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  Barclay

  Bachelors and Babies Book #4

  Charlene Raddon

  Barclay

  Copyright © 2019 by Charlene Raddon

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Charlene Raddon

  www.charleneraddon.com

  www.silversagebookcovers.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Formatting by Cordially Chris Author Services

  Barclay / Charlene Raddon. -- 1st ed.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to everyone who ever adopted a child

  Acknowledgements

  I wish to thank my critique group, The Wasatch Mountain Fiction Writers, in particular, Kathi Oram Peters and Maureen Mills, for all the support they’ve given me on this book and all the others I’ve written. Thanks also to Barbara Hightower and Thamy Villanueva for their promotional efforts. Last but certainly not the least, much gratitude to all my loyal readers.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  About the Author

  Books in the Bachelors and Babies Series

  Visit Charlene on Social Media

  Other Books by Charlene Raddon

  Prologue

  Late November 1879

  S moke from the fire swirled into the air, ghostly fingers clawing at the clouds. Sparks—like tiny bullets—flew everywhere. Helpless and alone, Cynara watched her home burn to the ground. She smelled it. She heard it. She felt the burn of it in her heart.

  No one rushed over with buckets of water to douse the flames. Cynara wanted to. But couldn't. Didn't dare.

  Her house. Her house. Her pretty little house—gone.

  Her gaze drifted to the long bundle lying on the ground.

  Husband—gone.

  Home—gone.

  Everything—gone.

  Except her baby. She rested her hands on her rounded tummy and felt the baby kick. Ward would never see his child who wouldn’t be born for two more months. That alone could have broken her heart, had it not already been shattered into a million pieces.

  Her insides felt hollow and yet heavy, almost too heavy to move. She'd become a shell; not a real person anymore. One slight breeze and she would blow away, she had such little substance. She had become nothing, a wraith, useless, alone, homeless. Every day she prayed her lethargy would not affect the child growing inside her.

  The child that was all she had left to live for.

  "Cynara, are you all right?" Doc Willoughby appeared at her side, his thick mustache hiding his mouth.

  She said nothing. What was there to say? Everything lay plainly in front of them, the burning house, the shrouded body. Within twenty-four hours, she had lost nearly everything.

  "I'm sorry you had to lose your home, Cynara." He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We had to keep the fever from spreading."

  Inside the house, flames nibbled at the hems of the calico curtains she'd made with her own hands. Everything she and Ward had owned now smoldered inside that burning cabin. Her clothes, the family photograph her mother had given her the day she and Ward left Ohio to come west. His pocket watch. The crib Ward had lovingly constructed for the precious baby they'd waited months to finally see.

  The tiny booties Cynara had knitted, the diapers she'd made, the yard-long blanket crocheted in blue, yellow and pink. The homemade doll her child would never touch.

  She knew the baby would be a girl. Ward had laughed at her, but she knew.

  Oh, Lord, will the pain ever end?

  What kind of mother will I be with my heart so broken?

  Near the body, two neighbors dug the grave Ward would occupy.

  How she hated not having a black dress to wear. Had she owned one, it would be burning like everything else. She had no money for fabric to make one. To wear faded blue dishonored Ward's memory. But there were worse things.

  "I'm killing my baby," she said in a calm, somber voice.

  "What are you talking about?" Doc turned to face her, letting go of her shoulder.

  She lifted a hand and let it fall helplessly. "I worked so hard seeing to Ward I didn't eat or rest much. The baby will suffer for it."

  "Cynara, that child inside you is strong like your spirit. It will survive and be fine."

  A tear slipped over the rim of her eyelid. She ignored it. "You sure, Doc?"

  "Yes. Are you all right?"

  "I… I will be. Thank you."

  "Your body may be fine," he said. "I'm not so sure about your emotional well-being. Having your heart broken isn't an easy thing to recover from."

  My heart? Not simply broken—yanked from my chest and crushed like berries.

  Only yesterday Ward had been alive. Talking, eating, drinking. The smallpox had struck so suddenly, so unexpectedly.

  Cynara felt her own will slipping away. What was the use of hanging on? She had lost everything, including her heart.

  "You're young, Cynara." Like hers, Doc Willoughby's gaze switched back and forth between the flames and the gravediggers. "You're about to give life to the infant you carry. You have a lot of living yet to do. And you'll find happiness again. You can't give up."

  Would she find happiness again? Right now, she couldn't imagine such a thing ever happening. Inside her womb, the baby kicked hard as if to remind her of its presence and how greatly it would need her.

  Yes, Cynara would go on living. She had to.

  Chapter One

  April 1879, Cutthroat, Montana

  T he figure approaching the house by way of the ranch road looked like a big box leading a horse. For the life of him, Barclay couldn't figure out who the visitor might be. Suppertime would come soon, which meant they'd have to feed him. No problem. They could afford to share their food. For Barclay, the problem was time.

