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Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, October 1885
The silence that descended upon Dr. Karl Wilson’s office was thick enough to cut with a knife. Not a single soul present dared to breach its sacred weight, as though even the barest whisper would shatter everything and reveal it all to be nothing more than a dream.
With child? Maggie echoed, the thought reverberating throughout every inch of her being in equal parts rising joy and overwhelming panic. Her hand reflexively reached up to cover her stomach, almost as though she could feel the newly announced life growing within her.
“I’m...I’m...” she began to stutter.
“Pregnant.”
The word, uttered by her husband, pulled her immediately from her confusion and her head turned to look at him, her eyes stretched wide in disbelief. She quickly saw that John’s eyes were equally wide, his face a mask of wonder.
Abigail and even the usually verbose Fergus were at a loss for words as the silence seemed to stretch into what felt like an eternity. Even the raucous sounds of the celebration outside the building seemed to melt away as all of the room’s occupants tried to make sense of what they’d been told.
The silence would likely have continued if not for the distinct sound of a nose sniffling. All eyes immediately looked to regard the source of the sound: John Baldwin.
The rough and tumble cowboy, the man who had risen from nothing to become the ranch boss of the McNeal Ranch and, unlikeliest of all, the husband of Miss Margaret McNeal herself, stood there with his eyes brimming with uncharacteristic tears staring down at his wife.
“John...?” Maggie asked, unsure of what could possibly bring the man she loved and respected to tears.
But no sooner had she spoken the words then John bent at the hip and enveloped her in his strong arms, his face pressed against her stomach and his warm tears dampening the material of her shirt.
“Oh Maggie,” he sniffed, his ever calm voice straining with emotion. “Maggie Baldwin, I love you so much I can’t even begin to put it rightly into words.”
Maggie was shocked by John’s actions and words. At that moment, all she could do to make any sense of the situation was run her hand gently thorough his long blond locks.
He’s happy? she thought confusedly, though she couldn’t tell why such a thing should vex her. How can he be so happy about this when I’m not even sure how I feel yet?
Two more sniffles caught her attention and she tore her gaze away from her husband to regard her mother and godfather, the two of them dabbing at their eyes with their own handkerchiefs. Uncle Fergus, despite the tears running down his cheeks and into the dense white brush of his muttonchops, wore a smile that looked like it was going to split his face. Abigail was more subdued in her smile, but she more than made up for it in tears of joy streaming from her eyes.
Maggie felt numb in that moment, her mind and heart still desperately trying to make sense of everything. She brought a hand up to her own cheeks to wipe away the tears she knew would certainly be falling from her own eyes, but her hand came away dry. Aside from Dr. Wilson and his wife, she was the only one in the room who wasn’t crying.
I should be crying, shouldn’t I? she thought bewilderedly. I was always told women cry when they’re told their pregnant. Why aren’t I crying?
Her thoughts were interrupted as John rose from his position nuzzling her belly to capture her lips for a passionate kiss, one which easily matched the fervor of their first, which felt like it had happened an eternity prior. Maggie could only return the kiss as much as she could in her confused state, praying that John wouldn’t notice her lack of effort.
When he pulled away, his eyes gleamed brighter than the lights in the stores, his love for her and the life growing inside of her as plain as day to anyone who looked into them.
Though her eyes still shone with tears, Abigail cleared her throat to speak for the first time since the news had been announced. “Doctor Wilson, how far along is my daughter in her pregnancy?”
Dr. Wilson continued beaming his infectious smile. “My wife und I agree that Maggie is two months into her pregnancy,” he replied, though his hand rose and gave a slight waggle. “Perhaps give or take a few weeks.”
Two MONTHS? Maggie screamed inside of her head, unable to even contemplate the additional information she’d been given. ‘But-but then that would mean...’
“Two months, Doc?” John echoed, briefly turning his gaze away from his wife. “So right around when Maggie and I got married, is that right?”
