting no one.”

“He hurts my nose.” The dark-eyed stranger chose to flick at Arty’s hat, sending it askew.

Arty clung to it with both hands like he feared further tormenting.

Colby pushed his own hat back so the man could see his expression clearly and crossed his arms over his chest. “I said leave him alone.”

The man jeered. “Says who?”

Colby recognized the challenge. Hoped he wouldn’t have to accept it. He gave the man his hardest look, one birthed before his sixth birthday and matured over the years. This past year had given it a whole new depth. He allowed himself a moment of victory as the annoying man shrugged and returned to his drink at the bar, muttering, “Ah, who cares? Just another old drunk. Seen hundreds of ’em.”

Colby pulled his hat back to where it usually rode. Hugh wasn’t there. He’d determined that. But he deliberately lingered in the saloon for a while longer, not wanting anyone to think he had reason to hurry away. But he knew if he stayed too long word would somehow get back to Anna about where he chose to spend his time. He knew small towns, knew this one better ’n most. Person couldn’t so much as cough without it being reported and discussed freely. He knew her opinion about the evils of drinking. Had heard it many times especially after Dorrie was born. “Won’t find any solution in the bottle,” she said. He remembered the perverse pleasure he got out of asking her where she thought he’d find an answer for his loss. Always she said the same thing. God is the great healer. God has a plan for your life. God loves you. He almost believed. So many times he almost believed.

But how could God love him when he constantly found himself in one sort of trouble after another. Sure, anyone would say it was of his own making. For the most part, it was. But this time he intended to prove he was something more than a Bloxham living from a bottle. A better Bloxham than his father was or that he’d been in the past.

He waited a suitable amount of time then sauntered out the door as if it mattered not to him if he stayed or left.

He led his horse down the street, his feet aching to wander south toward the church and Anna. He didn’t believe she truly meant it when she said she never wanted to see him again, but it might be wisest to give her a chance to get used to him being back in town and adjust to the idea he had changed.

He forced his steps to some of his familiar haunts, thinking he might find Hugh. But after an hour of looking he’d not seen the man. Likely he’d show up after he finished whatever job he currently held. Colby would make a swing by the Lucky Lady again later in the evening.

In the meantime…

Well, he’d give anything to see Anna hurrying between the house and the church like he had that very first time. Maybe he’d just ride on down the street, casual-like, no hurry, no destination in mind. Might be she’d have cause to cross the yard, perhaps carrying his little daughter with her. He wondered if Dorrie favored him or Nora. Or did she reveal a likeness to both her parents?

Anna carried Dorrie to her high chair. For a moment she held her close and buried her face against Dorrie’s warm neck, breathing in the familiar scent. “My sweet, sweet baby.” This child filled her with such joy. What if Colby had come back to claim her? Anger and determination drilled through her limbs and up her spine.

She would stand between Dorrie and her father, fight him like a wildcat, protect Dorrie from anything that would hurt her. No matter what. She loved this child as her own.

Dorrie squirmed. “Down, Mama.”

Anna reluctantly ended her hug and put the baby in her chair. She’d brushed Dorrie’s blond hair back and tied it with a white ribbon, letting little curls escape to frame the heart-shaped face. For the past year, she had allowed herself to pretend Dorrie was hers, allowed herself to believe Colby would never return, a thought that filled her with a strange mixture of relief and regret. She’d never been certain which was the stronger emotion.

Dorrie drank half her milk then threw back her head and wailed.

“Poor baby. You didn’t get enough sleep, did you?”

And Colby was to blame. His loud intrusion had woke the baby. What did he want? Why had he returned? Her insides tightened until she wondered if something she’d eaten had been a little off. “Let’s go find Poppa.” She plucked the child from her chair, wiped her face and settled her on her hip.

“See Poppa?”

“Yes, pet. We’ll see your poppa.” She hated to disturb Father at the church where he went to meditate but she badly needed his counsel.

