Their Unexpected Family

by Judy Duarte

  “Thanks.” She offered him an appreciative smile. “It may sound weird, but this is the first time she hasn’t really been a part of me. And it will make me feel better if you stayed.”

  He nodded. “You try to get some sleep. If she cries, I’ll wake you.”

  Juliet chuckled. “If she cries, I have a feeling I’ll hear her.”

  “Maybe so. But just in case, I’ll stick around.”

  She stroked the little girl’s cheek, then looked at Mark. “Can you lay her in the bed?”

  What?

  Hold her?

  Well, he supposed it would be tough for Juliet to maneuver. And maybe she wasn’t allowed out of bed. “Okay.”

  Juliet handed him the tiny bundle. The sleeping baby, still warm from her mother’s embrace, felt like a bit of nothing in his arms. An empty bundle of flannel.

  He tried not to spend too much time fawning over her, marveling over the healthy pink color and the way her mouth made little kissing movements, but it wasn’t easy. He actually had to make himself place her in the bed.

  Then, without thinking, he brushed a kiss across Juliet’s brow, an affectionate gesture he hadn’t planned.

  It didn’t seem to bother her, which he supposed was good.

  “Don’t worry,” he told her.

  “I won’t.” She smiled, then nestled her head into the pillow and closed her eyes.

  He watched her for a while, saw her grow easy and suspected she’d fallen asleep. He’d promised to watch over her and the little one.

  And he would.

  He just hoped to God that he’d been right when he told her not to worry. That nothing would go wrong.

  Especially on his watch.

  Chapter Seven

  Juliet sat up in the hospital bed, a tray of breakfast before her. Mark, bless his heart, had gone to the cafeteria. But he’d stayed with her the entire night.

  He had to be exhausted, because each time she’d wakened for a feeding, he’d handed the baby to her.

  She couldn’t believe how helpful he’d been, how supportive. Nor could she believe how much she’d grown to appreciate having him near. Or how his smile could make her feel as though she didn’t have a worry in the world when that wasn’t the case. Her finances were still shaky, especially since she would need to hire a sitter after her disability ran out.

  The baby whimpered, and Juliet turned to see her daughter scrunch her sweet face. Throughout the night, Mark had called her Sweet Pea, referring to the crawling infant in a Popeye cartoon. But the little girl needed a real name.

  Over the past few months, Juliet had tossed around some ideas. At one time, while contemplating girls’ names, she’d thought about calling the baby Manuela, after her brother. Or maybe Maria Elena, after her abuelita. But before making a final decision, she’d decided to wait until her daughter arrived.

  It seemed logical to make sure the baby looked like a Manuela or a Maria before dubbing her with a name that would stick for the rest of her life. And now that Juliet had seen the baby and fallen in love with her, neither seemed to fit.

  But around two o’clock in the morning, she’d gotten another idea. Something that felt more appropriate and more fitting.

  The door swung open, as Mark entered the room. He carried a newspaper and a disposable cup she assumed was coffee.

  “Looks like Sweet Pea is giving you a chance to eat breakfast in peace,” he said.

  Juliet smiled and glanced at the precious little one lying in the bassinette. “So far so good, but I think she’s starting to wake up now.”

  He made his way to the baby’s bedside and studied her while she squirmed. “What are you going to call her?”

  Juliet didn’t respond until his gaze caught hers. “I’d like to name her after you, Mark. What do you think of Marissa?”

  His eyes widened, and his lips parted. “You’re going to name her after me?”

  He seemed genuinely touched, and she was glad. “I’m not sure how I would have managed without you this past week.”

  Before he could respond further, a blond candy striper popped her head in the door. “Are you finished with breakfast?”

  “Yes,” Juliet said, taking one last sip of milk.

  The bright-eyed teen crossed the room with a spring in her step and picked up Juliet’s tray. “Did you hear the news?”

  Mark, who’d managed to doff the sentiment from his expression the minute the candy striper entered the room, slipped into reporter mode. “What news?”

