The Rancher's Miracle Baby

Alex dipped his head briefly, then turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Did you know them well?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He dragged a broad hand over the back of his neck, his tone husky. “We all grew up together. Dean and I’ve been best friends since second grade. And Gloria and Susan—” His words broke off, and his knuckles turned white, his grip tightening around the base of his neck. “Dean helped me build this house. And I helped him build his.”

Tammy stilled, her palms aching to reach out and settle over his hard grip. Ease the pain in some small way. She focused on his words instead, wondering who Susan was and why he’d clammed up so abruptly after mentioning her.

His wife, maybe? This was a big house for a single man. But she hadn’t seen any women’s clothing in the closet or feminine toiletries in the bathroom.

“Is Susan—”

A steady pounding drummed the roof and bore down on the walls of the house. Fat drops of water splattered against the windowpane, and steady streams began flowing down the glass.

“It’s raining again,” he said, releasing his neck and placing his palm to the window. His biceps flexed below the soggy sleeve of his shirt. “I don’t know when emergency services will make their rounds out here. We’re so far from town.” His whole body shook as he stared straight ahead. “I can’t leave them out there alone,” he choked. “Not like that.”

He shoved off the window and strode swiftly to the door.

“Alex?”

He paused, gripping the door frame and keeping his broad back to her.

Tammy blinked back tears and gnawed her lower lip, wanting so much to help but feeling useless. “What can I do?”

He glanced over his shoulder, his voice thin. “Stay here and take care of Brody until I get back?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

He left and the rain grew heavier, the sound of water pummeling the house filling the room. Rhythmic tings and plops started in the hallway as water leaked from the ceiling and hit the hardwood floor.

Shivering despite the heat of the summer night, Tammy moved slowly to the bed and sat down. She watched the empty doorway for over an hour, waiting to see if someone who knew Alex would walk in. A wife or girlfriend. Maybe a family member or friend. Anyone who cared enough to brave the weather, make the drive to Alex’s ranch and check on him.

But no one did.

Eventually, the day became too heavy to carry, and the tears she’d struggled to hold back ran down her cheeks, the salty taste seeping into the corners of her mouth. She gave in and lay on the bed, curling into a ball near Brody and placing a comforting hand on his small shoulder.

She thought of Brody’s parents and Razz in the dark, in the rain. She thought of Brody. And Alex...

His distinctive scent grew stronger as she silenced her sobs in the pillow and realized that, for the first time, she’d found two people who were more alone than she was.

* * *

“I’M REAL SORRY, ALEX.”

Alex forced a nod as Jaxon Lennox, a paramedic and old classmate from high school, joined his colleague and lifted a second gurney into the back of an ambulance. The white sheet covering Dean flapped in the early-morning breeze.

Stomach churning, Alex spun away from the sight and studied the ruins of Dean’s house. The rain from last night had soaked the wreckage, leaving deep puddles of dingy water on the piles of broken wood and battered bricks.

Alex had remained at Dean and Gloria’s side all night until emergency services arrived in the early-morning hours. He’d been unable to bring himself to leave. The scene blurred in front of him, and he blinked hard, balling his fists against his thighs to keep from dragging them over his burning eyes.

The ambulance doors thudded closed, and Alex stiffened as footsteps approached from behind.

“I spoke to the sheriff. He said he’d contact a social worker this morning about the baby,” Jaxon said. “Probably Ms. Maxine.”

Alex held his breath and tried to suppress the heat welling in his chest and searing his cheeks. Deer Creek was a tiny community by anyone’s standards, and everyone knew Ms. Maxine. Most everyone also knew Ms. Maxine had served as Alex’s social worker from the time he’d turned five until he’d aged out of foster care at eighteen. She’d attended his high school graduation and his wedding. And had been the first guest at his and Susan’s housewarming party eleven years ago, with an armful of gifts in tow.

Ms. Maxine was one of the brightest spots of a naively hopeful past that he wanted to forget.

“Sheriff said she should be at your place this afternoon to collect the child. I told him about that overturned truck at your place, too, and he said he’ll send someone out as soon as he can.” Jaxon sighed. “Wish we could’ve gotten here sooner, but things are so crazy right now. That storm was a monster, and it damaged a lot of houses, though this was the worst I’ve seen so far. Listen, I know you and Dean were close, and if you need anything...” His voice trailed away. “Well, you know where I am.”

“Thanks,” Alex said, barely shoving the word past his lips.

It’d be more polite to turn around and offer his hand or try to dredge up a smile, but he couldn’t manage either. The expression of pity on a person’s face was something he’d become unable to stomach.

The heavy presence at Alex’s back disappeared, then a second set of doors slammed shut. An engine cranked, and the ambulance drove away, sloshing through the deep mudholes left in the dirt driveway of Dean’s property.

Alex stared blindly at the rubble before him, frowning as the sun cleared the horizon. It blazed bright, tingeing the scoured landscape in a golden glow and coaxing the birds to sing in ravaged trees. There wasn’t a single cloud marring the deep blue of the sky.

