Mail-Order Christmas Baby. Sherri Shackelford

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      “I’ll agree to one thing,” Sterling drawled in his cordial, dark-timbered voice. “This is all a big mistake.”

      The crowd murmured and eyebrows lifted in speculation, but no one stepped forward to claim responsibility. Folks were certainly curious, but feet merely shuffled and no one quite met anyone else’s eye.

      The child contently chewed her envelope and drooled.

      Heather held one hand against the front of the child’s eyelet lace frock and cupped her fingers on the back of the bonnet. She really was a cute little thing. Her blue-green eyes were framed by thick lashes, and her plump cheeks begged for a pinching. Heather’s gaze snagged on the glimpse of scarlet curls peeking out from beneath the child’s bonnet. Too bad about the red hair.

      Heather’s aunt and uncle had dubbed her a troublemaker simply because she’d been born with a certain color hair. She’d always had to be behave twice as well as other children to be thought of as half as obedient.

      Mrs. Dawson waved her embroidered square, drawing Otto’s attention. “Maybe there’s something in that envelope. Has anyone checked?”

      Two dozen heads rotated toward the baby. At the attention, the child cooed in delight and slapped one hand against her chubby thigh. Heather reached for the envelope and the child’s lower lip trembled.

      “Maa!” she wailed. “Maa goo.”

      “It’s all right,” Heather soothed. “Give me the envelope. I promise I’ll give it right back.”

      The two engaged in a brief tug-of-war, which Heather easily won. The trembling lip grew more pronounced, revealing two lower teeth, and then the babe sucked in a deep breath. Tears threatened in her enormous blue-green eyes, and her face turned a brilliant shade of red. Thinking quickly, Heather yanked on her bonnet ribbons, then presented the distraction.

      The child promptly crushed the brim with her damp hands while simultaneously gumming a silk rose. Heather grimaced. The bargain hat was all but ruined. At least she wouldn’t be reminded of Sterling’s offhand compliment and her awkward reply every time she donned it.

      Sterling reached for the envelope, but Otto was closer and intercepted her grasp.

      “Let’s get to the bottom of this,” the foreman declared. “I’ve got work to do this afternoon.”

      “Those sheep aren’t going to shear themselves,” the postmaster joked, much to the crowd’s delight.

      Something flashed in Otto’s eyes, a spark of anger or embarrassment, Heather couldn’t quite tell which. The foreman quickly masked the telling expression with one of his ready smiles.

      “That they don’t!” he tossed over his shoulder.

      Sterling lifted his eyes skyward. “You’ll all be thanking me this winter when you’re warm and cozy by the fire in your nice wool sweaters.”

      “Enough about those sheep.” With a slight grimace on his beefy face, Otto plucked at the soggy paper using the tips of his fingers. “We’ve got a mystery to solve.”

      Heather glanced askance and caught Sterling staring at her exposed hair. The fiery red color caught the afternoon rays, turning her head into an orange beacon.

      This time his smile was tinged with pity, and she self-consciously smoothed the strands. Her infatuation with Dillon had been just that—an infatuation. Sterling’s brother had been quiet, almost brooding. There was a part of her that always wanted to fix things for people, and Dillon seemed to need her, at least for a time. She’d mistaken his gentlemanly kindness for interest. She knew better now.

      “Ah-ha!” Otto declared, shaking out a wilted slip of paper. “This here is a Return of Birth.”

      The crowd surged forward.

      “What’s a Return of Birth?” Mr. Carlyle hollered.

      “It’s the paperwork for when a baby is born,” the postmaster explained. “The Return of Birth is filed with the county seat. Since Montana is still a territory, Silver Bow is the only county I know of that requests any paperwork.”

      “Stop wasting time.” Mrs. Dawson huffed. “What does it say?”

      There hadn’t been any good scandals for months, and Mrs. Dawson was clearly chomping at the bit. She’d be holding court at the Sweetwater Café this afternoon with the rest of the ladies, relaying every minute of these events in exaggerated detail.

      “Don’t rush me.” Otto squinted. “The lettering is real fancy. The child’s name is Grace.”

      His eyes tracked the writing and paused. His jaw dropped, and his face turned a brilliant shade of scarlet.

      “Well, um, uh,” he stuttered. “I don’t know what to make of that.”

      “Let me see.” Mrs. Dawson snatched the Return. “You’re taking too long. I don’t have my spectacles but I can make out most of the lettering. A Christmas baby. She’ll turn two on December 25—that’s two months away. Place of birth is Butte. The child’s name is Grace. Otto got that right.”

      “The parents,” the postmaster prodded. “Who are the parents?”

      “The father’s name is listed as Sterling Blackwell.” Mrs. Dawson snorted.

      The smile slipped from Sterling’s face, and a moment later all the color had drained away. “That can’t be.”

      “Thank the stars your father isn’t around to see this scandal.”

      Fighting back an unexpected tide of jealousy at the thought of Sterling fathering a child, Heather peered over the edge of the paper. She was unpardonably curious about the child’s parentage.

      “What about the mother?” Another voice saved her from asking.

      “No married name printed. Her maiden name is listed as—” Mrs. Dawson shrieked and clutched the paper against her chest. “Oh my.”

      The platform of gawkers froze.

      “Who is it?” someone called.

      “Oh my word.” Mrs. Dawson took a dramatic breath. “The mother’s maiden name is listed as—” She paused to ensure she had everyone’s attention. “Heather O’Connor.”

      * * *

      Sterling searched for his voice, which seemed to be locked somewhere in the back of his throat. Otto covered his eyes with one hand and shook his head.

      Mrs. Dawson shot Heather a withering glare with enough heat to melt the shingles off a roof. She collapsed onto a bench and threw her wrist over her forehead. “I’ve been shaken to the core.”

      Mrs. Dawson was shaken, all right—she was practically vibrating with excitement. The woman thrived on gossip like a hog on slop.

      Heather O’Connor.

      She’d gone so pale, even her lips were leached of color.

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