“Ja, Herr Baldwin,” Dr. Wilson answered, his thick fingers plucking his small glasses from off of his bulbous nose before wiping them on his nightshirt. “It seems you and Frau Baldwin have been quite busy at the ranch.”
The doctor, his wife, Abigail, and Fergus all chortled at his implications. John blushed brightly while Maggie desperately wished she could be anywhere at that moment except for in the office.
As the laughter subsided, Dr. Wilson returned his spectacles to his eyes before continuing. “Now then, the nausea und vomiting are perfectly natural for this stage of a pregnancy. They will come und go as they please, but they are nothing to worry about. I would suggest that you return home for the night und rest. Und try to avoid any unnecessary physical stress.”
This is all happening too fast, Maggie worried, her thoughts frantically spinning around in her mind. However, the feeling of her thoughts swirling about as they were only furthered a returning sense of nausea. She forced it down, refusing to start heaving again in front of everyone.
Chucking into a barrel in front of John was bad enough, she mentally moaned. I’ll be damned if I’ll do it in front of everyone here.
Dr. Wilson continued going over a few basics of what Maggie should and shouldn’t do for the time being. John’s focus on the instructions was akin to that of a dog sitting as their master held a delicious piece of meat in front of them, their attention unyielding.
The words, however, were lost to Maggie, fading into a sort of murmur as her mind continued to run through everything that had happened and everything that was going to happen.
Her lack of tears still confused and to some degree frightened her, but there was one thing that gave her hope for herself: her hand had never left the gentle curve of her belly since she had first laid it there.
***
OUTSKIRTS OF CHEYENNE, Wyoming Territory, October 1885
After leaving Dr. Wilson’s office and gathering the horses and the wagon, the family set out together to return to the ranch. Despite much fussing and arguing, Maggie was reluctantly coaxed into riding in the wagon with her mother and godfather, while John led Apollo by the reins as he rode atop Longbow.
The family moved at a relaxed pace as they made their way to the ranch, none of them feeling like rushing as the news continued to sink in. Once again, silence took over but in a more comfortable way than it had before.
For John Baldwin, the silence was unnoticed as his thoughts coursed joyously through his mind.
Pregnant, he thought happily over and over again. Maggie’s pregnant with my child.
The idea that he was going to become a father was something that John still couldn’t bring himself to get over. Although it wasn’t something that he’d actively planned on, he’d hoped to one day have children of his own, a hope that had grown more after he and Maggie had gotten married. The fact that it was now a reality only furthered his joy.
Mama, Papa, he prayed, his eyes craning up to gaze at the stars twinkling in the late October night sky. Thank you. Thank you for guiding me toward Maggie, and thank you for blessing us with the child growing inside of her. I know we’ll love our baby as much as you both loved me. I promise.
For the hundredth time that night, John let out a sigh of contentment, his breath appearing before him in a cloud in the chilled air. The reminder of the temperature gave John a chuckle as he recalled offering his coat to Maggie before they’d left Cheyenne, trying to protect her and their child from the cold. Maggie had stared at him in her beautifully annoyed way and told him that her own coat would suffice and that he needn’t worry about her. He’d wanted to press on, but he thought better of it, remembering that someone had once told him that pregnant women could be easily annoyed.
Easily annoyed with my Maggie likely translates to easily violent, he joked, turning his head just enough to spy the wagon trailing closely behind him. He knew that he’d have to be careful with Maggie over the coming months.
Apollo trotted in step with Longbow, the chestnut and ebony mounts maintaining a steady pace as their hooves gently beat down on the dirt path leading toward the McNeal Ranch. The rhythm of their pace was almost as gentle as a lullaby, something that could easily put John to sleep if he allowed it to. But his excitement at becoming a father kept exhaustion far from his mind and body, both of them invigorated by the joyous news.
