But he’d damned sure save this baby.
“I’m not giving her back,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’m going to keep her.”
Chapter Five
Lucille gasped. So did Miss Christensen.
“You can’t do that.” The tall, gray-haired woman took a step toward him, her arms outstretched. “You’ve got no way to care for her.”
“I’m family, ma’am. The only family she’s got. She needs to stay here with me. I’ll find a way to take care of her.” Pushing past the spinster lady, he poked his head into the carriage. “What all will I need? This hers?” he asked, pulling out a square canvas bag with carrying straps. Inside, it contained what looked to be all the paraphernalia needed for an infant. Glass bottles rattled as he slung the bag over his shoulder. Tom hoped he hadn’t broken anything.
Lucille touched his shoulder. “I know you mean well, Tom, but Miss Christensen is right. You don’t even have your own place. You certainly can’t keep a baby in a bunkhouse.”
He nodded, realizing how foolish the idea was. “No, of course not. But I can ask Ma to keep her. Just until I’m able to make a few changes, get a place of my own.”
“Your mother!” Lucille’s voice shot up from a bare whisper to an outraged cry. “I’m not sure that’s a very good idea.”
“It’s a fine idea.” Tom drew his niece closer. Despite the noise and confusion around her, she’d now closed her eyes and slipped off to sleep. She nestled against his shoulder. “Ma’s made mistakes, I know, but that’s all in the past. She’s come to Sunset looking for a chance to have a better life. And now,” he said, pushing the blanket aside and peering down at the baby, “this little one has come down from heaven, looking for a chance of her own. Her mama didn’t make it, won’t be able to raise up this gentle soul. Who better to do it than this baby’s own grandma?”
“That’s a beautiful speech, but there’s a lot wrong with it. I don’t think I have to point out the flaws in your thinking. It would be a crying shame for you to keep her.” Lucille moved closer. She gazed up into Tom’s eyes. “For the baby’s sake, you need to give her back. You’ve got to give her a chance to be loved, a chance to be—”
“You think I can’t love her?” Tom fired back. The baby stirred in his arms.
“A chance to be adopted by a real family,” Lucille continued, paying no heed to his protests.
Tom stiffened. Damn Lucille to hell! In her opinion, he wasn’t a real man, he didn’t have a real home, and he and Ma could never be a real family. Only thing real to Lucille was her own high-faluting opinions and self-righteous attitudes.
Her words made him more determined. Turning away from the dark-haired beauty, he fastened his gaze on the tall, somber woman from the Children’s Foundling Home. He cleared his throat.
“You brought this baby here. You delivered her to me, and I’ve accepted the responsibility. You’ve done your job, ma’am.” Cradling his precious little niece in the wide crook of his left arm, he lifted his right hand to tip his hat. “Have a safe trip back to Denver.” Tom walked toward the bunkhouse.
“Mr. Henderson, you can’t take that child! There are legal matters to be resolved.” Edith Christensen shouted after him, but he kept walking. “I’ll have the law on you, and don’t think I won’t. It’s my duty to look after the welfare of the children placed with me, and—”
Tom stepped into the bunkhouse. He shut the heavy door behind him, thankful that, at last, the strident voice could no longer be heard.
“I’m going to keep you,” he whispered to the baby who now stirred in his arms. “Lord knows, I’m not sure exactly what I’ll do with you, but I swear, I’ll bring you up right. I’ll take good care of you, and I won’t let anything hurt you. I won’t let anybody ever take you away.”
* * * *
Once the dour-faced Miss Christensen finally returned to her carriage and instructed her driver to leave the premises, Tom wasted no time. Holding his niece against his chest, the baby’s canvas bag slung over his shoulder, and with Lucille staring after him, he rode to town in search of Amanda Phillips.
She wasn’t a trained physician, but she knew more about doctoring than anybody else around Sunset. Since Abner Kellerman could no longer be counted on to provide any medical services, Amanda was the one who cured rheumatisms, stitched up cuts, set broken bones, and brought new babies into the world. He needed advice, and who better to give it than Amanda?
