The Rancher’s Surprise Triplets

Her equally pretty and equally blonde sister, Nora, delicately edged her aside. “No, I will. After all, I’m older than you.”

The girls elbowed each other while the rest of the young ladies protested loudly.

He held up his hands. “Now, now. Let’s be fair. One dance only until Saturday night. Then if I have any spaces left, I’ll...” He hadn’t thought of how he’d handle the possibility but now saw what an opportunity it would be. “I’ll auction off whatever dances I have left.” Pleased with his solution, he tipped his hat at the young ladies and hurried from the store.

Was that Miss Clark turning the corner ahead? He’d catch up to her and explain why the league was so important to the community. He lengthened his stride, easily gaining on her.

She turned to the right. Her pace increased as she turned right again down the next street. He followed, steadily gaining on her. He had most of the block to overtake her before she reached the doctor’s quarters.

But his steps slowed as he drew abreast of the blacksmith shop. The two boys—Butch, fifteen, and Brady, twelve—huddled in the shadows of the building. Butch spoke low and hard. Brady’s shoulders shook. The boys had lost their mother last year.

Bo remembered how that felt. He and his twin, Brandon, were sixteen when their gentle mother had died, leaving the boys under the guardianship of their cruel father. His words still rang in Bo’s head. You’ll never amount to a row of beans. Too much like your mother, the both of you.

Bo sucked in a deep breath. He would not let his father’s words hurt him any longer, though they had achieved one good thing...they’d made Bo determined to prove the old man wrong and he was well on his way to doing it by becoming a successful rancher.

“Howdy,” he called.

Both lads jerked toward him. Brady scrubbed at his cheeks, wiping away the evidence of a cry.

Bo’s gut clenched. His fists curled. He’d never known James Forester to be a hard man, but nevertheless, these boys were having a difficult time. Their situation was different from his and Brandon’s. Yet it was much the same. The loss and aloneness of death. What could he do to help them? He remembered the candy sticks he’d purchased at the store. Although he had a genuine fondness for sweets, he would gladly share them if it helped these boys forget their pain if only for a few minutes.

He pulled the little package from his pocket. “I think I bought more of these than I should have. You two care to help me reduce the number?” He took two steps toward them and showed them the array of candy.

Brady moved first and selected a red-and-white stick—peppermint. One of Bo’s favorites.

Butch hung back momentarily, then grabbed the cinnamon stick. Two of Bo’s favorites gone, but he selected the root-beer-flavored one and the three of them sucked at the candy.

“You boys will be coming to the fair tomorrow, won’t you?” he asked.

Butch shrugged. “Pa says we’re too busy.” The ringing thunder of hammer against anvil bore witness to the truth of those words.

Brady scuffed the toe of his boot against a lump of dirt and said nothing.

Bo straightened. “Maybe he’ll change his mind.” He glanced down the street. Miss Clark had disappeared into the doctor’s house. He was about to again follow after her when David McKay rode up on horseback and called to him. David, one of the three McKay brothers, had a little girl, Maggie. Bo glanced around, wondering what mischief she was up to at the moment. He didn’t see the child and tried to relax.

“Bo, we’re having trouble getting some of the tents to stay upright. Could you come and give a hand?”

He should have been at the fairgrounds long ago, had been headed that direction when he got sidetracked with his good idea of selling dances and then of convincing Miss Clark to join the activities. All for a good cause. “I’ll be right there.” He’d talk to Miss Clark later. Perhaps to James Forester, as well. Every bit of money would help, be it admission to the grounds, entry fee for the many contests to be judged, payment for a chance to participate in the many games or a dime for a dance.

He made his way to the fairgrounds, where his intentions were soon shoved aside as he confronted the many demands. He wanted this event to be successful in every way and rushed from one need to the next—helping drive in tent pegs, setting up sawhorse tables for the displays, checking to make sure the judges had everything they needed, pointing out the need to keep the area clear around the horseshoe pits. As dusk descended, people drifted away. The air filled with the gentle sounds of night—a distant owl, even more distant coyotes with their mournful song, a woman calling to a child, a fretful baby crying and the slam of doors as people returned to their homes for the night.

He wandered through the grounds and, satisfied with the setup, he retrieved his horse where it waited patiently and rode to his ranch. Dusk gave way to darkness but he didn’t need light to recognize the familiar sounds of his home. The gentle lowing of cattle settling down for the night, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the call of a duck on the nearby pond. He entered the barn, lit the lantern and took care of his horse before he made his way to the house.

His housekeeper, Mrs. Jamieson, greeted him in the kitchen. “Supper’s on the stove.”

“Cake for dessert, I see.”

She waved him away. “That’s for the cake competition tomorrow.”

“You’ll win the blue ribbon for sure.”

She fluttered a towel at him. “I’m just an ordinary cook. You eat up. I’ve already eaten so I could finish the apron I’m entering in the fair.” She disappeared into the sitting room to tend to her sewing.

He eyed the cake with a degree of disappointment but it was good to know Mrs. Jamieson was doing her part to support the fair. He had yet to speak to Miss Clark and persuade her to do the same.

* * *

The next morning, he left early for town. People would be coming to set up their wares, to put out their baked goods and sewing for judging. He needed to be there to make sure it all went well. He’d check on things at the fairgrounds, then go over to the doctor’s house and speak to Miss Clark. The fair was going to raise a lot of money and be a great deal of fun. She ought not to miss it.

