The Angel and the Outlaw (28 page)

J.T. felt like a stud horse at auction as Brandy’s parents scrutinized him from head to foot.

“Where’s my daughter?” Mrs. Talavera asked, her tone betraying her anxiety. “Where’s Brandy?”

“She’s fine, ma’am,” J.T. replied. “We have a son, seven pounds three ounces, twenty-one inches long.”

“You’re sure she’s all right?

“Yes, ma’am, mother and son are both doing fine.”

“Where did you meet my daughter?” Nick Talavera demanded, somewhat brusquely.

“Here, in Cedar Ridge,” J.T. replied. He didn’t bother to add they’d met in a different century.

“When?”

“A year ago.”

“Why haven’t we heard from her in all this time?” Talina Talavera asked.

Why, indeed, J.T. mused ruefully.

“Are you sure she’s all right?” Nick Talavera asked, obviously still suspecting that something was amiss.

“I said she’s fine,” J.T. replied impatiently, “And she is.”

“You’re part-Indian, aren’t you?” Talina remarked.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m a quarter-Lakota.”

“Lakota!”

J.T. nodded. Apparently some things never changed, he mused, like the ancient animosity between the Crow and the Lakota. It was obvious, from the pinched look on Talina Talavera’s face, that she was less than thrilled at the thought of having a Lakota son-in-law. But that was the least of his worries. How would they ever explain things to Brandy’s parents? Would they believe the truth? Hell, it was hard for him to believe it.

Fortunately, a nurse appeared just then. “Mr. Cutter? You can see your wife now.”

“Obliged. These are my wife’s folks.”

“Hospital policy is to allow only two visitors at a time,” the nurse advised.

J.T. nodded at Brandy’s parents. “You two go on,” he said. “I know she’s anxious to see you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cutter,” Talina Talavera said.

“J.T. will do.”

Talina offered him what might have been a smile, then hurried out of the room, followed by her husband.

J.T. paced the floor, his nerves taut. Brandy had seemed to fit so easily into his world, why did he feel so awkward in hers?

He felt as if he were viewing everything through spectacles that were out of focus. He saw things he recognized, yet nothing was really the same. The town looked familiar yet it was completely different. It even smelled different. Gone was the scent of sage and pine and in its place were heavy odors he didn’t recognize.

Clothes seemed to be the same—ladies wore dresses and men wore pants and shirts, yet they weren’t the same at all. Skirts were scandalously short, revealing most of a woman’s legs. And one of the nurses had worn pants. J.T. shook his head. He had never seen a woman in pants before. At first glance, he had thought she was a man with an exceptionally pretty face.

He studied the lights overhead, wondering what made the long narrow tubes glow like that. He had seen candlelight and gas light, but this was something new.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. Something else that was different yet the same. It was after ten. With a sigh, he reached for one of the newspapers on the rickety-looking table, his gaze fixed on the date. April 10, 1996.

He swore softly as he crumpled the paper in his hand. It hit him then, really hit him for the first time. He had come forward in time a hundred years. Everyone he had ever known was long dead. Everything that was familiar was gone, and there was no going back.

And then he thought of Brandy, and their son, and he smiled. He had no reason to go back to his old life, and nothing to go back to. Everything he had ever wanted, everyone he loved and cherished, was right here.

Whistling softly, J.T. walked down the hall toward his wife’s room. His future, his life, his whole world, was waiting there, behind the door.

Brandy sat in the shade, nursing her daughter. It was so good to be home, she mused. To her relief, her parents hadn’t sold her house or anything else. Instead, they had rented it out to an elderly couple who had agreed to look after Brandy’s pets for a slight reduction in their rent.

She knew an overwhelming sense of contentment as she watched J.T. instruct their son in the proper way to shoe a horse. At three, Johnny was the spitting image of his father. She knew he was going to be a real heartbreaker when he grew older.

Brandy let out a sigh as she gazed into her daughter’s face. Lissa was a pretty baby, with her mother’s black hair and her father’s brown eyes. At six months, she was already daddy’s little girl.

It had been a busy three years. It had been no easy task, getting J.T. accustomed to life in the ’90s. He’d had so much to learn—how to drive a car, load a washing machine, run the microwave, work an ATM machine, balance a checkbook.

On top of everything else, they’d had to explain Brandy’s disappearance, not only to the whole town, but to her mother and father, as well.

