PART 1: THE BIGGEST BABY IN THE COUNTY

The biggest cowboy in Wyoming had faced stampeding cattle, angry bulls, and a winter blizzard that nearly buried him alive.

But nothing had ever frightened him quite like the six-month-old baby currently chewing on his mustache.

“Clara, let go of Uncle Hank’s face,” Hank Mercer pleaded.

The baby giggled and pulled harder.

It was Saturday morning at the annual Cottonwood County Fair, 1887, and Hank had made the terrible mistake of promising his younger sister, Ruth, that he would watch her daughter for one hour.

One hour.

That was all.

Ruth had disappeared into the pie-baking competition twenty minutes earlier, leaving Hank holding a squirming baby, a bag of diapers, and instructions he had already forgotten.

At six feet four inches tall, with shoulders as broad as a barn door and a beard that frightened most horses, Hank looked like a man who could wrestle a mountain lion.

Instead, he was losing an argument with someone who couldn’t pronounce her own name.

“Now listen here, little lady,” he whispered. “I’ve negotiated with cattle buyers tougher than you.”

Clara responded by sneezing directly into his face.

“Fair enough.”

Searching for somewhere to sit, Hank spotted a large wooden sign outside the exhibition tent.

BABY CARE COMPETITION — REGISTRATION HERE.

Hank read only the last two words.

“Registration. Good. Maybe somebody here knows where a fellow can find a clean diaper.”

He stepped inside.

A cheerful woman wearing a flower-covered bonnet looked up from her desk.

“Name?”

“Hank Mercer.”

“Baby’s name?”

“Clara.”

“Relationship?”

“Uncle. Unfortunately.”

The woman laughed and pinned a blue number onto his vest.

“Number thirteen. You’re just in time!”

“For what?”

Before she could answer, a bell rang.

“CONTESTANTS, TAKE YOUR PLACES!”

Hank turned.

Twelve women stood behind a long row of tables, each holding a baby. Some were experienced mothers. Others were nurses, grandmothers, or young women determined to prove their skills.

And at the end of the row stood Hank Mercer, holding Clara like a very small sack of potatoes.

A woman in a purple dress stared at him.

“Sir, are you competing?”

Hank looked at the number pinned to his chest.

“Apparently.”

The crowd erupted in laughter.

Mrs. Beatrice Whitcomb, the wealthy banker’s wife and three-time contest champion, covered her mouth with a lace handkerchief.

“Oh, this should be entertaining.”

The judge, a stern elderly midwife named Mrs. Abigail Finch, raised her hand.

“First event! Diaper changing! Cleanliness, comfort, and speed will be judged!”

Hank stared at the cloth diapers arranged before him.

He had never changed one in his life.

“Well, Clara,” he muttered, “looks like we’re going to learn something together.”

The whistle blew.

All around him, hands moved quickly. Pins flashed. Babies fussed. One contestant accidentally knocked over a bowl of water.

Hank worked slowly, carefully folding the cloth the way he folded saddle blankets, keeping every pin well away from Clara’s skin.

When he finished, Clara kicked her legs and laughed.

Mrs. Finch inspected his work.

“Not the fastest,” she announced. “But secure, comfortable, and remarkably neat.”

The crowd applauded.

Hank blinked.

“Well, I’ll be.”

The second event was feeding.

Clara refused her bottle.

She twisted. She squealed. She slapped Hank’s hand.

Mrs. Whitcomb smiled triumphantly as her baby finished first.

But Hank noticed something.

Clara kept rubbing her cheek against his vest.

He remembered Ruth saying that Clara sometimes became uncomfortable after riding in the wagon.

He adjusted her position, gently rocked her against his chest, and hummed an old cattle-driving song.

Within moments, she relaxed and began drinking.

Mrs. Finch watched with growing interest.

“Mr. Mercer, where did you learn that?”

“Ma’am, when a frightened calf won’t drink, sometimes you have to make it feel safe first.”

The judge smiled.

“Not quite the comparison I expected. But the principle is sound.”

By the third event, the entire fairground had heard about the enormous cowboy competing against Cottonwood’s finest baby caretakers.

People crowded around the tent.

Even Sheriff Dalton arrived, laughing so hard that his silver badge shook.

“Hank! I thought you were entering the bronco-riding contest!”

“I was!” Hank shouted back. “Somehow I ended up here!”

The final event was soothing a crying baby.

Each contestant had to comfort her own child after a noisy bell startled the little ones.

The bell rang.

Clara burst into tears.

Hank immediately lifted her against his shoulder, shielding her from the crowd. He walked in slow circles, humming the same song.

Then he did something nobody expected.

He took off his enormous black cowboy hat and gently placed it over his own face.

“Where’s Uncle Hank?”

Clara stopped crying.

He lifted the hat.

“BOO!”

She laughed.

The audience roared.

Hank repeated the trick until Clara was squealing with delight.

Even Mrs. Whitcomb began smiling.

When the scores were counted, Mrs. Finch stepped onto the platform.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our first-prize winner is…”

She paused dramatically.

“MR. HANK MERCER!”

The tent exploded with cheers.

Hank nearly dropped his hat.

“Me? You’ve got to be kidding!”

Mrs. Finch handed him a silver trophy and a blue ribbon.

“You weren’t the quickest contestant, Mr. Mercer. But you were patient, attentive, and gentle. And that’s what good care requires.”

Hank looked down at Clara, who was now trying to eat his ribbon.

“Well, sweetheart. Looks like we won ourselves a prize.”

Then a familiar voice came from the entrance.

“HANK MERCER! WHAT ON EARTH HAVE YOU DONE?”

His sister Ruth stood there, clutching a freshly baked pie.

Behind her was a tall, well-dressed stranger carrying a leather briefcase.

Ruth wasn’t smiling.

She was pale.

The stranger looked at Clara, then at the trophy in Hank’s hand.

“That’s the child?” he asked quietly.

Ruth grabbed Hank’s arm.

“We need to leave. Right now.”

Hank frowned.

“Ruth, what’s going on?”

The stranger opened his briefcase and withdrew an official-looking document.

“Mr. Mercer,” he said, “I’ve been searching for that little girl for three months.”

Then he spoke the words that made Ruth’s pie slip from her fingers.

“And according to these papers, your sister has no legal right to keep her.”