“A parlor house?” Her brows quirked. “That sounds like it might be a good place—”
“No, Ma, it’s not a parlor house.” His face heated. “Lucille McIntyre is a decent young woman. She’s a dressmaker. I told her I’d bring you by this afternoon. I know she’s looking forward to meeting you.” He knew no such thing, but it seemed like the right thing to say.
For the first time since he’d hatched this little plan, Tom had serious doubts about sending his mother to Miss McIntyre’s new business establishment. If things went wrong—which suddenly seemed a likely possibility—the pretty, dark-haired girl with the luscious dark chocolate eyes would not only hate his mother, she’d hate him, too.
But, then again, Lucille had never shown too much interest in him anyway. More than once, he’d tried to catch her eye, but whenever he tried to talk to her, she always turned away, always had better things to do.
Not that he blamed her.
Like everybody else in Sunset, she looked down on him, and why the hell not?
All the same, he’d held on to some crazy hope that maybe, with Ma working at the dressmaking shop, they could all get better acquainted. Maybe Lucille would look beyond the coarse exterior and come to see what was inside of him.
Just one more foolish dream, that’s all.
His mother grabbed the reins and pulled back.
“Ma? What the—”
“There’s one, right there.” She pointed to the two-story building on the corner. The one with the swinging doors. The Red Mule saloon.
“We’re not stopping.”
She reached out and placed a hand on her son’s arm. “Tommy, listen to me, please. You think I don’t know what’s in your head?”
The softness of her voice touched him. Never had he heard his mother speak with such sincerity.
“You’re thinking I’m nothing more than an old sot who can’t handle her liquor, but you’re wrong, son.” She lifted her gaze, studying him with clear, blue eyes. “I’m not asking you to take me out and let me go off on a spree.”
With his thumb, Tom wiped a tear from her cheek.
“I know I made life hell for you and Sally when you were coming up, and I’m sorry for it. The last few years have been hard ones for me, but in a lot of ways, they’ve been good ones, too. Good, because I’ve learned from them.” She lowered her gaze. “I’ve changed, Tommy, and I intend to do right.” Her breath shuddered, and she looked up again. “Just keep that damned, self-righteous minister away from me, and give me one bottle of good rye whiskey. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Ma, I—”
“Hush, baby, let me finish.” She stroked his callused hand with her long, knobby fingers. “Just let me sit in my rocking chair at the end of each night, have a little nip of whiskey, and I’ll be all right. I’ll get up every morning, and I’ll go to work. And I promise you, I’ll work right hard at that shop, doing whatever I’m asked to do. I’ll make you proud of me.” She leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. “I had no right to expect you to give me another chance. But you did.”
He held her close. “It’s all going to work out.” For the first time since he’d seen his mother standing at the stage depot that afternoon, Tom actually believed it could work. And if he could find Sally, they could be a real family at last.
* * * *
Too nervous to do any fancy stitching, Lucille McIntyre held a tin canister filled with buttons on her lap and pretended to sort through them. She wasn’t accomplishing anything, just passing time. She glanced up, looked around, then tried to return her attention to her task. She couldn’t concentrate.
From across the shop, she heard her mother’s soft laughter.
“Watched pots never boil, dear.”
“I’m not watching any pots.” Lucille frowned.
“No, but you’re sure keeping a close eye on that door.”
“I know.” With an anxious sigh, Lucille turned toward her mother. She hesitated, unsure whether she should speak her mind or remain silent. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?” she asked at last.
For a moment, mother and daughter looked at one another. Neither seemed to be too certain. Finally, the older woman nodded.
“Yes, I think we are.” Although a smile appeared on her face, her voice showed her doubts. “It’s our Christian duty to help where we’re able.”
Lucille wished she could be as accepting as her mother, but she had too many misgivings. “I’ve heard things about her, Mama. Things we didn’t know when we offered to help.” She clutched the tin canister with a fierce grip. “The truth is, I don’t think Mrs. Henderson is a good woman.”