My family is growing, he thought dreamily, his thoughts turning toward the memories of not only his parents, but also the Natives he’d grown up with and who had taught him how to ride a horse. Wherever they are, I hope they’re doing well and the Spirits are watching over them.
As the lights of the McNeal Ranch appeared in the distance, John allowed himself an even broader smile than the one he’d already been wearing. After the loss of his childhood home and family, followed by a few years of wandering around looking for somewhere he could belong, he’d found a new home and he was well on his way to beginning his own family.
What more could a man ask for? he wondered, unable to think of anything he could possibly desire beyond what he now had and what was coming.
***
MCNEAL RANCH, NEAR Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, October 1885
By the time they’d returned to the ranch, Maggie’s mind and heart had settled slightly. She still felt partly annoyed at John for trying to baby her by offering her his coat, but she managed to calm herself by remembering that it was just his protective nature.
Before long, John had seen Apollo, Longbow, and the draft horses to the stable while Uncle Fergus returned the wagon to the barn. Maggie even allowed John to help her down from the wagon, though she still gave him a playfully annoyed smile.
In a rare display of actually following the advice of others, Maggie swiftly made her way inside the homestead and up the stairs to her and John’s bedroom. She felt exhausted even though she knew full well that she hadn’t done much of anything in the time since John had gotten her away from the show. She wanted to be angry with herself for suddenly feeling so weak, but to be angry would require more energy than she had at that moment.
Slowly, she stripped off her riding clothes, letting them pool on the floor and not even caring a wit for picking them up. As she made her way toward the alluring softness and warmth of the bed, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
Her feet came to a halt as she looked at the mirror, regarding her figure curiously. Her hands once again came to rest on her belly, her thoughts from her examination of it that morning having come to pass. It wasn’t just a slight curve and a few extra pounds anymore. Now it was the vessel within which her and John’s child would grow over the next several months.
Seven more months, she thought to herself, though she was still unable to believe that she had gotten pregnant so soon after her wedding.
Her hands gently massaged her soft abdomen in slow, comforting circles as though they had a mind of their own. Though Maggie sighed contentedly at the motion, her thoughts once more heeded the call of the bed before her.
As she climbed into the bed and slid the covers over her, she felt sleep rapidly begin to overtake her. As the comforting darkness pulled her further and further down, she still couldn’t decide whether she was more exhausted from everything that had just happened or if it was just a result of her pregnancy.
“Guess it doesn’t matter much,” she yawned, the lingering thoughts within fading into her dreams.
***
“OUR LITTLE GIRL HAS gone and grown up, Peter.”
Abigail McNeal spoke the words aloud as she stood beneath the tree where her beloved husband’s mortal remains rested. The grave of Peter McNeal was liberally covered in leaves of red, orange, and yellow, all of them from the tree he spent so much time resting beneath and playing with his daughters.
Despite spending half of the night talking with John and reminiscing with Fergus, she still woke up well before the others in the house and no worse for wear. John had quietly excused himself at some point after midnight and gone to sleep, while she and Fergus talked for what felt like hours afterward. The sun had just begun its climb over McNeal Hill when Abigail had woken up, thrown on some clothes and a warm coat before slipping quietly out of the homestead and making her way to her husband’s resting place.
“Not sure I really needed to sneak out, what with Fergus snoring like an old hound the way he does,” she chuckled, knowing that her husband would have agreed and made an even more humorous comparison to the sounds his best friend made while sleeping.
Abigail sighed as she looked down at the headstone that marked Peter’s place. She’d made it a point to come visit him whenever moments of great change took place in the family. Though she had every ounce of faith that Peter kept watch over all of them from up above, she still liked to tell him these things herself.
Much like the other times, though, she wished with all of her heart that the man who had asked her to be his wife was still beside her, celebrating in the joyful news that their little girl had grown up, found a good man, and was now set to become a mother as well.
“You’d have made a perfect grandfather, Peter,” she said wistfully, tears blurring her vision. The morning chill made the tears’ presence all the more real, but Abigail didn’t care. This was her time with her husband and she wouldn’t let a little cool weather keep her from it.
