“Reckon you got it awful bad for me, all right.”
Lucille drew back. So help her, if she hadn’t been brought up by a good, Christian family and taught to mind her manners, she would have slapped those smirky dimples right off his face.
“Don’t make me laugh. I’ve got nothing for you, Tom Henderson.” She snorted and lifted her chin. Taking another deep breath to steady herself, she turned to gaze directly into those deep blue eyes. “I drove out here to inform you that your mother didn’t show up for work this morning.”
Tom glanced toward the eastern horizon. “Still fairly early in the day, Miss McIntyre. Might be she’s running a little late, that’s all.”
“No, it’s not all, and you know that as well as I do.” Grateful that her anger allowed her to stay focused on the task at hand instead of drooling over the man beside the wagon, Lucille bent forward and jabbed a finger at Tom’s broad, well-muscled chest. “I told you it wouldn’t work out. I told you she wouldn’t last more than a few days, and I—”
“It’s already been over a week.”
“Don’t go changing the subject. I was right about your mother. I shouldn’t have let you talk me into giving her the job in the first place.” Her chin went up another notch. “As of today, she’s fired. You might want to ride out to her place and tell her, although I doubt she really cares.”
“I’ll pay a call on her later, Lucille. I’ll have a talk with her.”
When he called her by her given name, the soft-spoken way he said it all but melted her. She felt a lot like a tub of butter left on a hot stove. Feelings seemed to be oozing out all over.
“Yes, well, you tell her not to come back. Tell her I don’t need any help. If I do, I’ll find somebody else.” A sudden weakness washed over her, leaving her shaken and close to tears. Most likely those odd reactions were further consequences of that horrible drunken binge. When would her usual aplomb return? How much longer would she be this weepy-eyed, love struck woman mooning over some stupid cowboy?
“Won’t you give her another chance?” He edged closer to the side of the wagon, then held out a hand to help her down. “Please?”
Lucille climbed from the wagon. Only after her feet were on the ground did she stop to ask why she’d gotten out. It’s not like she planned to stay and visit. This was not a social call.
It was his touch. Tom had only to hold out his hand, and she’d take it, just as she’d done at the dance. Wherever he led, she’d gladly follow.
For a moment she demurred, not wanting Tom to guess how easily he could sway her. Finally, with a hesitant smile, she agreed. “Oh, all right,” she said, grateful that he still held her hand in his.
From a few feet away she heard a chorus of snickers, chuckles, and playful guffaws. Men were a strange breed of animal, she considered, cruel to their own kind, and taking perverse pleasure in cutting each other down. Thank goodness women weren’t like that. Women supported one another, offered encouragement and reassurance.
Tom groaned as the men, led by a short, black-haired Mexican, circled around him and Lucille. They reminded her of savages, made her think of the chilling tales she’d heard of Sioux and Lakota warriors attacking white settlers. She shuddered. Only a few weeks before, there’d been a fierce battle in Montana. Travelers coming back east had brought word of the slaughter.
Maybe it was wrong to compare her plight to that of the soldiers who’d fought and died at Greasy Grass Creek, but that’s exactly how she felt as she watched the men move up to surround her and Tom.
His hand tightened around hers. Did he feel threatened, too, in some way?
“Buenos dias, senorita.” The Mexican swept off his hat and made a graceful bow. “You know, you’re too pretty for a no-good hombre like him.” He jerked a thumb toward Tom. “A man like that, he don’t know how to treat a woman. You need a good man, a man like me.” He thrust out his chest and strutted toward her.
She knew he meant nothing by it. Just the sort of boastful, boisterous, playful banter that passed between men. Still, she felt tension mounting. All the hands were moving closer, as if drawing a noose around her and Tom.
All at once, their laughter rose up, loud shouts punctuated their taunting words and jeers. He’s got no manners, ma’am. What you want with a low-down critter like him? Ain’t got a lick o’ sense about him.
Lucille turned to Tom, quickly reading the hurt and humiliation in his eyes. Yet somehow he managed to smile, even managed to throw the men a casual, indifferent shrug and act as though their rude words had no effect.
