KeepingFaithCole

by Christina Cole

  “I will see to it that your niece is placed in a good home. This is not a proper environment for her.”

  Poking her head back into the dark cabin, she summoned the other ladies. One by one, they emerged, sorrowful looks upon their long faces. Tom watched them drive away.

  The sound of crying called him inside. It wasn’t Faith, but Charlotte who wept.

  “Hush, Ma. They’re all talk, nothing else. They’ve got no right to take Faith away.”

  His mother was inconsolable. She mumbled words about Christian do-gooders, how they got so hell-bent on doing what they considered right, they didn’t care who they hurt.

  She had a point, Tom agreed.

  * * * *

  Early the next morning, Lucille dressed, washed, and ate a hurried breakfast. Usually she and her mother chatted leisurely over tea. “Will you open the shop for me, Mama?” she asked as she gathered her purse and checked her appearance in the mirror.

  “Of course, but where are you going?” Her mother set her china teacup on its saucer. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, not at all.” She turned toward the door, then glanced back over her shoulder. She’d never been the sort to keep secrets from her mother. “I thought I’d pay a call on the Hendersons and see if I can do anything to help them.”

  “There’s no reason to do that. You know that Mrs. Gilman and I called on Charlotte yesterday. Several other ladies from church visited along with us.”

  Lucille leaned against the door, her shoulders sagging. “You don’t think Tom and his mother should keep Faith. That’s why you went there, isn’t it?”

  “For all the good it did.” Mama shook her head. Her graying curls bobbed sprightly. “I swear, that woman is impossible to reason with, and her son is even worse. They’re both adamant about keeping that child.”

  “Maybe that’s the right thing,” Lucille said. Nervous at how her mother might react, she clutched her purse at her side. “From what I’ve seen, they’re doing a good job of caring for her.”

  “Neither of them is fit to raise a baby, and you know that as well as I do. We both know the sort of woman Charlotte Henderson is. As for Tom,” she went on with a dismissive wave, “he might have good intentions, but—”

  “I know. The road to hell,” Lucille said quickly. Mama had repeated that old adage often enough. “What about my intentions? Is it wrong to want to help someone?”

  “You’re wasting your time, honey. Nothing anybody says or does is going to make a difference.” She took a sip of her tea then peered at her daughter over the rim of the cup. “Mrs. Gilman has already decided to contact Judge Morse. It’s the best thing to do.”

  “Legal action?” Lucille pushed away from the door and rushed across the floor. “How can she do that, Mama? She’s got no claim on that baby.”

  “The child’s welfare is in jeopardy. She’s got a duty to report her concerns. If Judge Morse thinks the Hendersons are capable of meeting Faith’s needs,” she said, her face brightening with a smile that didn’t quite seem real, “well, then the matter will be settled, don’t you see?”

  “But that’s not what you expect, is it?”

  “Lucille, I just want what’s best. That’s all anybody wants.”

  Her determination to talk to Tom stronger than before, Lucille kissed her mother’s cheek and bid a hasty farewell.

  It took nearly forty minutes to reach Charlotte’s cabin outside of town. As she drove her wagon into the yard, memories of waking up there the morning after the dance brought a momentary hesitation. Given a choice, she’d prefer not to deal with the woman. She would much prefer to talk to Tom alone. He deserved to know what Betty Gilman and the good ladies of Sunset were plotting.

  When she reached the porch stoop and pounded on the door, no answer came. She pounded again. “I know you’re there. Open up, please. I need to speak to—”

  “Get the hell away from my door.”

  The voice came from behind her. At the same time she heard the words, Lucille felt something hard jabbing at her back. She looked over her shoulder, caught sight of Charlotte—and the shotgun in her hands—and gasped.

  “Please, don’t—”

  “I told you to get away from my door. You do that, Miss McIntyre, and I won’t have to shoot you.”

  “No, no, don’t shoot.” She raised trembling hands, barely able to utter the words. When Charlotte lowered the shotgun, Lucille took a deep breath in an attempt to regain her composure.

  “What do you want?” Charlotte glared at her. “You think you can come out here and steal my baby?”