  “A couple of guys hunting for gold near Turner Grade found several large nuggets. They showed the E.R. staff, and everyone said they were the biggest ones yet.” The teenager smiled, revealing a set of rainbow-colored braces. “My grandpa left us a piece of property that used to be a gold mine in the olden days. And my dad is going to get a second mortgage on our house so he can buy the equipment and hire a crew to start working it again.”

  Juliet glanced at Mark, knowing what he was thinking—that the poor candy striper’s father was wasting his time, as well as risking the family’s financial security.

  Mark didn’t comment, didn’t deflate the young woman’s hope, which was good. And Juliet, who always tried to keep a positive outlook, was glad he’d held his tongue. But she had to admit even she found the man’s enthusiasm a bit scary. After all, Mark had been right about something. Most of the gold hunters would end up empty-handed.

  “What were the prospectors doing in the E.R.?” Mark asked.

  “Apparently, they’d been celebrating their find at The Hitching Post last night. On the way to the parking lot, one of them tripped and cut his hand on a bottle of beer he’d been holding. So he came in for stitches.”

  “Crazy fools.” Mark glanced at Juliet, with a see-what-I-mean look in his eye, which silently pointed out the downside of the gold rush.

  It was amazing. Juliet and Mark had actually communicated in a look, a glance. Just like married couples seemed to do.

  For a moment, she wondered what had happened between them in the past week. What had changed? Had they forged some kind of a bond? And if so, what direction would their friendship take?

  But rather than get carried away, she shrugged off her question, deciding to take one day at a time.

  “The E.R. gets a lot of gold-rush related injuries,” Mark said.

  “They sure do.” The candy striper grinned. “Just this morning, someone came in with a gunshot wound.”

  “That’s a lot more serious than a cut or broken bone,” Mark said. “Was it another prospector?”

  “Uh-huh. My friend is a nurse’s aide, and she told me it was a property dispute or something like that.” The teenager lifted Juliet’s tray. “Well, I’d better get back to work.” Then she left the room and went on her way.

  Juliet glanced at Mark, saw his furrowed brow.

  Was he contemplating the value of the candy striper’s gossip? Or the importance of the land dispute?

  “It looks like your story is taking off without you,” Juliet said. “Marissa and I are doing okay. Why don’t you take some time to yourself?”

  “Maybe I will.” He glanced at the baby, watched her squirm and fuss. “Mind if I pick her up? I think she’s hungry.”

  Juliet could just as easily take care of the baby herself, but she had a feeling Mark liked being helpful. “Please do.”

  He held the child against his chest for a bit longer than necessary, which Juliet thought was sweet. That fish-out-of-water expression hadn’t completely disappeared, but he’d grown more confident.

  “Have a nice breakfast, Sweet Pea.” He ran a knuckle along the baby’s cheek, then handed her to Juliet. “I’ll be back later this afternoon.”

  “That’s fine. Dr. Hart was just here. She wants to keep us at least another night, just to make sure Marissa is nursing well and doesn’t develop any problems related to her premature birth.”

  “Ma-ris-sa,” he said, enunciating each sound. His eyes lit up, as he smiled. “I’m n
ot sure if I told you, but I like that. It’s a pretty name for a pretty little girl.”

  Then he grabbed his coffee, rolled up the newspaper and headed for the door. Off to work. Just like a typical new father.

  Stop that, Juliet told herself. Soy la tonta del barrio, the biggest fool in town.

  Mark had been a good friend—that’s all. And she couldn’t let those kinds of silly thoughts take root.

  Lord knew she didn’t need to set herself up for any more disappointments in her life.

  The newspaper office was located along South Main, just a few blocks from Town Square. It wasn’t a big building, but then again, the Thunder Canyon Nugget was only a weekly.

  Mark had come by twice before, not long after he’d arrived in town. But the publisher and editor, Roy Canfield, had an Out To Lunch sign on the door. And the sign had remained there all afternoon.

  But today Mark was in luck—no sign and the door of the white-stucco building was unlocked.

  He entered the small front office and caught the heady scent of newsprint and ink.