Although obviously surprised to find him at her doorstep holding a babe in swaddling clothes, she quickly welcomed him into her parlor. She listened intently as Tom explained the situation.
“Would you like me to take a look at her?” Amanda smiled and reached for the infant. “She’s beautiful,” she said, stroking a soft, downy cheek. She looked up at Tom. “What’s her name?”
Tom pursed his lips. For a moment he remained silent. “She doesn’t have one,” he finally admitted. “Sally never got a chance to name her. I reckon it’s up to me.” A lump rose in his throat. Had his sister lived long enough to see her baby? Had she been able to touch her, to hold her? He blinked, embarrassed by the tears coming to his eyes. Real men didn’t cry. He’d heard that lesson from Ma more times than he could remember . . . probably the only thing she’d ever taught him.
Be a man, Tommy. Life’s hard, and you’ve got to be tough to survive.
He peered down at the baby in Amanda’s arms. From the crown of her head with its light sprinkling of silky blonde hair, to the unquestioning trust that shone in her bright blue eyes, to the gurgling, cooing sounds coming from her mouth, to the tiny fists she waved in the air, his niece, like every newborn child, had come into this world defenseless, wholly at the mercy of those who would care for her. She knew nothing about the evils of mankind, nothing of anger or hatred. To survive, she must have someone who would love her, someone who would fight for her.
Amanda rocked the baby with slow, soothing motions. “You do know, don’t you, that a child’s name is a mighty important decision? Whatever name you choose will follow her throughout her life. A lot of folks will go so far as to form opinions of her based on how she’s called.”
Tom stiffened. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Probably not, but it’s true, and you know it as well as I do. We look different at a boy named Percival than we would at one named John, or,” she said with a slight laugh, “one called Tom.”
“Who in their right mind would name their son Percival?” He scratched his head and tried to recall if he’d ever heard that name before. “But, she’s a girl,” he pointed out. “I sure won’t be naming her Percival.”
“I should hope not.” Still holding the baby close, Amanda nodded toward a thick, folded quilt on the nearby sofa. “Grab that, will you? Spread it out over there on the table.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Keep in mind what I’m telling you. Choose her name wisely. A name,” she went on, placing the baby atop the colorful patchwork quilts, “should mean something.”
Tom stepped back while Amanda carefully examined his niece, even going so far as to put one of those fancy stethoscopes against the baby’s tiny chest. When she removed the ear pieces and looked up, she smiled, setting his mind at ease.
“She’s healthy. Strong heartbeat. Clear eyes. Good color.”
All favorable news, but Tom sensed a hesitation. “Yes, ma’am?”
“She’s also wet plumb through. Do you have diapers?” Her eyes drew a bead on him. “You do know the importance of keeping her bottom dry, right? If you don’t, she’ll get an awful rash, and you’ll have a mighty fussy little girl.”
“A rash?”
“You can use zinc oxide salve. Or there’s a new patent medicine called Vaseline. You might give it a try.”
Tom nodded, wondering how he could remember it all.
“Diapers?” Amanda prompted, holding out a hand.
Dazed, Tom fished around inside the big canvas bag, grateful when his hands touched the
softness of fabric. He tugged out a freshly-laundered, neatly-folded square of gray wool, handed it to Amanda, then looked away. For some reason, it embarrassed him to watch. He’d have to get over that—and soon.
“Be sure to wash her and all her garments in mild soap, Tom.” Amanda gave him the wet, smelly diaper she’d removed. “I’d suggest you pick up a few yards of wool. It’s the best material for diapers. Trust me, you’ll need a good supply. I’m sure your mother will know how to cut the cloth and fold it.”
More to remember.
“You look a bit confused.” Amanda peered at him. “Would you want me to write down these instructions?”
“No, ma’am. I’ll hold it all in my head.” Wouldn’t do a damned bit of good for her to write any of it down. He wouldn’t be able to read a word of it. But he didn’t care to share that fact.
