Okay then chapter 7 not really going to say anything because nothing worth saying. MOVING ON…

Booker paced impatiently in front of his building. Today he was at his breaking point, waking to another quiet morning without Anna. He wanted desperately to see his daughter especially feeling unnerved by all the questions Moorely was asking about her. He considered punching the man in the face, all the more when he asked if maybe she would have been better with a more stable family. Of course Booker thought that, but that didn't mean he was going to admit that to Sam.

"What I mean Booker," said Moorely trying his best to sound sympathizing though all Booker could hear was a condescending tone. "Is that one day she'd going to be too big for that office, you'll have to teach her how to be a proper, good lady. How would you do that? You're not a proper, good man yourself."

Booker spun around so he was chest to chest with Moorely. "That is the last time I'm going to let you insult me. So just say it one more time." Moorely said nothing.

Now he was trying to brush the thoughts aside, he was doing alright for a father. Anna never went hungry or cold even if he did, and she seemed to like him enough. He wasn't the greatest father, nor was he going to pretend he was but there were certainly much worse. Like fathers who sold their child to a complete stranger into a country in the sky.

That guy was a complete ass.

But that was another thought for another day. Now he was waiting, waiting and watching for Dorothy to show with his daughter. He probably should have emphasized a time as she could have arrived at any moment, day or night. He sincerely hoped it wasn't going to be night.

He checked his watch for the fifth time in the last hour, only five minutes had passed since the last time he had checked it. He finally leaned against the wall trying to convince his self not to go to Dorothy's mother's house and demand his daughter back.

'Not a proper, good man yourself,' the insult rang in his head. What did that even mean?

He looked like a man, if a little more disheveled, but Booker was never one to care about his appearance. It was one of the things his wife loved about him. Most men put on a façade to try and impress the other women, but Booker was simple. He never looked like a slob, but he wasn't all that worried if his face had a little stubble on the sides or if his shirt was not tucked in.

He acted like a man, if a little more rough around the edges, but to Booker that was a way of survival. He never wanted people to imagine him as a soft man that was how trouble began. When they underestimate him, he was more than able to prove himself. Especially at Wounded Knee, the horrible things he had done still haunted him. Not because of the men they lost, but because of the things he had done not in defense but to prove a point to a bunch of men who were not worth the time. So many people, the old, the women, the sick, the children, none of it mattered to him who he killed, he just wanted carnage. Now he felt like he'd seen enough to last him the rest of his life.

But things were never that simple. He still felt the flares in his temper, especially when the cards started to go south. He would be fine one moment, and the next thing he knew he was dragging himself out of another bar wiping the blood from his face as he stumbled home through another drunken haze.

With a long defeated sigh, Booker hung his head shamed. Maybe he wasn't a good man at all. Maybe Moorely was right. He felt his depression start to settle in, until a familiar voice cast a light over that dark spot in his heart.

"Bah de de de de," a tiny voice caught Booker's attention immediately. His head snapped up and he glanced around. "Dah dah bah de."

"My goodness you're chatty this morning," said a female voice that Booker also knew. He felt his insides melt a little bit. There they were, Dorothy and Anna. Anna was babbling away, and Dorothy seemed to enjoy the baby's expressiveness. With a case in the other hand, and Anna in one, they were making their way to Booker. They were both smiling as they walked, Booker was surprised to feel his own lips pulling upwards as he saw little Anna taking in the sights again. "You just can't wait to get home can you?"

Booker refrained from running at the two like a mad man, instead settling on taking long strides to meet them halfway. Dorothy greeted Booker with a smile before handing the little girl over. Booker responded with a nod and focused instead on his daughter. Anna beamed with a toothless smile at her father, making Booker melt a little more inside. He planted a quick peck on her chubby cheek, which was healing nicely before hugging her close. He hadn't realized just how much he missed her until she was in his arms again. Anna set her head on his good shoulder, before cooing nonsense.

"She's been excited all morning," Dorothy spoke finally. "I think she missed you something terrible."

Booker didn't say a thing to her, just settled with closing his eyes and listening to Anna's babbling which had settled into a whisper. Dorothy inwardly cursed Sam for the horrible things he said about Booker being Anna's father and how he was not a good father to her. Dorothy wished that just for a second Sam could see Booker when he was holding onto Anna. How he softened, ever so slightly but noticeably enough, when she looked up at him with those large blue eyes.

Yes perhaps he had a problem with drinking, and gambling. But her own father was a heavy drinker, but he never struck his wife or children. He had gotten into his shares of brawls in his day but he never brought his rage home. She knew, though she didn't know him well, that Booker would be the same. His wife seemed to love him enough to bear a child for him, there had to be something he was doing right.

"She was running a fever last night briefly," she continued. Booker's eyes shot open, panic had already settled in as he opened his mouth to ask her what was wrong. "Easy Mr. DeWitt, she's teething. Her fevers are going to spike and then come down, it's perfectly natural. She'll be crying a lot, not feeling good, but it just means her first tooth is going to be coming soon."

Booker frowned, she was old enough to teeth already? Her first tooth was nearly here, which would mean her second tooth was next, then all of her teeth, and before he knew it she would be losing those teeth for her adult set, which would mean she was an adult. And Booker had seen her as an adult, as a beautiful young woman and he probably wouldn't be the only one who thought that, which would mean young men about Booker's current age would soon be at his door for his permission for her hand in marriage then running away bloodily as Booker made sure they never came back. Booker was not quite yet ready to think about that.

"If you feel right on the front of her gums, it's a little swollen," continued Dorothy. "She seems to be chewing a lot too. Hopefully it'll pass soon and that tooth will break through. Believe me, it's a long process."

