The Cowboy and the Hacker (Farthingdale Valley #5)

Epilogue - Zeke

T he waiting room for the Children, Youth, and Families department in the main government building in Cloudcroft was just about empty, except for Cal and himself. It was chilly and a bit sterile as well, like a hospital waiting room, with glossy floors and pale blue walls.

It felt exactly like he was waiting to see a doctor, and the only thing grounding him to the reality that this was not what they were doing was the warm feel of Cal’s hand in his own.

In fact, the only lively thing about the room was Cal, looking at Zeke with anxious blue eyes, as if he longed for a single signal as to what he could do to put Zeke at ease.

“We’ve done all the paperwork,” said Cal. “We’ve had all the visits by Social Services, and we’ve passed all the tests with flying colors. We’re here and they’re bringing us a baby, just like we wanted.”

Actually, the dream of having children was mostly Zeke’s, but Cal was right there with him, and just about as anxious because, as he’d told Zeke more than once, the dream wasn’t just Zeke’s, but his, as well.

They’d talked about it all winter, and now that it was after the New Year, and just as they’d been about to start training their mules in earnest, a response had come from Cloudcroft: We believe we have a match for you .

The woman from Social Services, a capable woman named Claire, had hinted that perhaps six-month-old babies were not very available, but if they were flexible and willing, Claire had made an alternate selection for them.

At that point, Zeke figured he wasn’t so fussy as to turn down a child simply because it wasn’t six months old, but he was swept up with so much anxiety that he just about jumped out of his skin when the door to the waiting room opened, and Claire stepped in with an armful of child.

Zeke, with his untrained eyes, could see the child wasn’t six months old, but that it wasn’t very old, either. Maybe it was just over a year old; twelve months, the parenting books would have said.

The very young boy had a tangle of mouse brown hair and big gray eyes and he’d been crying. He clutched at Claire but didn’t look at her, like he could have been clinging to a rock for all he cared.

Some horses would find shelter in any barn in a storm. Zeke’s heart lurched in his chest, a sudden longing to be that shelter for this small boy.

“What’s his name?” asked Zeke. Not that it mattered. He was half in love with the child already.

“His name is Steven McCready,” said Claire. “Both his parents died when they were hit by a drunk driver at Thanksgiving. He’s been with us since then, and he’s totally adoptable, except that he doesn’t do much but watch the world go by and evidently nobody thinks he’s cute enough?—”

To Zeke’s surprise, Claire broke off, blinking very fast, her mouth a thin line as if she wanted to hold back exactly what she thought about people who judged children by whether or not they were cute.

Steven, small Steven, hung onto Claire’s sweater like it was a lifeline, his small body utterly still in her arms as he looked at Zeke and then at Cal with enormous gray eyes, his long eyelashes sticky with dried tears.

From behind him, Cal nudged Zeke with a gentle elbow, as if urging Zeke to take the next step into his desire to have children that he and Cal could raise as their own.

“Cal?” asked Zeke, not looking back at Cal, not taking his eyes off Steven.

“Yes,” said Cal right away. “Of course, yes.”

“You can always change his name, first and last, if you want to,” said Claire, as if that was an actual issue.

“We’ll worry about that later,” said Zeke. He held out his arms. “Can I hold him?”

“Do you think you’ll need a moment?” asked Claire. “We can let you take him for a trial period, if you’d like to see how he fits in with your life.”

“We’re keeping him,” said Zeke. He knew this even before he took Steven in his arms. His voice broke as he said, “Of course we’re keeping him.”

Steven didn’t weigh very much, and his clothes, a dark t-shirt and dark cotton pants, had an odd, industrial smell, rather like a prison might have. His little feet were encased in slip-on sneakers that fell off pretty much right away to reveal thin cotton socks that might have been white at one point but which were now a gentle gray.

In Zeke’s arms, Steven clutched at Zeke only because he was the only thing to cling to. His fingers pulled at Zeke’s button-down shirt like the little boy meant to rip through the cloth, but couldn’t because he was so very small and thin and couldn’t do more than what he was doing. Which was, by his wobbly lower lip and wide, scared gray eyes, doing his best not to start crying again.

Steven needed a warm washcloth to wipe away his tears, and he needed warm milk laced with honey, and he needed some kind of stuffed lovey to cling to. All of these things, Zeke and Cal were going to give him, all of these things and more.

Zeke wanted Steven to come home with him and Cal, but first, they needed to make sure Steven wanted to come home with them.

“Hey there, Steven,” Zeke said in the voice he used with scared foals, and spooked mares, and wild stallions alike: low and slow and patient. “My name is Zeke, and that’s Cal.”

Zeke turned so Steven could see Cal standing mere inches behind him. Then he watched as Steven looked them over, his eyebrows dipping like he was an old man bent on making a very serious decision.