  The ranch dogs barked up a storm, meaning they didn't recognize the visitor. Overhead, dark clouds obscured the sun, dimming visibility. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  The last thing Barclay Givens needed today was company demanding his attention. He had papers to read, ledgers to balance, plans to make.

  As the caller drew closer, Barclay realized the shape could be blamed on long skirts. A woman! He squinted, trying to see if it could be Annabelle whose parents owned the Double Z Ranch next door. She'd been chasing after him for years. Very soon now, she'd be old enough to marry and had made it clear she intended him to be her husband. Barclay had no time for women. Especially young, silly ones who sought marriage. The need to build up the ranch and verify his own worth drove him. To prove to himself if no one else.

  The visitor wore a large shawl, or a blanket draped over the head and covering the entire body, arms hidden within the folds of fabric. His steps seemed wobbly, uncertain. Perhaps illness explained why he didn't ride his horse.

  Tarnation, just what Barclay needed—an ill stranger requiring attentio
n. He wished he dared to turn him away. But he could never do that.

  When the person staggered, Barclay moved from his office into the great room and yelled to his brothers somewhere in the house. "Hey, Jared! Chase! Company coming. Maybe a woman and possibly ill or hurt. Help me get her inside."

  Chase hustled out of the kitchen with a dab of jam at the corner of his mouth. At only eighteen, he never seemed to get enough food. "You, bringing a woman into the house? That's a first. Who is it?"

  "I don't know." Barclay donned his hat, grabbed a raincoat, and reached for the brass knob on the front door. "Wipe that jam off your face and pretend to be grown up. I need you to have Slim send someone for the doc."

  For once, Chase didn't argue. He grabbed his gutta percha rain poncho, pulling it on over his head.

  "What's going on?" Jared clomped down the stairs from his room. "Did you say a woman's coming?"

  "That's right." Barclay opened the door and shouted for the dogs to shut up while he donned his own raingear. Chase trotted across the ranch yard to where Slim stood with another hand by the bunkhouse. After the foreman hopped on his horse at the hitching rail, Chase ran back to the house.

  The three brothers stood together on the broad porch that stretched the length of the big log house and around one corner. The dogs took up barking again until Barclay yelled at them.

  "If that’s not a pregnant woman," Jared said, pulling his hat lower on his head, "I'm a one-eyed coyote."

  "More like a blind wolf," Chase shot back with a grin.

  Jared gave his young brother a shove. "Maybe, but I know a woman with a full belly when I see one."

  "She's expecting, all right." Barclay saw it clearly now. He descended the steps, the wind slapping his coat against his legs. Had his irresponsible youngest brother gotten some poor girl in trouble? If so, Chase best prepare himself for a wedding and maybe a good thrashing. "You know anything about this, Chase?"

  "Me?" The boy put a hand on his chest. "Why do you always blame me for everything?"

  The reason for Barclay’s question already left his mind, his thoughts consumed by the visitor coming toward them. "Better get her in the house before she drops her load in the mud."

  "Thunderation." Jared spat at a rock. A gust caused him to miss his target. "What're we going to do if she gives birth here?"

  "Pray," Barclay answered.

  Chase hung back. "I don't think I want anything to do with this. They say women giving birth scream and carry on so bad it can make a man avoid ever loving one again."

  "I'm not asking you to deliver the baby," Barclay fired back.

  "Gert's grief, little brother," Jared said, punching Chase's arm. "You haven't had enough loving to even know what it is yet."

  "Who says?" Chase followed Jared and Barclay off the porch.

  The woman stopped, bent over, hugging her belly, and let out a long, agonizing grunt.

  "Hell," Jared muttered. "Do you think she could be in labor?"

  "Reckon we’ll find out. Don’t worry. You’ve delivered calves and foals. You’ll do fine bringing this baby into the world. If there is one."

  Jared snorted. "Not me. You can do it.”

  Barclay didn't want to think about a strange woman giving birth in his house. He disliked having women here, except for family. Even then, sometimes, his mother—and his two sisters when they were in town—became more than he wanted to deal with. Women were trouble pure and simple.

  When they reached their visitor, Barclay felt both alarm and surprise. He'd never seen a woman appear so ragged. And terrified. What he'd guessed to be a shawl proved to be a quilt that had seen better days. Under that, he glimpsed a plain, patched dress that might have once been a nice blue before seeing too many washings.

  "Hello." He stopped short, not wanting to frighten her. "I'm Barclay Givens. My brothers and I own this ranch. Were you looking for one of us?"

  She shook her head. Likely all she had strength for, judging from her pale, drawn face and the way her every movement was slow as if painful. If he had to guess, he'd say she'd been through some sort of hell recently, one that had left her with a black eye.

  "You look about to drop, ma'am. How about I carry you to the house?" Barclay held out his arms, eager to get back inside before the storm broke.

  Her eyes widened, and she backed up, holding a hand in a stop gesture.

  "Here." Jared reached for the reins to her horse. "Let me take care of your mare."

