KeepingFaithCole (8 page)

“I told you to get away from
my door. You do that, Miss McIntyre, and I won’t have to shoot you.”

“No, no, don’t shoot.” She
raised trembling hands, barely able to utter the words. When Charlotte lowered
the shotgun, Lucille took a deep breath in an attempt to regain her composure.

“What do you want?”
Charlotte glared at her. “You think you can come out here and steal my baby?”

Lucille shook her head. “No,
not at all. That’s not why I’m here.”

“What other reason have you
got? You’re just like all those other do-gooders.”

She swallowed back her fear
and reminded herself again why she’d come calling. “Where’s Tom? I need to
speak to him. It’s important.” She could have shared her information with
Charlotte, but chose to keep it to herself. In fact, she was on the verge of
changing her mind about warning the
Hendersons
.

“About what?”

“About…” Her throat went dry
and her lips felt tight and chapped. She licked them with her tongue. What,
indeed? Mama and the ladies from church were right. No child would ever be safe
with a woman like Charlotte Henderson around. “Never mind,” she said, quickly
turning away.

“He’s not here, just so you
know.”

Alarms sounded in her head.
“He’s not?” Who, then, was watching over Faith while her crazy grandmother was
trotting around outside with a shotgun? She glanced toward the door. “If you’ve
left that baby alone…”

“Don’t worry about that.
She’s in good hands. Tom’s taken her into town to see that Phillips woman.”

“Amanda Phillips? Why? Is
Faith sick? Is she hurt?”

Charlotte shook her head.
“We thought it would be a good idea to have her checked on a regular basis. Get
her weighed and measured, you know. Always good to have a record of a child’s
growth.”

“Yes, of course.” If a legal
battle ensued, such a record would go a long way toward supporting the
Hendersons
in their contention that they could provide
adequate care. “On the other hand,” Lucille began, eyeing the shotgun,
“threatening to shoot me might cause some people to wonder if you should be
looking after your granddaughter, Mrs. Henderson.”

“Don’t you sass me, girl.
I’ll—”

A wagon clattered up the
road, drowning out her words.

Lucille swung around,
grateful to see Tom.

“Thank God you’re here!” No
longer frightened by the deranged woman, she rushed across the yard.

“Ma! What’s going on?” Tom
came to a halt and climbed down. He tipped his hat toward Lucille, then turned
back to the wagon to carefully remove Faith from her secure cradle.

Lucille admired Tom’s big,
strong hands. He looked good with a baby in his arms, she thought. He looked
comfortable with her now, too. He truly loved Faith.

Like Mama said, he had good
intentions.

Now she understood what Mama
meant, and it really had nothing to do with roads leading to hell. It had to do
with the simple facts of the matter. Good intentions weren’t enough. Even love
wasn’t enough.

It was a start, but Faith
needed food, clothes, books, toys, and above all, moral guidance and spiritual
teaching. She’d get lots of love from her uncle, and probably from her
grandmother, too, and maybe she’d have enough to eat, and clothes to wear.
Maybe she’d even have a few toys and storybooks. But she’d have no one to show
her right from wrong, no one to teach her about creation, no one to tell her
the stories about Joseph and his coat of many colors, or baby Moses hidden in
the bulrushes, or visions of angels descending heavenly ladders.

Stories her father had told
her. Lucille blinked back a tear. She missed her father each and every day. His
death had left a huge hole in her heart, an emptiness that she’d found no way
to fill…until that moment on Sunday when she’d held sweet little Faith in her
arms. In that moment, the hurting had stopped. She’d felt whole again.

If Judge Morse did take
Faith away from the
Hendersons
…maybe she and Mama
could adopt her. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I’ve got to go,” she mumbled,
turning about so quickly she nearly tripped over her feet.

Tom reached a hand out to
steady her. “What is it? Why are you crying?”

She sniffled then let out a
shuddering breath. Charlotte had disappeared inside the house. The shotgun had
disappeared, too. Had Tom caught sight of it?

“Your mother is dangerous,”
she said in a quiet voice. “I’ve stood behind you, Tom. I’ve wanted to believe
this would work out, but it’s clear now that it won’t.”

“Dangerous?” He shifted
Faith from one arm to the other.