She knew better. She saw how Tom winced with each new barb thrown at him. She could actually see the thick muscles in his huge arms tighten as his fists clenched. What marvelous self-control the man possessed. Her heart went out to him.
Nobody deserved to be ridiculed, least of all by men he probably called his friends.
* * * *
Why couldn’t they just shut the hell up for once?
Yes, he’d been born in a barn.
Yes, he was as dumb as a box of rocks.
All they said was true, and maybe that made their taunting even more unforgivable. As much as Tom wanted to laugh it off, he couldn’t. No matter how much he wanted to pretend it didn’t bother him, the simple truth was that it bothered the hell out of him.
Especially with Lucille McIntyre taking it all in, listening to every bad word they spewed out about him.
“I should go now,” she said, her voice so quiet and subdued he barely heard the words. Lucille took a step, then turned to look back. “See that your mother shows up at the shop tomorrow. On time,” she added. “If she’s late, she’s fired.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded, knowing that sooner or later, Lucille would find one reason or another to dismiss his mother. She’d probably prefer not to see either of them—his mother or him—again in this lifetime. Of course, in a town the size of Sunset, they’d most likely cross paths at least a time or two. The thought brought a small measure of comfort.
Without another word, Lucille turned away. She quickly reached her wagon, but as she picked up the reins, a fancy horse-drawn coach clattered up the long drive and stopped in the middle of the road, blocking her from leaving.
Tom glanced over his shoulder, curious about the unusual activity the morning had brought. Most days nobody came out to the Flying W. It wasn’t yet noon, and already they’d had two visitors show up.
“Excuse me!” Lucille stood up in her wagon, shouting and waving her arms. “You need to move,” she called out.
The driver of the fancy buggy—a smartly-dressed young black man who looked about the same age as Tom—remained silent and stared straight ahead as if he hadn’t heard.
Lucille jumped down and stomped toward the coach.
The ranch hands stopped their rowdy talk. Tom, too, swung around to stare. The door of the coach opened outward, and a very old, very thin, very prim and proper woman in a gray traveling suit slowly stepped out. She lifted her chin a bit, gave a sniff of the manure-laden air, then jumped when a mossy-horned old steer bellowed out a greeting.
Under other circumstances, the boys would have laughed.
This woman looked so odd and so out of place, nobody even broke a smile. A few heads shook, a couple of the cowpokes exchanged curious glances, but most of them just stood gaping at this unexpected arrival. Driver must have taken one hell of a wrong turn, Tom thought.
The pencil-thin woman sniffed again. She sucked in her wrinkled cheeks as she surveyed the assemblage before her.
“Is this the Flying W Ranch?” she inquired, her high-pitched voice harsh and painful to hear.
“Yes, it is, indeed.” Wes Randall stepped down from the porch and approached the woman. “I’m the owner. Is there something I can do for you?”
Lucille had gotten out of her wagon again and had come to stand close beside Tom. Despite all the ribbing he’d taken earlier, he felt a pleasant, warm feeling wrapping itself around him. Maybe, beneath th
e unconcerned attitude she showed to others, she did have a few affectionate feelings for him. He felt something more, too, something he couldn’t explain. A premonition, he supposed. The atmosphere felt heavy, important, as though some momentous event were about to occur. Then again, maybe that was just because of Lucille and the way she’d edged a little closer to him.
The gray-clad woman cleared her throat. “I’m Miss Edith Christensen. From Denver.”
Randall looked as bewildered as his men. Clearly he didn’t know Miss Christensen, nor did he seem to have any idea why she’d come calling at his ranch.
“Maybe if you tell me what you need, Miss Christensen…”
“Thomas Henderson,” she called out, looking over the group of men, her rheumy eyes darting from one face to the next. “Is there a Mr. Thomas Henderson among you?”
At some point—Tom didn’t know when—Lucille had slipped her hand in his, or maybe he’d reached out to take hold of hers. Suddenly, hearing his name called out, nothing was too clear inside his head. That peculiar feeling swarmed over him, almost knocking him off his feet.
