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BILLY AND THE KID
Kristine Rolofson
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Contents:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12
Epilogue
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Chapter 1
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If he hadn't been dreaming of spring, he'd have heard the dog barking. At the very least, he'd have opened his eyes. Maybe he would have made it out of bed and onto his feet. Maybe he would have even thought to peer through the holes in the old lace curtain to see who was down below, banging on the front door of the house. As it was, Will woke in time to hear the dog whining over the sound of a rapidly fading truck engine.
Whoever it was would come back, he figured, though anyone who knew him would have opened the door and yelled up the stairs for at least ten minutes. Will wasn't known for "early to bed, early to rise" habits. Once he was asleep there wasn't much any man could do to wake him. But a woman? Will smiled and stretched in his sleeping bag. He always woke when there was a warm and willing woman beside him in bed in the morning. Too bad he couldn't remember the last time anything so pleasurable had happened.
Damn the dog.
"Boze! Shut up!"
Bozeman continued to cry, a high-pitched sound that would have killed a man who had a hangover, so Will was grateful he'd only had that one beer last night while he'd watched television. He shoved his bedding aside, got out of bed and walked over to the open doorway. "Hey, Boze, take it easy, boy."
The dog whined louder, punctuating each whine with a pitiful bark that could only mean one thing: Get your sorry ass down here, Will, and help me.
So Will picked up his jeans and pulled them on before he went downstairs to find out what had gotten him up at the crack of—he glanced at the grandfather clock on the landing—7:59 in the morning. Bozeman, tail wagging, was in the hall to greet him. "So what's your problem?"
The dog turned to the door that faced the front porch.
"All this is because you want to go out?" Will jerked open the door, but Bozeman's white, fluffy body didn't budge. "Go on, and—"
That's when he saw the basket nestled against the step. For a split second he thought he'd left his laundry on the porch. He didn't recognize the faded patchwork quilt, but when he bent down to get a better look he discovered it covered something. "Oh, hell," Will grumbled. "If someone's left pups out here again—"
He stopped the second he pulled the quilt halfway down, for there on the front porch of the Triple T Ranch house lay a tiny, sleeping baby. Bozeman sidled up beside Will to sniff for himself, then he turned tail and ran. Will knelt down and watched the baby's eyelids flutter, as if the little thing was dreaming. Or trying to wake up.
But why was it on his front porch? He knew there was no sense going after that truck, but as he lifted the basket and carried it inside the house, it did occur to him that someone might be playing a joke on him. Wouldn't be the first time, or the last, but this wasn't all that funny. Not yet.
He shoved stacks of papers aside and set the basket in the middle of the round oak table, the cleanest place he could think of. Even though he'd never dealt with an infant before, he knew enough to know they were supposed to hang out in clean places. Nothing on the ranch fit that description, not even its owner, but at least the center of the dining-room table kept the baby in a safe place while Will made a whispered phone call from the kitchen.
Then Will prayed the kid would continue sleeping for as long as it took for Pierce to get the hell out to the Triple T. He made a pot of coffee, put on a shirt he found on the couch, let Bozeman out the back door. The baby slept, completely oblivious to its surroundings, until the deputy sheriff banged on the back door.
"This had better be good," Pierce grumbled, shaking the snow off his hat before he entered the kitchen, Bozeman slipping inside with him. "I didn't even have time to make coffee."
"Keep your voice down." Will poured coffee into two mugs and handed one to his oldest friend. "I've got enough trouble without waking the baby."
"What baby?" He took the coffee and glanced around the cluttered kitchen. "You've got company?"
"You could say that." Will led the way into the dining room. "Check it out," he said, motioning toward the basket. "Someone left it here this morning."
Pierce stepped closer and peered into the baby's face. "Is that what I think it is?"
Will pulled out a chair and sat down as he watched Pierce set his mug on the table. The sheriff lifted the blanket and poked underneath.
