Tom linked arms with his mother, and together they strolled along the boardwalk. “The last few months have been rough on her.”
“Yes, well, we all have our sorrows, don’t we?”
“That we do,” he replied. “Indeed, that we do.”
Neither spoke another word, made mention of drowning those sorrows in a shot of whiskey, or even looked to one another, but somehow, they both seemed to know exactly where they were going.
“One drink, that’s all,” she assured her son as he pushed open the swinging doors of the Red Mule Saloon.
As a rule, ladies weren’t allowed in the Red Mule, but his mother had never been a lady in her life, and Tom would bet a week’s wages that nobody would raise a ruckus about him bringing her in. He was right. A few gentlemen—as they liked to be called—turned toward the pair with curious eyes but turned away again just as quickly.
His mother headed straight to the bar, took a seat, and immediately struck up a conversation with the drunken fellow at her side.
Abner Kellerman.
Tom chuckled. He couldn’t remember ever setting foot inside the Red Mule without seeing Abner Kellerman seated on the same damned stool, slouched over the bar. The man never moved, rarely spoke, and as often as not, fell asleep with his drink in his hand. Jake Walker, the owner, never disturbed the man’s slumbers. When closing time came each night, he’d round up a couple well-muscled cowboys or miners to carry Abner home to his own bed.
It always puzzled Tom how anybody—drunk or not—could sleep through a night’s entertainment at the saloon. The Red Mule put on a fine show. Dancing girls kicked up their heels to the music of a honky-tonk piano while nattily-dressed gamblers competed in games of chance. Faro, poker, and three-card monte were always popular. A man who played his cards wisely might get lucky in more ways than one and win enough to pay for a different sort of pleasure when the music ended and the dancing was over.
For all the clamor and excitement of the nights, the Red Mule offered its patrons little by day. Cheap whiskey still flowed from the taps, but instead of laughter and songs, the few voices were hushed and low. The gaming tables sat empty, their chairs upturned, and the hanging lamps above them unlit.
With his mood already low after his unsuccessful encounter with Lucille, Tom felt the gloom and grayness of the saloon more keenly than usual. At his age, he’d already learned that only a fool—like Abner Kellerman—would truly believe a drink or two would make a man feel better, but like countless fools before him, he insisted on proving the fact time and again.
The worst part about sitting in a saloon on a hot summer’s afternoon was the way it caused a man to start thinking. Something about the unaccustomed quiet made it too easy to hear all those thoughts inside his head.
Thoughts like why he’d bothered asking Lucille about the statehood celebration. It had nothing to do with pity. Not a thing to do with feeling sorry for her or wanting to cheer her up. As much as it pained him to admit it, he’d asked Lucille because he liked her. He’d always liked the dark-haired girl, who—up until the past year—had been counted the prettiest and wittiest young lady around the town of Sunset and its environs.
Oh, how she used to laugh! A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at the thought. Even now, he could recall the lilting sound of her laughter, so sweet, so enticing. It had always made him yearn for a chance to spend a little time with her.
Of course, she’d never given him that chance. In the past, too many other young men—men with more brains, men with more money, men with more possibilities—had vied for her affection. Whatever her reasons, she’d turned them all down.
Now, she’d found herself in far different circumstances. Puckered up and sour. Yes, indeed, his mother had called it right. Even more, Tom suspected, the once-popular Miss McIntyre might now be a bit lonely and forlorn.
Maybe that was why he’d hoped she might at least consider his invitation. Yet, all along, he’d known she would turn him down.
Was he a glutton for punishment? Did he like making himself miserable? That’s what Caleb Bryant, another cowpoke at the Flying W and Tom’s only true friend, had told him once. Didn’t make much sense, really.
Too much to think about, too much to deal with.
Determined to put Lucille out of mind, Tom followed his mother’s lead and headed for the bar.