“It’s not our place to judge others.” The smile faded from Olive McIntyre’s face. “And you know better than to listen to gossip. It’s evil. Remember our last meeting?”
She referred to the ladies’ society at church. In addition to the charitable work they performed, they met regularly to discuss righteous behavior. Lucille and her mother both attended regularly. The previous week, the lesson had come from St. Paul who, in his letter to Titus, taught “to speak evil of no one, to avoid quarreling, to be gentle, and to show perfect courtesy toward all people.”
A good lesson. Definitely one worth remembering.
Chastised, Lucille cast her gaze down to the buttons once more, then jumped when the bell above the shop door jangled. The canister fell from her lap, scattering its colorful contents across the floor.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I’ll pick them up.” She knelt down and began gathering the buttons with shaking hands. She wished she could settle her nerves and not always be so edgy, but too many things had happened in recent months. Too many bad things.
Ever since that horrible winter afternoon when her father got the crazy notion of stringing garlands of tinsel to decorate the mercantile they owned in celebration of the Christmas holiday, then fell to his death when he lost his footing on the icy rooftop, Lucille’s life had become a nightmare of apprehension and uncertainty.
Her mother had made one poor decision after another. She’d sold the mercantile to a fast-talking businessman who assured her she was making a good deal. Once the creditors were paid and the legal proceedings completed, however, there was barely any money. The last of it had run out weeks before. To make ends meet, Lucille and her mother turned to their talent for sewing. Their knowledge and skill served them well in the little shop they set up.
“Don’t worry about those buttons now.” Her mother’s voice held an unusual sharpness. “Get up off the floor and come greet our visitors.”
She sucked in a breath, and when a pair of big leather boots came into her line of vision, Lucille slowly lifted her gaze.
“Can I help you, Miss Lucille?” Tom Henderson held out a thick, callused hand.
“No, I’m fine.” Shaking her head, she clambered to her feet, then brushed the dirt and dust from her somber black skirts. How incongruous it looked to see the rough, solid-built cowpoke there in the dressmaking shop amidst the delicate laces and wispy fabrics. All Lucille could do was stand and stare at him while her heart pounded out a crazy beat. She’d never really noticed how handsome the man was.
Finally she forced herself to look past him to the tall blonde woman who stood near the door. With another deep breath to steady herself, Lucille approached her.
Her mother reached out and placed a hand on her arm. “Remember what we spoke about earlier,” she said in a low voice.
“Yes, Mama.” She would be kind, she would be courteous, she would be gentle and polite. Unsure, however, of precisely what to say or how to proceed, she stepped closer and extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Henderson. I do hope you had an agreeable journey.”
The woman glanced down at the outstretched hand but chose to ignore it. Her pale blue eyes narrowed. Her nostrils flared, and her lips curled. She turned toward her son. “Likes to put on airs, doesn’t she? Does she think she’s better than the rest of us?”
/> Tom’s face colored. “Ma, mind your manners,” he said in a rough voice, nudging her with a crooked elbow. “This is Miss Lucille McIntyre. And that’s her mother, Olive.” He gestured toward her. “These ladies have been kind enough to offer you employment. I expect you to treat them with respect.”
Mrs. Henderson nodded. Her shoulders sagged, her chin drooped, and a heavy breath shuddered from her lungs. The bluster had been an act, Lucille guessed. The woman put it on much like a man might carry a sword and a shield to ward off danger. Or maybe it was intended to prevent people from getting too close. Given what she’d heard about Charlotte Henderson recently, she suspected the latter might account for the defensive attitude.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte said, her gaze still downcast. “I don’t think I belong in a place like this.”
Emotion stirred within Lucille’s heart. “You’ll do fine, I’m sure.” Instinctively she reached out and touched the woman’s shoulder.
Charlotte jerked away. “Get your hands off me.”