Now all eyes were upon him, waiting, watching, every one of the men no doubt wondering if and when he’d step forward. He glanced toward Lucille.
Did he somehow expect her to give him permission to move? Or maybe he just needed her to tell him it was all right, that nothing bad was going to happen, no awful fate was about to befall him.
Except that he couldn’t be sure of it. Even when Lucille gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze, he wanted to turn around, head for the comfort and familiar security of the big, friendly bunkhouse. Instead, he swallowed, nodded, and put one huge foot in front of the other, only reluctantly turning loose of Lucille’s hand when his arm could no longer reach.
“Mr. Henderson?” The stiff, cold voice called him again. As she spoke, she looked down, and with weary eyes, she watched his slow approach.
Tom half expected her to chastise him, to tell him to hurry it up, get a move on, stop dawdling, she didn’t have all day to wait on him. But she kept her thin-lipped mouth clamped tightly shut. He sensed she didn’t care for the situation—whatever it was—any more than he did.
Get it over with. Hold your head up. Act like a man.
He squared his shoulders and drew himself up in front of Miss Edith Christensen from Denver. Like the others, he had no idea who she was or why she’d come, but he was the one she wanted, so it must not be good.
This is about Sally.
In his gut, he knew it. Misfortune had its own way, its own feeling. Always settled over a man like a thick, black cloud, then crept into his belly and lodged there like a stone. This feeling was so big, so black, and so damned heavy, he could hardly force himself to take that last step.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, reaching up to remove his hat. “I’m Thomas Henderson. I reckon you’ve got some sad news for me.”
He noticed the pain that flickered through her eyes. Nobody ever liked to be the bearer of bad tidings, but someone always had to do it, and in this case, it had fallen to this scarecrow of a woman with the long arms, thin face, and hair so gray it matched the color of her drab skirt and jacket.
She didn’t have to say a word. Tom already knew what she’d come to tell him. Sally was gone, something awful had happened, and he’d never see his little sister again.
If only he’d taken her with him.
He sucked back years of regret, letting it eat away at him. All those years, he’d always thought someday he and Sally would find each other again. He’d finally made the effort, and it turned out he was too late.
Like Ma always said, he’d never been on time once in his life.
“Yes, Mr. Henderson.”
Tom heard a squalling sound coming from somewhere. Must be his own pain coming out, some keening wail rising up from deep down inside of him. He fought to hold it in. Wouldn’t do to show his sorrow and sadness. Just one more fault he’d be called out for, one more proof that he wasn’t quite man enough to meet the expectations put upon him.
“When?” he asked. “How?”
The little knot of men around him eased away, slinking into the morning sunlight as if bad news were a disease that might spread if they got too close.
“I understand you’ve been trying to locate your sister.”
He nodded and looked down. From the corner of his eye, he could see Lucille still standing where he’d left her. She hadn’t deserted him, hadn’t left him to suffer alone. If he needed her, she’d be there for him. The thought comforted him.
“She’s gone, isn’t she.” Not a question. A simple statement—which Miss Christensen quickly confirmed with a curt nod.
“About three months past, Mr. Henderson.”
Sickness? An accident? Maybe he didn’t want to know how sweet little Sally had died.
That squalling sound came again, and when Miss Christensen turned and opened the door of the coach, the sound grew louder. Louder, clearer, and too distinct to be mistaken for anything but what it was.
A baby’s cry.
“Your sister died in childbirth, Mr. Henderson. She left behind a beautiful little girl.”
“Can I see her?” Tom gestured for Lucille to join him. She’d heard every word, he suspected. Together they peered past the somber spinster, straining to get a glimpse of the infant.
Miss Christensen eyed him, checked Lucille over with an appraising glance as well, then turned and carefully removed the little blanket-wrapped bundle from the coach. Tom smiled, noting the wicker basket in which his little niece—his niece!—had made the journey from Denver to Sunset.
“It appears,” Miss Christensen said, holding the child up for Tom’s inspection, “that you’re the only family she has.”
Questions flooded his mind. He wasn’t sure if he should ask any of them.
