Doctor Pike arrived less than an hour later, mostly because Nathaniel refused to accept the concept of reasonable speed.
“You nearly killed me,” Pike complained while climbing from the wagon.
“You’re alive.”
“My horse may not be.”
“Send me the bill.”
Inside, Adeline was walking slowly with Jacob’s widowed sister, Martha Mercer, who had arrived to help.
Another contraction seized her.
Nathaniel went straight toward her.
Pike blocked him.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“With my wife.”
“Not yet.”
Nathaniel stared.
Pike stared back.
Adeline groaned from the bedroom.
Nathaniel moved again.
Pike shoved him back.
“You’ll be summoned when needed.”
“She needs me.”
“She needs people who know what they’re doing.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“You spent half the ride asking whether babies can be born backward.”
“They can.”
“Yes, which is why I need you out here.”
The bedroom door shut.
Nathaniel stood in the hallway.
He had never felt more useless.
Hours passed.
The fire burned down twice.
Jacob arrived.
Sheriff Bell brought coffee.
Nathaniel drank none.
At two in the morning, Adeline screamed.
Nathaniel rose.
Pike’s wife emerged.
“Sit.”
“I’m not sitting.”
“Then pace quietly.”
He paced.
At three, he heard crying.
Not a baby.
Adeline.
Nathaniel pressed both hands against the wall.
“Please,” he whispered.
He had not prayed properly in years.
Now words came without structure.
“Please don’t take her.”
Another hour.
Pike emerged.
His sleeves were rolled.
Nathaniel saw blood.
His stomach turned.
“What happened?”
“The baby’s position is difficult.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means labor is taking too long.”
“Fix it.”
Pike gave him a tired look.
“I intend to.”
“Is she dying?”
Jacob stood behind Nathaniel.
Nobody breathed.
Pike answered carefully.
“She is exhausted. So is the baby.”
Nathaniel’s throat closed.
“Can I see her?”
Pike hesitated.
Then nodded.
“For a minute.”
Nathaniel entered.
Adeline looked smaller somehow.
Her hair clung damply to her face.
She opened her eyes.
“Nathaniel.”
He sat beside her.
“I’m here.”
“I’m scared.”
It was the first time she had said it plainly.
Nathaniel took her hand.
“So am I.”
Tears slid toward her ears.
“If something happens—”
“No.”
“Nathaniel.”
“No.”
“Listen.”
He shook his head.
She tightened her fingers.
“If something happens to me, you keep this baby.”
The words destroyed him.
“Nothing is happening.”
“Promise.”
“Adeline—”
“Promise me.”
Nathaniel pressed her hand against his mouth.
“I promise.”
She closed her eyes.
“And tell the baby about Elias.”
Nathaniel’s breath broke.
“Yes.”
“And tell the baby about me.”
His head dropped.
“Yes.”
Adeline opened her eyes again.
“And don’t let Gideon raise my child.”
That brought Nathaniel upright.
“Absolutely not.”
A faint smile appeared.
“There you are.”
Nathaniel laughed through tears.
He bent and kissed her.
“You’re going to tell that child yourself.”
Adeline whispered, “I hope so.”
Pike called him out.
Nathaniel left reluctantly.
At dawn, the baby finally came.
A cry erupted from the bedroom.
Nathaniel froze.
It was small.
Furious.
Alive.
Every person in the front room smiled.
Nathaniel did not.
Not yet.
He waited.
The door opened.
Martha stood there crying.
“Nathaniel.”
He could barely speak.
“Adeline?”
“She’s alive.”
His knees weakened.
“And the baby?”
Martha laughed.
“You have a daughter.”
Nathaniel stared.
A daughter.
He entered the room.
Adeline lay exhausted against the pillows.
In her arms was a red-faced infant wrapped in a blanket.
Nathaniel stopped at the foot of the bed.
He could face bulls, storms, guns, Gideon Ward.
He was suddenly terrified of seven pounds of baby.
Adeline smiled weakly.
“Come here.”
Nathaniel approached.
“She’s tiny.”
“You’ve mentioned your concerns about that.”
“Is she supposed to be that color?”
Adeline laughed softly.
“Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
“Nathaniel.”
“All right.”
He sat.
Adeline shifted the bundle toward him.
Nathaniel immediately shook his head.
“No.”
“What?”
“I’ll break her.”
“You won’t.”
“My hands are bigger than her head.”
“That isn’t an argument.”
“It seems like one.”
Adeline carefully placed the baby in his arms.
Nathaniel stopped breathing.
His daughter opened her eyes.
Dark.
Unfocused.
She made a tiny sound.
Nathaniel stared.
Something happened inside him.
There was no gradual realization.
No philosophical consideration.
One second, he was Nathaniel Cole holding another man’s child.
The next, every instinct in his body rearranged itself around the fact that this little girl was his responsibility.
Not possession.
Not blood.
Responsibility.
Love followed so closely he could not separate them.
“Hello,” he whispered.
The baby moved one hand.
Nathaniel offered a finger.
Tiny fingers closed around it.
He bowed his head.
