Montana Cowboy Daddy (Wyatt Brothers of Montana Book 3)

by Jane Porter

  But being good in bed was exactly what had gotten him into this situation now.

  *

  Erika slowly circled the bedroom, Beck tucked under her chin, held closely against her chest.

  She’d wrapped the extra quilt from her bed around both of them, trying to keep warm. Beck was having a hard time tonight, far more fretful than he’d been in weeks. He’d woken up just after midnight crying, and he’d spent the last two hours alternating between whimpers and cries, and so she kept picking him up and trying to calm him, not wanting Beck’s cries to wake up everyone else. It was an old house and she imagined sound traveled far too well.

  She peered at her wristwatch, the green time glowing in the dark. Three thirty-eight. She’d been walking him for hours now, and she didn’t know what to do next. He’d been fed over an hour ago, and changed, and he didn’t feel feverish, but something was making him fretful and she was just feeling helpless and useless.

  Erika did another little loop around her room, pausing at the window to lift the curtain and look out. The snow had stopped falling, and the moon glowed bright, reflecting off the thick layers of white. Everywhere she looked was frosted in snow—pine branches, porch overhang, fences, the trucks and her car in the driveway. She had never seen so much snow in her life. No wonder the room was so cold, and maybe that was the reason that Beck couldn’t sleep. Maybe he was too cold. Personally, she was freezing, even in socks with a quilt around her shoulders. The little heater in the closet didn’t put out much heat and she hadn’t wanted to complain but now she regretted not speaking up.

  Maybe the kitchen would be warmer. Maybe she could even make something warm to drink. Drawing the quilt more close, she opened the door and made her way to the top of the stairs, where she flipped on the light and carefully made her way down with Beck crying as if there was no tomorrow.

  In the kitchen, she turned on the light over the stove and then lit the burner beneath the kettle and then walked, and hummed to Beck, bouncing him ever so gently even though all she wanted to do was put him down and walk away.

  How did parents do this? How did single moms do this? Her patience was shot. Her eyes burned hot and gritty. Even her shoulders and back ached.

  Maybe Beck was hungry now. Rather than go back upstairs to retrieve the bottle, she made him another one from the formula and bottle on the counter, placing the bottle in the same little pan she’d used earlier to heat his bottle.

  He wailed while they waited for the bottle to warm.

  He wailed while she tested the temperature of the milk on the inside of her wrist.

  He wailed when she put the bottle to his mouth, turning his head away, small fists waving furiously.

  Why was he so miserable? Was it possible he was teething, or was he too young? She didn’t think he had a fever, but couldn’t be sure. She patted his diapered backside and it still felt dry. She tried the bottle again, and once more, he turned his face away, his little mouth and eyes screwing up for another sharp wail.

  “Come on, little guy, come on, Beck. Work with me. I don’t know what I’m doing, either. I don’t know how to make you feel better.”

  The kettle started to hiss, and she turned the gas off before it came to a full boil. She couldn’t fill her cup, not when Beck was arching and crying, and there was nowhere to put him down. Tea was a bad idea.

  Coming here had been a bad idea.

  She should have simply sent Billy a letter, giving him the facts, and asking him to meet her somewhere.

  She should have avoided all of this.

  And actually, she could have. She didn’t have to take Beck. She could have left him with social services. They would have put him in foster care and then eventually found a family for him. It was what they would have done if they hadn’t reached Erika, or if she’d refused to come to Las Vegas.

  But she’d chosen to go to Las Vegas. She’d rushed there, and she’d wanted to take him. She’d wanted to honor April’s wishes, but right now, she felt useless. Useless, not hopeless, but still, incredibly discouraged.

  She blinked, trying to make her eyes stop burning. But blinking just made her throat grow tighter and her chest feel heavier. She couldn’t remember when she last felt so overwhelmed. She hated feeling helpless, and her nerves were stretched tight from all the crying. There was such a sharp pitch to a baby’s cry, high, painful, demanding attention. “Beck,” she whispered, “please. Tell me what’s wrong. Come on, baby. Help me out here.”