“Afternoon, Doc.” He placed a hand on Abner Kellerman’s shoulder. Although the old man was officially the only full-fledged doctor in Sunset, he hadn’t done more than wash a kid’s scraped knee or maybe pass out a packet of headache powders for going on twenty years. His wife’s death had utterly destroyed him, leaving him unable to cope with his own problems, let alone cure anyone else’s ailments and illnesses.
“Good to see you, Tom.” Abner rarely looked up from his drink, but out of the corner of his eye, he must have caught sight of the tall woman on the next barstool. His chin rose, and his bleary, bloodshot eyes widened. “And a very good day to you.” He lifted his glass. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Take it easy, Doc. She’s my mother.” Tom nudged him.
“Get away from me, cowboy. I’d rather look at her. She’s prettier than you.” Doc grinned.
From the other side of the bar, Jake Walker whistled. An inveterate gambler by night, he tended the bar during the day. Tom sometimes wondered when the fellow ever slept.
“Now, that’s a first,” the owner said, extending a hand toward Charlotte. “Mighty nice to see you, ma’am. Just so you know, you’re the first female who’s ever got that fellow to speak more than a word or two.”
Charlotte came alive under the attention. She laughed more, smiled more, kept up a lively conversation. She said nothing about prison, nothing about the manslaughter charges she’d been convicted for, and thank the Lord, she didn’t mention her former livelihood.
More relaxed and able at last to put Lucille from his mind, Tom swallowed down his first drink then ordered another round. After all, the day could easily be counted as special; a bit of celebration was in order.
“This will be the first time Ma and I have been together for years,” he mentioned, smiling at her. No matter what his head told him, in his heart Tom knew she truly meant to keep her word, to do right. She’d get up each morning, she’d work each day, and she’d do her best. “Only thing missing now is my little sister, Sally. I’d like to find her, just don’t know for sure where to start.”
Abner Kellerman’s face grew serious. “I’ve got some connections, you know. Maybe I could make a few inquiries.”
Despite doubts that the drunken doctor’s efforts would be of any use, Tom nodded and clapped the old fellow on the back. “It would be appreciated. Much appreciated.” He strolled to the other end of the bar and settled onto a tall stool.
Jake Walker came over, another drink in hand. “On the house,” he told Tom, setting it down before him.
“Thanks.”
“I wouldn’t put much stock in Kellerman, you know.”
Tom laughed. “I don’t.”
“Want me to ask around a bit? I actually do have a few connections.”
Tom nodded. Maybe between Kellerman and Walker, somebody would get a lead on Sally. Miracles didn’t happen too often, but now and then, one came along, and maybe there was one headed his way, one with his name on it.
He grabbed the shot of whiskey. As he drank it down, a good feeling spread throughout his body. A damned good feeling. Something fine was coming his way. He’d swear on it.
* * * *
To Lucille’s surprise, when she arrived at work the following morning, she found Charlotte Henderson waiting outside the dressmaking shop. She hadn’t expected the woman to show up at all, let alone be on time.
“It’s half-past, Miss McIntyre.”
“I’m running a little late,” she replied, embarrassed by both the lie she told and by the obvious disregard she’d shown the woman. She fumbled with the key and the lock, then pushed open
the door. “Please, call me Lucille. I’ll address you as Charlotte, if you don’t mind. I think working relationships should be somewhat informal.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Had the woman not heard the instructions to use her given name? If Charlotte weren’t willing to listen and do as she was told, she’d soon find herself out of work. Lucille considered mentioning that fact, then thought better of it.
“Mama comes in a bit later each morning.” She directed her new employee to step inside, wishing her mother were with her now to advise her on the best way to deal with Charlotte. Having never been in the position of manager before, Lucille had no idea what approach to take. Perhaps the best course would be to establish definite rules from the start. “Since you can’t sew, your duties will be mostly custodial—”
“In other words, you want me to clean up after you.”
Taken aback by the woman’s interruption—and the cutting look in her harsh blue eyes—Lucille stiffened. “There’s a broom and dustpan in the storeroom, along with a few other cleaning supplies. Come with me, Charlotte. I’ll show you where to find them.”