  A heavyset, salt-and-pepper-haired man in a tweed sports jacket sat at a desk near a door leading to the back. His leather desk chair squeaked as he turned from his work. “Can I help you?”

  “My name’s Mark Anderson. I’m with Golden Eagle News Service. Are you Mr. Canfield?”

  “Yes, siree.” The sixty-something man stood and reached out a hand in greeting. “But call me Roy.”

  They shook hands, and Mark cut to the chase. “I read your latest editorial. In fact, I was a bit surprised that it was so well-written and thought-provoking.”

  “Because you agree with me? Or because the Nugget is just a weekly?” Roy crossed his arms above an ample belly, but his smile indicated he hadn’t found the comment offensive.

  Mark returned his smile. “Actually, I disagreed with you. And I plan to write a letter in rebuttal.”

  “Good!” Roy stood as tall as his five-and-a-half foot frame would allow, putting quite a strain on his red suspenders. “I’m always up for a heated debate.”

  Mark smiled. “I must admit the issue I read was better than I expected.”

  “I bought the Nugget two years ago, after I retired from a big-city press. And I’ve tried to make it a quality newspaper while maintaining the small-town appeal.”

  “You’ve done a good job. I expected to see something about a two-headed cow or a fifty-pound rutabaga.”

  “That’s what I’ve tried to get away from ever since I bought this rag.” Roy’s blue eyes glistened. “It’s not always easy to find real news in a small town. Do you know what the last editor ran on the front page the day before I took the helm?”

  Mark shook his head. “Hard telling.”

  Roy chuckled, his belly shaking with mirth. “Elmer Godwin, who was suffering from a godawful case of gout, got drunk and, in his frustration over the pain, tried to cut off his big toe and damn near bled to death.”

  A wry smile tugged at Mark’s lips. “Sorry I missed that issue.”

  “Bet Golden Eagle would have paid you plenty for a newsflash like that.” Roy indicated a chair in front of his desk. “Why don’t you take a seat? It isn’t often we get a hotshot reporter from the city in town.”

  There was something about Roy Canfield that Mark liked, that he could relate to, although he sure as hell didn’t know what it was. The fact that they were both journalists, he supposed.

  “I’ve been sent to write a big spread on the gold rush,” Mark told the older man. “But I doubt there’s anything worthy of a story.”

  “You gotta believe, son.” Canfield’s blue eyes sparkled.

  “Come on, Roy.” Mark took the seat across from the heavyset older man. “The fortune hunters are spitting into the wind.”

  “What about those two brothers who found themselves a couple of good-size nuggets yesterday?”

  “You mean the two guys who celebrated at The Hitching Post and ended up at the E.R. getting stitches in one of their hands?” Mark clucked his tongue. “Sure, there might be a few nuggets out there. But the real story lies in the broken dreams of those foolish enough to sell their homes and buy prospecting gear, especially when they don’t know squat about mining gold.”

  “You know who Caleb Douglas is?” Canfield asked.

  “Yeah. He’s a wealthy businessman and cattle baron who’s developing that new ski resort.”

  Canfield nodded. “And right now, the man is more interested in finding the deed to the Queen of Hearts mine.”

  “I’d heard he was still having trouble locating the deed. Are you saying he’s caught gold fever?”

  “For years, that boarded up mine was considered worthless, except as a piece of real estate. And more recently, as you probably know, Caleb has been focused on that fancy new ski resort and the ground-breaking ceremony next month. But that’s not the case anymore.” Canfield leaned back in his chair, leather creaking and wood squeaking as he rocked. “When a couple of squatters began to hunt for gold on Caleb’s property, he was concerned about liability, more than anything else. After all, enough of those foolish gold hunters have already ended up at the Thunder Canyon E.R. So he posted No Trespassing signs.”

  “Makes sense. Besides, any gold on the property belongs to him.”

  “But now, Caleb realizes that just because the Queen of Hearts played out years ago doesn’t mean there’s not a new vein.”

