He stopped inviting those people into the conversation.
The baby monitor crackled.
He looked toward it immediately.
Silence.
He leaned back.
On the table sat the notebook where he recorded nanny schedules, feed deliveries, ranch expenses, pediatric appointments, and things he was afraid he might forget.
The page in front of him contained seven names.
Seven attempts.
He drew a line beneath the last one.
Then wrote:
Stop asking strangers to fix what she lost.
He stared at the sentence.
It looked profound for approximately thirty seconds.
Then his daughter started crying again.
At dawn he was in the barn carrying her in a front carrier while checking a mare with a swollen leg.
His ranch foreman found him there.
The foreman was sixty-three and had worked for the family since the single father was fourteen.
He looked at the baby.
Then at the horse.
Then at the single father.
“This is stupid.”
The father did not look up.
“Morning to you too.”
“You can’t inspect horses with a baby strapped to your chest.”
“I’m standing.”
“Horse doesn’t know that.”
“She’s calm.”
The baby was asleep.
The foreman lowered his voice.
“You need help.”
“I have help.”
“You have me.”
“Yes.”
“I am not baby help.”
The single father smiled faintly.
“Good. You’re ugly.”
The foreman ignored that.
“There’s a difference between doing something hard and doing something badly because you’re too stubborn to admit it’s hard.”
The father’s jaw tightened.
“I know it’s hard.”
“Then act like it.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Hire someone.”
“I’ve hired seven someones.”
“Hire eight.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m done teaching my daughter that people show up and disappear.”
The foreman stared at him.
“She is ten months old.”
“She notices.”
“Maybe.”
“She notices.”
The foreman sighed.
“You’re making decisions for her based on what you’re afraid of.”
The single father turned sharply.
“Careful.”
The older man held up both hands.
“I’m not telling you how to raise her.”
“You just did.”
“I’m telling you you haven’t slept in six months.”
“Neither did you when your twins were born.”
“My wife was alive.”
Silence.
The foreman immediately regretted the sentence.
The single father looked away.
The baby shifted against him.
The foreman said quietly:
“I’m sorry.”
The father nodded once.
“It’s fine.”
It was not.
Nothing involving that subject was fine.
But both men needed somewhere to put the sentence.
The foreman returned to work.