KeepingFaithCole (9 page)

God always took the good
ones too soon, and that must be why Sally was gone now.

Focusing his thoughts on why
he’d come back, Tom glanced toward the far corner of the room. When he saw the
old rocker, his heart lurched. It seemed out of place somehow. Rocking chairs
were for women and babies, not for whores. They were meant for tender moments,
precious times of love and closeness.

Those are the moments we’ll have now. With Faith, everything’s changed.

“Help me load this up, will
you?” he called to Caleb as he dragged the chair through the doorway. He didn’t
really need assistance. The chair wasn’t heavy. He could easily manage it
alone. But he needed
something.
Friendship?
Understanding? Forgiveness?

Whatever it was, it shook
him. He hated feeling weak, feeling needy.

“Sure thing.” Caleb was
quickly at his side. “Let me get the chair, Tom,” he suggested. “You can lock
the place up.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Tom turned away from his
friend. Glad to have the task behind him now, he closed the door, bolted it,
and wished the wind would come along and blow the whole thing down in a heap.
If it could just disappear, maybe the past could disappear along with it. Maybe
they could forget all the pain and all the anger, all the hurt.

Tom sank down onto the
ground and leaned against the locked door, fighting hard for breath. “Nothing
here I want, and damned sure nothing here anybody needs,” he told Caleb. “Last
thing I ever wanted to do was come all the way out here to this God-forsaken
place.”

Caleb nodded. He didn’t look
Tom’s way but kept his gaze on his hands as he rolled a smoke. “Always hard, I
think, to go back in time.” He licked the cigarette paper and pressed it
together. “Man’s better off to keep his thoughts on the present.”

Tom plowed through his long
blond hair with frustrated fingers. “Yeah, suppose so.”

“And then, there’s always
the future.” Caleb struck a match, lit his cigarette, and took a long drag.
“You given much thought to it?”

“Not really. No point
thinking about things you can’t have.”

“Who says you can’t have
them?” Caleb asked.

Tom’s head jerked up. For as
long as he could remember, he’d been told he’d never amount to a hill of beans,
that he’d end up swinging from some noose, or rotting away in some jail. He was
a bastard. Worse still, a whore’s bastard. Nobody had use for that sort of man.

But Caleb didn’t see him
that way. Caleb, by God, was damned stupid enough to think every man deserved a
chance to make something of himself. And why the hell not?

Tom wished with all his
heart that he could have all the things he’d been denied as a child. Not the
material things. Those things didn’t matter. What he wanted were the
intangibles. The love. The respect. The laughter, the kindness, the happiness,
the joy. He’d never known any of those things before, and now Caleb said he
could get whatever he wanted?

Damn, but what did he know
that Tom didn’t?

He was going to listen. He
was going to learn.

And nobody would ever put
Tom Henderson down again.

Chapter Seven

They’ve got no
right to do this.

Tom stood at the doorway, Faith in his arms, and looked at
the somber group of women already seated in the judge’s quarters. Lucille and
her mother were among them. So was Miss Christensen, representing the
Children’s Foundling Home. Betty Gilman was there, of course, along with a
dozen more of the old crows.

For a moment, he considered turning around and heading back
to Sunset as fast as he could go. No, not to Sunset! Somewhere else, someplace
where Betty Gilman and her flock would never find them. He and Faith would
start over again, just the two of them. A new town. A new life.

He’d never get away with it.

Tom stepped into the room and walked stiffly past the women,
his body as rigid and uncomfortable as the new suit of clothes he wore. The
tightness in his chest made it hard to draw a breath. The day he dreaded had
arrived, and he knew already that he would lose. Judge Morse would side with
the women, and with a few words, Faith would be taken away and handed over to
someone else. He lifted her up, wanting – needing – one long, last look at her.
Once, he’d had the crazy belief that all babies were the same. They looked the
same, cried the same, and babies didn’t do much, did they?

He knew differently now. He could recognize sweet
Faith just from the little noises she made, the playful sounds of her mouth as
she sucked the milk from her bottle. She had her own scent, too. A scent of
soap and salve, with a touch of cornstarch Ma used to powder the baby’s bottom,
but with something more to it, something uniquely hers.

How could he give her up? How could he sit there and listen
to that fat, obnoxious judge pronounce judgment upon him? Upon Faith?

A huge smile crossed her face as he lifted her higher. As
always, those blue eyes showed complete trust. She knew she was in good hands,
safe hands.

But was she, really?

For that one moment in time, of course. Yet raising a child
was about a lot more than a moment or two of time.

Lucille was right. He couldn’t take care of a baby,
especially not a sweet, innocent little girl. He loved Faith, but sometimes
love wasn’t enough. Keeping Faith would be selfish. He wanted her because of
the pure, unequivocal love she gave him, because of the trust she put in him,
the simple acceptance she offered.