“I know it’s not fair that Maggie and John’s little one will grow up knowing only a single grandmother,” she whispered, remembering all too well that both of John’s parents had passed, “but I know John will make an excellent father and Maggie a strong mother.”
A breeze rustled the branches of the tree, dislodging a few leaves and sending them sailing toward the ground, almost as if Peter was agreeing with her.
Abigail smiled sadly, taking comfort in her belief that the whimsical and willful man she’d married was always watching over her and their daughters no matter how long he’d been gone.
“And I brought a little something to celebrate as well, my love,” she said in a tone that could have been called mischievous as she reached into her coat and withdrew a bottle of whiskey.
With a practiced ease nobody would’ve believed, she uncorked the bottle. Unlike her daughter, who usually distributed the liquid in a shot glass for herself and her father, Abigail poured a generous dose of the alcohol on her husband’s grave before taking a sizable pull from the bottle herself, the fiery concoction warming her cheeks against the autumn chill.
She giggled as she swallowed the whiskey, seemingly unaffected by it without even so much as a cough. Memories of when she and Peter had drunk together back east and on a few nights when they’d persuaded Fergus to watch the girls flooded her mind, all of them making her smile.
After returning the cork to the bottle and placing it within her coat, Abigail decided that it was time to get started on the day. There was much work to do already and she needed to ensure that Maggie and John put their feet forward on this exciting development in their lives.
But before she began her walk back toward the homestead, she slowly lowered herself to her knees, the leaves crackling beneath her weight as she settled amongst them. Reaching her hand out, she laid it against the cold stone of her husband’s headstone and gave a smile.
“I’ll always love you, Peter McNeal,” she whispered, the tears in her eyes finally rolling down her cheeks. “And I’ll keep watch over that little angel like a hawk so long as I draw breath. But please keep an eye on John and give him patience with our daughter.”
Abigail bowed her head as she finished her prayer, the dampness of her cheeks mixing with the cool air around her. But as she made to stand up and return to the homestead, she felt the sun’s light caress her cheeks and warm them.
The redhead laughed quietly as she took the event as another sign from her husband that he’d do what she asked of him. After all, he’d never told her no when he was living, so why would he start now that he was dead?
As Abigail made her way back toward the homestead, she began creating a mental list of numerous things that would have to be taken care of in order to prepare for the coming child and the coming winter.
At the top of the list was the necessity of sending her younger daughter a telegram informing her of the news. However, if she wanted to be certain that the message would be sent off immediately, she’d have to have the message at the telegram office before the day got much older.
I hate to have to do it, she mentally sighed, but I think I’ll have to wake John up a touch early today.
***
JOHN BALDWIN WAS ALREADY what one could skeptically call awake, though he didn’t really mind being so. He was currently lying in bed with his toned chest nestled against his wife’s back, his arms wrapped around her and his hands covering hers as they covered her belly.
Not for the first time that morning, John Baldwin felt as if he couldn’t possibly love her any more than he did right then and there.
No, not just her, he mused, her and our child.
The Kentucky-born cowboy quietly began to hum one of the songs he could recall his father singing to him when he was a baby. Maggie responded by cuddling closer into his arms and John couldn’t help but smile.
I don’t think I’d like to get out of bed today, he thought with a lopsided grin, knowing that he would eventually have to rise and see to the day’s events sooner or later.
Sooner, it seemed, came all too soon as the door to the bedroom quietly opened. John craned his neck around to see who it was, his eyes narrowing in order to see into the darkness.
“John?” he heard the distinct whisper of Abigail through the darkness. “John, are you awake?”
“Yes’m, Abigail, I’m awake,” he replied in a hushed whisper, trying to keep from waking his wife.
“I’m sorry to ask you this, John,” Abigail continued, “but I need you to deliver a message to the telegraph office in Cheyenne as soon as you can. Leyla should know about the good news.”