Adeline watched him cry.
He did not hide it.
“What should we call her?” he asked.
“I thought you might have an idea.”
Nathaniel looked at her.
“You choose.”
Adeline smiled.
“I want her middle name to be Elias.”
Nathaniel blinked.
“For her father.”
“Yes.”
Nathaniel looked down.
He understood.
“Then she’ll always know.”
Adeline’s eyes filled.
“Always.”
“And her first name?”
She considered.
“Hope.”
Nathaniel laughed softly.
“That seems a little obvious.”
“I like obvious.”
He thought about his advertisement.
The empty house.
The letter.
The secret.
The fire.
The baby gripping his finger.
“Hope Elias Cole.”
Adeline watched him.
“Cole?”
Nathaniel looked up.
“If you’ll allow it.”
She began crying again.
“She would be honored.”
Nathaniel kissed Hope’s forehead.
“No.”
His voice broke.
“I’m the one being honored.”
Three weeks later, they entered the Casper courthouse.
Adeline carried Hope.
Nathaniel carried a stack of documents Clara Whitcomb had organized with terrifying precision.
Gideon Ward sat with a new attorney.
He looked older.
The hearing lasted nearly four hours.
Finch’s papers destroyed much of Ward’s case.
Two witnesses admitted they had been offered money.
The judge showed little patience for Gideon’s attempt to control the child through financial guardianship.
Finally, the judge addressed Adeline.
“Mrs. Cole, do you intend to prevent the Ward family from knowing this child?”
Adeline looked at Gideon.
Nathaniel felt her hand tremble.
“No, Your Honor.”
Gideon raised his head.
Adeline continued.
“If Mr. Ward treats my daughter with kindness and respects our boundaries, I will never prevent her from knowing her grandfather.”
Nathaniel turned toward her.
Even he had not expected that.
The judge nodded.
“And Mr. Cole?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You understand the child is not biologically yours?”
Nathaniel nearly smiled.
“I’ve been told.”
A few people chuckled.
The judge’s mouth twitched.
“You intend to raise her?”
“I already am.”
“If the Ward estate becomes irrelevant?”
Nathaniel frowned.
“Sir?”
“If this child inherits nothing. No land. No money. Nothing at all. Would your intentions change?”
Nathaniel looked at Hope.
She was asleep against Adeline.
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
“I wanted her before I knew she might inherit anything.”
The judge leaned back.
Nathaniel continued.
“She woke me at four this morning because apparently sleep is beneath her. She spit milk on my best shirt yesterday. I have spent two weeks terrified she will stop breathing every time she gets quiet.”
Laughter moved through the room.
Nathaniel’s eyes remained on the judge.
“She is my daughter because I choose the work that comes with calling her that.”
Silence followed.
The judge looked toward Gideon.
“Mr. Ward, biology may establish ancestry. It does not automatically establish authority.”
Gideon’s face fell.
The petition was denied.
Any inheritance belonging to Hope would be placed in a protected trust until she became an adult, with Adeline serving as primary guardian and a neutral bank overseeing the money.
Gideon received no custody.
No control.
Outside the courthouse, Adeline hugged Nathaniel.
“We won.”
Nathaniel smiled.
“No.”
He looked at Hope.
“We kept what was already ours.”
Across the steps, Gideon stood alone.
Adeline saw him.
She walked over.
Nathaniel followed but kept several feet away.
Gideon looked at the baby.
“She has Elias’s mouth.”
Adeline’s expression softened.
“Yes.”
For the first time, Gideon cried.
Not dramatically.
One tear.
Then another.
“I was cruel to you.”
Adeline said nothing.
“I thought if I could control what remained of him, I wouldn’t have lost everything.”
Adeline looked down at Hope.
“You cannot love someone by controlling them.”
Gideon nodded.
“May I…”
He hesitated.
“May I see her?”
Adeline looked toward Nathaniel.
Nathaniel left the decision to her.
Slowly, Adeline stepped closer.
Gideon looked at his granddaughter.
He did not touch her.
“Hello, Hope.”
The baby opened her eyes.
Gideon smiled through tears.
Nathaniel watched.
He did not trust the man yet.
Forgiveness could begin.
Trust would take longer.
He was all right with that.
Some things deserved time.
That evening, Nathaniel sat beside the cradle.
Hope slept.
Adeline leaned against the doorway.
“You’ve been watching her twenty minutes.”
“She made a strange noise.”
“She sneezed.”
“It sounded serious.”
Adeline laughed.
Nathaniel turned.
She came toward him and placed her hand on his shoulder.
“You know what I thought the night I first told you?”
“What?”
“That you would hate me.”
“I tried.”
Adeline raised an eyebrow.
“For about six minutes.”
“Maybe eight.”
She kissed his cheek.
Nathaniel looked back at Hope.
“All those years,” he whispered, “I thought the doctor had told me I’d never be a father.”
Adeline squeezed his shoulder.
“He didn’t.”
“No.”
Nathaniel smiled.
“He only told me I might never make a child.”
And for the first time in twelve years, the difference felt enormous.
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