  Lucille shook her head. “No, not at all. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “What other reason have you got? You’re just like all those other do-gooders.”

  She swallowed back her fear and reminded herself again why she’d come calling. “Where’s Tom? I need to speak to him. It’s important.” She could have shared her information with Charlotte, but chose to keep it to herself. In fact, she was on the verge of changing her mind about warning the Hendersons.

  “About what?”

  “About…” Her throat went dry and her lips felt tight and chapped. She licked them with her tongue. What, indeed? Mama and the ladies from church were right. No child would ever be safe with a woman like Charlotte Henderson around. “Never mind,” she said, quickly turning away.

  “He’s not here, just so you know.”

  Alarms sounded in her head. “He’s not?” Who, then, was watching over Faith while her crazy grandmother was trotting around outside with a shotgun? She glanced toward the door. “If you’ve left that baby alone…”

  “Don’t worry about that. She’s in good hands. Tom’s taken her into town to see that Phillips woman.”

  “Amanda Phillips? Why? Is Faith sick? Is she hurt?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “We thought it would be a good idea to have her checked on a regular basis. Get her weighed and measured, you know. Always good to have a record of a child’s growth.”

  “Yes, of course.” If a legal battle ensued, such a record would go a long way toward supporting the Hendersons in their contention that they could provide adequate care. “On the other hand,” Lucille began, eyeing the shotgun, “threatening to shoot me might cause some people to wonder if you should be looking after your granddaughter, Mrs. Henderson.”

  “Don’t you sass me, girl. I’ll—”

  A wagon clattered up the road, drowning out her words.

  Lucille swung around, grateful to see Tom.

  “Thank God you’re here!” No longer frightened by the deranged woman, she rushed across the yard.

  “Ma! What’s going on?” Tom came to a halt and climbed down. He tipped his hat toward Lucille, then turned back to the wagon to carefully remove Faith from her secure cradle.

  Lucille admired Tom’s big, strong hands. He looked good with a baby in his arms, she thought. He looked comfortable with her now, too. He truly loved Faith.

  Like Mama said, he had good intentions.

  Now she understood what Mama meant, and it really had nothing to do with roads leading to hell. It had to do with the simple facts of the matter. Good intentions weren’t enough. Even love wasn’t enough.

  It was a start, but Faith needed food, clothes, books, toys, and above all, moral guidance and spiritual teaching. She’d get lots of love from her uncle, and probably from her grandmother, too, and maybe she’d have enough to eat, and clothes to wear. Maybe she’d even have a few toys and storybooks. But she’d have no one to show her right from wrong, no one to teach her about creation, no one to tell her the stories about Joseph and his coat of many colors, or baby Moses hidden in the bulrushes, or visions of angels descending heavenly ladders.

  Stories her father had told her. Lucille blinked back a tear. She missed her father each and every day. His death had left a huge hole in her heart, an emptiness that she’d found no way to fill…until that moment on Sunday when she’d held sweet little Faith in her arms.
In that moment, the hurting had stopped. She’d felt whole again.

  If Judge Morse did take Faith away from the Hendersons…maybe she and Mama could adopt her. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “I’ve got to go,” she mumbled, turning about so quickly she nearly tripped over her feet.

  Tom reached a hand out to steady her. “What is it? Why are you crying?”

  She sniffled then let out a shuddering breath. Charlotte had disappeared inside the house. The shotgun had disappeared, too. Had Tom caught sight of it?

  “Your mother is dangerous,” she said in a quiet voice. “I’ve stood behind you, Tom. I’ve wanted to believe this would work out, but it’s clear now that it won’t.”

  “Dangerous?” He shifted Faith from one arm to the other.

  “She came after me with a shotgun.”

  “She keeps it in the shed. You probably frightened her, Lucille. Ma’s got the right to protect herself, to protect her family.”

