The Rancher's Miracle Baby. April Arrington

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      “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.

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