“I’d also suggest doing away with that silly corset.” Amanda nodded toward the squirming, kicking bundle of life atop her parlor table.
“She’s wearing a corset?” To Tom, the idea sounded downright ridiculous.
“Some folks actually think corsets help hold a child’s innards in place. I don’t agree, but it’s up to you to do what you think best.”
All up to him. He was supposed to do what he thought best. He’d accepted a hell of a big responsibility, one that would require careful decision-making, a wealth of patience, and more practical knowledge than he could ever hope to keep in his thick-headed skull.
“Now, as far as feeding,” Amanda went on, “the ideal thing, of course, would be to find a wet nurse.”
“Do you know of anybody?” he asked.
Amanda frowned and shook her head. “Sad to say, the only woman I know with milk right now is Caroline Smoot, and she’s barely got enough to keep her own babe satisfied.”
“The woman at the home brought these with her.” Tom took the heavy bag from his shoulder and set it beside his niece. Inside were a half dozen glass bottles. “Can I give her cow’s milk?”
“Yes, or goat’s milk, whatever you have.” She smiled down at the infant, made a few maternal clucking sounds, then looked at Tom again. “She’s a beauty. A real little charmer.”
“And I’m sure she’s going to be a mighty hungry one awful soon. I’m just not real sure what to give her.” Or how to hold her, how to feed her, how to burp her, change her, and do all the little things that came naturally to women but were far beyond a man’s understanding. “In fact,” he admitted, “I’m not sure of anything right now.” He sank down into a chair, fearing he’d made a huge mistake. Yet the thought of taking this innocent baby back to Denver and handing her over to Miss Christensen or another woman like her left Tom with an aching, empty feeling unlike anything he’d ever known before.
“You’ll do fine,” Amanda assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “In addition to the milk, you can give her a bit of pap. Bread soaked in water,” she quickly explained. “As she grows, you’ll also be able to give her spoonfuls of broth, and mashed foods.”
“Ma’am?” Tom bit his lip then turned to the woman, knowing every doubt in his mind showed on his worried face. “Do you really think I can do this?”
“I’m sure you can. Mostly it’s just a matter of common sense.”
Common sense? At the moment, Tom wasn’t sure how much of that he actually possessed. After all, what rowdy, roughneck cowboy in his right mind would take on the responsibility for a child so pure and so innocent it brought tears to his eyes to look at her?
But he could raise this little one. He would find the way.
Hadn’t his mother managed to raise both a son and a daughter despite her many flaws? Granted, she hadn’t done the finest job of rearing them, but she’d kept them alive.
“Common sense,” Tom repeated. Yes, a lot of good, old-fashioned common sense, and he’d throw in the most important ingredient of all.
Love. Huge, heaping helpings of love.
“I’ll come check on her from time to time, if you’d like.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’d like that.”
Amanda gathered up the bottles and returned them to the bag.
She picked up the infant, carefully tucked the blanket around her, and handed her to Tom. “Send for me if you need anything, all right?”
* * * *
For the first two hours after Tom arrived at his mother’s cottage and placed the baby in her arms, she didn’t speak a word to him. Tears rolled down her cheeks and an occasional sob of grief tore from her throat. All the while, she held the tiny bundle of life close to her heart. Tom hoped she drew some comfort from the child.
Funny thing, really—not in a humorous way, but in that hard-to-understand way life sometimes had—neither of them had seen Sally in years. They’d had no idea where she was, and maybe they’d gotten accustomed to it. Now, knowing that she was dead and that she’d never be coming back made it all different. Death had an awful finality about it. Probably that was why so many folks clung to the belief in an afterlife. Without that belief to ease the soul, death was a cold, dark emptiness looming in the distance, growing nearer each day.
The hair on his arms prickled. He rubbed the unnerving feelings away and glanced over his shoulder at his mother.