"What the hell are you doing? It'll wake up."
"Looking for a note. Shh, there, baby. Old Uncle Pierce just wants to find out who you are."
The baby opened its eyes and started to fuss. Pierce pulled out a plastic bottle filled with milk. "You lucked out," he said. "The baby came with its own breakfast."
"I lucked out? This has nothing to do with me. I think the police should—"
Pierce ignored him. "It's wet under here. Let's hope there are some diapers."
"Diapers?"
"Wait," he said, pulling out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Will. "No diapers, but this has got your name on it, so I'm going to go out on a limb here and say this has plenty to do with you. Read it."
Will shook his head. "I am not the father of this baby."
"Someone thinks you are."
The topic of conversation waved its tiny fists in the air and let out a howl that had Bozeman heading for the door again. Will tossed the note on the table as if it were a live snake. He looked at the screaming baby and frowned. "Hell, Pierce, what do I do with it?"
"You feed it. Stick this bottle in a pan of hot water for a couple of minutes and then you feed it."
Will took the bottle, but he hesitated. "Shouldn't you be taking it to a hospital or something?"
"One step at a time, Billy my boy," his friend said, reaching into the basket. He scooped the baby into his arms, wadded the small blanket around the baby's bottom and tucked the whole bundle against his uniformed chest. "You want to turn up the heat in here?"
He could do that, no problem. He'd had the furnace replaced last month, so that was one thing in the house that worked. He ran the water until it turned hot, then gingerly put the bottle into the pan. "How long do I do this?"
"A few minutes. Come back here and tell me why you think this kid isn't yours." Pierce pulled out a chair and, with the baby tucked against his chest, made himself comfortable. "You haven't exactly lived a, uh, sheltered life. In fact, your rodeo days are the stuff of legends."
Will wondered how the man could hold a baby and drink coffee at the same time. "I was young then and full of hell," he said, eyeing the note with his name scrawled on it. He'd had enough wild adventures to fill several lifetimes, but he'd always been careful. He didn't want kids and he didn't want AIDS and he sure as hell didn't want any paternity suits. "Just take my word for it."
Pierce took another sip of coffee. "Read."
Will didn't recognize the writing. Girlish loops and blue ink on a piece of lined notebook paper made the letter look as innocent as a note passed in high school. His callused fingers fumbled with the paper, but he finally got it open. "Willie," it began, which was odd. Women who knew him from his rodeo days called him "Billy."
"You going to keep us in suspense or are you going to read it out loud?" Pierce rocked the baby a little and it stopped fussing.
"Are you sure you should be doing that?"
"What?"
"Bouncing it like that. You might hurt it."
"I have two boys, Will, and one more due any day, remember?" Pierce chuckled. "I know what I'm doing. Quit stalling and read."
Will turned back to the paper. He
had a feeling he wasn't going to like what was coming. "Willie," he repeated. "I figure this baby belongs to you now. I would've kept her, but she needs a family and I don't—" He swore and held up the paper. "The ink ran and I can't read the rest."
"Convenient."
"I'm serious. Here." He handed Pierce the note. "I think the kid must have peed on it or something."
The sheriff held it to the light. "I think the bottle leaked."
"At least we know she's a girl."
"A girl," Pierce mused, looking down at the baby. "Janie's hoping for a girl this time around. I don't know how she'll feel if it's a third boy."
"You could give her this one," Will offered, sensing an answer to his problem. But even as he said it, he knew that if this kid really was his, she wouldn't be going anywhere. There'd been enough unwanted Wilson kids in this county already.
"Get the bottle, you idiot. Then I'll teach you how to feed your daughter."
"She's not mine. I've done some crazy things in my time, but I've never been that stupid," Will insisted, hurrying into the kitchen to retrieve the milk He wiped the dripping bottle on his sleeve and peered into the baby's face as if she might give him some due to her identity. "Do you think she looks like me?"
