KeepingFaithCole (5 page)

* * * *

A kick.

Another kick.

Lucille groaned and brought
her hands up to her head. Every attempt at coherent thought quickly proved
futile. Her brains must have turned to mush.

Guaranteed to give you a real kick in the head.

She understood now exactly
what Tom meant.

“You best get your sorry ass
up, girl, and get out of that bed.”

Lucille cringed at the sound
of the voice. She knew it all too well. With effort she managed to pry one eye
open enough to see Charlotte standing at the doorway, her heavy form sagging
against the jamb.

What was Charlotte doing in
her bedroom? Why was she ordering her out of her own bed?

Lucille closed her eyes
again as doubts crept in. Beneath her shoulder, she felt not the soft quilted
coverlets of her bed, but a coarse woolen blanket. The pillow beneath her head
was filled not with soft eiderdown but straw.

This is not my pillow. These are not my blankets. This is not my bed.

She pulled the covers up and
ducked beneath them, as if to hide from the shame—and shock—of waking up
somewhere she shouldn’t be.

Memories from the night
before flooded her mind.

The pounding in her head
worsened, and Lucille clutched the covers tighter as heavy footsteps stomped
across the floor. Charlotte snatched at the blankets.

“You hear me? I said get
your lazy ass out of that bed. I’m worn out, and I’m damned tired of listening
to you snort and snore.”

“I don’t…”

“Yes, you do. Now, get the
hell up. You need to get home.”

She lowered the blanket and
opened her eyes enough to peek out from behind it. “Where’s Tom?”

“I don’t know that it’s any
of your business, but I reckon he’s back at his bunkhouse.”

Lucille nodded, but even
that slight movement brought excruciating pain. Never before in her life had
she been drunk. Consequently, she’d never had a hangover, and to be blunt about
it, neither had she ever had an ounce of sympathy for those who did suffer the
after-effects of a serious bout of drinking.

Back in the day when her
family still owned the mercantile, there’d been many mornings when bleary-eyed
miners and cowpokes had staggered in, looking to try one sure-fire cure after
another.

Did any of them work?

Squinting against the harsh
light, she tried to remember some of those cures. She doubted any medicine
would be strong enough to stop the pounding in her head or quell the roiling of
her stomach.

Lucille clasped a hand to
her mouth. At the same time, Charlotte thrust a basin toward her.

“I figured you were going to
need this.”

“Thank you.” She barely got
the words out.

Charlotte laughed. “You sure
don’t know how to hold your liquor, girl. If you’ve got any thoughts about
fixing up with Tommy, you’d better learn how to drink.” She looked at Lucille,
then moved the basin aside.

With great effort, Lucille
managed to get her legs to move, gradually easing them toward the side of the
bed. Next she planted her feet on the floor. Grabbing at Charlotte for
support—only because there was nothing else to reach for—she finally pulled
herself up. “Trust me, I’ve got no interest in your son.” She blew out a
breath, still tasting the sickly sweet liquor on her lips and tongue. What a
fright she must look! She pressed her hands to her head, surprised to find her
hair falling loose and free.

What happened to my hair pins?

“Are you saying you’re too
damned good for Tommy?” Charlotte’s blue eyes bore down on her. “You know, he
could have any woman he wanted. Why he bothered bringing you home is beyond me.
He could have had any one of those gals at that dance.”

“To set your mind at ease,”
she said, “I don’t give a hoot about your son. As far as I’m concerned, if I
never see him again so long as I live, that will be fine with me. Now, if
you’ll excuse me, I need to gather my belongings and get home.”

“Well, aren’t you the prissy
one?” Charlotte rolled her eyes, then tugged at her ear. “And what’s wrong with
my boy?”

“Nothing’s wrong with him.”
Lucille choked back heated thoughts.
No,
there’s not a thing wrong with Tom
,
and
that’s the trouble
. Well, there was a lot wrong with Tom, at least in the
romantic sense.

First, he was hardly
civilized. He talked too loud, sang those awful bawdy songs in an off-key
voice, and he laughed at his own jokes. Second, he was irresponsible, a trait
he’d no doubt picked up from his mother. Oh, what was the point in counting?
Tom Henderson was a fine looking man, and if the feelings still stirring about
inside her heart and soul were any indication, he sure knew how to please a
woman. But Tom wasn’t looking for love, only for a good time, a one-night stand
as the cowboys called it.