She squared her shoulders and marched toward the rear of the shop, not caring whether Tom’s mother followed or not. Sooner rather than later, the disagreeable woman would fall short of the expectations Lucille placed upon her. When it happened, Charlotte would be summarily dismissed.
When she heard the sound of footsteps behind her, Lucille sighed. So far, her new worker had done nothing to warrant a firing. Of course, only a few minutes had gone by. Give her time, and she’d do something wrong.
“My personal office is over there,” she explained, pointing to a small room that adjoined the shop. “That’s where I write up orders, handle invoices, and deal with other paperwork.”
“I’d be glad to help with any of it, Miss—, Lucille, I mean. In addition to my custodial duties, as you call them.”
Lucille stopped long enough to throw a judgmental look over her shoulder. She doubted Charlotte had received much education. Certainly she wouldn’t know how to manage ledgers or keep accounts. “That won’t be necessary. I don’t need any assistance. You’ll be expected to sweep the floors and do a bit of dusting in the office, but nothing more.”
“Fine. And the storeroom?”
“Over here, to the right.” Lucille pointed toward a heavy oaken door. “In addition to cleaning supplies, I keep extra notions packed away in the storeroom. Everything is labeled and marked.” She wondered again about Charlotte’s schooling. “Are you able to read and write?”
“I do both very well.”
“Good, you’ll have no problem locating items if I ask you to get something from the storeroom.” She’d reached the door, but when she turned the knob, she scowled. “Sometimes the latch sticks. It’s a nuisance, but I haven’t been able to get it repaired.” A heartfelt sigh escaped, and Lucille leaned against the stubborn door. “My father was a very handy man. I swear he could fix anything that was broken. Now when something breaks down, I have to go looking for someone who’s got the proper skills.” Someone who wouldn’t charge an outrageous fee for services.
“I could have Tommy look at it,” Charlotte suggested.
“Do you think he would?” The mention of the cowboy’s name brought a flush of heat to Lucille’s cheeks, and she quickly turned away, not wanting the man’s mother to see how flustered she’d suddenly become. She gave the doorknob another good shake. This time, it turned. “Never mind. It’s a nuisance, but fixing it would probably be more bother than it’s worth.” Stepping back, she ushered Charlotte into the tiny storeroom. “Let’s get your cleaning supplies together now so you can get started. Later, I’ll make a list of the tasks you’ll be expected to perform each day.”
She thought she heard Charlotte sigh, and maybe so. No one would blame the woman for feeling a bit perturbed at how she’d been treated. Little pangs of guilt nagged at Lucille’s conscience.
“Give me that list whenever you have it ready. I’ll get started now, if that’s all right with you.” Charlotte grabbed the broom, then bent to pick the dustpan up from the floor.
“Yes, fine.”
Grateful when her mother arrived at the shop a short time later, Lucille set about her sewing. Even as she worked, she kept a close eye on Charlotte but resolved to hold her tongue. In some tasks, perhaps the woman could have been a bit more thorough. For the most part, though, her work was satisfactory.
“It’s nice to have the floors swept and all those pattern pieces picked up,” Lucille’s mother commented as she worked on a fancy beaded collar, her fingers moving swiftly and surely. “Goodness knows, it will give us more time for sewing. I think hiring Mrs. Henderson was a wise decision.”
“Maybe so, Mama,” Lucille agreed.
With the statehood celebration coming up, the dressmaking shop was a busy place, indeed. Lucille and her mother had taken orders for a dozen fancy gowns for the dance. In addition, the little town had lately seen a spate of weddings, with more to come. Nearly all of Lucille’s friends had found husbands. Even Bessie Morrow—a painfully-shy wallflower who spoke with an awful lisp and who had an unnatural streak of white running down the center of her dark hair—had found a man who wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. The happy couple had set a date, and she’d bustled into the shop all in a dither about a wedding dress.