She ducked out the back door. The wall of the church was blackened. The sight still gave her heart a jerk. The fire had taken out several homes and damaged the church before it was quenched. Thank God the fire had stopped when it did. Thank God no lives had been lost, though a few families had lost homes.

Guilt weaved throughout her thoughts. She really didn’t have time to wander around nursing her worries. Alex would soon be home from school, needing supervision. Supper needed making and she must finish sewing together the quilt top the women were making for the Anderson family who were among those who’d lost their homes. Tomorrow afternoon the sewing circle would gather at the manse to put together the quilt.

But first she would find some peace at the church and at Father’s side.

As she crossed the yard she noted a saddled horse on the other side of the road, in the shelter of some trees where the road branched off to a pathway leading to the narrow river cutting past the town. Strange that a horse should be left thus. Then she saw Colby lounging in the shadow of the trees. Did he intend to spy on them, perhaps wait for a chance to snatch his daughter?

She clutched Dorrie tighter and raced into the shelter of the church. “Father,” she called, her voice tight with unformed terror, “he’s come back. What are we going to do?”

Chapter Two

Colby saw Anna look in his direction, noted how she jerked in surprise and likely a whole lot of anger, then raced into the church. She obviously didn’t like the fact he was there. He doubted she wanted to know he intended to stay around. She’d hurried into the church so fast he’d gotten no more than a glimpse—just enough to make him want more. He recalled a time when they had spent many an hour wandering down the nearby path discussing anything and everything and sometimes nothing. It was the only time in his life he’d felt real and honest.

He’d run from that, driven by his own internal demons. But wherever he’d run, whatever he’d done—and he hoped no one would ever know what that was—a vast hollowness sucked at his heart. Only one thing had ever satisfied that emptiness— Anna’s presence.

He’d seen the child perched on Anna’s hip. Dorrie. Grown considerably. In the seconds he’d had to study her he could say she looked a sturdy child with hair somewhat fairer than his own with a big white bow in the back. He wanted to see and know this tiny bit of humanity he’d made with Nora. He’d come back to be a proper father but he knew so little about being one except to know he didn’t want to be like his pa.

He guessed Anna wouldn’t be leaving the sanctuary of the church while he stood there. “I’ll be back,” he muttered as he swung to Pal’s back.

Several hours later he strode into the Lucky Lady and checked the occupants. No sign of Hugh. Was he still around the area or had he left for something better—or at least different? Could save your energy, Hugh. Different ain’t better.

Arty sat at the same table, his eyes now glassy, his hat askew. Another familiar figure sat across from him—Tobias—neat and tidy as always, and rough shaven just as Colby remembered. He wondered if the man used a dull table knife for a razor.

He saw it all in a glance even as he watched the dark-eyed troublemaker nod to the men on either side of him who then slid away as the man slowly uncoiled himself from the bar to slither toward Colby.

“This the one who caused you a problem?” The question came from Colby’s right.

He tensed, feeling as much as seeing, the two crowding close. He kept his attention on the man crossing the room. Keep coming. Bring your trouble to me. Leave poor old Arty alone.

But the man stopped and slapped the table in front of Arty. He jumped and half tumbled from his chair.

Colby eased forward prepared to help though he perceived it wasn’t Arty the dark-eyed man wanted to tangle with. “Leave him be.”

“Who? This old drunk?” He grabbed the bottle from the table and tipped it over. Only a few drops spilled out as Arty had already drained it, but the old man cried out and lurched to rescue it as if it held several generous drinks.

The man pushed Arty aside. “Sit down, old man. Before you end up facedown in the sawdust.”

Arty stumbled backward, swayed and clutched at the stranger’s arm to steady himself.

“Get away from me, you old bum.” The troublemaker tossed Arty aside.

Colby saw Arty was going to land heavily and he strode forward to catch him.

He didn’t make two steps before his arms were caught on each side. Helplessly he watched Arty skid to the floor and flounder for a grasp on something solid. He found the rung of the chair and started to pull himself back to its seat only to have the chair kicked away from him.

Colby growled. “Leave him alone.”