Page 7 of The Cowboy and the Baby

“Yes. Well . . . no. Not anymore.”

Cade lifted an eyebrow.

My stomach plummeted at the thought of voicing aloud the dumpster fire that I left behind. “Did you grow up in Wyoming?” I asked in lieu of explanation.

“Yep. Various parts. Been ranching all my life.”

“What took you to Chicago?”

“Chicago was a layover from Florida.”

“Seeking sunshine?”

My witty quip only earned half a smile. “Something like that.” His eyes skated away. Whatever he did in Florida, it didn’t have happy vibes. While drink carts rattled by, Cade set a hand on his knee and asked, “How old is Lily?”

“Four weeks today.”

“She’s brand new.”

I ran my fingertips along the back of Lily’s warm, pliant neck. “Yes. She’s a tiny thing. How is the ranch? Marsha said it needs some work.”

He nodded. “Definitely needs that.”

“Is it warm inside?”

“Mostly.”

“Is it isolated?”

“A bit.”

“Then it’s perfect.”

He didn’t question my resolution, which earned several more trust points. If we had to be thrown together, not having to answer questions would be helpful.

Flawed or not, the ranch would still be ideal for my situation. Lily and I could hide in the mountains and let the drama unfolding in Chicago dissipate. Once I had the official adoption papers in my hands, I’d emerge.

“Almost everything needs a little updating,” Cade added, “but the house is functional. Some places more than others. The kitchen is fine. Well . . . everything is fine, but it’s . . . I don’t know. Seems like one of those houses that, when everything starts to break, it all breaks.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“Only if you’re afraid of hard work.”

Afraid wouldn’t be the right term. With my arms full of a baby and certainty a thousand miles behind me, overwhelmed fit better. If the ranch had that much disrepair, I’d call Marsha. She loved coordinating and spending money, and Bart would help me figure out upgrades.

“You’re staying at the ranch, right?” Cade inquired with a level steadiness that had to be hiding something.

“Yes. If that works for you?”

“Of course.”

“Is there room?”

“There are lots of rooms.”

His vague reply left something unstated. Of course rooms existed—I spent several summers there before Grandma died—but that wasn’t what I meant. The humming engine and dimmed lights made it hard to think about how to rephrase the same question. I stole sleep whenever I could find it, and there hadn’t been much to find the last four weeks.

My eyes drooped as I leaned against the headrest, Lily tight in my arms.