“She came after me with a
shotgun.”

“She keeps it in the shed.
You probably frightened her, Lucille. Ma’s got the right to protect herself, to
protect her family.”

“She told me to get the hell
off her property or she’d shoot.” Fumbling in her bag, Lucille refused to look
up at him. She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “I don’t like to
start trouble, but I don’t have to. Your mother’s already done that, and I’ll
be only too happy to finish it for her.”

“What’s that supposed to
mean?”

“I’ll speak up against her.”
She lifted her gaze to his and saw the worry in his blue eyes. “Mrs. Gilman
intends to contact Judge Morse, the circuit judge from Denver. That’s why I
came out here. I wanted to warn you. But now I see the wisdom in her action.”
With determined strides she walked past Tom, resisting the urge to look back.

“Lucille, please, can’t you
be a little more tolerant?”

“Tolerant?” She whirled
around. “Of a woman who threatens to fill me with buckshot? No, I can’t be
tolerant, Tom. I refuse to sit back and wait for something bad to happen. And
it will happen, mark my words. Your mother might be able to put on an act with
you, and maybe for the ladies from church. But it
is
an act.” She squared her shoulders. Her breasts jutted out as
she sucked in another deep, cleansing breath.

Tom’s blue eyes widened. His
gaze fastened directly on her breasts.

He stared. He licked his
lips.

“Would you get your eyes off
of places where they don’t belong and pay attention to me?”

He jerked his head up.
“Sorry, Miss Lucille. I like looking.” He grinned at her.

“Just what are you getting
at?” Had he touched her breasts the night of the dance? Instinctively, she
brought her hands up to cover herself. “If you have any thoughts in that
addle-pated brain of yours about telling tales, trying to sully my reputation
or insinuate that I’m anything less than a decent girl, Tom Henderson, you’ll
have to answer to me.”

“I have no idea what you’re
talking about.”

“If you dare tell anyone
that I spent the night in your bed—”

“Nothing happened that
night.” He frowned. “Besides, it wasn’t really my bed. I was still sleeping at
the bunkhouse.” She heard him talking but paid him no mind.

“…I’ll blame it all on you,
of course.
 
You got me drunk, you
know.”

“Lucille,” he said, stepping
closer. He rocked the baby in his arms. “Let’s not set ourselves at cross
purposes. Everyone says they want the best for Faith.” He smiled and those
delicious dimples appeared in his cheeks again, making Lucille yearn to touch
them.
 
Dimples appeared in Faith’s
cheeks, too.
 
“Why can’t we all love
her?”

* * * *

If one more person came
pounding on the front door, Tom swore, he’d do a bit of pounding of his own.
Every day, one of them came by. Just checking, they said. Either Mrs. Gilman,
or Lucille’s mother, or one of the other good ladies of Sunset. He knew they
meant well, but other than Amanda Phillips, he turned them all away.

Now, another one. One who
sounded awfully damned insistent judging by the heavy blows raining against the
wooden door.

“Tommy!” his mother called
from the bedroom. Faith’s piteous wails echoed throughout the cabin. It hurt to
hear the little girl’s shrill cries.

He hurried to the door and
swung it open, cursing with the movement. “Damn it to hell, can’t you people
leave us alone!” He straightened when he saw Caleb Bryant’s grinning face. “Oh,
it’s you. Sorry. Didn’t mean to shout.” Tom held the door open. “You’re welcome
to come in, my friend…if you can stand the noise.” Tom threw a glance over his
shoulder.

“Is she all right?” Caleb’s
frown deepened. “I don’t know anything about babies. Is she supposed to cry
like that?”

Shrugging, Tom scratched his
chin. “I don’t know what she’s supposed to do. All I know is that whenever some
do-gooder comes calling, she sets up a wail. I know they mean well, but I wish
they’d all just go away.”

“You’ll probably be wishing
I’d do the same when I tell you why I’m here.”

Tom’s head screwed around.
“Something wrong?”

“You could say that, I
suppose. At least, if your job’s important to you.” He puffed up his cheeks,
then blew out his breath. “Randall says to get to the bunkhouse, get your gear
packed up, and get your ass off his ranch.”

“Shit.”