Mortified to think she might
have given him what he wanted—and frantic that she didn’t even know whether she
had or not—Lucille ducked her head, slouched her shoulders, and walked slowly
toward the door. How could she ever face Tom again?

“Just so you know, Miss
McIntyre, my son didn’t lay a hand on you last night. I suspect you came here a
virgin, and you’ll be leaving the same way. All you did was pass out. He put you
to bed. Anybody ever tell you how loud you snore?”

“I do not snore!” How dare
this woman insult her. Relieved to know that nothing
seriously wrong
had happened, Lucille finally drew in a deep,
refreshing breath. A little bit of sanity returned. “Where are my shoes? Did I
have my bag with me?” She scavenged around, found both, and snatched them up.
“I’m leaving now. Tell Tom I don’t ever want to see him again. As for you,
Charlotte, I’ll see you at work on Monday morning. Don’t be late.”

She stepped outside, then
suddenly realized she had no way to get home other than walking. She stopped,
squared her shoulders and looked back toward the door. “Charlotte, would you
mind…”

“Get in the wagon.” She was
already headed that direction. “I sure don’t know why that son of mine went to
so much trouble over you. I still can’t figure out why he brought you out
here.”

Lucille knew why he’d done
it. With her mother visiting in Denver, she would have had no one to look after
her had Tom taken her home. In her intoxicated state, she could have fallen or
hurt herself in other ways. He’d brought her here to keep her from harm.

What a good man he was.
Good, indeed, in so many ways.

As far as she could
remember, not once had she ever heard him speak an unkind word about anyone. He
never quarreled or argued. He was quite a gentle man, she thought, recalling
his touch. And among all the men she’d met in her twenty-two years, she’d never
really known one who showed so much courtesy toward others as Tom Henderson.

Yes, he was sometimes loud
and boisterous. He was a cowboy! Of course he enjoyed kicking up his heels at
the Saturday night barn dances. Of course he liked a shot of whiskey and a
bawdy tune. That’s how men were. Especially cowboys.

But how many men had that
other side? That gentleness about them, that inherent kindness?

Not that it mattered now, of
course. Seeing Tom would be much too embarrassing. She simply couldn’t face him
again. Not ever.

* * * *

Sunday was definitely a day
of rest in Sunset. Most of the hands at the Flying W slept right thought it,
and Tom figured it was a sure bet Miss Lucille McIntyre most certainly wasn’t
stirring about much.

As he lay in his bunk, he
smiled, thinking of how lovely she’d looked when he’d last seen her, sleeping
in the spare bed at his mother’s little house. He’d been sorely tempted to stay
with her all night, but giving in to that temptation would have led to greater
ones, and he might have ended up doing things…well, not things he’d regret, but
the sort of things
she
would regret.
In time, he meant to get her into his bed, but on her own terms. He liked his
women willing.

It was the same with horses,
Tom thought, as he set to work on Monday morning. He intended to get that bonus
his boss had offered him. For more than a week, he’d been working patiently
with the headstrong sorrel colt Wes Randall swore no man could ever break.

Tom gripped the rope in his
hand and grinned as the colt trotted, drawing a large circle around his trainer.
“That’s a good fellow,” he called out, keeping his voice calm and soothing. Too
many cowboys thought breaking a horse meant shouting commands and keeping a
heavy hand on the rope, trying to compel the animal to submit to the trainer’s
demands. Tom knew better. A horse, especially a young horse, was like any other
living creature. Patience, gentleness, and a willingness to guide rather than
force was the secret.

He lowered the rope, held
out his hand and invited the sorrel to come toward him for a lump of sugar.

“So, you’ve got this one
trotting around in circles and eating out of your hand, I see.” Wes Randall
stood at the corral gate, leaning on the post. “Proved me wrong, that’s for
sure.”

A short, dark-haired Mexican
stood beside the ranch owner. His name was Gustavo, but nobody called him by
his name. He was just Goose. He grinned and the morning sunlight flashed on his
white teeth. “You know,
señor
,
why he’s so good with the horses, no? What I hear is that he’s thinks he’s one
of them. Born right in the barn, they say.” Goose grabbed a stalk of weed and
chewed on it. “
Verdad
,
Henderson?”

For the life of him, Tom had
no idea where and how the lazy-eyed cowpoke from below the Rio Grande had heard
the sorry particulars of his birth. Denial wouldn’t work. Too many others knew
the story of how his mother had made that wrong turn on that April morning
after leaving the outhouse. Thought she was headed back to bed, but ended up in
the horse barn, giving birth to her son on a pile of dirty straw.