Oh Lord, John thought embarrassedly, I forgot all about Leyla. Well, I can’t rightly have her kept in the dark on my account.
Looking down at his still slumbering wife, John sighed at having been deprived of keeping her company so early in the day, but he shoved those thoughts down and committed to his duties.
“Can do, Abigail,” he whispered in return. “I’ll be down in a quick spell and be off to Cheyenne in no time.”
“Thank you kindly, John,” Abigail answered before she slowly retreated from the room.
Taking the greatest of care, John gently pulled his arms away from his wife and slid out from their bed. He carefully pulled their blanket over her, ensuring that she and their child would be kept warm. Satisfied that she was warmly tucked in, he quickly dressed and quietly exited the room before making his way downstairs to take hold of Abigail’s message for delivery.
He found his mother-in-law in the kitchen, finishing up her message with a pencil before handing it off to him along with a piece of pie she’d saved from the previous night so that he could at least eat something. John was more than grateful for the ad hoc breakfast as he quietly slipped out the kitchen door and made his way toward the stable, stuffing the cold but still delicious treat into his mouth while securing the message inside one of his coat’s interior pockets.
Upon entering the stable, he made his way over to Longbow and gave his mount an appreciative pat on the muzzle, the horse enjoying his rider’s touch.
“Sorry to do this so early, partner,” he said with an apologetic smile, “but Ms. Abigail’s got a special job for us. We’re playing messenger today and the sooner we get this message to the telegraph office in Cheyenne, the sooner we can get a feedbag around your muzzle. Sound fair?”
The ebony steed bridled happily at the mention of food, and John set about getting him ready for the quick ride into Cheyenne.
In the next stall over, Apollo whinnied at his own rider’s absence.
John tightened Longbow’s saddle before he stepped over to Apollo’s stall and gave the chestnut-hued horse a reassuring pat along his mane.
“Aw, don’t fret none, Apollo,” John soothed, his tone and action calming the horse down. “Maggie’s still in bed, but she’s fine. Though, I am sorry to say that I don’t think she’ll be riding for much longer.”
Apollo bristled slightly at his words, as though asking why that would be the case.
John chuckled slightly and gave Apollo another pat on the mane. “Maggie’s got a little rider inside her, so that means she has to take care for the next few months. But don’t fret. I’ll make sure you get plenty of exercise. And I’m willing to bet that in the next few years, you and Longbow are going to be teaching the next few show riders and ranchers from here.”
Finishing his explanation to Maggie’s horse, John turned and led Longbow out of the stable before closing the stable door behind him. Once he was certain it was secure, he mounted his horse and lit out for Cheyenne, intent on delivering the message to the telegraph office with all due haste.
***
CHEYENNE, WYOMING TERRITORY, October 1885
The ride into Cheyenne was uneventful for John and Longbow, few souls being out on the road that early in the day. As for Cheyenne, the town was largely quiet in the wake of the festivities the night before, many of the residents sleeping off the fun they’d had. Evidence of the celebration was still in place and a few pieces of trash rolled haphazardly through the streets at the complete mercy of the wind’s whims.
The telegraph office was located right next to the railroad station and was usually kept open all day and night for communicating railroad traffic and messages. As John dismounted from Longbow and hitched his faithful mount to a nearby post, he strode purposefully toward the office where all of the telegraph wires congregated.
As he opened the door and stepped in, he was relieved to spy that the telegraph operator sitting at the key was Silas Jones. Silas had a reputation in Cheyenne for being the only telegraph operator who wasn’t an incurable gossip. The man rigidly kept the information contained in the messages he sent and received between himself and the necessary parties. He steadfastly refused to be coaxed or bribed into telling anybody anyone else’s business.
Just the man I was hoping to see, John thought delightedly as he closed the door behind him.