“What did you expect?”
Caleb’s fingers combed through his hair. “You haven’t shown up for work for the
last few weeks. How long did you think Randall would wait before he fired you?”

“Under the circumstances, I
figured he’d give me time enough to work things out.” Hellfire, what now? He
needed his job, otherwise he’d have no way to provide for Faith. Even if his
mother went back to work at the shop, her earnings wouldn’t be nearly enough to
put bread on the table or pay the rent for the little cabin. “I’ll ride out and
have a talk with him.”

“Won’t do any good. He’s
already hired on a couple more Mexicans. He’s made Goose foreman now.”

“Damn it. You know any other
ranchers looking for a good lead man?”

“If I hear of anything, I’ll
let you know.” His face brightened. “Wait, there is something.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, you know how the
mayor’s been talking about hiring a sheriff, right? Now that Colorado’s a
state, he figures Sunset out to have an official lawman. I’m thinking of asking
for the job.”

“You? Sheriff?” Tom grinned.
“Hell, you’d probably make a damned good lawman.”

“I’ll hire you to be my
deputy. Wouldn’t be much to do, really. Just paperwork, probably.”

Tom shook his head. “Sorry,
nothing I’d be interested in. Maybe something else will turn up.”

Faith’s crying grew louder.
Tom’s mother came toward the door, the squalling baby in her arms. “I’ve asked
you before to go get that rocking chair, but you keep putting it off. You’ve
got nothing better to do now, and don’t tell me otherwise, so you just get in
that wagon and get going. Might be that chair will soothe her.” She stroked the
delicate blonde hair at the top of Faith’s head.

“Need any help?” Caleb spoke
up. “It’s my day off, and I don’t have any plans to speak of.”

Tom hesitated. He was tired
of listening to his mother nag about the rocking chair, and if getting it would
help Faith sleep, he was all for it. He didn’t cotton much to the idea of Caleb
coming along though.

“Why that’s right nice of
you,” Ma said, giving Bryant her prettiest smile. She turned back to her son.
“Go on now, Tommy. No need to dawdle around.”

“Right.” He gave his friend
a shrug. “I’ll hitch up the mule.”

* * * *

Tom’s knees actually shook
as he neared the old homestead. He knew the look on his face was most likely
grim. He wondered if Caleb had guessed at how many painful emotions had been
dredged up inside him. Doing his best to keep the conversation between them
light-hearted and easy, he kept up a steady stream of talk, right up until that
moment when they drove over the crest of the hill and stared down at the
decrepit wooden shack below. Behind it sat the old barn, its boards weathered and
worn. Tall grasses and jimson weed grew knee-high.

The old barn was where he’d
been born, and the sorrowful cabin was where he’d been raised. Memories swept
over Tom like a cold autumn chill. He remembered it too well. The untended
garden where Ma did her best to grow a few vegetables, the filthy,
grime-streaked windows that nobody could get clean, the sagging roof that, as a
boy, he hadn’t known how to fix. With one look, it was obvious the place was
deserted, and why not? Even squatters wouldn’t want to live in such vile
surroundings.

Silently, he climbed down
from the wagon, patted the mule’s rump, and loosened the traces to allow the
animal to graze. He glanced up at Caleb.

“Why don’t you wait out
here.”

The thought of setting foot
inside the old cabin dismayed Tom, but choking back his emotions, he pushed
open the door.

Smells of dust and must and
years of emptiness assailed his nostrils. He kicked at the tattered blankets
that littered the scarred floor. His stomach churned. His head pounded.

Ma’s big double bed still
held center stage in the tiny cabin. That’s where she’d done her business,
entertained her gentlemen callers, and Tom and Sally were sent out to play or
else locked in the storeroom with a couple blocks Ma called toys. But no matter
where he and his sister were sent, they still heard the grunts and moans, the
creaking bed. Tom learned early on what was happening.

He’d been scared once,
afraid Ma was being hurt. He hadn’t stayed in the closet like Ma told him. When
he rushed to the bed to help her, she boxed him on the ears and threatened to
horsewhip him if he ever walked in on her again while she was working.

How much had Sally
understood? Tom often wondered if his little sister realized what went on in
Ma’s dirty, stained bed. Maybe she was too innocent, too fundamentally good, or
maybe she just loved Ma enough that it didn’t matter.