Lucille stepped up and asked for him. “Her father? Where is he?” She reached out to touch the baby’s cheek.
“Terrible tragedy.” The woman closed her eyes as if offering a silent prayer. When she opened them again, she turned to face Tom. “The child’s father took his own life, I’m afraid. Grief sometimes makes men crazy.”
Lucille gasped, a cry of utter, heartfelt dismay. Tom felt it, too, but no sound came out when he opened his mouth. Too much bad news was coming at him all at once.
“I’m from the Children’s Foundling Home,” she explained. “The father, your sister’s husband,” Miss Christensen added, “brought the child to our doorstep, left her there, then disappeared. Although we tracked him down…” Her voice trailed off.
“What’s her name?” Tom leaned closer. Soft, crooning sounds came from his throat.
“Lafferty. Baby Girl Lafferty.”
He blinked. “What sort of name is that?”
“Her father’s name was Samuel Lafferty.”
“Yes? So, what’s the baby’s name? Her given name,” he pointed out. The thought that this innocent babe was nothing more than baby girl to the people who cared for her brought a surge of emotion so powerful it frightened him.
“It’s not our place, Mr. Henderson, to—”
“Well, whose place is it?” He reached for the infant, his movements so swift and sudden, the protective woman had no chance to put up a defense. “She deserves a name. Every baby deserves a name.”
“Once she’s adopted, her new family will decide what to call her.” A stricken look appeared on her face. Obviously she didn’t trust Tom with her precious responsibility. He understood, but he was kin. Nobody needed to adopt her. She had family.
“What of Mr. Lafferty’s folks?” Lucille asked. “Do they know about his daughter?”
“He had no family that we could find.” The woman sniffed again, then held out her arms. “I’ll take her now, Mr. Henderson.”
Tom took a step back, clutching the baby more tightly. “She’s got an uncle.” He looked up and smiled. “She’s got a grandmother, too.” Ordinarily he wouldn’t go around calling any atten
tion to his mother’s existence, but this was far from an ordinary event. After all the hardships, all the horrors, all the sufferings and shames of Charlotte Henderson’s life, this one singular moment could change everything. What was that crazy story Ma used to tell him, about some bird rising up out of the fire? As a boy, he never understood it, but suddenly its meaning came clear in his mind. Bad things happened, but good things could still come of it. Instead of wallowing in ashes, you could look up, see the sky and choose to fly.
“Please, Mr. Henderson. It’s plain to see that you’ve got no way to provide for your niece. I suppose I should have taken time to make the trip on my own to assess the conditions, but I was hopeful you’d be in a position to take her. Optimism is one of my weaknesses, I daresay.”
She didn’t look too optimistic in Tom’s eyes. He couldn’t imagine her ever having a positive outlook about anything.
But this child! She needed hope. She deserved bright blue skies and sunny days. She deserved butterflies and flowers, and the sweet promise of spring. Not some strait-laced, tightly-corseted old biddy who thought of her as nothing more than baby girl.
Tom looked down at the tiny bundle he held in his arms. So tiny, yet so perfect. He marveled over the little fingers, touching each one by one. When the baby’s hand closed around his big thumb, he felt a tugging at his heart so real, so undeniable, he suddenly couldn’t find his breath.
“Excuse me, Mr. Henderson.” Edith Christensen’s nasally voice grated on Tom’s nerves. “I have to leave now. It’s a long trip back to Denver. You need to give me the child.”
“Not yet, ma’am. She’s my niece. I want a little time with her.” He stroked one soft, pink cheek and was rewarded with a gurgling, cooing smile. “She likes me,” he said, glancing toward Lucille.
And he liked her. No, he loved her. This precious life wrapped in a thick gray blanket was kin. Not his own child, but a child who shared his blood, all the same. She was Sally’s daughter, and Sally was gone now. This sweet, nameless angel was all that was left to him of his sister’s kindness, her goodness, her own innocence.
He wished he could have taken better care of Sally, could have helped her and given her all she needed, but he’d failed her. Too young, too mixed-up, and too bitter about his own life, Tom hadn’t been able to save Sally from the wretched evils of their childhood.
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