KeepingFaithCole (19 page)

“Honey?”
Her mother’s voice held a note of alarm. “What’s wrong? What are you doing home
so early? And what are you doing in there? Are you all right?”

Dear Lord, she knows what I’ve
done!

“I-I
had a headache.” She grabbed the same convenient lie she’d used before. “I had
Tom bring me home early. I-I thought a hot bath might ease the pain.”

Yes, she knows exactly what
happened.

“Should
I fix a pot of tea?”

Lucille
held her breath, then let it out. “Yes, Mother. Tea would be lovely.”

A short
time later, fastening her robe around her waist, Lucille slipped into the
kitchen. She accepted the hot tea, enjoying the comforting fragrance of the
herbal concoction. Chamomile. Lemon balm. A touch of peppermint. Usually such a
brew would have her sleeping in minutes. She doubted anything would help her
sleep tonight.

“Is
everything all right, honey?” Her mother studied her closely. “Between you and
Tom, I mean? Is there anything we need to talk about?”

Lucille
gripped the teacup. “There is nothing
between
Tom and me.”

“Oh, I
think there must be a little attraction between the two of you, otherwise I
doubt he would have asked you to the dance, and you certainly wouldn’t have
accepted the invitation. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Lucille.”

“I’m
only seeing him because of Faith. We’ve agreed it would be good for us to be
friends, that’s all.”

Her
mother patted her hand. “Yes, of course. Whatever you say, dear.” She smiled.
“Whenever you need to talk about it, I’ll be here.”

Chapter Twelve

“You’re watching that door again, honey.”

Only two days remained before Christmas, and business at the
shop was flourishing. For the last week, a steady stream of customers had come
to the dressmaking establishment. Women came to purchase fabrics and skeins of
wool to use in their own gift-making. Men came in to the shop looking for
ribbons and bows to buy for wives and girlfriends. Even children stopped in
with pennies in their hands, wanting cards of buttons to give as presents.

With so many customers each day, Lucille and her mother had
once again begun working side by side. They’d brought dozens of quilts and
blankets to the shop along with lots of toys to entertain Faith. She sat
contently in the corner, fascinated by the colorful wooden tops
Tom had given her.

Yes, Lucille had been watching the door, but she didn’t want
to admit it.

“I thought I heard someone.” She looked down and pretended
to concentrate on the sewing in her lap.

“It’s Tom you’re watching for, isn’t it?”

“No, of course not.” Lucille shifted restlessly on her
sewing bench. “I’ve just got things on my mind, that’s all.”

“I can tell. You haven’t sewed a single stitch in the last
twenty minutes. I’ve been watching,” she said with a laugh. “Those socks won’t
mend themselves, you know.”

Lucille picked up the woolen stockings she held on her lap.
The ones she was supposed to have darned and ready to pick up that morning.
With a shake of her head, she tossed them into a wicker basket.

“I’ll finish them later. I need a little break.”

Ever since the holiday dance, she’d found it difficult—no,
impossible—to keep her mind on such mundane matters as repairing the heels of
some miner’s socks, or turning some cowboy’s shirt collar. Unless, of course,
that cowboy happened to be Tom Henderson. She would gladly turn his collars,
sew on his buttons, and stitch up any rips in his trousers.

The thought of the tall man with the muscular legs and
powerful thighs brought a rush of heat, like a sudden wildfire sweeping through
a thick forest, burning everything it touched.

Her mother cocked her head. “Something has got you
flustered. Are you sure it’s got nothing to do with Tom Henderson?”

How could she help but think of the man and the pleasures
they’d shared? That smile of his and those dimples! It was positively unfair
that any one man should possess so many charms to use against a hapless woman.

“All right, yes, I was thinking about him,” she admitted. “I
was hoping he might stop by.” She hesitated, waiting for her mother’s response,
expecting a bit of criticism. After all, the rugged cowboy had little to offer
a woman in the way of security or stability. He was not the sort of man a
decent woman
should
associate with.
Her mother made no reply, however, and Lucille rushed on. “I mean, I thought it
might be nice if he came by to see Faith.”

“Honey, you don’t need to be embarrassed about what you’re
feeling. I can tell you’ve taken a shine to him.”

“He’s not at all what I thought, Mama. I know he’s not
educated, but he is intelligent. Not only that, but he’s actually quite
pleasant to be around.”

