“I do,” Rawley said from his place across the table from the little minx, who hadn’t stopped talking since they’d all taken a seat. “I’ve even seen one.”
“Me too!”
“A circus came through last summer,” Faith explained before he could ask where she’d seen one. It might have been the same traveling menagerie show he’d visited during his short stint in Colorado.
“I like el’phants,” Callie stated emphatically, looking longingly at her mother.
“We’re not getting one,” Faith said patiently.
The child turned her earnest attention back to him. “Do you like el’phants?”
“I like looking at them. I wouldn’t want to have one about, though. It makes a lot of mess. You’d have to spend your day shoveling out its stalls, then washing and feeding it. You wouldn’t have any time for playing.”
Her tiny brow furrowed as though she was seriously weighing the effort to have an elephant against her other choices. “I can swim. Can you?”
He reckoned with that blurted question, the topic was moving on from animals. “I can.”
“I swim in the river but only if someone is watching. Want to swim with me?”
“Maybe.”
“When?”
“Callie, do you remember the rule about talking at the table?” Dallas asked.
The little sprite twisted her mouth and gave him a sly look out of the corner of her eye, as though not facing him directly would prevent him from seeing her displeasure at the question. “I’m to be seen, not heard.”
Dallas gave a brusque nod. “That’s right.”
Callie gave an identical brusque nod, before quietly picking up a pea between her tiny forefinger and thumb and offering it to the dog.
Rawley glanced over at Faith, who was struggling not to smile, and for a moment they were both kids at the very same table, determined to obey Dallas’s edict—children did not talk unless spoken to. The first time Dallas had asked Rawley his opinion during a meal, he’d been so taken off guard as to jerk forcefully enough to nearly topple over his chair. Only later did he realize Dallas was acknowledging he was grown. It was a wonder he’d survived Faith’s glare because she’d obviously not liked one bit that he had come into possession of a privilege denied to her.
He turned his attention back to the child who was quickly snagging his heart. She delicately picked up another pea and offered it to the dog, who gladly took it. Then she squarely met Rawley’s gaze and leaned toward him slightly.
“I don’t like peas,” she said in what he could only assume she thought was a whisper, but her voice carried over the table. “But Rufus does. Do you like peas?”
“I do, and do you know why?”
Her eyes widened—either because he’d surprised her by answering instead of scolding her for breaking the rule or because she was truly interested—and she shook her head, stretching farther over her plate as though he was about to impart some wondrous secret.
“They make you grow tall and run fast.”
“I can run fast already.”
“Bet you can’t beat me.”
She narrowed her eyes, bit her bottom lip in concentration, as though striving to determine if she should challenge him. “Can you run faster than Mama?”
He still wasn’t accustomed to Faith being a mother, to her daughter referring to her as such. A part of him continued to see Faith as a young girl, while another part had to admit she was anything but—especially when her eyes held a challenge, daring him to suppose for even a minute he could outrace her. He wondered about the man who had caught her, made her his own, and then abandoned her. He wasn’t happy about her keeping secrets from him. “Absolutely.”
Faith scoffed. “I’d like to see you try, Rawley Cooper.”
The words were tossed out easily, as though no years had passed, as though no distance had come between them. “You were fast, Faith, but I was always faster. You know that.”
“But you haven’t spent five years running after this little one.” She tilted her head toward her daughter.
He was slammed with regret, regret that he hadn’t been here for her. If he’d known, he’d have returned straightaway. He’d have made the damn fool who got her with child marry her. He wondered why the hell Dallas hadn’t.
It was the longest meal of her life. Maybe because her stomach was knotted up so tightly she could barely eat, or maybe because she didn’t know what Callie might blurt, or maybe, just maybe, it was because the sight of Rawley caused emotions to keep welling up. With his leaving, he’d made his position regarding her clear. But a part of her still longed for his arms to circle around her.