Later she laughed about it,
and all the while he was growing up, she pointed out that his fate had been
sealed at birth. He’d never amount to a damned thing. Or actually, a hill of
beans, as she put it. For some reason, it seemed to almost make her proud. All
it did for Tom was make him ashamed for her. For himself, too.

Goose’s question didn’t
deserve an answer, but even if Tom had chosen to reply, he wouldn’t have gotten
the chance. Before he could open his mouth, a ruckus rose up from the general
direction of the drive that led from road to ranch. All the old dogs hanging
around took up barking and howling, and the chickens that usually strutted
about squawked and flapped and ran around like they’d just lost their heads.
Even Mousy, the old grey cat who usually didn’t move more than once or twice a
day—and then, only if food was involved—lifted his head and looked around
before closing his eyes again and going right back to sleep. Whatever was
coming, Mousy didn’t care all that much.

But Tom saw what was
coming—or,
who
was coming—and he did
care. The wagon belonged to Lucille McIntyre, and from the way she was
barreling up that long stretch of drive, she was hell-bent to get there in a
mighty big hurry.

Chapter Four

She saw him at once,
actually spotted him from a good distance. He stood near the corral, surrounded
by a colorful group of cowpokes in chaps, bandanas, and broad-brimmed hats.

Of course, it would be hard
to miss a man like Tom Henderson. He stood taller than the other men gathered
around him, but it was more than his physical height that gave him such a
commanding presence. Maybe it was that unruly shock of blond hair, or the
startling clearness of his gentle blue eyes, but the morning sunlight seemed to
pick him out of the crowd and fall upon him alone.

And why not? Dear Lord, the
man was gorgeous!

Lucille choked back the rush
of emotions that that threatened to swallow her whole. Flames of desire
flickered over every inch of her skin even as embarrassment set her to
blushing. Sparks shot through her veins, making her blood burn. Her body
tingled from head to toe.

How could one man make a
woman feel all those sensations all at once? It was wrong. Especially when that
man was a rough-around-the-edges cowboy who laughed too loud, drank too much,
partied too hard, and kissed like there was no tomorrow.

Lucille fought for control
as the wagon clattered to a halt. When, from the corner of her eye, she noticed
Tom break away from the motley crew and walk toward her, she gripped the reins
so hard her fingers ached.

He didn’t walk. He
swaggered. With that slow, easy grace he possessed, he drew closer. Judging
from the warmth in her cheeks, Lucille’s face turned a deeper shade of scarlet
with each step the man took.

She lowered her gaze.

“Morning, Miss McIntyre.”

Staring down at her hands,
she managed a curt nod but nothing more.

“Sure didn’t expect to see
you out here.” He leaned closer. “Does this mean maybe you wanted to see me
again? Maybe you liked—”

She could not allow him to
finish the thought. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “You’re the last man on
earth I want to see right now, and the only reason I drove all the way out here
was because I had no other choice.”

He lifted a hand, scratched
at his right ear, and grinned.

“Reckon you got it awful bad
for me, all right.”

Lucille drew back. So help
her, if she hadn’t been brought up by a good, Christian family and taught to
mind her manners, she would have slapped those
smirky
dimples right off his face.

“Don’t make me laugh. I’ve
got nothing for you, Tom Henderson.” She snorted and lifted her chin. Taking
another deep breath to steady herself, she turned to gaze directly into those
deep blue eyes. “I drove out here to inform you that your mother didn’t show up
for work this morning.”

Tom glanced toward the
eastern horizon. “Still fairly early in the day, Miss McIntyre. Might be she’s
running a little late, that’s all.”

“No, it’s not all, and you
know that as well as I do.” Grateful that her anger allowed her to stay focused
on the task at hand instead of drooling over the man beside the wagon, Lucille
bent forward and jabbed a finger at Tom’s broad, well-muscled chest. “I told
you it wouldn’t work out. I told you she wouldn’t last more than a few days,
and I—”

“It’s already been over a
week.”

“Don’t go changing the
subject. I was right about your mother. I shouldn’t have let you talk me into
giving her the job in the first place.” Her chin went up another notch. “As of
today, she’s fired. You might want to ride out to her place and tell her,
although I doubt she really cares.”

“I’ll pay a call on her
later, Lucille. I’ll have a talk with her.”

When he called her by her
given name, the soft-spoken way he said it all but melted her. She felt a lot
like a tub of butter left on a hot stove. Feelings seemed to be oozing out all
over.