“And as handsome as they come, that’s for sure.” Her
mother’s laughter made Lucille feel more at ease. “I can’t say I blame you for
swooning a bit. If I were your age—” Her words were interrupted by the sound of
footsteps on the front stoop of the little shop. The woman laughed again.
“Speak of the devil,” she said in a low voice, leaning close to her daughter.
“That’s how it goes with those devilish handsome men. Sometimes just thinking…”

Lucille shook her head. She’d already glanced toward the
window and caught sight of a short, rotund old man bundled in a thick jacket
and fur cap. A straggly white beard peeked over the edges of a heavy woolen
scarf.

“It’s not Tom.” She rose from her chair as the door burst
open and the fat, red-cheeked fellow pushed through, clutching a leather pouch
in his gloved hands. Had he been dressed in red, she might have mistaken him
for the legendary Kris
Kringle
. She loved the
drawings Thomas Nast made of
Santa Claus
,
and looked forward to seeing them each year in
the winter issues of
Harper’s.
But Santa Claus was not real.

This man was very real. Lucille choked back a sudden fear.
“A courier, Mama,” she whispered, gripping her mother’s arm. “Probably from
Denver.”

Judge Morse must have come to a decision regarding her
petition.

Thank goodness her mother managed to keep her wits about
her, because Lucille couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t even draw a
breath.

It could be good
news. It could be very good news.

She tried to bolster her spirits. For weeks she’d waited for
this moment. Now that it had arrived, she was too scared to face it.

Her mother hurried to greet the visitor. “Good afternoon,
sir. Please, step inside out of the cold.” She gestured toward the cheery
stove. “Sit and warm yourself a spell. You’ve come from Denver?” she asked. “A
long way,” she continued when he gave a short nod. “You have a message for us,
I believe.” The smile upon her face showed her confidence. Judge Morse, she
insisted, was a wise man, a good and fair judge. He’d made a dreadful mistake
before, and now he would surely correct his error. Mrs. Triplett had assured
her that she and Lucille would soon be welcoming someone into their home and
family.

Lucille couldn’t smile. Not until she had the message in her
hand. Not until she’d read it and knew for certain that Judge Morse had
reconsidered. The reassurances of a woman claiming to speak to the dead meant
nothing.

Of course, common sense should prevail. Judge Morse would do
the right thing. Under the circumstances, no man in his right mind would allow
Tom and his mother to keep Faith.

Lucille crossed the shop to join her mother. “Good
afternoon, sir. I’m Lucille McIntyre. I believe your message is addressed to
me.”

“Yes, Miss McIntyre.” He tipped his cap toward her, then
fumbled with the deep pockets of his pouch. “Mighty inclement weather we’re
having today. Made for a very long ride out here.” He drew an envelope from the
bag and held it out to Lucille. She accepted it with trembling hands.

For a moment, she held it, turning it over and over. She
noted the official seal.
Signed, sealed,
and delivered
. A formality.

She slowly walked across the store.

Behind her, the red-cheeked man got to his feet. “I’ll be on
my way now. Good day, ladies.”

Lucille whirled around. “Aren’t you supposed to wait? Don’t
you need to take a reply back to the court?” Surely Judge Morse would want to
meet with everyone involved. Most likely there would be papers to sign,
agreements to be made.

“No, ma’am.” He wrapped the scarf around his neck and headed
for the door. “My instructions were only to deliver the message, nothing more.”

“Let me give you something for your time and trouble.”
Again, it was her mother, not Lucille, who stepped in to handle the situation.
She fished through a little glass bowl near the sewing machine. It held pins,
needles, and a few pennies, along with other assorted items. “You’re more than
welcome to sit a spell longer.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got more notices to
deliver. I’d best be on my way, ma’am.” He touched a hand to his fur cap and
bustled out the door. A gust of bitterly cold wind blew in around him.

Lucille shuddered and moved closer to the stove. “I’ll open
this now,” she said in a quiet voice. “Hand me those scissors, I’ll use them.”

“Maybe we should sit down first,” Olive suggested, getting
the cutting implement for her daughter. “Let me get Faith, too. I’m afraid
there’s a dreadful chill in the air here now. I need to bundle her up a bit.”

“Yes, bring Faith over. We’ll all sit here together where
it’s warm.” Lucille’s heart pounded. With great care, she cut open the flap,
then drew the folded paper from the envelope. She looked up, shook the missive
open, then sucked in a huge gulp of breath. She spread the letter across her
lap and cast her eyes downward.