“All right, Little Bit, time for us to go. Give everyone a hug,” she announced. She watched as her parents embraced her child, her heart squeezing as it always did because they so accepted her daughter. She knew not all parents would.
She didn’t think it was possible for her chest to tighten any further until Callie rushed with open arms toward Rawley. Her screech echoed around them as he swung her up and over his shoulder, wrapped her arms about his neck before placing his below her butt, giving her a sturdy perch to rest on as her legs curled around his sides, her feet dangling just shy of his chest. “I’ll escort you home.”
She didn’t much like the way her nerve endings came to attention as though he’d offered a far more intimate service. “That’s not necessary. It’s not that far. We’ll be fine.”
“It’s getting dark.”
Laughing lightly, she hated the thread of panic roughening the sound. “We’ve traveled this path a thousand times.”
“Still.”
The single word held determination and reflected the obstinacy of a man who had made up his mind. She almost punched him. He’d used that tone on her countless times when she was a girl, but now she was a woman—
Only he didn’t wait for her to rebuff him. He simply headed for the door, her daughter bouncing excitedly against his back. “Won’t be long,” he called over his shoulder to her parents.
Her mother arched a brow at her, challenging her to make things right between herself and Rawley. Faith gave her a quick hug, then one to her father. “See you tomorrow.”
She raced out after Rawley, striving not to accept how natural it seemed, not to recall how many times she’d done so as a child, always chasing after him, always wanting to be in the middle of whatever he was doing. When she caught up to him, she was grateful her long strides matched his. She’d always wanted to be his equal.
Together they saddled the horses in silence. She didn’t particularly like the way her heart gave a little tug when he lifted Callie onto her pony.
They were well past the house, Rufus running in circles around them, Callie laughing before Rawley said quietly, “Dallas looks good,” and she realized he hadn’t insisted on escorting her home because he’d thought she couldn’t take care of herself, but because he’d needed to talk, had needed her.
“I know. He doesn’t appear to be a man suffering from any ailments. Maybe it was something he ate, maybe it was the heat, but it sure gave us all a fright.”
“I noticed you hugged them both pretty tightly.”
The sun was just an orange line on the horizon. “I’ve come to realize they’re getting older, and I could lose one or both of them at any time. They are so much a part of this place, a part of my life, I can’t imagine not having them around.”
“It’ll be a while yet.” He said it with such confidence that she had no choice except to believe—or at least want to believe—him.
“We’re home!” Callie yelled, as though they couldn’t see the small cabin nestled among the mesquite trees.
When they brought the horses to a halt, he dismounted, grabbed Callie, and swung her to the ground. As soon as her feet hit the dirt, she was off chasing fireflies, Rufus leaping along beside her.
“You used to do that,” Rawley said fondly.
“Remember when you caught some and p
ut them in a jar for me, so I could sleep with them beside my bed?” He’d always done little things like that for her. Small wonder she’d loved him so much, still did.
“I remember. Before you went to sleep you set them free.”
She stared at him in disbelief. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, she’d been incredibly quiet creeping to her window, opening the jar, and sending the bugs back into the night. “You knew about that?”
“Faith, there wasn’t much you did that I didn’t know about.” He nodded toward Callie. “Didn’t know about her, though. Why didn’t you tell me about her?”
“Why did you really leave?” she fired back at him.
His answer was a half grin. “It’s complicated.”
Her own words tossed back at her should have angered her, but only served to sadden her. “We never used to keep secrets from each other.”
His smile turned somber, his eyes filled with regret. “We always had secrets. Or at least I did. I’ll see to your horses.”
“I’ll help.”
They worked in silence, relaxing into old, familiar routines. When the horses were settled in the corral with its protective shelter, Faith headed up the steps to the front porch. “Thanks for escorting us home.”
He stood with his hands pressed into the back pockets of his denim pants, a familiar stance that tugged at her heart. He studied her as though he had more to say and didn’t know quite how to say it. He wasn’t alone in that regard. Maybe she owed him an apology. Her recollection of that night was blurred, faint, but she couldn’t seem to find the words, not when so much between them had changed.
