The Cowboy's Unexpected Baby. Stephanie Dees
Note to Readers
Garrett Cole stumbled into the kitchen where he’d set the coffee to brew exactly seven minutes before his alarm went off. The last of the water sputtered through the filter as he pulled the coffeepot out and reached for a mug that wasn’t there.
He heard a mewling sound and froze. It sounded like a cat. Or a kitten. He thought about investigating, but no—coffee first, then strange sounds. Opening the cabinet, he pulled out a mug and, still half-asleep, went through the coffee ritual. One spoonful of sugar, a splash of vanilla almond milk, stir. Drink. Yes.
As the first jolt of caffeine hit his system, he started running the day’s schedule in his mind. Juvenile court at ten o’clock. Mrs. Bledsoe at three o’clock to finalize her latest will. The new social worker Wynn hired was dropping by today or tomor—he stopped, tilted his head and listened.
Was it a cat?
At least one single cat would be easier to deal with than the dog who’d had nine puppies under his porch a few months ago. Puppies everywhere. Puppies galore. He and his brothers and new sister-in-law had chased those little rascals all over the ranch and called in every last favor they were owed to find those pups a home.
He took another swig of coffee and listened. Silence.
In Garrett’s mind, he had three things going for him: his passion for his work, his dedication to family and his willingness to risk everything for a lost cause. And, boy, did those lost causes find him. Puppies under the house. Parents on their last chance to prove their sobriety. And now, apparently, kittens.
Garrett pulled open the door and stepped outside, stopping short when he heard the small cry again.
He spun slowly to the left.
It wasn’t a cat.
Garrett blinked, his mind refusing to process what he saw. There was an actual baby on his front porch. He took a step closer and closed his eyes. It had been a rough week—lots of late hours prepping for the last court case. Maybe he wasn’t as awake as he thought he was. But when he opened his eyes, it was still there—a very tiny baby in a pink outfit, rocking gently on the porch swing in its car seat.
He spun around, peering into the woods, sure his brothers were about to jump out laughing at how good they’d gotten him. But he saw nothing, heard nothing—only the sound of the wind rustling through the dried stalks of the cornfield yet to be cut and the rooster crowing in the distance.
In the car seat, the baby was starting to squirm.
Garrett stabbed his fingers through hair that was forever in need of a cut, the same two questions on repeat in his mind. Who left a baby on his porch? And what was he supposed to do with her?
The tiny face was getting redder, the grunts and whimpers coming more often. Garrett had almost no experience with babies, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t a good sign.
Picking up the seat and the diaper bag sitting next to it, he carried her—pink clothes, so it had to be a girl, right?—into the house. By the time he set her down again on the coffee table, the fussing had turned to full-out wailing, her color going from red to blotchy purple.
Garrett stared at her for a second, indecision paralyzing him. He had no idea what to do. Fingers shaking, he opened the diaper bag and tried to remember what he knew about babies, the sum total of knowledge coming from the few hours he’d spent with his brother Devin’s four-month-old twins.
“If they’re crying, there are three reasons,” Devin had said, ticking them off on his fingers. “Diaper. Dairy. Daddy.”
Garrett had rolled his eyes at his brother’s alliterative