Eli kane

Fatherhood

After years of chasing outlaws and settling scores, Eli Kane found himself standing on the edge of something unfamiliar—peace. It had been five years since he put a bullet in Black Jack Graves, ending a hunt that had consumed most of his life. Now, he had traded his guns and the dusty trails for a quiet ranch nestled in the foothills of Wyoming, far from the violence and lawlessness that had defined his past.

His hands, once quick to draw iron, now worked the land. He had built a home with his wife, Clara, a schoolteacher from one of the frontier towns he passed through on his final journey. Clara had seen something in Eli beyond the hard stare and the reputation. She had seen the man beneath—the one who had lost so much but still held the capacity for love, even if he didn't know it at first.

Now, Eli was about to face something far more daunting than any outlaw he had ever encountered. Clara was in labor, and Eli, for the first time in his life, felt helpless. He paced outside the small bedroom of their home, listening to the sounds of Clara's pain and the midwife's calm instructions. His heart pounded in his chest, louder than any gunfire, and he could barely stand still.

The room felt small, too small for a man like him, who had spent so much time in the wide-open spaces of the frontier. His hands fidgeted, and he looked toward the door every few seconds, unsure of what to do with himself. For all the years he had been a bounty hunter, feared and respected, Eli Kane had never been this nervous.

Hours passed, though it felt like days. Then, as the sun began to set, casting golden light across the room, the midwife emerged, wiping her hands on her apron and smiling softly.

"It's a boy, Mr. Kane," she said, her voice warm. "Clara's resting, but you can see her now."

Eli nodded, swallowing hard. He hadn't expected his throat to feel so tight. Slowly, he stepped into the room, his boots creaking on the wooden floor. Clara lay in bed, pale but smiling, her dark hair damp with sweat. In her arms, wrapped in a blanket, was the tiny, fragile bundle that was their son.

Eli approached the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he feared the smallest misstep might break the fragile moment. Clara looked up at him with tired but loving eyes.

"He's beautiful, Eli," she whispered, her voice soft. "Come hold him."

Eli hesitated. His hands, scarred from years of violence, felt too rough, too calloused to hold something so delicate. But Clara smiled at him, her expression full of trust, and slowly, she placed the baby in his arms.

Eli looked down at his son, his breath catching in his throat. The child was so small, so impossibly light in his arms. He had seen countless things in his life—death, bloodshed, the worst of what men could do to each other—but nothing had prepared him for this. His son's eyes were closed, his tiny fists clenched in peaceful sleep. Eli stared at him, his heart swelling in a way he never thought possible.

"What... what should we call him?" Eli asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Clara smiled, resting her head back against the pillow. "I was thinking we could name him Samuel. After your father."

Eli's throat tightened again, but this time it wasn't from fear. His father had died when he was a boy, long before he became a lawman, long before the world had hardened him. It was a name that carried weight, one he hadn't spoken aloud in years.

"Samuel," Eli repeated, the word feeling right as it passed his lips. He looked back down at his son, at Samuel. "Yeah... Samuel Kane."

Clara closed her eyes, exhaustion taking over, but not before she whispered, "He's going to need you, Eli. More than anyone ever has."