Callie bounded up the steps and hugged one of the porch beams that supported the eaves like it was her best friend. “Grampa helped me teach Rufus to play dead. Wanna see?”
“Sure,” Rawley said, and Faith had a feeling he wouldn’t deny her anything she asked.
She pointed her tiny finger at the dog. “Rufus, drop dead!”
The dog fell to his side.
“That’s pretty impressive,” Rawley said, looking over at Faith. “I can’t believe Dallas had the patience to train the mutt to do that.”
“He always had a way of making people obey. I guess that talent transfers to animals, too. He’ll stay like that . . . Callie, let him know the game’s over.”
“Rufus, wake up!”
The dog jumped up and raced off, no doubt catching sight of something in need of chasing.
“Uncle Rawley, wanna see my pichers?” Callie asked, and Faith knew the child could spend all night sharing one thing after another.
“I’m sure Uncle Rawley is tired,” Faith told her. “We need to let him get back to Gramma’s.”
“Actually I’m not,” he said. Reaching out, he tweaked Callie’s nose, making her giggle. “I’d like to see your pictures.”
“It’s time for her to go to bed,” Faith said patiently.
“How long can it take?” he asked.
“Please, Mama,” Callie pleaded, clasping her tiny hands together and holding them as though in prayer. “Please.”
Damn it. She’d yet to learn how to deny her child anything. But she didn’t want Rawley coming inside her cabin, what had once been his cabin. She didn’t want to remember the last time she’d been with him—inside those walls.
Did those memories mean nothing to him? Maybe if they were rekindled she’d find out the true reason for his leaving.
“I guess a few more minutes won’t hurt. Come on in.”
He didn’t know why he’d pushed it. The last thing he wanted was to dredge up memories of the last time he’d been with Faith, but it was hard to let go of the habit of wanting time with her.
Stepping over the threshold, he inhaled the fragrance of wildflowers, a mixture of scents, no bloom in particular standing out. It was the scent of Faith. She’d always smelled of things wild and untamed. Against his will, his gaze jumped to the doorway that led into the bedroom. He could see the same quilt draped over the bed, fought against remembering how peaceful and right Faith had looked stretched out over it when he’d leaned against the doorjamb and absorbed the sight of her, every inch from her bare feet to her messed hair, before he’d strode out of the cabin for the last time.
He jerked his attention away from places it shouldn’t roam and took in the remainder of the cabin. Another door, one that hadn’t been there before, indicated they’d added a room. No doubt for Callie. The furniture in the main room remained the same, but a rocker had been added, and his chest tightened with the image of Faith rocking her daughter. She’d added frilly yellow curtains to the windows and paintings of cowboys rustling steers to the walls. That was Faith: a combination of femininity and masculinity. She’d never shied away from the tough jobs.
“Uncle Rawley, sit here.”
Glancing over, he watched as Callie patted the cushion beside her on the sofa. A small book rested in her lap. Damn, if she didn’t have the biggest, brownest eyes he’d ever seen. He looked over at Faith, knowing she wanted to be rid of him, that he was making a nuisance of himself.
She gave a quick bob of her head as she settled into the rocker. “Go on.”
Dropping on to the sofa, he laid his arm along its back. Even sitting, he towered over the little girl. She gingerly folded back the leather cover as though it was deserving of her reverence, and his breath caught as she placed her index finger in the middle of a postcard.
“That’s the Grand Canyon,” she announced with authority. “I’m gonna go see it someday.”
He’d sent the postcard to Ma to relieve her worries and so she could appreciate one of the wonders he was seeing, had expected she’d share the postcards with others, but hadn’t considered that they’d be kept.
Another page turned, another postcard. “A hotel in Santa Fe,” she said as though she knew where Santa Fe was. “I’m gonna go there.”
Another page turned, another postcard. “A dining room in Ar’zona. Goin’ there, too.”
