The next morning, she returned at eight.
Not seven fifty-five.
Not eight ten.
Exactly eight.
The father noticed.
He had been awake since four thirty because the baby had decided sleep was political oppression.
The Apache woman stepped inside.
Looked at him.
“You look terrible.”
“Good morning.”
“That was my good morning.”
The baby saw her.
Paused.
The father watched carefully.
No crying.
The woman hummed the first two notes.
The baby smiled.
A huge, gummy, ridiculous smile.
The father felt jealousy so immediate it embarrassed him.
The Apache woman saw his face.
“She smiled at me.”
“I noticed.”
“You’re angry.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“She took three weeks to smile at my brother.”
“I have a song.”
“That’s cheating.”
“Yes.”
He almost smiled.
She held out her hands.
The baby leaned toward her.
The father’s chest tightened.
He let her go.
The child settled.
The woman looked toward him.
“Go shower.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“You smell like hay and formula.”
“This is my house.”
“And that is still true.”
He stared.
She stared back.
The ranch foreman passed the open kitchen doorway.
“Listen to her.”
The father turned.
“Get out.”
The foreman disappeared laughing.
The Apache woman called:
“He needs breakfast too.”
The foreman shouted back:
“I’ve been telling him.”
The father looked betrayed.
“You two have known each other twelve hours.”
The woman smiled.
“Coalitions form quickly.”
He showered.
For the first time in months, he stayed under the water longer than three minutes.
Then he stood there doing nothing.
Just water.
No baby monitor.
No screaming.
No phone.
No one calling his name.
He nearly cried from the luxury of it.
When he returned downstairs, the baby sat on the kitchen floor between the Apache woman’s legs, banging two plastic cups together.
The woman was drinking coffee and reading one of the ranch invoices upside down.
He frowned.
“Why are you reading that?”
“I’m not.”
“It’s upside down.”
“Exactly.”
He sat.
There was breakfast in front of him.
Eggs.
Toast.
He looked suspicious.
“You cooked?”
“The foreman did.”
“That’s worse.”
“He says you forget lunch.”
“He talks too much.”
“He likes you.”
“That is not an excuse.”
The baby laughed.
Both adults looked toward her.
The father froze again.
The woman smiled.
“She likes cups.”
“She likes destroying things.”
“Also normal.”
They spent four hours together.
No miracles.
The baby cried.
The Apache woman could not magically stop every time.
Good.
The father needed to see that.
Sometimes the child wanted him.