“Yes, well, you tell her not
to come back. Tell her I don’t need any help. If I do, I’ll find somebody
else.” A sudden weakness washed over her, leaving her shaken and close to
tears. Most likely those odd reactions were further consequences of that
horrible drunken binge. When would her usual aplomb return? How much longer
would she be this weepy-eyed, love struck woman mooning over some stupid
cowboy?

“Won’t you give her another
chance?” He edged closer to the side of the wagon, then held out a hand to help
her down. “Please?”

Lucille climbed from the
wagon. Only after her feet were on the ground did she stop to ask why she’d
gotten out. It’s not like she planned to stay and visit. This was not a social
call.

It was his touch. Tom had
only to hold out his hand, and she’d take it, just as she’d done at the dance.
Wherever he led, she’d gladly follow.

For a moment she demurred,
not wanting Tom to guess how easily he could sway her. Finally, with a hesitant
smile, she agreed. “Oh, all right,” she said, grateful that he still held her
hand in his.

From a few feet away she
heard a chorus of snickers, chuckles, and playful guffaws. Men were a strange
breed of animal, she considered, cruel to their own kind, and taking perverse
pleasure in cutting each other down. Thank goodness women weren’t like that.
Women supported one another, offered encouragement and reassurance.

Tom groaned as the men, led
by a short, black-haired Mexican, circled around him and Lucille. They reminded
her of savages, made her think of the chilling tales she’d heard of Sioux and
Lakota warriors attacking white settlers. She shuddered. Only a few weeks
before, there’d been a fierce battle in Montana. Travelers coming back east had
brought word of the slaughter.

Maybe it was wrong to
compare her plight to that of the soldiers who’d fought and died at Greasy
Grass Creek, but that’s exactly how she felt as she watched the men move up to
surround her and Tom.

His hand tightened around
hers. Did he feel threatened, too, in some way?

“
Buenos
dias
, senorita.”
The Mexican swept
off his hat and made a graceful bow. “You know, you’re too pretty for a no-good
hombre
like him.” He jerked a thumb
toward Tom. “A man like that, he don’t know how to treat a woman. You need a
good man, a man like me.” He thrust out his chest and strutted toward her.

She knew he meant nothing by
it. Just the sort of boastful, boisterous, playful banter that passed between
men. Still, she felt tension mounting. All the hands were moving closer, as if
drawing a noose around her and Tom.

All at once, their laughter
rose up, loud shouts punctuated their taunting words and jeers.
He’s got no manners, ma’am. What you want
with a low-down critter like him? Ain’t got a lick o’ sense about him.

Lucille turned to Tom,
quickly reading the hurt and humiliation in his eyes. Yet somehow he managed to
smile, even managed to throw the men a casual, indifferent shrug and act as
though their rude words had no effect.

She knew better. She saw how
Tom winced with each new barb thrown at him. She could actually see the thick
muscles in his huge arms tighten as his fists clenched. What marvelous
self-control the man possessed. Her heart went out to him.

Nobody deserved to be
ridiculed, least of all by men he probably called his friends.

* * * *

Why couldn’t they just
shut the hell up
for once?

Yes, he’d been born in a
barn.

Yes, he was as dumb as a box
of rocks.

All they said was true, and
maybe that made their taunting even more unforgivable. As much as Tom wanted to
laugh it off, he couldn’t. No matter how much he wanted to pretend it didn’t
bother him, the simple truth was that it bothered the hell out of him.

Especially with Lucille
McIntyre taking it all in, listening to every bad word they spewed out about
him.

“I should go now,” she said,
her voice so quiet and subdued he barely heard the words. Lucille took a step,
then turned to look back. “See that your mother shows up at the shop tomorrow.
On time,” she added. “If she’s late, she’s fired.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded,
knowing that sooner or later, Lucille would find one reason or another to
dismiss his mother. She’d probably prefer not to see either of them—his mother
or him—again in this lifetime. Of course, in a town the size of Sunset, they’d
most likely cross paths at least a time or two. The thought brought a small
measure of comfort.

Without another word,
Lucille turned away. She quickly reached her wagon, but as she picked up the
reins, a fancy horse-drawn coach clattered up the long drive and stopped in the
middle of the road, blocking her from leaving.

Tom glanced over his shoulder,
curious about the unusual activity the morning had brought. Most days nobody
came out to the Flying W. It wasn’t yet noon, and already they’d had two
visitors show up.

