Billy didn’t have a talent like Tommy’s, or a passion for ranching like Sam and Joe. The only thing he was really good at was riding, roping, competing. He was a damn good cowboy, a risk taker, a winner. But take him off the road, take away his horse, and he had nothing to offer. Nothing but charm and sex. That was his talent. He knew how to make a woman feel good in bed. He’d known that since he was sixteen.
But being good in bed was exactly what had gotten him into this situation now.
*
Erika slowly circled the bedroom, Beck tucked under her chin, held closely against her chest.
She’d wrapped the extra quilt from her bed around both of them, trying to keep warm. Beck was having a hard time tonight, far more fretful than he’d been in weeks. He’d woken up just after midnight crying, and he’d spent the last two hours alternating between whimpers and cries, and so she kept picking him up and trying to calm him, not wanting Beck’s cries to wake up everyone else. It was an old house and she imagined sound traveled far too well.
She peered at her wristwatch, the green time glowing in the dark. Three thirty-eight. She’d been walking him for hours now, and she didn’t know what to do next. He’d been fed over an hour ago, and changed, and he didn’t feel feverish, but something was making him fretful and she was just feeling helpless and useless.
Erika did another little loop around her room, pausing at the window to lift the curtain and look out. The snow had stopped falling, and the moon glowed bright, reflecting off the thick layers of white. Everywhere she looked was frosted in snow—pine branches, porch overhang, fences, the trucks and her car in the driveway. She had never seen so much snow in her life. No wonder the room was so cold, and maybe that was the reason that Beck couldn’t sleep. Maybe he was too cold. Personally, she was freezing, even in socks with a quilt around her shoulders. The little heater in the closet didn’t put out much heat and she hadn’t wanted to complain but now she regretted not speaking up.
Maybe the kitchen would be warmer. Maybe she could even make something warm to drink. Drawing the quilt more close, she opened the door and made her way to the top of the stairs, where she flipped on the light and carefully made her way down with Beck crying as if there was no tomorrow.
In the kitchen, she turned on the light over the stove and then lit the burner beneath the kettle and then walked, and hummed to Beck, bouncing him ever so gently even though all she wanted to do was put him down and walk away.
How did parents do this? How did single moms do this? Her patience was shot. Her eyes burned hot and gritty. Even her shoulders and back ached.
Maybe Beck was hungry now. Rather than go back upstairs to retrieve the bottle, she made him another one from the formula and bottle on the counter, placing the bottle in the same little pan she’d used earlier to heat his bottle.
He wailed while they waited for the bottle to warm.
He wailed while she tested the temperature of the milk on the inside of her wrist.
He wailed when she put the bottle to his mouth, turning his head away, small fists waving furiously.
Why was he so miserable? Was it possible he was teething, or was he too young? She didn’t think he had a fever, but couldn’t be sure. She patted his diapered backside and it still felt dry. She tried the bottle again, and once more, he turned his face away, his little mouth and eyes screwing up for another sharp wail.
“Come on, little guy, come on, Beck. Work with me. I don’t know what I’m doing, either. I don’t know how to make you feel better.”
The kettle started to hiss, and she turned the gas off before it came to a full boil. She couldn’t fill her cup, not when Beck was arching and crying, and there was nowhere to put him down. Tea was a bad idea.
Coming here had been a bad idea.
She should have simply sent Billy a letter, giving him the facts, and asking him to meet her somewhere.
She should have avoided all of this.
And actually, she could have. She didn’t have to take Beck. She could have left him with social services. They would have put him in foster care and then eventually found a family for him. It was what they would have done if they hadn’t reached Erika, or if she’d refused to come to Las Vegas.
But she’d chosen to go to Las Vegas. She’d rushed there, and she’d wanted to take him. She’d wanted to honor April’s wishes, but right now, she felt useless. Useless, not hopeless, but still, incredibly discouraged.
She blinked, trying to make her eyes stop burning. But blinking just made her throat grow tighter and her chest feel heavier. She couldn’t remember when she last felt so overwhelmed. She hated feeling helpless, and her nerves were stretched tight from all the crying. There was such a sharp pitch to a baby’s cry, high, painful, demanding attention. “Beck,” she whispered, “please. Tell me what’s wrong. Come on, baby. Help me out here.”
*
Billy woke up in the night, a high piercing sound penetrating his dream. Eyes open, he listened intently. A wail. Then another. And another.
It was April’s baby.
But April was gone.
He hadn’t known what to feel earlier, shock overriding everything else, but now, in the dark of night, he felt sorrow and sympathy for a child that had lost his mother. It was a terrible thing to lose a parent. Billy had been just three when his dad and his uncle Samuel were killed in the accident on the way to the rodeo in Deadwood. Billy didn’t remember his dad, but there had been plenty of photos to show him who his dad had been, as well as how much his dad had loved his boys.
Was Beck his boy?
Billy struggled to wrap his mind around the possibility. Parenthood had been the last thing on his mind. He wasn’t interested in marriage, had no desire to settle down, and children weren’t part of the plan—maybe ever. If he did have kids, he’d known it would be years from now, when he’d gotten the hunger for competition out of his blood. But that wasn’t now. He loved everything about being a professional cowboy, loved all of it—the travel, the events, the time with his brothers, as well as the evenings with the pretty women who lined up for a dance, or a kiss, or more.
April had been one of those. She was fun, flirty, playful in bed. But she’d never be the one, and he’d never made bones about the fact that he wasn’t looking for more than a good time. It sounded crass, put that way, but it was the truth, and he was nothing but honest with the women he got naked with.
Could their crazy nights have created Beck?
And if so, why hadn’t April reached out to him?
Why not let Billy know he had a kid?
Regardless, a baby was wailing away down in the kitchen and Billy wasn’t going to be able to sleep now. He eased from bed, dressed warmly, and headed downstairs.
The kitchen was dark, with just the light on over the stove to illuminate the space. Billy spotted Erika near the door in the mudroom, facing the coatrack and swaying side to side, her hand slowly rubbing the baby’s small back. He watched her a long moment, thinking she looked impossibly tired. He could feel her exhaustion from across the room.
“How long have you been up?” he asked quietly, not wanting to startle her.
She turned quickly, startled anyway. “Did his crying wake you?”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“I came down here so we wouldn’t wake your mom or grandfather.”