His skin warmed, and his soggy shirt and jeans clung uncomfortably to him. The damp band of his Stetson began to dry against his forehead, turning tight and stiff.

It was a hell of a thing—the sun rising on a day like this. The damned thing shouldn’t have the nerve.

He scoffed and shook his head, squeezing his eyes hard enough to clear them, then started sifting through the mess on the ground for anything worth saving. A dented microwave, filled with muddy water, was lodged between broken staircase rails and a cracked cabinet door. Two recliners and one sofa were overturned, and the cushions were twisted within a tangle of curtains, sheets and wood beams. The remnants of a smashed crib littered a large, heavy pile of broken bricks.

Alex flinched, his boots jerking to a stop. This shouldn’t have happened. Dean had walked the line all his life, married a good woman and had a healthy baby boy. This house should still be standing with their small family safely in it.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Alex said, plucking a bent nail from the ground and cringing at the tremor in his voice. “I should’ve built it stronger.”

He gritted his teeth, flung the nail into the distance and kept moving, carefully investigating each stack of wreckage and methodically collecting the few scattered remains that might be of use. He shoved a few unbroken jars of baby food, several intact juice boxes and a half dozen dry disposable diapers into a stray trash bag. One hour later, he started back to his ranch, wanting nothing more than to guzzle a bottle of whiskey, collapse onto his bed and escape into oblivion.

But that wasn’t a possibility. A woman and baby were still on his ranch—whatever little there was left of it—and he had to remain hospitable for at least a few more hours. Then they’d both be on their way and he’d have the comforting silence of privacy back.

The thought should’ve been a welcome one. But the relief he felt at their expected absence was overshadowed by a pang of loss. One that was accompanied by the warm image of Tammy’s bright green eyes and the remembered feel of Brody’s small, grasping fingers against his chest. All of which were ridiculous things for a man like him to dwell on.

Shrugging off the unwanted sensation, Alex picked up his pace and searched each empty field he passed for any sign of his horses. He’d made it past the downed power line and across the road when a sporadic pattering sounded behind him. It continued with each of his swift strides, then stopped abruptly when he stilled, a soft whine emerging at his back.

He glanced over his shoulder. A puppy—Labrador, maybe?—stood frozen in place, his yellow fur dark with mud and grime. The dog’s black eyes widened soulfully, then he ducked his head and took up whining again.

Alex turned, then eased his bag to the ground. “Where’d you come from?”

The pup wagged his tail rapidly, then rolled belly up and wiggled. The leaves clinging to his matted fur and the pine needles stuck to his paws were an indication that he might have spent the night in the woods.

Alex lowered to his haunches and rubbed a hand over the puppy’s thick middle before checking the rest of him for injuries. The dog was healthy, unharmed and looked to be about seven or eight weeks old.

“You belong to Earl, buddy?” he asked, scratching behind the pup’s ear.

Old Earl Haggert bred and sold Labs. Could be one of his. Earl’s place was about a mile up the road, and it was possible the dog might’ve wandered that far. With the storm they’d had yesterday, it seemed like everything had been displaced.

The dog stopped whining, licked Alex’s fingers and nuzzled a wet nose into his palm.

Alex grinned, a soothing heat unfurling in his veins. “Well, hell. What’s one more?” He stood, picked up his bag and started walking again. “You might as well come on.” He patted his thigh with his free hand. “You can stay today, and I’ll get you back to Earl tomorrow.”

The dog followed, bounding forward with as much gusto as his short legs would allow.

“But it’s only fair I warn you that there’s not much to my place anymore.” Alex slowed his step until the pup fell into a comfortable pace at his side. “Not after that tornado. My stable is shot, the fences are busted and my horses are missing. Got a damaged roof and broken windows all over the house. ’Bout the only thing not ruined was my bed, and a woman and baby are piled up on that.”

The dog yelped up at him, and Alex cocked an eyebrow.

“I know, right? Only thing worse than all that is a man talking to himself.” He grimaced, gripped the bag tighter and increased his pace again. “That’s a damned shame in itself.”

Alex clamped his mouth shut and forged ahead.

Rhythmic thuds echoed across the ravaged field as they drew closer to his house. He stopped a few feet from the end of the driveway, the dog skittering to an awkward halt against his shins.

Tammy pushed a wheelbarrow from one side of the front lawn to the other, pausing every few feet to pick up a broken tree limb and toss it into the cart. The wheels squeaked with each shove, and the contents clanged every time it bumped over uneven ground. Brody tottered close at Tammy’s side, his brown hair gleaming in the sun. He followed her lead, bent to grab a stick and stumbled.

“Whoa, there.” Tammy stopped the wheelbarrow and steadied him with one hand. She waited as he fumbled around in the grass, then straightened and held out a twig. “Good job,” she praised, pointing at the wheelbarrow. “Can you put it in the cart?”

Brody stretched up on his tiptoes, flung the wood into the wheelbarrow and squealed.