  *

  Billy woke up in the night, a high piercing sound penetrating his dream. Eyes open, he listened intently. A wail. Then another. And another.

  It was April’s baby.

  But April was gone.

  He hadn’t known what to feel earlier, shock overriding everything else, but now, in the dark of night, he felt sorrow and sympathy for a child that had lost his mother. It was a terrible thing to lose a parent. Billy had been just three when his dad and his uncle Samuel were killed in the accident on the way to the rodeo in Deadwood. Billy didn’t remember his dad, but there had been plenty of photos to show him who his dad had been, as well as how much his dad had loved his boys.

  Was Beck his boy?

  Billy struggled to wrap his mind around the possibility. Parenthood had been the last thing on his mind. He wasn’t interested in marriage, had no desire to settle down, and children weren’t part of the plan—maybe ever. If he did have kids, he’d known it would be years from now, when he’d gotten the hunger for competition out of his blood. But that wasn’t now. He loved everything about being a professional cowboy, loved all of it—the travel, the events, the time with his brothers, as well as the evenings with the pretty women who lined up for a dance, or a kiss, or more.

  April had been one of those. She was fun, flirty, playful in bed. But she’d never be the one, and he’d never made bones about the fact that he wasn’t looking for more than a good time. It sounded crass, put that way, but it was the truth, and he was nothing but honest with the women he got naked with.

  Could their crazy nights have created Beck?

  And if so, why hadn’t April reached out to him?

  Why not let Billy know he had a kid?

  Regardless, a baby was wailing away down in the kitchen and Billy wasn’t going to be able to sleep now. He eased from bed, dressed warmly, and headed downstairs.

  The kitchen was dark, with just the light on over the stove to illuminate the space. Billy spotted Erika near the door in the mudroom, facing the coatrack and swaying side to side, her hand slowly rubbing the baby’s small back. He watched her a long moment, thinking she looked impossibly tired. He could feel her exhaustion from across the room.

  “How long have you been up?” he asked quietly, not wanting to startle her.

  She turned quickly, startled anyway. “Did his crying wake you?”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “I came down here so we wouldn’t wake your mom or grandfather.”

  “That was thoughtful of you.”

  “But you’re awake.”

  “It’s okay. I’m a fairly light sleeper,” he answered, crossing the kitchen floor. “But don’t worry about Tommy. He sleeps like the dead.”

  “Do you know what time it is? I left my watch upstairs.”

  “Three thirty, maybe.”

  “I can’t get him to stop crying.”

  “Does he have a fever?”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe he’s just overstimulated. It was a big day.”

  “All those Wyatts are enough to terrify even the most manly of men.” Billy smiled crookedly. “Let me take him, and you go back to bed.” He’d reached her side and lifted the baby from her arms without waiting for her to answer.

  Erika didn’t protest. If anything, she looked grateful. “Normally, I’d ask if you were sure, but I’m so tired. I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

  “Then don’t. Go to bed. Get sleep. I’ve got him.”

  Uncertainty flickered over her fea
tures. “Do you know anything about babies?”

  “No, but I’ve delivered foals and calves, and given nearly every animal a bottle, from kittens to lambs and even a fawn Granddad found after his mom had been shot by hunters trespassing on our property.”

  Her fist pressed to her mouth. “What happened to the fawn?”

  “We raised him until he could manage on his own.”

  “Did he?” she asked. “Manage on his own?”

  “We think he’s the big buck that comes around sometimes, and stands at the edge of the property looking at us. We’ve gotten close to him a couple of times, but then he leaves. I’m pretty sure that’s Rudy.”

  “Rudy?”

  “As in Rudolph. Tommy named him.”

  The corner of her mouth curved as she gave him a sweet sleepy smile. “I have a feeling you guys are full of stories.”

  “So many,” he agreed. “Too many. But now, go sleep. And you don’t have to worry about Beck and me. I can manage giving a baby a bottle, and if I need you, I will get you.”

