Mark wanted to emerge from where he was doing his cleaning duties and give the boys a start. Seeing the boss do some dirty work would put them back in their place and motivate them to start working properly again, but Mark didn’t feel like exercising his authority today. He was exhausted, and he didn’t want to deal with the ranch hands.
He shook his head, and his broad-brimmed hat moved back and forth. Before he could move on to working the short-haired brush over the flap of the saddle, he heard someone shouting his name.
“Mr. Flint! Oh, Mr. Flint!” a shrill voice sounded, and he nearly dropped the brush altogether. It sounded like Mrs. Dollie Calkins, the woman who took care of his son, Heath, during the daytime hours. Moving swiftly, he pushed the saddle over on the table and set the brush down next to it. He rounded the corner where the ranch hands were lounging and talking loudly. He saw Jack’s face flush a deep shade of red, as he had not realized his employer was so close at hand.
Mark surveyed the yard. “I thought I heard Mrs. Calkins. Any of you men see her?” he asked, looking from Jack to Bill to the three other young men relaxing on bales of hay. Hurriedly, the ranch hands rose and glanced about the yard as well.
“I heard her,” Jack replied, taking a few steps toward the adobe farmhouse. He tipped his hat low on his head, trying to shield his eyes from the mid-afternoon sun sitting just behind the homestead.
“I think she’s still up at the house,” Bill added helpfully, moving in the same direction as Jack.
Before Mark could comment, Mrs. Calkins’ round face poked out of the house’s back door, and she called, “Mr. Flint!”
She seemed to be howling as she cried out his name, which motivated Mark like nothing else. His heart rate increased, and he felt anxious about the situation. He raced toward the back door, not stopping to see if the ranch hands followed.
The back door was wide open, and Mrs. Calkins stood framed in the doorway. Her short, stout figure filled most of the space, and as Mark approached, he could see that she was wringing her hands in front of her.
“Mrs. Calkins, what happened? Is Heath all right?” Mark asked worriedly, motioning for her to move out of the way so he could walk into the house. He scanned the kitchen but didn’t see his son. “Where’s Heath? What’s wrong?” Mark demanded.
Mrs. Calkins was trembling slightly, and tears popped into her blue eyes. She bunched her hands in the soft yellow apron she was wearing. “Little baby is just fine,” Mrs. Calkins said finally, and Mark could hear the fear in her voice.
“Where is he?” Mark asked, frustration building inside of him. If the baby was fine, he would be right here with them, and she wouldn’t have been shrieking out the back door.
Mrs. Calkins raised her hand and pointed toward the sitting room. “The baby is safe, Mr. Flint, but I’ve got to be getting on home.”
“Home?” Mark asked, bewildered. “But it’s not supper time yet. I’d much appreciate it if you could stay on for a few more hours, Mrs. Calkins. I could really use the help, and there’s no one else who can do it—” Mrs. Calkins shook her head back and forth. “What is it?” Mark asked, trying to make his voice sound less gruff and gentler.
“One of my boys, Carl Jr., just showed up at the front door. He said that Pa, my husband, wasn’t feeling well. He needs me to get home immediately.”
“Oh, of course, Mrs. Calkins. Of course. What can I do to assist you?” Mark asked, looking around the kitchen for a way to help his neighbor, feeling guilty in trying to pressure Mrs. Calkins to stay. He knew he needed to work on interacting with other people, and Mrs. Calkins had always been kind to him. He endeavored to do his best in return.
“I can manage to get home just fine, Mr. Flint, but I won’t be able to come on back today. You’ll need to stay with the baby or find someone else who can do it,” Mrs. Calkins said apologetically, her kind blue eyes shining with tears.
Mark felt dreadful, thinking he was keeping Mrs. Calkins from taking care of her own family. He moved out of the way so Mrs. Calkins could get to the back door. “You go on home and take care of Mr. Calkins. You send word and let me know about his condition later.”
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Calkins said, hitching up her heavy lilac-colored wool skirts.
“Anything I can do to help, Boss?” Jack asked from where he stood in the backyard, and Mark thought it over for a moment.
“Make sure Mrs. Calkins gets home safely. Tend the horses and then finish cleaning that saddle I was working on earlier.” Mark rattled off this list of chores. “I need to check on Heath now, but you motivate those other hands and have them help you finish up the nightly chores, you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said, and without asking for any further instructions, he headed back toward the stables.
Mark marched toward the sitting room, where Heath was lying in his cradle, next to one of the sturdy armchairs Mrs. Calkins usually used while working on a bit of embroidery.
She would do this from time to time as Heath napped serenely. The baby was awake, with his eyes wide open, though he was quiet. Mark looked down at his discolored pupils, wondering what to do next. The soft blue blankets were piled up, snuggling Heath in the white cradle Mark built with Jack’s assistance over a year ago.
“Hello, Heath,” Mark said softly, reaching out to stroke his finger down the side of Heath’s cheek. Heath almost instantly wailed, letting out a startled cry before breaking into a discomforted squawk.
“Shh,” Mark tried to soothe the child, but his efforts were in vain. Heath rolled back and forth in the cradle, squeaking and crying.
“Come on, baby,” Mark said, exasperated. Reaching into the cradle, he awkwardly lifted the child with both hands. He held the baby out in front of him, making Heath cry even more. Mark watched in despair as Heath wailed louder, and his face became bright red.
Mark turned to see if anyone might be about who could assist him, but they were alone. He adjusted his grip on the baby so that one arm draped around Heath. “I’m sorry, Heath,” Mark whispered frantically. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to do. Your mother was the one who wanted to have children. She had always been so good with little kids, and then you came along and …” He was unable to make himself finish his sentence.
The truth was his wife, Trudie, had been wonderful with other people’s children, but after giving birth to Heath four weeks early, she’d never quite taken to being a mother. She’d been sad, crying relentlessly for the first two months of Heath’s life. When he thought of her tearful eyes, anger flooded through his veins. He still couldn’t believe that she had left and never returned.
As if Heath intuited what Mark was thinking about, he let out another wail so loud that it reverberated through Mark’s bones. It made his soul ache to hear his child in such distress, but he could not remedy the situation. He had no experience with children, as he was an only child himself. Scanning the room once again, he hoped that someone or something would come to his aid.