  Leave it to Jared to see to the small necessities. He was the get it done Givens brother, never hesitating to do what needed doing. Chase, on the other hand, would probably go start a game of draw in the bunkhouse.

  She let go of the reins, allowing Jared to lead the horse toward the barn.

  Barclay stood there, hands on his hips, feeling stupid. He knew nothing about dealing with women. As he'd noted before, she looked ready to collapse any second. "Where is your husband, ma'am? May we fetch him for you?"

  She gave her head half a shake then gasped. Her face paled, then reddened. Breathe, Barclay wanted to say. Breathe.

  She did. "No husband," she murmured softly as if ashamed.

  Barclay glanced away. Had her man run out on her?

  Thunder rumbled and lightning followed close, striking too close for Barclay’s comfort. Rain followed. Figuring things had gone on long enough, he scooped her up and took off as fast as he could. Despite the girl's protests and attempts to shove him away, he held on, getting her into the house safe and relatively dry.

  Oysters stood inside the great room with an oversized spoon and a stupid look on his loveable old face. His bearded chin dropped when he saw Barclay with the woman. "Wadda you boys been up to now?"

  At the sound of the aging man's voice, the girl stopped struggling and stared at him.

  Chase burst in, huge raindrops chasing at his heels. "Hope Slim gets through the creek before it swells."

  Barclay turned to him. "Run up and turn down the bed in the guest room so I can lay her down."

  Chase climbed the stairs two at a time and disappeared down a hallway.

  Before Barclay had moved an inch, about a gallon of liquid gushed down his front side. "What on earth?"

  "S-Sorry. M-my water broke. Please don't get mad. I couldn't help it." The girl squirmed and pushed against his chest, as if desperate to be free.

  Did she truly think he'd be angry with her? He knew what happened. It had taken him by surprise was all. He set her on her feet, slipping the quilt from her shoulders at the same time. She wobbled a little before getting her balance. A second later, she'd doubled over again, grunting and gritting her teeth.

  "She's in labor," Oysters said uselessly. "Get her upstairs. Baby could come fast now. I'll mop the floor."

  Barclay made a mental note to ask the aging bachelor how he knew anything about women in labor. Near as any of the brothers knew, the man had never married. But then, all sorts of unexpected events were taking place today.

  "I don't think you have the strength to walk upstairs," Barclay told the girl. "Will you let me carry you?"

  She shook her head and waddled toward the stairs. Before she made it to the third riser, another spasm gripped her.

  Barclay plucked her into his arms with typical impatience. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to get you to a bed before you drop your baby on the floor."

  She didn't argue, though plainly uncomfortable with the situation. Hell, so was he. When he reached the guest room, he found the blankets at the foot of the bed as requested. He hated putting her down with soaking wet skirts, but he couldn't hold her forever. The best he could do was keep her muddy boots off the bed coverings. With his arms free, he went to work trying to untie the rope holding on her shoes.

  "Help me get these off, Chase."

  "I think I'd better boil some water." Chase, the chicken, raced downstairs.

  Thank goodness for Jared and his common sense. He entered and immediately set to helping out. The woman had the poore
st excuse for footwear Barclay had ever seen. Brown ankle-high half-boots made for a working man, and already worn to the sole. Wads of paper fell out, newsprint she'd stuffed inside to make them fit. Rope held them on instead of laces. No stockings like women usually wore, which helped to explain the blister on the bottom of her foot where a hole showed.

  "What's your name?" he asked. "I'm Barclay and this is my brother, Jared."

  She didn't respond.

  "Would you like some coffee or tea?" Jared asked.

  She shook her head.

  Setting her shoes on the floor, Barclay tried to pull the ratty quilt from under her. He could see how dirty it was. She resisted his efforts, so he gave up and drew the covers up to her chin instead. At least she’d be warm. He had no idea what to say. His impulse was to tell her how foolish she'd been and that she was paying for it now. He immediately heard his mother’s voice in his head bawling him out for being presumptuous and judgmental.

  She closed her eyes, refusing to look at him or Jared. She couldn't be more than seventeen, just a girl with a dirty face, black eye, no man, and a child about to enter the world. He wished she did have a husband so they could leave him to tend to her and their baby.

  Since she refused to speak and they could do nothing more, the two men sneaked out of the room, closing the door behind them. In the great room, Oysters stood rooted to the same spot as before, as if uncertain how to deal with the new goings-on in the house. He'd been the ranch cook for thirty years, working for the brothers' parents before their father died and their mother moved to town.

  "She ain't gonna be emptying that belly 'o hers here, is she?" Oysters asked.

  "Why don't you tell us?" Barclay walked into the kitchen, followed by the cook. Jared plopped down on the settee. "You seemed downright knowledgeable about the subject a few minutes ago."

  The old cook set his jaw and Barclay knew it wouldn't do any good to question him now. "I sent Slim for Doc Willoughby. We'll see what he says when he gets here. Where's Chase? I thought he came down to boil some water."