The sound of many people reached him even before he arrived at the site. Not an unpleasant sound. He sat on his horse, grinning widely. It was going to be a success. He turned aside to the spot where animals and wagons were parked for the day and left his horse there. The grounds were alive with people rushing in and out of the tents and booths, preparing for the opening. He began his tour of the grounds, checking every tent, greeting each contestant and wishing them the best. He toured the livestock area, admiring the array of horses, sheep and pigs.

A little later, satisfied that things were ready for the opening at noon, Bo made his final stop. He stepped into the pie tent, where he would serve as one of the judges. He’d agreed to judge this competition in honor of his mother. She’d made the best peach pie. As the aroma of many pies assailed him, a flood of memories washed through him. Ma, her smile welcoming them, serving him and Brandon generous slices of pie. Father was away, so they could relax and enjoy their time around the table without fear of him coming in and turning the meal into some kind of confrontation. Father took joy in making life miserable for his wife and two sons. He criticized with cruel comments, mocked his wife and sons, and didn’t hesitate to use his hands to convey his hateful attitude. Because of his father, Bo, at twenty-nine, had not married and would never do so. Only once had he come close to forgetting his vow and he would not make that mistake again. He had courted a young lady back in Boston. But it didn’t work out. He’d watched Valerie berate a child who splashed mud on her and was so angry at her unkindness to the poor little boy that Bo’s rage threatened to overtake him. He knew then he had too much of his father in him to ever marry and have children. Like Father had mockingly said. Don’t forget half the blood flowing through your veins is from me.

Bo would never forget the cruel laughter following those words as if his father was happy to think of his sons living the same sort of unhappy life the elder Stillwater lived.

Instead, Bo would do what he could to make life better for others. He would judge the pies and think sweet thoughts of his ma while he did.

He turned, about to leave, when a sound caught his attention. A cry? A baby? He looked again into the interior of the tent. Row after row of pies upon long tables arranged in a U shape. He was alone in the tent. The sound must have come from a woman walking by with a baby in her arms. But the cry came again. Then a second. And the sound came from nearby. From inside the tent. How odd. His imagination must be playing tricks on him.

He shook his head and took another step toward the doorway. A third cry joined the others. His imagination had gotten very loud. Loud enough to require further investigation. Were some mischievous boys trying to trick him? If so, they were very good at imitating babies.

He went around the top of the U and down the side. The sound grew louder, more insistent. With a sudden rush forward, he rounded the corner, intending to catch the teasing culprits before they could race away. At what he saw, he ground to a halt and stared. A pushcart with deep sides and a broad bottom stood at the end of the table. Three angry little faces screwed up and wailed a protest. Three babies? Who? Where? What? He couldn’t bring a single rational thought to his mind. Three pairs of feet kicked a beat to accompany their cries. The worn blue blanket covering them tangled around the chubby feet. A piece of paper lay tucked in beside the thin mattress. He pulled it out, opened it and read the words.

To the Lone Star Cowboy League: Please take care of my triplets. I’m widowed and penniless. The ranch is dried out. I can’t stay there and provide for my babies. I’m also very sick and am going to where I was born to meet my maker. One day, if you could make sure the boys knew I loved them, I’d be obliged. They were born September 30. Was the happiest day of my life.

Surely this was a mistake. A trick. He ducked down to look under the cloths covering the tables. No one. Nothing but trampled grass.

He straightened and glanced into every corner of the tent, hoping to discover someone hiding there. Nothing. What was he to do? He couldn’t think over the sobbing babies.

He looked at them again, his heart breaking into three at their misery.

Jasper, Eli and Theo, he read on the front of their tiny shirts.

Their noses ran. The one with Theo on his shirt pulled at his ears. Little Eli had bright red cheeks. He touched those cheeks. Hot. He touched the cheeks of the other two. Hot, as well. He was no expert on babies but he guessed they were sick. He’d take them to the doctor and then find the mother. Please, God, keep her safe until we locate her.

The Lone Star Cowboy League could help this poor mother and her babies.

Chapter Two (#ulink_d7b91466-9adc-5b22-bb7a-b4f18f8f3b64)

Louisa brushed her flyaway brown hair back and braided it. Hopefully it would stay secure for a few hours. She glanced about the rooms of their new abode. The front room was spacious with windows providing a view of the street. She’d arranged the furniture so Mother could sit with her reading and handiwork close at hand and be able to watch the activity out the window. Seeing people scurrying about their business would help her hours to pass swiftly.

Louisa pressed back a rush of guilt. This room was ready, but the bedroom to the right needed more work before Mother came, and the kitchen needed even more cleaning. She should stay home and tend to her work, but all morning she’d watched people rushing down the street all in the same direction...toward the fairgrounds west of town in an open field. The June day was sunny and warm, the windows open to let in the air and sounds carried from the fairgrounds—the hum of voices, the moo, baa or whinny of animals, the occasional discordant musical note as if someone tuned up a violin. Too early for the dance but the billboard said there would be musical entertainment throughout the day.

She might have let Bo Stillwater believe she wasn’t interested in the activities but that wasn’t true. Her heart stirred with excitement. She would attend, pay her admission fee, throw a few coins at some games, even buy a treat. She’d enjoy herself for a few hours then hurry home. She hadn’t decided if she could spare the time to go to the dance but it did sound appealing. Even if she only watched one dance before she left.

With a final look in the mirror to make sure her hair remained neat, she donned her bonnet, grabbed her pocketbook and reached for the door handle as a knock sounded.

“Doc? I need to see the doctor.”