"You seem to be an expert at these sorts of things," Booker said, trying not to think about boys coming to his house. Maybe when she was old enough he could convince her to be a nun.

"I raised Norman since he was a baby," explained Dorothy as Booker led them to his office/home. "His teething was terrible, it took so long for all his teeth to come in. The poor thing, his fever would spike, his temper was short, he'd cry and cry and I couldn't figure out why. Finally I visited my mother, I needed someone who knew about these sorts of things to help me or I think I would have lost my mind. She told me it varies from child to child but you can expect these things." She added sheepishly, "she was the one who knew Anna was teething last night."

Booker was suddenly very thankful that Dorothy would be staying with them for the time being. He was going to need help with this process. He certainly wouldn't know what to do with a teething child. Dorothy explained everything with such a calm demeanor, she seemed to know just what to do with Anna.

"Good to know," nodded Booker as he opened the door to his room. Though it wasn't much, Dorothy had seen men living in so much worse. Or not living anywhere at all. "It's not as fancy as Hanson's place but, it's home." He shrugged.

Dorothy didn't mind the mess, wondering if she could make the shabby place a home or if Booker would even let her. She tilted her head to the side, there was potential somewhere and she was determined to find it. The first thing she noticed would be the curtains, there was no salvaging them, but she knew she could make a newer set, a nicer set. The floors could use a mopping, a real good scrub down. The walls, they were going to be the better part of her effort. The wall paper was yellowed from smoking and in some areas she noticed tearing from years of neglect. She wondered if they were always that way but she said nothing. Finally she noticed all the dust, it was a wonder anyone could breathe in that office.

She set her case down heavily with a soft 'oof.' Booker glanced back at her and she smiled apologetic. "You can set your things wherever you like. You'll take my bed while you're here," Dorothy tried to protest but Booker stopped her. "I usually sleep at my desk anyway. You'll be a lot more comfortable in my bed than the floor until I can figure something else out." He supposed he could get another bed for Dorothy and keep it in Anna's room, though he had no idea how he was going to afford one. He let Anna crawl around on the floor for a while, before lifting her suitcase effortlessly and setting it closer to the bed.

Dorothy fought the urge to huff. Of course that was easy for him to lift, he didn't have to carry that thing up a flight of stairs plus heft it from her mother's house with a baby in her arm. Though his large frame suggested he was used to lifting heavy objects effortlessly, and not to mention his time in the army may have left Booker carrying objects far larger than just a suitcase packed with some essentials.

Like dying men, for instance, Dorothy shuddered at the thought.

"How long until you find something on Norman," she asked trying to shake her previous thought from her mind.

Booker shrugged before setting her case down next to the bed. "It could be days," he suggested. "Could be weeks, could be a whole damn year before I hear anything."

"A year?!" Dorothy cried. "He could be dead by then!"

"He could be dead right now," countered Booker hotly. "If I don't know where he is, then I can't do very much about it now can I?" Dorothy shook her head sadly. "Now the only thing I can do is go over anything that might lead me to him, and as soon as I find Norman I'll get him home. But that's it."

Dorothy said nothing, just stared at the floor where Anna played. She wondered briefly just how Booker would have felt if someone had taken Anna. If all this time of loving her and caring for her, she was suddenly gone. If every night he lay awake wondering if his child was alive or dead, or what he could have done to have prevented all of this.

Booker didn't say anything else about the subject. Instead he filtered through the few pieces of information he had on Higgins. Yesterday he had Philip Hanson retrieve one of his workers so Booker could 'ask' where Higgins was heading. He didn't say much, not knowing exactly where he was headed but he did disclose that he was still in New York, it was close enough that Philip would be able to find him as soon as he was willing to strike a deal. Wherever Higgins was, Norman was close by.

He said nothing about Norman's condition. That worried Booker.

Booker had broken the man's jaw before sending him back to work. A little assurance that this wasn't going to go back to Thomas before Booker could catch him. Hanson was angry at him for doing so, but Booker didn't care, the last time Booker had let a man live, he ended up with a bullet in his shoulder. He was not about to make that same mistake twice.

"Do you really think Norman is dead," Dorothy broke Booker's thoughts. He glanced up and saw the sadness in her eyes. Booker almost pitied her, she'd never seen just what a desperate man was willing to do to achieve their ends.

"I don't think so," he answered honestly. "If Thomas is a smart man, he'll keep Norman alive so he can have the upper hand. As soon as Norman dies, it's all over for him. I find him and he's done for. I'm not being hired to kill Higgins, just to find this kid and bring him back alive."

"How do you know you'll find him?"

"I don't."

"That's not very comforting."

"Do you want comfort or do you want the truth," Booker gave Dorothy a stern look. "They almost never go together." He poured himself a shot of whiskey and down it in a single gulp. Dorothy pretended not to notice, but stared at the ground in disapproval. If this was how he was going to spend the night, he would more than likely never find Norman.

"My father used to own the mill Mr. Hanson now owns," Dorothy said softly. "If not for Norman, I would support Mr. Higgins cause. I just don't want him to get hurt."

Booker let out a long breath. He didn't want to have this conversation with this woman he barely knew. But he did nod his own agreement. It was no secret the real reason Booker wanted to put down Higgins, but he did have to admit he believed in what the man stood for. The thought brought a sudden memory, a city in the sky, a building on fire, the cheering of the oppressed, and a bullet wound. A fatal bullet wound.

Booker glanced down, feeling a very hot pain in his side, as though he'd been shot again. On his papers were red splotches far too small to have been caused from bleeding from his side. Dorothy was at his side almost immediately.

"Mr. DeWitt," she handed him a handkerchief while trying to observe his face. "Your nose is bleeding."

(A/N: So there you have it. You all know the drill. Read, review, and remember: I love you!)