"Maybe. Hard to tell Babies usually have blue eyes when they're born, and that light hair of hers could darken. Shake some of that milk on your hand and make sure it's not too hot."
He did as he was told. "What am I supposed to do, Joe?"
His friend considered the question for a long moment while the baby fussed in his arms. "I can take her in to the office and then I'll contact the state people. We can say you found her and called me."
"Which is the truth."
"But—" Joe Pierce held Will's gaze with his own "—she'll end up in a foster home until I can track down her mother."
"If you can find her."
"You know how that goes."
"Yeah." He knew, all right.
"Here." Pierce leaned forward and deposited the baby into Will's arms. "Just hold her up a little and give her the bottle. Half of it, then you have to burp her."
The little thing seemed to know what to do. And acted like she hadn't eaten in a week. He looked over toward Pierce. "You don't suppose—"
His best friend since sixth grade waited. And thought. And then his eyes widened. "No. Couldn't be."
Will felt like laughing. "Sure it could. She and my mother were the only people who ever called me Willie, remember?"
Pierce leaned closer to stare into the child's face. Milk dribbled from the corners of her tiny mouth and down her neck, into her yellow terry-cloth sleeper, but neither man noticed. "God, it's been years."
"Sarah's little girl," Will said, his heart lifting in an unfamiliar way as he held the baby against him. "I'll need to buy some stuff."
Pierce nodded. "Yeah. And you should take her into the clinic and make sure she's in good shape."
"You think there's something wrong?"
"No, she looks fine to me, but we don't know where she's been or who she is and—"
The baby screeched when Will took the bottle away. "With that kind of temper, I'm pretty sure I know who she is," he said. "What I don't know is what I'm supposed to do to get her to stop yelling at me."
"Lift her up, put her against your shoulder and pat her back until she burps."
Will did, and the baby hiccuped against his collar. She was warm and soggy and she didn't smell too good, but he didn't care. Will Rogers Wilson knew damn well that this kid wasn't going anywhere.
Not until he found her mother.
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"You need a man."
"No one needs a man," Daisy lied, wiping the counter with a damp sponge. She looked at the dock over the door of The Cowman's Café. Only noon, and she had five more hours left until she could start closing up. Even though she closed early, Sundays were endless, especially in the only restaurant in the smallest town in the county. "Trust me, some men are more trouble than they're worth."
"I hope I don't feel that way when I get as old as you," the younger woman said, smoothing her dark red hair behind her ears to reveal a pair of silver earrings the shape of cowboy boots. "You want some gum?"
"No, thanks." Daisy ignored the "old" remark After all, she felt twice as old as her twenty-eight years and light years older than the teenage waitress who worked for her. It was a wonder she didn't have gray hair and crow's feet instead of blond curls. She fixed herself a cup of herbal tea and hoped she'd have time to drink some of it. Here she'd thought the snow would keep people home, but nothing seemed to prevent the people of Cowman's Corner from having dinner at the café.
"I don't know how you stand it, staying home all the time. Not that there are that many guys around here to go out with," Heather said, popping a piece of gum in her mouth.
"You don't seem to have any shortage of dates." She dunked her tea bag a few times and tossed it in the trash can.
"I meant for you. Everyone's either too young or too old or married or drinks too much or is broke."
"That's a little harsh," Daisy pointed out, but she chuckled anyway. She'd thought the same thing more than a few times in the months since she'd moved to town. Not that the quality of men had anything to do with her life here and now, of course, but it didn't hurt to be polite and go along with a conversation. Especially during a lull in business. She wouldn't mind going out on a date with someone nice. Sometimes, in weak and foolish moments, she even thought about marriage and babies and a cozy little house.
"Maybe you should be nicer to the old ones," the young woman advised. "You don't want to be a waitress all your life, do you?"
"When I'm old I'll put this place up for sale and retire to Hawaii," Daisy declared, sipping her tea. The bell over the door jangled as two snow-covered men entered the room. The man with the sheriff carried a bundle that looked like a baby.