“We’ve got a trundle bed we made for you,” he said, and he wasn’t sure how much Steven understood, just as he wasn’t sure why he started by talking about a bed, of all things, when he should have been describing the box of toys they had, ready for the newest, youngest member of their family. “As you grow older, we’ll add an extra room to the farmhouse for your bedroom with a door and everything.”

This was nothing a small child would be interested in. Zeke was at a loss. In his dream of a family to call his own, there were four or five children already safe inside his house. He’d not counted on how hard the first transition would be.

“We should have brought a toy with us,” said Cal from behind him. “Though he might be too old for blocks.”

Among other items, they’d bought a set of bright plastic blocks for a baby, which might or might not be of interest to a twelve-month-old. Had they failed even before they’d begun, before Steven had even set foot in the old farm house?

“Show him pictures of your mules,” said Claire. “He seems to enjoy horses and cows when they come on the computer screen and the TV in the playroom. I believe his parents lived in the country, so, though there’s no indication they were farmers or ranchers, I think he’s familiar with farm animals.”

Before she’d even stopped speaking, Cal had reached into his pocket to pull out his cell phone. With nimble fingers, faster than Zeke ever could, he’d pulled up pictures of Bailey, Candlewick, Dancer, and Clover, sturdy and brown and glossy and bright eyed.

Cal tapped the screen and held the phone to Steven so he could see one of the earliest pictures they’d taken after the mules had first arrived at the ranch. It had been late September, and the pine trees made a green contrast to the cottonwoods, with their bright orange and yellow leaves.

The sky beyond had been very blue, making the glossy brown mules stand out as though they had been posed by a professional photographer, rather than because a very excited Cal had kept hopping around as he did his best to make a record of the moment.

“See the mules?” asked Zeke. “The biggest one is Bailey, and that’s Candlewick, and Dancer and Clover. Do you think you like mules, Steven?”

After a long, still moment, Steven half-lurched out of Zeke’s arms to grab the phone from Cal. Cal flicked to a picture of Bailey alone, handsome, clever Bailey, and handed the phone to Steven, cupping his hands around Steven’s to make sure the phone didn’t get dropped.

“That’s Bailey,” said Zeke. “I think he’s Cal’s favorite.”

Steven’s eyes flicked to Cal, and then back to Bailey’s image again.

“Can you say Bailey?” asked Zeke. “Do you think you would like to pet him?”

Steven ducked his chin to his chest as if he wanted to hide the fact that he did want to pet Bailey, but didn’t want anyone to know. Then he uncurled his hand from the phone and, slipping his hand out of Cal’s, he pointed at the screen. With a little gasp, he looked up at Zeke, as if horrified that his secret was out.

“You can have any mule for your own,” said Zeke, as solemn as if he’d just made a vow. “Maybe let Cal have Bailey, and you can have any one of the others.”

Behind him, he heard a snuffling sound and turned to see Cal scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“Don’t care,” said Cal, his voice thick. “He can have any of them for his own that he wants, but can we just go home now before I break down in front of this nice lady?”

“Do you have a car seat?” asked Claire in response to this.

“Of course we do,” said Zeke. “Rear facing and everything.”

“I’ll get his things and you can take him with you now,” said Claire, looking much happier than she had when she’d first walked in the room. “Come in tomorrow for the rest of the paperwork, but take him with you now.”

“Go get the truck, Cal,” said Zeke.

He wasn’t worried that someone would march in and put a stop to them taking Steven home with them, but the sooner they were out of there and on the road home, the happier he’d be.

Cal grabbed the key fob from Zeke’s pants pocket and raced ahead while, in a more sedate fashion, Zeke, with Steven in his arms, walked to the main parking lot outside the front doors of the small government building.

By the time Claire showed up with Steven’s small suitcase, Cal had come to a stop, and leaped out, the truck idling a gray churn of pale smoke from its tailpipe.

They put Steven in the car seat, put his suitcase in the truck bed, secure beneath a heavy tarp. Then, after shaking Claire’s hand in goodbye, he and Cal got in the warm truck. Cal was driving, which was good, because Zeke planned to make sure Steven was okay all the way home.

Cal drove sedately out of the parking lot, and down the snow flecked highway out of Cloudcroft.

All the way to the ranch, Zeke watched Steven, who watched him right back with solemn gray eyes. He didn’t seem as fearful as he had before, though he remained serious and watchful.

Zeke wanted to pick him up and hold him so badly, but he knew it was safer for Steven to be in the car seat.

“Shall we call him Stevie?” asked Cal.

Steven instantly focused on Cal, which did not go unnoticed by either of them.

“Maybe that’s what they called him,” said Zeke. “Is Stevie your name?”

Both of Steven’s eyebrows rose in his forehead, his eyes wide with surprise. Then his soft, raspberry colored mouth curved in a small smile, which was just about the most precious thing Zeke had ever seen.