He didn’t deserve it, and if he insisted on raising her by
himself—or even with his mother’s help—the poor little child didn’t have a
chance in hell of ever having a decent life. Especially not with his mother’s
influence. Maybe the best thing he could do would be to give her up. He knew
Lucille would be happy to raise her. Lucille would love her and teach her.

He blinked. Real men didn’t cry, but damned if tears weren’t
stinging his eyes.

Tom looked toward Lucille sitting near the window. Golden
rays of sunlight streamed through the glass, almost as if they were pointing to
the young woman with her hands folded in her lap as she awaited the judge’s
decision.

The light brought clarity to his troubled mind. Lucille
could give Faith so much. He didn’t want this blue-eyed baby to go through the
hell his life had been. His mind went back to the teasing he’d suffered from
other kids because of his ragged, filthy clothes, the bruises on his body from
his mother’s drunken assaults, the hateful remarks about being born in a barn,
being stupid.

He glanced at Lucille. She made him feel stupid, too. Maybe
for once he’d be smart enough to see the truth.

Tom took his seat, settling Faith on his knees.

“We’re here to discuss the custody of Baby Girl Lafferty,”
Judge Morse intoned, shuffling through the papers on his desk.

“Her name is Faith.” Tom’s voice sounded low.

Morse peered over the rims of his spectacles. “That so?
According to my information, the mother passed away before she could name the
child.” He glanced again at the papers in his hand. “Nothing indicates that the
child’s late father gave her a name, either.”

“I am her uncle. I’ve given her one. Her name is Faith.
Faith Henderson,” he added, his voice now growing stronger.

The judge ignored his comment. “On behalf of the Ladies’
Charitable Society, Mrs. Betty Gilman and Mrs. Olive McIntyre have filed a
petition with the court requesting that the child be returned to the care of
Edith Christensen and the Children’s Foundling Home.” The judge removed his
spectacles and rubbed his brow. He turned to the black-clad widow seated across
from him. “Sorry to hear about your husband, Mrs. McIntyre. He was a fine man.”

“Yes, he was.” Olive nodded, her eyes downcast.

Tom drew in a quick breath. Giving up Faith would hurt like
hell, but for once in his life he was going to do the right thing. No point in
dragging matters out any longer.

“Sir, I’ve been thinking—”

As usual, the judge paid him no heed. Morse put his
spectacles on again and peered over the rims.

“The welfare of a child is not something to be taken
lightly. It’s a very serious matter, and I trust everyone here understands the
importance of making a wise decision. I’ve given it a great deal of thought,
and in my opinion…”

Judge Morse paused and cleared his throat. Over the tops of
his spectacles he looked at the people seated before him. His mouth had
tightened, Tom saw, as if he worried that his decision would not be
appreciated.

“…although the petition is well-intended and there are
certain benefits that might ensue if I were to grant it, I firmly believe that
blood must be my most important consideration in this matter. For that reason,
I’m refusing to consider the petition. The child belongs with her kin.”

Beside him, Tom heard Lucille’s gasp of surprise and dismay.
He stared at Judge Morse, feeling as if the man had punched him in the gut. In
a moment he realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it.

Never in a million years had he expected this.

He turned toward Lucille, seeing the same astonished look on
her face that he’d no doubt worn a moment before. As if feeling his gaze, she
turned her head.

Her eyes were the darkest brown he’d ever seen, and they
were filled with tears.

He pulled himself together and jerked his head around toward
Judge Morse, who still had that disapproving expression on his face.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Tom demanded.

Judge Morse shook his gray head. “No, Mr. Henderson, it is
no joke. Although I have serious doubts about your ability to raise your niece,
I don’t feel it’s my place to simply hand a child over to strangers. My
suggestion is that you and your mother realize and accept the responsibilities
you have.” His expression darkened. “I will be keeping an eye on you, and if I feel
the child isn’t properly cared for, be clear I will rescind my decision and
send her back to the home.”

“Judge Morse, I don’t understand.” Olive pushed her black
veil away. “This isn’t right. You’re consigning that poor child to a life of
misery, a life of poverty, a life of shame.”

Tom cringed at her outburst. His ears burned.

“This is my decision, Mrs. McIntyre. While I realize that
Mr. Henderson and his mother are not fully prepared to raise the child, they
are the babe’s relations. My point is that a child deserves a family. A real
family. Barring that, at least she deserves to be with kin.” He rapped his
gavel on the desk, then rose, turned, and exited from the room. Miss
Christensen, silent and grim-faced, excused herself as well.