“Nicely done,” Tammy said, clapping.

Brody smiled, smacked his hands together awkwardly, then waddled toward another stick. Tammy laughed, her face lighting with pleasure.

The rich sound traveled across the front lawn and vibrated around Alex, sending a pleasurable tingle over his skin. He tried not to stare as she chased after Brody, her long brown hair falling in tangled waves over her shoulders and her slim legs moving with grace. They wore their clothes from last night and, though dry, her jeans and Brody’s overalls were wrinkled and stained with mud.

But even weather-beaten, she and Brody were a beautiful sight. The kind he’d imagined years ago when he’d hammered shingles onto his newly constructed roof and set the windows in their frames. He’d spent the last free hour before his wedding looking through the glass pane of the kitchen window at the front lawn, envisioning Susan and the children they’d planned to have playing, laughing and living well.

Tammy’s and Brody’s energetic movements across the green grass breathed a bit of life into that old fantasy, conjuring it to the forefront of his mind and coaxing it past the tight knot in his chest. And it stung just as much as it soothed.

Alex averted his eyes and scrubbed the toe of his boot over the dirt.

“Hey.”

He glanced up at the sound of Tammy’s voice. She’d stopped following Brody and studied him closely, her gaze traveling over his face.

“I found the wheelbarrow out back and thought I’d make myself useful,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears and brushing a hand over her rumpled T-shirt. “Brody’s been crying for his parents. I thought taking him outside and keeping him busy might help. Hope you don’t mind. And I found a banana and cereal in the kitchen that I gave to him. The paramedics stopped by a couple of hours ago, and I sent them in your direction. Did they make it to you okay?”

He nodded, swallowing the thick lump in his throat, and gestured to the white bandage covering her temple. “How’s your cut?”

Her fingers drifted up and touched it as though she’d forgotten it was there. “Oh, it’s fine. I told them it was nothing, but they insisted on patching me up anyway.” She waved a hand in the air, then shoved it in her pocket. “They checked Brody out, too, while they were here. He’s just like you said. Not a scratch on him.”

Brody stood behind her, holding a stick out with a chubby hand and staring at the dog snuffling around in the dirt at Alex’s heels. The boy’s eyebrows rose, and his mouth parted. He pointed his free hand at the pup and shouted.

The dog poked his head between Alex’s ankles. He eyed Brody, then bounded across the grass and leaped for the stick Brody held, knocking the boy down in the process.

Brody plopped down on his backside and sat, stunned, for a moment. His brown eyes widened and a wounded expression crossed his face before he took up crying.

Alex froze, a strangled laugh dying in his throat and escaping him in a choked grunt. Years ago, he’d seen Dean hit his butt in the same position with an identical look on his face. Except Dean had been twelve years old and the cause of it had been the kickback from a shotgun. One he’d swiped from his dad’s gun cabinet and used without permission, accidentally shooting out a window on his dad’s truck.

Dean had insisted he’d outgrown his BB gun, but he hadn’t been too grown to shed tears that day. He’d taken one look at that shattered glass and cried, “My dad’s gonna kick my ass good for this one!”

Of course, his dad hadn’t. He’d fussed a great deal but had been relieved that Dean and Alex hadn’t been injured. That they’d emerged from what could’ve been a deadly incident without a scratch on them. Like Brody.

A boy who would grow up without ever knowing how great a man his father had been.

Alex dropped his bag, turned his back on the trio and stifled a guttural roar, the rage streaking through him almost uncontainable.

“Oh, it’s all right, Brody.” Tammy’s soothing words quieted the baby’s sobs. “You’re okay, and there are a lot more sticks where that one came from.” There were shuffling sounds, then she asked, “This little guy a friend of yours, Alex?”

He glanced over his shoulder to find her kneeling on the ground, petting the dog and hugging Brody to her side. Her eyes met his, and the smile on her face melted away, a concerned expression taking its place. The kind he knew all too well.

Unable to answer her, he spun away, stalked up the front porch steps and entered the kitchen. He went straight to the cabinet, grabbed a bottle, then upended it, drinking deeply. The fiery liquid burned a trail down his throat and lit up his gut, forcing him to set it down and gasp for breath.

He watched through the window as Tammy got to her feet and took a hesitant step toward the house. She stopped, frowned up at the front porch, then walked away. The squeak of wheels rang out and the consistent clang of sticks being thrown into the cart resumed.

Alex gripped the edge of the counter and closed his eyes. She probably thought he was a crazy, selfish bastard. And to a certain extent he was. But how could he explain it? How could anything he might say help her understand?

He was truly grateful that Brody had survived the storm and that Tammy had escaped without serious injury. Last night as he’d grieved at Dean’s side, he’d even thanked heaven that he, himself, had managed to emerge from yesterday’s carnage still breathing. That he wasn’t buried beneath the broken walls of his house being pummeled by rain.

But no amount of gratitude would ease the anger of knowing that death had stolen Dean and Gloria. Or change the fact that, sometimes, life could hurt like hell.

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