“I’m sorry.” Lucille took a quick step back. “Would you like me to show you around?” She gestured toward the neat displays of laces, ribbons, fabrics, and notions. “We provide a full line of dressmaking and sewing services. We do mending, as well,” she added.
“How’s business going?” Tom asked.
“I’m quite pleased. We sewed several wedding gowns last month, and now, with the statehood celebration coming up, we’ve stayed very busy. All the ladies in town are wanting fancy dresses for the dance.”
Lucille’s mother came to join them. “Can you sew, Mrs. Henderson?” she asked in a hopeful voice.
Charlotte shook her head. “Somebody tried to teach me once, but I didn’t care to learn.”
Lucille looked to her mother again, her expression asking, Do you still think this is a good idea? Her mother turned away. No, it wasn’t a good idea. From a practical standpoint, they didn’t need any help at the shop and couldn’t really afford to pay Charlotte more than a few pennies a week.
But helping Charlotte Henderson wasn’t meant to be practical. It was charity, a service to the community.
“I’m sure we can find little tasks for you to do.” Lucille took a deep breath. “Mother will show you around the shop now. I’d be happy to do it, but I need to pick up these buttons.” She gestured toward the spilled tin.
She dropped to her knees, then, as soon as her mother and Charlotte were out of earshot, she jumped up again, grabbed Tom by the sleeve, and yanked hard. “This isn’t going to work.” Lucille had never been one for sugar-coating the truth. If something needed to be said…well, best to get it out, not cover it up with pretty words and sweet-sounding phrases. “Your mother’s got no interest in helping out here. She’s got no skills, either.”
“You knew that when you offered to hire her,” Tom pointed out. He stooped down and began gathering up the bright, colorful buttons. Lucille stared at the size of his hands, marveling that he could hold so many of the fasteners in his palm. He handed them to her, and the touch of his flesh on hers sent strange sensations darting through her. She dropped nearly all of the buttons again.
“Oh, dear. I don’t know why I’m so clumsy today. What were you saying?” she asked, unable to recall the words he’d just spoken. Why did the man have to turn those gorgeous blue eyes on her?
She’d never really paid much attention to Tom Henderson before, never really thought of him as anything more than a roughneck cowpoke. An overgrown boy, she’d often called him. But there wasn’t anything boyish about the broad-shouldered, well-muscled man who stood before her. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Please, Lucille,” he said, bending his head close. “She needs work, something to occupy her time. Even if it’s nothing more than picking up buttons.” He nodded toward his mother. “It’s not about the money, you know. It’s about helping her feel useful.”
She understood. Still, she hesitated. Lucille pressed her lips together and made herself turn away from Tom. “I do want to help,” she said, “but…”
But, what? She’d given her word, and she’d never been one to go back on promises she’d made. Plain and simple, she had no way out. Of course, from the looks of things, Charlotte Henderson wouldn’t last more than a few days at the shop. The smile returned to Lucille’s face.
“All right, we’ll give it a try. We’ll see how it goes.”
She expected the man to step away now that they’d reached an agreement, but he didn’t move. Instead, he stood right where he was, towering over her. His broad grin brought dimples to his cheeks.
“Thank you, Miss Lucille.” He took off his hat and held it, nervously turning it in his hands. He still made no move to step away.
“Is there something else?”
“Actually, well, yeah, there was something I wanted to ask you about.”
Lucille glowered at him. Their business was done, time was wasting, and she needed to get back to work. She didn’t care for idle chat. “Yes, what is it?”
“Will you go to the statehood dance with me, Miss Lucille?”
She leaned back, tilting her chin up so she could look into his face. He couldn’t possibly be serious. “I can’t do that. I’m not going to the dance. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Why not?”
“My mother and I are still in mourning.” She clutched her heavy black skirts and shook them to make her point. Grim black boots poked out from beneath the hem. Although no one could see the thick stockings or the underthings she wore, they, too, were black.
Tom put his hat on again, then rubbed his jaw.