  “Okay,” Mark said. “Let’s say there is still gold in the Queen of Hearts. How’s that going to help all those prospectors combing the hills?”

  “It won’t. But that’s not where your story is, son.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Yesterday, a squatter challenged Caleb, spouting rumors about mine ownership and questioning who actually had the legal right to run off anyone from the property.” Roy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “If you’ve kept your ears open, you know there are a lot of rumors about how old Amos Douglas won the Queen of Hearts in a poker game a century or more ago. And there’s a lesser known story that some prospector won it back.”

  “I went to high school in Thunder Canyon, even though I haven’t been back in twenty years. So I’m familiar with the rumors. You think there’s anything to them?”

  Roy shrugged, reached for a pencil and twiddled it through his fingers. “Who knows? Caleb hadn’t been able to find the deed before, thinking it just wasn’t handy. But since then, he began to hunt diligently, and so far, he’s come up empty-handed.”

  “How about a title search down at the courthouse?”

  “He’s having trouble with that, too. Especially with Harvey Watson out of town on vacation.”

  Watson, Mark realized, was the clerk who was trying to computerize the old ledgers.

  The semiretired journalist chuckled. “You look bumfuzzled. If I were still at the Tribune, I’d probably scoop you on this one. But I’m not.”

  “What are you thinking?” Mark asked, finding himself interested in the old man’s take on the situation.

  “If Caleb can’t find the deed, it makes me think at least one of those old rumors must be true. That Amos sold off the property, thinking it was worthless. Or that he lost it in a card game. Or that it was stolen out from under his nose.” The editor grinned like a cat in an aviary. “And that’s where your story is, son.”

  Mark pondered what the older man had said. And he found his interest stimulated. Maybe Canfield was right. Maybe Caleb Douglas didn’t own the property. And if there was a new vein, someone else stood to profit. Someone who might not realize it.

  “Well,” Roy said, getting to his feet. “I hate to rush you. But I’ve got to run home and eat lunch. My wife has been on my case. She hates every minute I spend down here, although I think she’s more resentful of the money I invested. But what the hell would I do with my time if I retired completely?”

  Mark sure didn’t know what to tell him.

  “The smell of ink is in my blood. I lov
e my work. And I can’t see myself on one of those Caribbean cruises she’s been pestering me to take, even if I could find the time. I finally got her to take one with her sister, Mildred.”

  Canfield didn’t need to explain. Mark understood how the newspaper got in a man’s blood. And how a woman could get upset about the time a man spent away from home.

  Hell, Mark had a divorce decree to prove it.

  His marriage to Susan, of course, had been years ago. And it hadn’t lasted very long. Just long enough for him to learn how unhappy his travels had made a woman whose only goal in life was to create a home and be a mother—until she got fed up and threw it all away.

  But that was all right. Mark loved his job, and having a family would have only tied him down.

  As he followed Roy to the door, his thoughts drifted to Juliet and the baby, although he wasn’t sure why. Because they’d spent so much time together, he supposed. Because he probably ought to check on them and make sure things were still okay.

  “By the way,” Roy said, as he flipped over the Out To Lunch sign and locked the door. “Are you the reporter who’s been looking after the pregnant waitress at The Hitching Post?”

  “Yeah. News travels fast.”

  “Hey, Thunder Canyon news is my business, even if it isn’t Pulitzer material.” Roy grinned. “So, did that pretty young woman have her baby?”

  “Yeah,” Mark said, a warm glow building in his chest. “Juliet had a tiny little girl. Four pounds, eleven ounces.”

  The older man blew out a whistle. “That’s small. Mother and baby doing well?”

  “Yeah. They’re doing great.”

  “What’d Juliet name the child?” the editor asked. “I might write up a little blurb for the paper.”

  “Marissa.”

  “Pretty name.”

  “Thanks,” Mark said, wondering why he’d felt as though he’d been given a compliment.

  Juliet and Marissa stayed in the hospital for two nights and most of the next day. After promising to make an appointment for the baby to see a pediatrician for a weight check in three days, they were released around dinnertime, and Mark took them home.