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things couldn’t continue like this, but he wasn’t sure what to do to solve the problem.
    Everyone for miles around had attended Melanie’s funeral. He was sure that most of them came out of respect for him rather than fondness for her, but he appreciated their concern. Some, he knew, had come out of curiosity, wanting to get a good look at the new house he had built for his Eastern bride. He had made it clear to everyone that he was in need of a housekeeper, but no one had applied for the job.
    Last Sunday a childless couple who lived in town had made the long drive out to the ranch. They wanted to adopt the baby, promising to love him like one of their own. Jim had turned down their offer, but with every day that passed he began to seriously reconsider it. Unless something changed soon, he wouldn’t be able to take care of the ranch and his infant son.
    Forcing his feet down the steps, Jim walked back into the kitchen. There was a couple of hours of work facing him before he could consider going to bed. Baby bottles and nipples needed to be washed, and then cooked in boiling water to sterilize them. The doctor had been very specific in his instructions on the care of the newborn. He had given Jim enough examples of the horrible fate that awaited the child if the directions weren’t followed, that Jim was careful to do every thing exactly as instructed.
    His own belly growled with hunger as Jim poured water into a bowl to wash the bottles. Grabbing the heel of the loaf of bread, the only remaining piece, he wondered why he had never before considered white bread as a luxurious thing. Only when faced with doing without any did he realize how much he depended on it. As he chewed the bread, he knew that it would be the last until one of his neighbors took pity on him and brought some over.
    It was a sure bet that neither Hank nor Woods would volunteer to bake bread.
    Jim didn’t know what he would have done without the two old men, or without Breed. A routine, or the form of one, had developed the morning after the funeral. He would get up, take care of the baby, and then head out, leaving his son in the dubious care of the two men. Breed was handling the heaviest part of the roundup, making it possible for Jim to return to the ranch house before dark each evening.
    It wasn’t a perfect routine, not even a good one, but it was working for now. He just didn’t know how much longer he could continue it. Breed did what was necessary without a word of complaint, and the two old men did what they could with ceaseless complaints.
    He had to find a housekeeper soon, or face the real possibility of giving up his son. He wasn’t sure exactly what he felt about the child. It was difficult to develop a relationship with someone who cried, ate, and slept, but he knew he didn’t want to let the town people adopt him.
    After scrubbing the bottles and nipples, he rinsed them and put them in a pot of boiling water. Either Hank or Woods had left a pot of beans and a pan of corn bread near the fire, and feeling as greedy as his son, Jim finished them.
    Knowing it was necessary, but dreading it nonetheless, he made a quick trip back upstairs, grabbed the baby’s dirty linens, and carried them to the kitchen. His nose wrinkled with disgust as he opened the bucket lid and poured water over the contents. Using the scrub board from the back porch, he scrubbed each towel ten times, ignored the stains, wrung it out, and threw it into the dry sink.
    By the time he had finished the towels, he estimated that the bottles had boiled long enough. Carefully removing them with a knife stuck in the opening, he saved the water and added the clean towels. Returning it to the fire, Jim sat at the kitchen table and waited for them to boil.
    His head nodded and he rested it against his hand, drifting into a much-needed sleep. The sound of the baby crying woke him abruptly, and as he climbed wearily to his feet, he shook his numb hand. Pouring the