“Grief can’t last forever, Miss Lucille. It’s sad that your father met with that unfortunate accident, but don’t you think it’s time to move on?”
“It’s barely been six months. The customary period for mourning is at least a year.”
“Statehood only comes along once. It’d be a real shame to miss it because of some old-fashioned custom.” He stepped closer. “You know, you’d look so much prettier, and so much happier, if you weren’t wearing those mourning clothes.” His seductive blue-eyed gaze swept over her with obvious interest. He licked his lips.
Lucille’s ears burned. Although his remark sounded innocent on the surface, she picked up definite undercurrents. Her throat went dry, her legs turned weak, and her hands shook.
“I think you’d better go now.” She turned away from him.
“I remember the fancy dresses you used to wear,” he told her. “And I remember how you used to laugh and smile. Sad thing to see how much you’ve changed. I was hoping maybe I could show you a good time. It might cheer you up, you know.”
He didn’t deserve a response, Lucille decided. Or maybe it was just the fact that she couldn’t have uttered a word if she’d tried. With a ruffle and a flourish she gathered her gloomy black skirts in her hands and whirled around. The heels of her boots click-clacked over the worn hardwood floor.
She wanted nothing more to do with Tom Henderson.
Or with his mother. She’d find good reason to fire the woman soon enough. She’d be done with the both of them.
Chapter Two
Tom kept his gaze fastened upon Lucille as she hurried away. Give her time, he told himself. She’d stop, she’d turn, and she’d look him over once again. All the women did.
He leaned back, crossed his arms over his broad chest, and waited.
Lucille kept right on walking.
Well, hell! It’s not like he gave a damn about her anyway. His only reason for asking her out was pity, plain and simple. He hated to see a pretty girl get so down-at-the-mouth about life. Inviting her to the dance was his way of trying to brighten her day, give her something to feel good about.
Yeah, keep at it, and maybe you’ll come to believe your own lies.
“You ready to go, Ma?” he asked. His throat felt as dry as dusty straw, and he had a hard time swallowing down his disappointment. Ignoring Lucille—it made him feel better—he
aimed his most-charming smile at Olive McIntyre. “What time you want Ma here tomorrow?”
“We open at nine each morning, so—”
Lucille whirled around. “No, that’s too late,” she called out, her voice a bit louder than necessary. All heads turned her way. She glanced down, brushed a hand over her black skirts, then lifted her chin. “I want to open the shop early tomorrow. What with all the excitement about the dance and so many orders for gowns…”
Her smile looked a bit forced, Tom noted, and she suddenly seemed at a loss for words.
Maybe it had something to do with the way he was staring at her. He liked seeing her flustered, liked the color it brought to her cheeks. In some crazy way, it helped ease the sting of her rejection.
His mother had come to stand beside him now. She placed a hand on his arm. With the grace befitting a true lady, she inquired in a quiet voice, “What time should I arrive for work, Miss McIntyre?”
“Eight o’clock. No, make it seven.”
“Seven? Isn’t that a bit early?”
“If you’re going to work for me, you’ll need to follow my instructions. Seven o’clock,” she repeated.
His mother’s grip on his arm tightened, a sure sign of her growing anger. To her credit, she held her emotions in check and put up no fuss.
“All right, seven it is. I’ll see you then.”
Tom tipped his hat, opened the door, and escorted his mother from the little shop.
All things considered, he’d come out all right. Like his mother, he’d managed to rein in his emotions, hadn’t let Lucille see how much her rebuff bothered him. He’d saved face, and he ought to be mighty proud of himself.
But damned if it didn’t hurt, all the same.
“How did I do?” his mother asked. “Was I polite enough? Did I kowtow enough to please you?”
“Ma, you did good, so don’t start trouble now.”
“You’re right.” She let out a long, slow exhalation. “She’s an unhappy one, isn’t she?”
“Lucille, you mean?”
“Can’t recall ever seeing a girl her age look so puckered up and sour.”
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