Baby Screamed Nonstop On A Stagecoach Until A Widow Did The Unthinkable For A Rich Cowboy…

Vera had packed what she could and boarded the stagecoach because staying in her old town felt like living in a room where all the air had already been breathed.

Back inside the coach, an hour after the relay station, the screaming started worse than before.

The baby’s cries had sharp edges now—wild and frightened. Hunger had sharpened him into a small animal.

Pruitt stood up so fast his knees hit the seat.

“I’m riding on top with the driver,” he said, and climbed out through the front door, choosing danger over noise.

That left Owen holding the baby, Vera staring at the window, Mrs. Keene watching with wide eyes, and the old man snoring like a fallen tree.

Owen’s hands shook. His face had gone pale under the dust.

Something behind his eyes looked close to breaking.

The baby’s mouth opened and closed like he was trying to bite the air. His fists beat against Owen’s chest.

Owen rocked harder.

The baby screamed louder.

Vera felt milk let down in a sudden rush, and she gasped, pressing her arm tight against her chest as if she could force her body to stop caring.

She tried to stay in her seat.

She tried to stay out of it.

But the baby’s cries turned thin, the sound becoming desperate in a way that made Vera’s stomach turn.

The crying wasn’t just loud now.

It was weak.

And Vera could not stand it anymore.

She stood.

The coach swayed, and Owen’s head snapped up.

His eyes met hers—defensive and tired, like a man ready to be judged.

“He’s hungry,” Vera said.

Owen’s voice was rough.

“He’s been fed.”

“Not the way he needs,” Vera answered.

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