"Oh, wow, it's him." Heather smoothed her hair again. "Who gets him today?"
"Who? Sheriff Pierce?"
Heather shook her head. "Billy the Kid."
An idiotic name for a grown man, Daisy thought. "You can have him."
"Really?" The girl's face lit up.
"Be my guest." The bell jangled, admitting another couple into the room, so Daisy set her tea down and picked up a couple of menus.
"No, I can't." Heather sighed. "Mom and Dad just walked in. Looks like today is your lucky day, because I'll get in big trouble if Billy flirts with me and I look like I'm liking it."
"I'll wait on your parents," Daisy said, happy for any excuse to avoid booth nine. Billy Wilson left the waitresses at the café overly generous tips, but as far as Daisy was concerned, the man was the biggest pain in the rear of them all. That kind of man always was. She reminded herself that she was certainly immune to blue eyes and dark lashes and a fine set of shoulders. She was definitely unaffected by his wicked "come to me, baby" smile and all that lazy charm he poured on every woman within drawling distance.
"Go ahead, wait on Billy," Heather said. "Maybe he'll liven up your afternoon."
Daisy would have laughed, but the girl was right Billy Wilson did have a way of making a woman feel alive. Physically alive, in a self-conscious way. And getting physical with anyone was the last thing Daisy wanted to think about. Celibacy was dull, but certainly less risky than making another mistake.
She picked up a couple of menus and took her time walking across the room to where the sheriff was hanging up his heavy green coat Billy was holding a baby, which certainly was a strange sight The cowboy didn't look as if he was used to carting around an infant. Daisy tried not to stare, but she couldn't help taking a quick peek at the quilt-wrapped bundle as she dropped the menus on the table. The child looked about two months old, a tiny thing with closed eyes and pink cheeks. Pretty and delicate, the baby looked nothing like either man. Still, Daisy tried not to appear too curious. It was none of her business if Billy Wilson laid a baby beside him in the booth.
"Coffee?" she asked, knowing that the lanky sheriff lived on the stuff.
"Thanks."
She turned to Billy. "Coffee for you, too?" He nodded, but there was no accompanying smile. In fact, Daisy thought he looked a little pale. "Our Sunday specials are meet loaf with mashed potatoes and green beans, your choice of pie for dessert, or roast chicken with the same—potatoes, beans and pie."
"Meat loaf," a very subdued cowboy said. "And coffee. Lots of it."
"Sure. Sheriff?"
"I'll have the same. And three hamburgers and fries to take home with me in about half an hour, thanks."
"How's your wife doing?"
"Tired of being pregnant," Joe said. "The doctor told her to stay off her feet for the next couple of weeks, but it's not easy for her."
"Tell her I said hello."
"Sure."
"I'll get your coffee."
"Just a sec." Billy Wilson reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a baby bottle. "You mind warming her bottle for me?"
"No problem," she said, taking the bottle from his outstretched hand. As she turned away she heard the sheriff say, "See, Will? I told you fatherhood would be easy."
Fatherhood? Daisy resisted the urge to turn around and gape at the two men. Instead she hurried across the room and grabbed a metal milkshake can. Billy, the wildest guy in town, was a father? That poor kid.
She half filled the can with hot water and carefully placed the bottle inside.
"It's his baby, isn't it?" Barlow, the cook, peered through the opening that divided the kitchen from the rest of the café. Heather leaned over and clipped her parents' order to the board.
"I don't think so. Why would he have a baby? He's not the type."
"Hey," the man said, ignoring the order. "Anyone's the type."
"What type?" Daisy asked, placing her slip next to Heather's. "Two meat specials now, three burgs to go later."
Heather lowered her voice. "The type to have a kid. Do you think it's his? I mean, the sheriff hasn't had his baby yet, has he?"
BILLY AND THE KID Page 1