“Since we won’t have so much to do at closing time, honey, would you mind if I left a bit early today?” Her mother’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“You can leave any time you like, Mama.” Lucille glanced up. “Is anything wrong?”
“I thought I’d call on Mrs. Triplett, that’s all. We’ve been so busy, I haven’t had any chance to speak to her for weeks.”
Widowhood had settled upon Lucille’s mother like a heavy mantle. Despite her attempts to appear cheerful and her efforts to involve herself in church and community activities, she’d become a lonely woman, one who had little to live for. Lately she’d even taken to visiting Emma Triplett, a tiny black-skinned woman reputed to have the gift and who would, for a price, bring messages from the dead to the living.
“Mama, you know that woman’s a fraud. I miss Daddy, too, but it’s wrong to be conjuring up spirits.”
“She’s not conjuring. All she’s doing is listening to what they tell her and sharing it with those of us who are longing to hear from our loved ones. She brings comfort, honey. I wish you could understand.”
Comfort and peace of mind, assurances of heaven, and above all, hope. All of these came about through Emma Triplett’s gift. Lucille still considered it wrong, but everyone needed something to believe in.
“Are you still thinking about going to Denver?” she asked, adroitly changing the subject. Lucille’s older sister, Matilda, lived in the big city with her husband and children. Mama had talked about visiting with them during the statehood festivities, looking after her grandsons while Matilda and Richard attended various celebrations.
“I plan to leave on Thursday next week. We’ll have all our work finished by then.”
“It will be good for you to get away, Mama.”
“Matilda thinks I should move in with her.”
Lucille’s head snapped up. “You’d leave Sunset?”
“I haven’t given her an answer, but I’m thinking about it.”
Everything in Lucille’s heart wanted to cry out and beg Mama to reconsider. She belonged in Sunset. This is where their home had always been. The McIntyres had been pillars of the little community.
She had church, she had the Ladies’ Charitable Society meetings to attend. She had Emma Triplett, too, her only link to her deceased husband. How could she pack up and move away?
What Lucille’s heart really asked was how could Mama leave her? The thought of living alone, running her shop without Mama at her side, and having to manage entirely on her own left her shaken.
“You have to do what you think best, of course.”
* * * *
For the next week, Lucille tried not to think about the possibility of her mother actually moving away from Sunset. She tried not to think about a lot of other things too.
Like how to deal with Charlotte Henderson and her quiet but surly attitude. The woman showed up each day and she did what was asked of her, but all the while it was clear that she hated the job. Or maybe she just hated Lucille.
She tried not to think much about Charlotte’s son either, but for some reason getting her thoughts off Tom proved impossible. She didn’t like him. He was too full of himself. The good-looking cowboy knew every girl in town drooled over him, and he expected them to chase after him. Well, Lucille was not running after any fellow, least of all, not a rough-around-the-edges ranch-hand with no prospects for the future.
On Thursday morning, she walked with her mother to the stage depot.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come along, Lucille?”
“You know I can’t do that. I’ve still got to finish Kat’s dress. She’ll be picking it up tomorrow.”
“You could drive to Denver on Saturday morning.”
“I’ll be fine, Mama.”
“I’m worried that you’ll be lonely. Everybody will be celebrating, honey.” She giggled and bent forward to whisper in her daughter’s ear. “Did you know Charlotte is going to the statehood dance? With Abner Kellerman, of all people.”
“Are you sure that’s not just rumor? You know how women in town love to gossip.”
Their conversation was cut short by the arrival of the stage. Within moments, her mother had boarded, waved good-bye, and was on her way to Denver, leaving Lucille to face the long weekend alone.
With all the excitement going on, she had little time for loneliness. She worked late on Thursday, even spending the night at the shop instead of driving back to the farmhouse outside of town. In anticipation of busy times such as these, Lucille had had the foresight to place an old feather mattress in the back room of the shop. Anyone who knew her could speak of her penchant for always being prepared.
KeepingFaithCole Page 3