  “She told me to get the hell off her property or she’d shoot.” Fumbling in her bag, Lucille refused to look up at him. She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “I don’t like to start trouble, but I don’t have to. Your mother’s already done that, and I’ll be only too happy to finish it for her.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ll speak up against her.” She lifted her gaze to his and saw the worry in his blue eyes. “Mrs. Gilman intends to contact Judge Morse, the circuit judge from Denver. That’s why I came out here. I wanted to warn you. But now I see the wisdom in her action.” With determined strides she walked past Tom, resisting the urge to look back.

  “Lucille, please, can’t you be a little more tolerant?”

  “Tolerant?” She whirled around. “Of a woman who threatens to fill me with buckshot? No, I can’t be tolerant, Tom. I refuse to sit back and wait for something bad to happen. And it will happen, mark my words. Your mother might be able to put on an act with you, and maybe for the ladies from church. But it is an act.” She squared her shoulders. Her breasts jutted out as she sucked in another deep, cleansing breath.

  Tom’s blue eyes widened. His gaze fastened directly on her breasts.

  He stared. He licked his lips.

  “Would you get your eyes off of places where they don’t belong and pay attention to me?”

  He jerked his head up. “Sorry, Miss Lucille. I like looking.” He grinned at her.

  “Just what are you getting at?” Had he touched her breasts the night of the dance? Instinctively, she brought her hands up to cover herself. “If you have any thoughts in that addle-pated brain of yours about telling tales, trying to sully my reputation or insinuate that I’m anything less than a decent girl, Tom Henderson, you’ll have to answer to me.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “If you dare tell anyone that I spent the night in your bed—”

  “Nothing happened that night.” He frowned. “Besides, it wasn’t really my bed. I was still sleeping at the bunkhouse.” She heard him talking but paid him no mind.

  “…I’ll blame it all on you, of course. You got me drunk, you know.”

  “Lucille,” he said, stepping closer. He rocked the baby in his arms. “Let’s not set ourselves at cross purposes. Everyone says they want the best for Faith.” He smiled and those delicious dimples appeared in his cheeks again, making Lucille yearn to touch them. Dimples appeared in Faith’s cheeks, too. “Why can’t we all love her?”

  * * * *

  If one more person came pounding on the front door, Tom swore, he’d do a bit of pounding of his own. Every day, one of them came by. Just checking, they said. Either Mrs. Gilman, or Lucille’s mother, or one of the other good ladies of Sunset. He knew they meant well, but other than Amanda Phillips, he turned them all away.

  Now, another one. One who sounded awfully damned insistent judging by the heavy blows raining against the wooden door.

  “Tommy!” his mother called from the bedroom. Faith’s piteous wails echoed throughout the cabin. It hurt to hear the little girl’s shrill cries.

  He hurried to the door and swung it open, cursing with the movement. “Damn it to hell, can’t you people leave us alone!” He straightened when he saw Caleb Bryant’s grinning face. “Oh, it’s you. Sorry. Didn’t mean to shout.” Tom held the door open. “You’re welcome to come in, my friend…if you can stand the noise.” Tom threw a glance over his shoulder.

  “Is she all right?” Caleb’s frown deepened. “I don’t know anything about babies. Is she supposed to cry like that?”

  Shrugging, Tom scratched his chin. “I don’t know what she’s supposed to do. All I know is that whenever some do-gooder comes calling, she sets up a wail. I know they mean well, but I wish they’d all just go away.”

  “You’ll probably be wishing I’d do the same when I tell you why I’m here.”

  Tom’s head screwed around. “Something wrong?”

  “You could say that, I suppose. At least, if your job’s important to you.” He puffed up his cheeks, then blew out his breath. “Randall says to get to the bunkhouse, get your gear packed up, and get your ass off his ranch.”

  “Shit.”

  “What did you expect?” Caleb’s fingers combed through his hair. “You haven’t shown up for work for the last few weeks. How long did you think Randall would wait before he fired you?”

  “Under the circumstances, I figured he’d give me time enough to work things out.” Hellfire, what now? He needed his job, otherwise he’d have no way to provide for Faith. Even if his mother went back to work at the shop, her earnings wouldn’t be nearly enough to put bread on the table or pay the rent for the little cabin. “I’ll ride out and have a talk with him.”