  “I’ve made a bottle up for him already. It’s on the counter by the stove, but Beck didn’t want it. He’s just cranky tonight. Sometimes I wonder if he’s missing his mom.” Her voice cracked. “And then I want to cry.”

  “That’s because you’re thinking too much. It’s never good to overthink, not in the middle of the night. Go to bed, sleep. Things will be better in the morning.”

  She pushed a heavy wave of golden hair back from her cheek, even as her troubled gaze met his. “Will they? He still won’t have a mom, and I’m not sure he has a dad—”

  “Stop. If I’m his dad, he has a dad. I’m going to take the test, and will know the truth soon, and then with facts in hand, we will come up with a plan.”

  “What if you’re not the father?”

  “I thought you were pretty confident I was.”

  “I wouldn’t have driven this far if I didn’t think so.”

  “Then don’t torture yourself anymore tonight. Get sleep and we can discuss this, and whatever else you want tomorrow.”

  Her gaze clung to his, deep purple shadows etched beneath her eyes, revealing her fatigue. “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  *

  Despite being utterly exhausted, Erika couldn’t fall asleep right away. Her room was still chilly and she shivered under the covers, head pounding, eyes dry. She drew her knees up to her chest, trying to get warm, but instead of drifting off, she kept picturing Billy in the kitchen with the baby, the infant tiny against his big shoulder, and it made her insides do an uncomfortable wobble. She had such mixed feelings about Billy Wyatt, discovering quickly he was hard, self-absorbed, and uncaring. She’d decided she didn’t like him, or respect him, but then he’d appeared in the kitchen in the dead of night to take care of a baby he wasn’t convinced was his. He didn’t have to come downstairs. He could have remained in bed and pretended he didn’t hear the crying. But he didn’t, and that changed her assumptions about him.

  Not completely, but just enough for her to realize she didn’t want to like him. It was easier to resent him for getting April pregnant and then disappearing on her. It felt good to be angry with him. She wanted to be angry with someone. April deserved more kindness in life, more support. But neither April, nor she, had been born into a family that offered unconditional love. Their family had rigid views based on a very strict faith. Step out of the faith and you were punished. April and Erika’s mothers, sisters, had been banished. It wasn’t until April’s mom returned to the family, and the church, that she was forgiven. April hadn’t wanted that life for her and she’d paid the price.

  Covers pulled tightly to her chin, Erika remembered dinner tonight and the boisterous Wyatt men around the table. They’d teased each other mercilessly during the meal, and their laughter had made their mother smile, albeit somewhat reluctantly. Summer was rather reserved, and yet she’d been kind to Erika, and her sons clearly loved her. This was the kind of family Erika had seen on TV shows, the kind of family that had made her want more from life, that made her want to help others to want, and have, more for herself.

  If Beck was a Wyatt, he’d be loved. Deeply loved.

  A lump filled Erika’s throat and she squeezed her eyes closed, overwhelmed by emotions she didn’t really understand, because this was what she wanted for April’s baby. She pictured Beck downstairs, nestled against Billy’s broad chest, and felt yet another pang. Erika could see why her cousin had fallen for the Montana cowboy. He was ridiculously handsome, as well as tall, muscular, rugged, strong. He was a man’s man, which women would love.

  But why hadn’t April told Billy about the baby?

  Why had she kept it secret from Billy?

  Was it possible she wasn’t sure Beck was Billy’s?

  Had Erika possibly gotten it wrong… that Billy wasn’t the father? Her heart fell and she rolled onto her back, and stared up at the beamed ceiling.

  If he wasn’t, what then? Where did Erika even begin to track down Beck’s real father?

  Worn out, she told herself to stop thinking, at least for tonight. The best thing to do was take it all one step at a time. Have Billy take the DNA test. Discover the truth.

  And maybe pray that Billy was the father, because the Wyatts were good people. They were a close family, and yes, filled with testosterone, but they’d protect Beck, and they’d do right by him, not just now, but always.

  And with that thought in mind, she finally fell asleep.

