Harding’s nerves twitched at the sharp, penetrating sound, like the wail of a cat. He pulled on the reins of his horse and reached for the rifle he always carried with him, as did almost every man in the rugged northwest part of Montana Territory. He scanned his surroundings for the source of the sound.
A wagon stood in the shadow of the trees to his left, far enough away he couldn’t make out the occupants, but from the list of the wagon, he suspected they might be needing assistance. A man simply did not ride by anyone in trouble out here where help was miles away, though Johnny wasn’t about to heedlessly ride into a trap, either. His fingers remained on the rifle as he approached the wagon.
A woman sat on the bench. He did a quick assessment of her. Dark brown hair, medium skin tone, dark brown eyes that seemed to hold a world of regret. She clutched a bundle of blanket in one arm. The sound seemed to come from that area. A baby, no doubt. An unhappy baby.
The wagon was piled with belongings—boxes and crates and a mattress tied on the top. Canvas partially covered the contents.
He slowed, waiting for the husband to make himself known. Slowly, Johnny eased the rifle to his knee, his finger resting on the trigger. His nerves tensed and he squinted into the trees, half expecting a man to jump out and demand his money and valuables.
He snorted. His saddlebags held nails and carpentry tools that he intended to use to fix up the Hamilton cabin. Hardly worth shooting a man for.
“Hello,” he called. “Looks like you could use some help.”
The woman turned to him. Emotions raced across her face—surprise, followed by welcome, and as quickly replaced with a fierce look. She didn’t answer.
“Are you in need of assistance?”
The woman glanced about. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Johnny edged closer, once again eyeing the trees, then darting his attention back to the wagon, alert for someone to leap from the box. He’d ride away, but until he knew the people could proceed, his conscience dictated he investigate further. “Ma’am, do you need help?” he repeated, now close enough to see the worry in her dark eyes and the fever-stained cheeks of the baby in her arms, whose cry threatened to pierce his eardrums. “Where’s your husband?” He spoke loudly to be heard above the infant’s cries.
She looked at him, eyes barely registering his presence. “He’s gone.”
“He left you here?” Johnny’s words carried enough anger for her to blink and look at him as if finally realizing he was there.
“He’s dead.”
Dead? The word speared through Johnny’s thoughts. When? Had the man died of whatever made the baby ill? “Is he there?” He indicated the wagon box behind her.
She shook her head. “It’s just me, my son and my gun.” She lifted a corner of the baby’s blanket and Johnny saw a revolver aimed at him.
His hand remained on the rifle as he judged how fast he could duck away. Probably not fast enough. He couldn’t believe she traveled alone in this unsettled area. “I mean you no harm. When I saw the wagon I thought you might be needing assistance.”
Their gazes caught and held, his unblinking as he tried to let her know she had nothing to fear from him.
The woman sighed and lowered the gun to her lap, ready should she need it again, but not a present threat. “My baby is sick.” She rocked vigorously, which did nothing to ease the plaintive cries. Perhaps it made her feel better. Johnny couldn’t say, having never had anything to do with a human baby. She hadn’t come right out and said she needed help, but it wasn’t necessary. Her predicament could be seen by anyone with eyes in his head.
“How about I fix the wheel and take you to the Sundown Ranch? It’s just a few miles that away.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “My stepmother, Maisie Harding, is good at taking care of sick people. Maybe you’ve heard of her.”
The woman shook her head. “If you would point me in the right direction...”
He sidestepped his big gray gelding, aptly named Gray, alongside the wagon and swung down to examine the wheel. Sensing the woman’s tension, and mindful of the gun in her lap, he talked as he looked things over, hoping it would assure her of his noble intentions. “Ma’am, I’m Johnny Harding. My pa, Big Sam Harding, is well-known hereabouts.” He glanced in her direction to see if she showed any sign of acknowledgment. Nope. Nothing. Just the barest glance before she turned her attention back to the baby, whose cries had subsided to whimpers. Thinking that wasn’t a good sign, Johnny quickly tightened the hub on the wheel. “That will hold you until you get to the ranch. Then I’ll fix it good and proper.”
He tied Gray to the back of the wagon and headed for the front. He’d see this woman and her child safely to the ranch and then he’d get on with his own plans.
His friend Thad Hamilton would soon arrive and Johnny had promised to have the cabin repaired by then. It would have been done already except he’d had to order in a few supplies, delaying his work. That left him little time to fulfill his part of their bargain. And he didn’t mean to do anything to discourage Thad and make him change his mind. Thad had left a broken man, besieged by the death of his sister. Coming back signaled he meant to get on with life.
Johnny paused as he neared the bench. The gun glistened in the sun.
“Ma’am, I’m going to climb up there and sit beside you. Don’t shoot me, okay?”
She gave him a steely look, then tipped her head ever so slightly.
She hadn’t spoken a word, but her warning rang inside his head as if she’d announced it with noisy church bells. She would shoot him in an instant should he try anything other than driving.
He eased onto the wagon seat beside her and took up the reins. “What’s wrong with the little one?”
“Besides he’s sick?”
Her answer amused Johnny, but he didn’t know if it was safe to laugh, so he simply quirked his eyebrows. “Just wondering if you know. Like maybe he’s teething...” He’d heard that mentioned as a cause of fussiness in a baby, but didn’t have any idea if it was that. “Or is he getting the measles or something...?” His voice trailed off.
“Measles? You think it’s measles?” She jerked the blanket down and pulled up a tiny shirt. He guessed the little one was about old enough to be walking on his own, but at the moment he seemed too tired to move. “Do you see a rash?”
“No, ma’am.” What he saw was a baby hanging limply in her arms, too weak to hold his head up. “What’s his name?”
“This is Adam.”
“Solid name.”
“First man. Figured the name might let my boy know he could start with a clean slate, just like Eve’s Adam.”
“Pleased to meet you, Adam.” Johnny touched the bare little knee and drew back to stare. “He’s so soft.”
She chuckled. “Babies are soft, aren’t they?”
“He’s the first one I ever touched.”
“That’s