In the silence that followed, Betty Gilman’s voice rang out.
“I’m not surprised,” she said. “It’s just like that fool judge to do something
like this.” She slowly got to her feet then looked down to where Tom remained
seated. A shrill, almost hysterical note entered her voice. “This is wrong, and
you know it. You’re nothing more than an ignorant, illiterate cowboy, and the
son of a filthy, drunken whore. I’ll find a way—”

The other women looked
embarrassed, but whether for him or for Betty, he couldn’t be sure. They
gathered around as though to protect her. Even as the women walked away, they
kept looking over their shoulders at him, pointing fingers, and—despite their
claims to be kind, gentle Christians—uttering deprecations with each step.

Tom jumped up. “Lucille,
wait! I need to talk to you.” He choked back his anger, but it didn’t go away.
Instead it turned to a huge lump of sadness that lodged in his throat. Its
weight pressed down against his heart.

At first, he didn’t think
she’d respond, but she must have seen the look on his face, must have somehow
guessed he had something important to say. Lucille stopped, whispered a few
words to the church ladies, then approached him. She kept watchful eyes upon
him as she drew near, almost as if she expected some sort of trickery.

But he had no tricks up his
sleeves. If he could work magic, none of this would be happening. Magic, he
figured, was about as helpful as religion. Maybe if you believed hard enough,
something good would happen, but then again, as likely as not, the good things
were just coincidence, weren’t they?

“What is it, Tom?” she
asked. “What do you want?”

He pressed baby Faith close
against his broad shoulders. She nestled her head against his neck, her little
hands reaching up to his face. “Mrs. Gilman is right,” he said in a quiet
voice. He could scarcely believe those words had come out of his mouth, but he
knew what he had to do. “I’m not fit to keep Faith, and neither is my mother. I
realize that. I’ve got a lot to learn, not just about raising babies, but about
being a good man.” He gazed down upon Lucille. “Will you help me?”

“I don’t understand what
you’re asking.” She glanced back toward her mother, Mrs. Gilman, and the other
ladies, then called out to them. “Go on to the livery. I’ll meet you there in a
few minutes.” After waving them away with a smile, she whirled around once
more, her countenance serious again. “What is it you want me to do?”

“Teach me to read. Teach me
to write. You could do that, couldn’t you?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I
have a shop to run, and I have to look after Mama, and I’m not even sure…”

When her voice trailed off,
Tom nodded. “Not sure I’m smart enough to learn. Is that what you were going to
say?”

“Oh, no! Not at all. What I
started to say is that I’m not sure I could help you. I’ve never attempted to
teach anybody before. I’m not sure how to go about it.”

“You could try, couldn’t
you?”

Her shoulders rose and fell.
She looked away. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can do it. I truly wouldn’t
know where to begin.”

He couldn’t let her walk
away. He had more to say. Much more. “Listen to me, please,” he said. “This
isn’t easy for me, Lucille, but I’m going to speak straight from my heart. I
love this little girl in my arms.” His heart pounded. “She’s kin,” he went on,
“just like Judge Morse said. I may be a dumb, illiterate cowboy, but I’m smart
enough to know the judge’s decision is wrong. He means well, and he thinks he’s
doing the right thing, but I’ve got to put Faith’s welfare first.”

Lucille gasped and stared up
at him with big, wide eyes. “What are you saying?”

He swallowed the last of his
doubts, then let the words out on a rush of breath. “I want you to take Faith.
Give her a good home. Love her, care for her, see that she has all she needs,
all the things I’m not able to give her.” One last time, he hugged Faith close
and brushed a kiss to the top of her head.

Lucille’s mouth opened and
closed. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, but she said not a word.

It occurred to him then that
maybe he was asking too much of her. Maybe she didn’t comprehend the reasons
behind his decision. “I’m not saying I don’t want my niece. I’m not giving her
away because I don’t want the responsibility. Do you understand?” He didn’t
wait for an answer. “I’m asking for your help. Take Faith, and keep her until
I’m able to provide for her. Teach me to read and to write.
 
Help me become the man I need to be.”

His heart ached as he placed
his niece in Lucille’s waiting arms.

* * * *

Tom rubbed his brow. His
head hurt, and he looked away from his mother. Unfortunately, while he could
block her from his sight, he could not so easily block out her angry words. For
the last hour, she’d ranted like a madwoman, waving her arms, cursing,
stomping, and calling him every foul-sounding name she knew. And she knew a
good many of them.

Of course, the liquor hadn’t
helped matters, and that was his fault. He probably shouldn’t have stopped by
the saloon and bought a bottle of Kentucky’s finest, but under the
circumstances, he’d thought a shot or two might appease his mother. Stupid
choice. Whiskey could never replace Faith.

“It’s only for a while, Ma.
It’s for the best,” he reminded her, but she wasn’t listening.

She was too busy shouting
epithets.

“Damn it, Tommy. I told you
before to stay away from that tight-assed bitch. I knew what she was right from
the start. Always putting on airs. Thinks she’s the biggest frog in the puddle,
she does. Thinks she’s got to have her way.”