A dining room in a Fred Harvey hotel. Many of the postcards came from the hotels where he stayed for a night. He had sent them in particular so his ma could see that all the lodgings paled in comparison to the Grand Hotel she’d built in Leighton. He lifted his gaze to Faith. “You kept them?”
“I was fascinated by them,” she admitted. “I imagined you walking those streets, eating at those tables, sleeping in those beds.”
“More often than not, I slept beneath the stars.”
“I imagined that, too. I figured a lot of those were sent to make Ma believe you were living better than you were.”
“A train station in Cal’forn’a,” Callie announced as though his attention hadn’t detoured away from her. “We have trains here. I’m gonna ride it when I’m bigger.”
“Are you?” he asked.
She bobbed her head, even as she turned another page. “They’re faster ‘n horses.”
“But they’re not very good company,” he said.
She twisted around to look up at him, a question in those brown eyes that were so much like her mother’s.
“I talk to my horse all the time,” he told her.
“’Bout what?”
“My dreams.” He leaned in and whispered, “I can tell it my secrets. It won’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t tell, either.”
“Promise?”
She nodded with such enthusiasm her braids were flapping around her.
“Your ma was right. I’m tired. It’s been a long day. But I’ll come back and look at the rest another time. How about that?”
“‘Kay.”
Displaying the same reverence with which she’d opened the book, she closed it. He pushed himself to his feet while Faith simultaneously rose from the rocker, and they both stood there awkwardly, he with his hands shoved in the pockets at the back of his pants, she with her hands clasped in front of her.
“Thanks for indulging her,” Faith finally said.
“She’s quite the pistol.”
Faith smiled, the first genuine one she’d given to him since meeting him at the depot, and it caused a pain in his chest that made him wonder if he was suffering from the same affliction as Dallas. “She is that. If you’re not careful, she’ll wrap you around her littlest finger.”
“That warning comes a little too late.” He glanced around. “I’m surprised you’d want to live here.”
“It wasn’t being used. You said you were tired, so we shouldn’t keep you.” She hurried to the door, as though a coyote was nipping at her heels, and opened it. “We’ll see you tomorrow—at the gathering if nowhere else.”
The gathering, when the remainder of the family would descend on him like locusts, wanting answers. Reaching back with a wink, he tugged on one of Callie’s braids. “Sweet dreams.”
She gave him such an innocent smile that he wanted her to never have anything but the most pleasant of images racing through her head. The things in his tended to be ugly, made for a lot of restless nights. When he got to the threshold, he stopped beside Faith. She no longer wore braids, leaving him nothing to tug. He remembered a time when he might have leaned over to buss a kiss over her cheek. But those days were long behind them. “Night, Faith.”
She merely nodded, closing the door on him as soon as his boot heels were clear of it.
Taking a meandering path back to the house, he passed a cow or two along the way, feeling small and insignificant with the vast sky above him. Darkness settled in, bringing with it black velvet dotted with stars and a sliver of a moon. One of the reasons he enjoyed working with cattle was because he never felt hemmed in, because the horizon was always in the distance, beckoning, promising more space beyond it. It had once satisfied, but now it suddenly seemed empty. And he felt that a chunk of his life had been lived without him really being a part of it. What an odd thought to be nagging at him as he climbed the steps and went into the house.
A lamp had been left burning on a table in the entryway, so he suspected Dallas and Ma had already retired. He was surprised Dallas hadn’t gone to the trouble of having electricity introduced out here but figured it would come in time. Picking up the lamp, he made his way to the large library where he’d learned to love books, set the lamp on the marble-topped table that held an assortment of crystal decanters, poured a generous amount of whiskey into a tumbler, and stepped through a door onto the veranda. Leaning against a beam, he took a slow sip and looked out on the familiar, the land stretching before him for miles, the occasional shadowy windmill standing proud. He’d built a couple in his day, had always enjoyed the strenuous labor of it.
Texas Legacy Page 3