Silas’s finger rapidly tapped the telegraph key, the rhythmic tapping almost hypnotic in a way. John waited patiently while Silas tapped out whatever message he was furiously sending out, watching the skill and movement of his fingers.
After a few moments, Silas finished his message and turned to regard his visitor. “Ah, Mister Baldwin, good morning to you,” he greeted politely, offering a thin-lipped smile. “What can I do for you?”
John returned the smile easily before digging his hand into the interior of his coat to find Abigail’s message.
“Morning to you, Silas,” he replied as he extracted the note from his coat and extended it out toward the operator. “I’ve a message that needs to be sent to Miss Leyla McNeal, care of the Professor Monro Traveling Wild West Show further west.”
“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten the younger McNeal sister was travelling,” Silas replied good naturedly as he gripped the message and read its contents.
John was half-expecting some kind of reaction from Silas once he’d read the message, but the man simply smiled before looking back at John. “Congratulations to you, Mister Baldwin,” he said simply. “And please pass my well wishes along to your wife. I’ll make sure this gets sent off straight away, but you’d better take that note with you. I don’t want any of my nosier colleagues stumbling onto it and spreading your wife’s private matters.” Silas punctuated his statement by immediately tapping out the message on the telegraph key.
Again, John breathed a sigh of relief at the telegraph operator’s penchant for minding his own business and that of others. He placed a generous payment onto Silas’s desk, more than enough to pay for the telegram being sent out and was turning to leave when Silas called out.
“Oh, wait a second, Mister Baldwin! Sorry, I almost forgot, but a telegram came in for you just yesterday.” Silas stood from his chair and moved toward the pigeonholes full of arrived telegrams for the populace of Cheyenne.
A telegram for me? John puzzled, wondering who could possibly know where he was. Nobody back east would really have a mind for sending me a message, unless it’s from... John’s eyes widened and his heart began racing as a small ember of hope sparked inside of his being at the telegram’s possible sender.
Silas turned to face the Kentuckian again, holding the telegram out toward John. John, his hands suddenly trembling, reached out and took the scrap of paper in his hand before his eyes roamed over it.
JOHN BALDWIN STOP TRIBE PLANS MOVING FURTHER WEST STOP PASS THROUGH CHEYENNE IN WINTER STOP HOPE TO SEE YOU AGAIN STOP MAY THE GREAT SPIRIT CONTINUE TO GUIDE YOU STOP GUARDING WOLF
John stood stock still as he reread the simple lines over and over again. For the second day in a row, he could feel his heart swelling with absolute joy at having been given an unexpected piece of news.
He was going to see his family again. Some of the Natives who he had grown up with and learned so much from were going to be passing through Cheyenne in winter.
I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let them continue through the winter snows and winds, he thought determinedly. My folks’d turn over in their graves if I did such a thing.
Despite feeling further tears of joy gathering in the corners of his eyes, John quickly thanked Silas for his help and beat a path toward the door, intent on returning home and sharing the news with his wife and mother-in-law.
Longbow seemed to sense that his rider was in far better spirits than when they’d first arrived, his large eyes holding a querying quality.
John easily swung himself up into the black steed’s saddle and gave him a reassuring rub along his mane. “Got more good news, partner,” he sang, feeling as though he could fly. “Guarding Wolf and his tribe are coming our way, and I plan on making them feel plenty welcome at the ranch.”
His mount blew an excited blast of air from his flared nostrils, appearing to take the news as excitedly as John was.
“You got that right, Longbow,” John cheered. “Looks like we’ve got family new and old coming straight for us. Speaking of which, we’d better head on back to the ranch. Maggie’s likely up by now, and I believe I promised you a bag of feed as soon as we returned, didn’t I?”
Longbow bridled at the mention of food, and before John could even direct him to, the horse turned around to the direction the ranch was in.
With a chuckle at his mount’s desire to be fed, John spurred him forward, and the two took off at a gallop, leaving a rising cloud of dust in their wake as they beat a path toward home.