Her explanation to the townspeople had been easier. She had simply told everyone who asked that J.T. had swept her off her feet the night of the dance, and that they had eloped. The good people of Cedar Ridge thought it was the most romantic thing they had ever heard—doubly so because she had fallen in love with a mysterious stranger named Cutter during Wild West Days when they had been celebrating the notorious outlaw’s demise.

Brandy hadn’t liked the idea of lying to her parents, but she had been afraid to tell them the truth. At first, she had told them the same story she told the town, but her father shook his head and her mother flat-out refused to believe it. Next, she had tried to come up with a plausible lie to excuse her year-long absence, but, in the end, she had told her folks the truth. Her father had been skeptical, but her mother, a firm believer in mysticism, had recognized and accepted the truth for what it was. Eventually, even Brandy’s father had come to believe that the impossible had happened, that she had traveled back through time, met and fallen in love with J.T., and that they had been reunited in the present.

For months after that, her father and mother had questioned J.T. about life in the 1800s, both curious to know what it had really been like to live in the Old West.

One of the first things Brandy had done when she was back on her feet was go to the library and look up J.T.’s name in the history books. The basic facts of his life had been the same until she got to the last paragraph, which said that it was believed the outlaw known as J.T. Cutter had been hanged for horse stealing, but the body had mysteriously disappeared from the gallows and had never been found.

Now, Brandy felt her heart swell with tenderness as she watched J.T.. He was so patient with their son, always willing to answer questions, to play catch, to read him stories, or tuck him into bed at night. He got up with Lissa in the middle of the night, walked the floor with her when she had colic, took the early morning feedings so Brandy could sleep.

In the beginning, when the complexities and confusion of modern life had overwhelmed him, J.T. had jumped on one of the horses and gone for long rides across the countryside. But those occasions had cropped up less and less as the months went by.

They laughed about those times now. No one meeting J.T. for the first time would ever guess he had been born in another century. He drove a bright-red Ford Bronco as if he’d been born behind the wheel, he knew the line-up of every football team, both college and pro, and he was best country line dancer in town.

He also raised the finest horses in all of Wyoming. And fathered the most beautiful children.

She smiled a greeting as J.T. and young John strolled toward her. They were dressed alike in worn blue jeans, black t-shirts, and boots. Just looking at the two of them made her heart sing with joy.

“Hi, cowboys,” she said. “Done for the day?”

“Yes, ma’am,” J.T. drawled. “We worked hard, and we’re hungry. Isn’t that right, son?”

Johnny nodded solemnly. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, mimicking his father, “We worked hard, and we’re hungry.”

“Good, cause I made a big dinner,” Brandy said. “We’ve got frog legs and eye of newt. And for dessert, we’ve got homemade apple pie and ice cream.”

Johnny laughed. “We don’t either have frog legs, Mom. You’re just kidding me.” He looked up at his father. “Can I go watch the Power Rangers?”

“Sure, sport,” J.T. said, giving his son an affectionate swat on the fanny. “Don’t sit too close to the TV.”

Johnny nodded as he ran up the steps and into the house.

“Power Rangers,” J.T. muttered, and then he grinned. “How’s my daughter?”

“I’m glad you asked,” Brandy said, handing the baby to J.T.. “She needs to be changed.”

“Is that right, angel?” J.T. smiled at his daughter, pleased when she smiled back at him. “Well, come on, darling. Daddy will fix you up.” He offered Brandy his hand, helping her to her feet. “How are you feeling, love?”

“Fine.” She hesitated, and then blew out a long sigh. “You know that home pregnancy test I took this morning? Well, it came out positive.”

J.T. looked at her for a moment, then grinned. “How do you feel about another baby so soon?”

“I feel wonderful.”

“I’m glad.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and gave her a hug.

“My folks called this afternoon. They’re thinking of coming for a visit during summer vacation.”

J.T. nodded, pleased at the prospect of seeing his in-laws again. “Did you tell then about the baby?”

“No, I thought we’d do it together.”

He opened the door for her, then followed her into the house. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

“Not since this morning.”

“Well, Missus Cutter, remind me to tell you again later, when we’re alone.”

“I will, Mister Cutter.” She smiled up at him, happier than she had ever been in her life. “But I’d rather have you show me.”

“It will be my pleasure, ma’am,” he replied, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Just as soon as we put these kids to bed.”

The End

Madeline Baker started writing simply for the fun of it. Now she is the award-winning author of more than thirty historical romances and one of the most popular writers of Native American romance. She lives in California, where she was born and raised.

The Angel and the Outlaw
Copyright © 1996, 2014, 2016 Madeline Baker

Published by Butterfly Kisses Press