“Stevie,” said Zeke. He caressed Stevie’s soft cheek with the barest touch of a finger. Stevie’s eyes half closed, and his face had an expression Zeke couldn’t even begin to describe, except, perhaps, that Stevie seemed a little less wary, a little less on the verge of alarm.

“We’ll have scrambled eggs for lunch,” said Zeke. “And buttered toast. Do you think you’ll like that, Stevie?”

As Stevie’s eyes widened, his mouth moved a little, as if he was trying to echo Zeke’s words.

“I’m starving,” said Cal. “Can I have sausage with my egg? And cheese?”

“Of course you can.” Zeke had never been less hungry in his life, but he knew he couldn’t live on air. He needed to keep his strength up so he could be the best father to little Stevie.

“So,” said Cal, as they got close to their exit from the main highway and onto the little dirt road that led to the ranch. “Are you Daddy and I’m Papa? We never did decide.”

“We’ll let Stevie decide,” said Zeke, though secretly he relished being called Papa.

Cal pulled up to the farm house, and parked the truck, turning the engine off. It was midday, and the sun was shining brightly, sparkling on the snow that had yet to melt. The air was cold, though in spite of the sunshine, and Zeke did not want Stevie to feel that cold.

Sure, when Stevie was used to the two of them, and to the farmhouse, and to the mules, they could bundle him up and let him play outdoors in the cold. Then there would be hot chocolate after, and then they’d sit down, the three of them, to a hearty farm supper and talk about their day.

“Could you go open the door so I can carry him in?” asked Zeke.

He was totally willing to let Cal carry their child inside if he wanted, but Cal jumped out, grabbed Stevie’s suitcase, and raced to the front door. In a heartbeat, he’d unlocked the door and placed the suitcase inside the farmhouse.

Then he turned and stood inside the open doorway, with his arms wrapped around himself as if to ward off the cold air. And he waited for Zeke that way, the way he always did, creating an image that represented hearth and home to Zeke, looking exactly like he’d imagined it in his dreams.

As he walked close to the two wooden steps, his eyes felt hot and prickly, and while he’d never considered tears to be unmanly, he didn’t want his vision to be clouded by them, not when this moment was so precious to him and he wanted it emblazoned in his memories forever.

“Welcome home, Papa,” said Cal, because, as he usually did, he knew Zeke’s dreams just about as well as he did his own. “Now, both of you come on in before you catch a chill.”

“Yes, sir,” said Zeke.

He paused at the bottom of the two steps for one more look at Cal, then at Stevie, who looked as though he’d rather Zeke get a move on and pull him out of the car seat so he could take a good look around his new home.

“Up you get, little Stevie,” said Zeke as he handed the car seat to Cal.

Cal took it, a pleased flush to his cheeks, his smile wide. He dipped his head to smile at Stevie.

“Welcome home, little man,” he said. “Welcome to your new life.”

He placed the car seat on the floor, then bent to unbuckle Stevie from the car seat, pulling the little boy into his arms—doing all this in one smoothie motion, as if he’d been practicing for years, rather than watching it be demonstrated on a YouTube video by half a dozen people. Then, with a giddy laugh, he handed Stevie to Zeke.

“Shall we feed him first?” asked Cal. “Or get him out of those clothes that smell like they’ve just come out of a prison laundry?”

“Warm washcloth,” said Zeke. “For his face, and warm milk and honey. You can give a baby honey after twelve months, right?”

“Yes,” said Cal. “Take his coat off, at least. He’s probably boiling in that thing.”

Zeke realized he’d simply been standing there with Stevie in his arms, rather like some kind of lunkhead who’d not been planning for this very day for a very long time.

Shaking himself, he went to the lumpy couch and sat down to take off Stevie’s coat, and then he sat there with the warm weight of a small child on his knees. Stevie held onto Zeke’s shirt and they both watched while Cal hustled to heat up some milk.

“The honey’s in the cupboard to the left of the sink,” offered Zeke helpfully. “And can you bring me that washcloth? Not too warm.”

While the milk heated in a pot on the stove, Cal rushed to the bathroom, and came back with a warm washcloth, which he placed, neatly folded, in Zeke’s outstretched hand.

Zeke wiped Stevie’s face, softly and slowly, pleased when Stevie seemed to enjoy it, leaning into the touch rather than away from it.

And when Cal brought the pale blue sippy cup with warm milk and honey, Stevie reached for it, which meant he’d been handed sippy cups in the past. He reached for it gently, which meant he’d been raised by gentle people. Obviously, his parents had loved him.

“Come sit with me and Stevie,” said Zeke, turning Stevie in his arms so he could cradle Stevie upright a bit while Stevie drank his warm milk and honey.

“Is there enough room for me?” asked Cal.

“Of course,” said Zeke. “Always.”

He held out his free arm, and when Cal sank to the couch and leaned into Zeke’s embrace, Zeke knew he would never want for more than this. Him, and Cal, and Stevie. A family to call his own.