She walked straight to him, and held the baby up for his inspection.
Falkner murmured something that sounded like an oath. But it happened that Rowan, junior, took to men. He smiled and stretched out his arms. Before the outlaw could speak, before he could voice the sullen rejection of friendliness that was in his mind, Ruth had pushed the boy into his arms.
The soft little hands of the baby explored the rough face of the man. Rowan, junior, beamed with delight.
“You da-da,” he announced confidently.
Ruth managed a little laugh. “He’s claiming you already, Mr. Falkner, even though he doesn’t know that meeting you has probably saved our lives.”
For years Falkner had fought his snarling way against those who held the upper hand. Hatred and bitterness had filled his soul. But the contact with this soft, helpless bit of gurgling humanity sent a queer thrill through him. It was as if pink velvet of exquisite texture, breathing delicious life, were rubbing itself against his cheek. But it was not alone the physical sensation that reached him. Somehow the little beggar, so absolutely sure of his welcome, twined those dimpled fingers around the heartstrings of the callous man. Not since his mother’s death had any human being come to him with such implicit trust. The Adam’s apple in the convict’s throat shot up and registered emotion.
“The blamed little cuss! See him grab a-holt of my ear.”
Ruth left the baby in his arms, took off her coat, and walked to the stove. She held out her hands and began to warm them.
“We were in the car,” she explained. “I took the high-line back because I was afraid of the upper bridge. The machine stalled in a drift.”
“You don’t ask me how-come I’m here,” he growled.