“It’s from Judge Morse, all right.” She beamed, cleared her
throat, and began reading the words in a strong, clear voice. “Having reviewed
the petition filed by Miss Lucille McIntyre, a single woman, in the matter of
Baby Girl Lafferty…” She stopped and shook her head. “Her name is Faith, Mama!
Can’t he even get that right?” Scoffing, she quickly thought how fortunate it
would be to have the precious child. No one would call her
Baby Girl
again. She returned her attention to the missive, repeating
the last few words as she found her place. “…it is the decision of this court
that the petitioner is not legally qualified to file a request for custody…”
Her voice trailed off. “What does he mean?” As the words sunk into her brain,
she looked up. “Mama, what’s he talking about? Why does he say I’m not legally
qualified? I’m a citizen of the United States. I was born here, Mama, and that
gives me rights.”

Her mother took the official notice and scanned the details.
“You’re a woman, Lucille, and a single one, at that. According to Judge Morse,
that doesn’t make you fit to raise a child.”

“That’s ridiculous! Look at how many women end up raising
children alone. After that awful unpleasantness of the war, Mama, there were
thousands of women who’d lost their husbands. They managed to bring up their
children.”

“Judge Morse doesn’t see it that way.”

“Well, he’s wrong, Mama.” She jumped from the chair, and
swung into action, spinning through the shop like a whirlwind. She grabbed her
cloak, slipped it on, pulled up the fur-lined hood, and rushed to the door.

“Honey, what—”

“There’s no time to talk,” Lucille interrupted. “If I leave
now, I can get to Denver before sundown and…”

“And what will you do once you get there?” Olive remained
calm and serene, holding Faith close on her lap. “I’m sure there’s been a
mistake. Mrs. Triplett assured me we’ll be able to keep Faith. Officially,” she
added. “She told me in no uncertain terms, Lucille, our family is going to
grow.”

“I don’t want to hear another word about Mrs. Triplett. She
doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” She shot a sharp gaze toward the door.
“Neither does that ignoramus calling himself a federal judge. I wish I could
vote, Mama. I’d make sure a better man were elected.”

“Now who’s talking nonsense?” Mama laughed. “You do get
carried away, honey. That’s one thing you need to learn. A woman has to
remember her place in the world.”

“A woman’s place is to make a home for her family! To care
for her children, but that judge doesn’t even realize…”
She pulled her cloak tighter. “I’m going out, Mama.”

* * *
*

Tom rode into Sunset early that afternoon. He’d spent the morning
out at Leland’s place, doing the necessary chores and checking the water pump
to make sure it could withstand another blast of wintry air. Reluctantly, he’d
given in and agreed to accept a small wage from the man. Since Josh Barron had
laid off the extra hands at the J Bar K, Tom needed another steady source of
income. Goose still talked about the wild horses he’d seen in the valley. Maybe
it was time to get serious about that dream of his, like Leland kept telling
him.

Right here. Right
now.

He knew he’d find Goose at the Red Mule.
Lupita
worked there during the day serving the kick-in-the-head whiskey that had given
the saloon its name and reputation. Tom grinned. Maybe later he’d drop in at
Lucille’s shop, too.

He dismounted then led Dandy into the corral behind the
livery. Sure enough, Goose’s painted pony was among the horses. A man could
usually figure out who was in town by looking at the livery, and as often as
not, it wasn’t too hard to figure out who was where. Sure as shooting, he’d
find the Mexican sparking with
Lupita
at the Red
Mule.

As he turned the corner, a flash of color exploded around
him. Colliding head-on with a green-cloaked figure, he stepped back, then drew
up in surprise.

“Lucille? You’re sure in a heck of a hurry. Is something
wrong?”

She clutched the edges of her cloak, re-adjusting the
garment around her shapely shoulders. Her deep brown eyes looked troubled.

“I have to talk to you. It’s important.”

“All right. Is there somewhere we can go?” Tom ached to have
her in his arms, to draw her close and shelter her from the chill winter’s
breath closing in around them. “What about your shop?”

“No, Mama’s there. I need to talk to you privately.” She
ended on a whisper, lowering her gaze and looking away. “We have to get
married.”

Tom’s breath stopped. For a minute, he thought his heart had
stopped, too, but then it started beating wild and hard in his chest. Ever
since the night of the dance, he’d worried this might happen.