  “Won’t do any good. He’s already hired on a couple more Mexicans. He’s made Goose foreman now.”

  “Damn it. You know any other ranchers looking for a good lead man?”

  “If I hear of anything, I’ll let you know.” His face brightened. “Wait, there is something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, you know how the mayor’s been talking about hiring a sheriff, right? Now that Colorado’s a state, he figures Sunset out to have an official lawman. I’m thinking of asking for the job.”

  “You? Sheriff?” Tom grinned. “Hell, you’d probably make a damned good lawman.”

  “I’ll hire you to be my deputy. Wouldn’t be much to do, really. Just paperwork, probably.”

  Tom shook his head. “Sorry, nothing I’d be interested in. Maybe something else will turn up.”

  Faith’s crying grew louder. Tom’s mother came toward the door, the squalling baby in her arms. “I’ve asked you before to go get that rocking chair, but you keep putting it off. You’ve got nothing better to do now, and don’t tell me otherwise, so you just get in that wagon and get going. Might be that chair will soothe her.” She stroked the delicate blonde hair at the top of Faith’s head.

  “Need any help?” Caleb spoke up. “It’s my day off, and I don’t have any plans to speak of.”

  Tom hesitated. He was tired of listening to his mother nag about the rocking chair, and if getting it would help Faith sleep, he was all for it. He didn’t cotton much to the idea of Caleb coming along though.

  “Why that’s right nice of you,” Ma said, giving Bryant her prettiest smile. She turned back to her son. “Go on now, Tommy. No need to dawdle around.”

  “Right.” He gave his friend a shrug. “I’ll hitch up the mule.”

  * * * *

  Tom’s knees actually shook as he neared the old homestead. He knew the look on his face was most likely grim. He wondered if Caleb had guessed at how many painful emotions had been dredged up inside him. Doing his best to keep the conversation between them light-hearted and easy, he kept up a steady stream of talk, right up until that moment when they drove over the crest of the hill and stared down at the decrepit wooden shack below. Behind it sat the old barn, its boards weathered and wo
rn. Tall grasses and jimson weed grew knee-high.

  The old barn was where he’d been born, and the sorrowful cabin was where he’d been raised. Memories swept over Tom like a cold autumn chill. He remembered it too well. The untended garden where Ma did her best to grow a few vegetables, the filthy, grime-streaked windows that nobody could get clean, the sagging roof that, as a boy, he hadn’t known how to fix. With one look, it was obvious the place was deserted, and why not? Even squatters wouldn’t want to live in such vile surroundings.

  Silently, he climbed down from the wagon, patted the mule’s rump, and loosened the traces to allow the animal to graze. He glanced up at Caleb.

  “Why don’t you wait out here.”

  The thought of setting foot inside the old cabin dismayed Tom, but choking back his emotions, he pushed open the door.

  Smells of dust and must and years of emptiness assailed his nostrils. He kicked at the tattered blankets that littered the scarred floor. His stomach churned. His head pounded.

  Ma’s big double bed still held center stage in the tiny cabin. That’s where she’d done her business, entertained her gentlemen callers, and Tom and Sally were sent out to play or else locked in the storeroom with a couple blocks Ma called toys. But no matter where he and his sister were sent, they still heard the grunts and moans, the creaking bed. Tom learned early on what was happening.

  He’d been scared once, afraid Ma was being hurt. He hadn’t stayed in the closet like Ma told him. When he rushed to the bed to help her, she boxed him on the ears and threatened to horsewhip him if he ever walked in on her again while she was working.

  How much had Sally understood? Tom often wondered if his little sister realized what went on in Ma’s dirty, stained bed. Maybe she was too innocent, too fundamentally good, or maybe she just loved Ma enough that it didn’t matter.

  God always took the good ones too soon, and that must be why Sally was gone now.

  Focusing his thoughts on why he’d come back, Tom glanced toward the far corner of the room. When he saw the old rocker, his heart lurched. It seemed out of place somehow. Rocking chairs were for women and babies, not for whores. They were meant for tender moments, precious times of love and closeness.