“You all right with this?” he asked, slowly turning around.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, cradling the babe in her arms. “Tommy, we’ve got to get us a rocking chair.” She looked up at him, and although her cheeks were stained with tears, never had he seen her face look so bright, so beautiful, so radiant. Her whole being seemed to glow.
He shook his head to clear it but the peaceful image remained. The happiness he saw in his mother’s eyes was too real to be denied.
Without a doubt, he’d done the right thing by claiming this helpless little child and bringing her home. People said often that things happened for a reason, and maybe so. Maybe Miss Edith Christensen’s arrival that morning was part of some divine plan too grand to comprehend.
Or maybe not.
“You know, Tommy,” his mother said, smiling down as the child in her arms closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, “I remember the day you were born.”
“Don’t start it, Ma,” he said, sinking down to the floor beside her. He didn’t want to hear the sorry story again.
“I was scared.” His mother turned to him with clear, cogent eyes. “I was young, didn’t have a man to look after me or take care of me, and there I was with a baby boy. You know, sometimes I wished the Lord would take you away, Tommy.” Tears filled her eyes. “Would have been better for you if He’d just taken you back.”
He’d never heard his mother talk about God, other than spewing epithets or cursing. Should he say something? Try to console her or offer a word of reassurance? His mind raced, his brain rattled, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.
Charlotte touched his arm. “He wouldn’t take you. I knew He’d given you to me for a reason. I was supposed to pick up all the pieces, you know, put my life back together. I just couldn’t do it. You understand, don’t you?” She clutched at the material of his shirt. “I loved you, I just didn’t know how to be a mother, how to give you everything you needed.”
He looked at his niece, sleeping peacefully, and he thought again of how vulnerable she was. Yes, a child needed so much.
Did Ma expect him to tell her she’d done all right? Damned if he’d say it. He’d survived, but that was nothing but luck, or maybe his will to live. Or maybe God did have something to do with it. Thoughts like those were too deep for him to ponder.
“Too bad, Ma,” he said. “Too bad you didn’t figure it out when Sally came along either. We neither one got a damned thing from you.”
She lowered her gaze. Fresh tears spilled down her cheek, rolling and falling like drops of rain onto the face of the child in her arms. The baby stirred. Her tiny hands flailed in the air, and she let out a cry. “Want me to take her now?” Tom asked.
“No, you’ve got things to
do, and so do I.” Charlotte tightened her hold on the baby, rocking her back and forth until the crying ceased. “Don’t you see what this is all about?”
He rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Redemption.”
“Sorry, Ma, that’s too big of a word.” Tom turned away. He knew what redemption meant. He’d heard folks talk about it, and over the years he’d picked up bits and pieces of stories from the Bible. He liked to think he knew right from wrong. Sometimes the lines got blurred.
Like now.
“I need you to go back home, Tommy. Back to my old place.” Charlotte wiped her tears and looked up. “Find that rocking chair I used to have. Maybe even a couple of those wooden blocks you and Sally used to play with, a few little toys. Do you remember those rag dolls I used to make?”
“You think anything’s still there?” The idea of going out to the old homestead filled Tom with dread. He never gave much thought to the old place, or if he did, he liked to think that some huge storm had probably come along and blown the old cabin to bits. If God existed, and if justice were real, it would be a fitting final judgment on the awful happenings that had taken place within those walls.
Charlotte rose, careful not to disturb the sleeping child.
“Pull out that drawer there,” she instructed, jerking her head toward an old chest he’d picked up in town when he’d furnished the place. “Now, go out to the shed and bring in a few handfuls of straw. Make sure it’s clean,” she added.
Following her directions, he soon had the drawer lined with fresh, sweet-smelling straw. After covering the soft grass with a thick quilt, he piled on the woolen blankets he’d found in the baby’s bag.
With gentle motions, his mother placed the child into the newly-made bed. The little one’s eyelids fluttered and her mouth quirked, but she let out a delicate breath and continued her sound sleep. Tom stood gazing down upon her, awed once again at the miracle of a new life. For the first time ever, he knew what perfection meant.
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