  *

  It had begun snowing again sometime in the night, creating a glorious winter wonderland—at least for those who could stay in the cabin. Melvin and his grandsons all had chores to do, and Erika came down to the kitchen in search of Beck, and found him asleep in Summer’s arms. Summer was seated at the kitchen table while the Wyatt men were lounging in various positions around the kitchen, discussing their strategy for the morning. Joe and Granddad would tend to the livestock. Billy and Tommy would snowplow the roads. The snow had fallen most of the night and it’d take all day to get the road down to the public highway snowplowed, and that was even with Joe later taking a turn at the wheel.

  Conversation momentarily broke off when Erika entered the kitchen but after pointing her to the coffeepot, the third pot of the day, freshly brewed, discussion resumed. Erika sat down with her coffee at the table, whispering to Summer that she could take Beck.

  Summer shook her head. “It’s nice to hold a baby again,” she said softly.

  Erika’s chest felt warm and rather tender. Again, she thought how lucky Beck would be if this was his family, even as she worried that maybe she’d gotten it wrong. Maybe she’d gotten Summer’s hopes up, and created conflict that wasn’t necessary.

  The men headed out shortly, and Erika spent the morning with Beck, feeding him when he woke up, then giving him a bath in the kitchen sink, before putting him in clean warm clothes.

  Mrs. Wyatt invited Erika to join her in the den while she gave Beck an early lunch bottle. “The chairs are more comfortable,” Summer said, easing herself into her own recliner. “This is where we spend our evenings, but every now and then I like to come in here and just sit a bit. It’s warm in here, and quieter.”

  Taking a seat on the leather covered couch, Erika nuzzled Beck’s warm sweet head. He smelled impossibly delicious—at least at this moment, after his bath, his small body in a fresh soft onesie, wrapped in an equally soft blanket. “It is nice in here,” she said, appreciating the old cast-iron wood stove in the corner, making the room toasty. “But if I’m not careful, I might fall asleep.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. I heard Beck kept you up most of the night.”

  “Until Billy came and saved me.” Erika paused, trying to ignore the weird wobbly sensation in her middle that she felt every time she pictured Billy and Beck together. “That was nice of him.”

  Summer Wyatt leveled her gaze at Erika. “You think Billy’s the baby’s father?”

  Erika
suddenly found herself struggling to answer. She’d been so sure when she’d made the trip here. But now… now… she was worried she’d possibly muddled things up.

  Erika needed a moment, and then chose her words carefully. “I’d thought so when I drove here, and I still think he could be. The timing makes sense. April and Billy were together last February, and Beck was born in late November. So it works on paper, but without the DNA test…” Her voice faded and she held her breath a moment, hating the flood of anxiety washing through her.

  “You’re not confident anymore?”

  “Beck would be lucky to be a part of this family. You have a wonderful family.”

  “Billy told me the baby’s momma died in a car accident.”

  Erika nodded. “Beck was in the car, but he survived. He didn’t even have a scratch.”

  “A miracle.”

  Erika nodded again. “I think so, too.”

  “You’ve had him how long?”

  “Three and a half weeks. Almost a month.”

  “What’s your plan for him?”

  “Find Beck’s daddy and let his daddy take over.”

  “You don’t want him?”

  Erika exhaled hard. “I’m in no position to become a single mom. That is not the life I’d want for Beck. He deserves more than what I can give him.”

  “If Billy’s not the father, what do you plan to do?”

  “I’ll keep looking.”

  “And if you can’t find him?”

  Emotion closed Erika’s throat, knotting the words in her heart. Her heart wanted Beck to be with family, but her head questioned if she was the right family. Could she provide for a child when she sometimes struggled to provide for herself? Could she give Beck what he deserved in life? Growing up in her chaotic, alcohol-infused family she used to wish she had been adopted, wishing she had a more stable family to love her, and care for her.

  Adoption wasn’t a punishment. Adoption didn’t mean Beck wasn’t loved. It meant the opposite, that he was so valuable that Erika wanted him to have a family where he’d be raised with patience, and kindness, respect, and most of all love. Lots and lots of love, unlike April’s childhood. And unlike her own. “I’d consider all options for him, including adoption.”