“Excuse me!” Lucille stood
up in her wagon, shouting and waving her arms. “You need to move,” she called
out.

The driver of the fancy
buggy—a smartly-dressed young black man who looked about the same age as
Tom—remained silent and stared straight ahead as if he hadn’t heard.

Lucille jumped down and
stomped toward the coach.

The ranch hands stopped
their rowdy talk. Tom, too, swung around to stare. The door of the coach opened
outward, and a very old, very thin, very prim and proper woman in a gray
traveling suit slowly stepped out. She lifted her chin a bit, gave a sniff of
the manure-laden air, then jumped when a mossy-horned old steer bellowed out a
greeting.

Under other circumstances,
the boys would have laughed.

This woman looked so odd and
so out of place, nobody even broke a smile. A few heads shook, a couple of the
cowpokes exchanged curious glances, but most of them just stood gaping at this
unexpected arrival. Driver must have taken one hell of a wrong turn, Tom
thought.

The pencil-thin woman
sniffed again. She sucked in her wrinkled cheeks as she surveyed the assemblage
before her.

“Is this the Flying W Ranch?”
she inquired, her high-pitched voice harsh and painful to hear.

“Yes, it is, indeed.” Wes
Randall stepped down from the porch and approached the woman. “I’m the owner.
Is there something I can do for you?”

Lucille had gotten out of
her wagon again and had come to stand close beside Tom. Despite all the ribbing
he’d taken earlier, he felt a pleasant, warm feeling wrapping itself around
him. Maybe, beneath the unconcerned attitude she showed to others, she did have
a few affectionate feelings for him. He felt something more, too, something he
couldn’t explain. A premonition, he supposed. The atmosphere felt heavy,
important, as though some momentous event were about to occur. Then again,
maybe that was just because of Lucille and the way she’d edged a little closer
to him.

The gray-clad woman cleared
her throat. “I’m Miss Edith Christensen. From Denver.”

Randall looked as bewildered
as his men. Clearly he didn’t know Miss Christensen, nor did he seem to have
any idea why she’d come calling at his ranch.

“Maybe if you tell me what
you need, Miss Christensen…”

“Thomas Henderson,” she
called out, looking over the group of men, her rheumy eyes darting from one
face to the next. “Is there a Mr. Thomas Henderson among you?”

At some point—Tom didn’t
know when—Lucille had slipped her hand in his, or maybe he’d reached out to
take hold of hers. Suddenly, hearing his name called out, nothing was too clear
inside his head. That peculiar feeling swarmed over him, almost knocking him
off his feet.

Now all eyes were upon him,
waiting, watching, every one of the men no doubt wondering if and when he’d
step forward. He glanced toward Lucille.

Did he somehow expect her to
give him permission to move? Or maybe he just needed her to tell him it was all
right, that nothing bad was going to happen, no awful fate was about to befall
him.

Except that he couldn’t be
sure of it. Even when Lucille gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze, he wanted
to turn around, head for the comfort and familiar security of the big, friendly
bunkhouse. Instead, he swallowed, nodded, and put one huge foot in front of the
other, only reluctantly turning loose of Lucille’s hand when his arm could no
longer reach.

“Mr. Henderson?” The stiff,
cold voice called him again. As she spoke, she looked down, and with weary eyes,
she watched his slow approach.

Tom half expected her to
chastise him, to tell him to hurry it up, get a move on, stop dawdling, she
didn’t have all day to wait on him. But she kept her thin-lipped mouth clamped
tightly shut. He sensed she didn’t care for the situation—whatever it was—any
more than he did.

Get it over with. Hold your head up. Act like a man.

He squared his shoulders and
drew himself up in front of Miss Edith Christensen from Denver. Like the
others, he had no idea who she was or why she’d come, but he was the one she
wanted, so it must not be good.

This is about Sally.

In his gut, he knew it.
Misfortune had its own way, its own feeling. Always settled over a man like a
thick, black cloud, then crept into his belly and lodged there like a stone.
This feeling was so big, so black, and so damned heavy, he could hardly force
himself to take that last step.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said,
reaching up to remove his hat. “I’m Thomas Henderson. I reckon you’ve got some
sad news for me.”

He noticed the pain that
flickered through her eyes. Nobody ever liked to be the bearer of bad tidings,
but someone always had to do it, and in this case, it had fallen to this
scarecrow of a woman with the long arms, thin face, and hair so gray it matched
the color of her drab skirt and jacket.