KeepingFaithCole

by Christina Cole

  Charlotte said nothing in response. The silence seemed to have a heaviness about it, a sense of finality that frightened Lucille. She blinked, bringing the older woman into focus, then gasped at the piercing blue eyes that stared back. Charlotte’s eyes held no tears but were filled with anguish, hatred, and a raw, aching bitterness unlike anything Lucille had ever seen.

  “Mrs. Henderson,” she whispered, shaken by the stillness yet afraid to break it.

  “Get out of my house.” Charlotte spoke at last, her words clipped and curt.

  “But—”

  “Did you hear me? Get out of my house.” Charlotte turned away and headed for the kitchen. Lucille watched in horror as the woman threw open the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. With trembling hands, she filled a shot glass, then swallowed the contents down in a single gulp. “I don’t want to hear your sob stories about your poor father.” The woman refilled her glass, tipped it up, and reached for the bottle again. “Oh, how awful it was to find him!” Her voice rose and fell in a slurred, sing-song mimicry of Lucille’s earlier words. “What horrors you suffered.” She set the bottle down with a thud, knocking plates and cups to the floor. “You want to know about horror?” she asked, taking a menacing step toward Lucille. “You want to know how it feels to find not only your father but your mother dead, too? And not just sprawled out across the ground like they were sleeping, maybe dreaming.” So vehemently did she shake her head that hairpins rattled to the floor. Her unkempt tresses whipped the air. “Not just dead, but hacked to pieces, blood pooling around their bodies, the stink of it filling the air, their eyes still open, still staring at the savages who’d murdered them.” Another step. “That’s what horror is all about, Miss McIntyre, so don’t you come bawling to me about how awful your life is and the shock you’ve suffered. You want my pity?” Charlotte closed her eyes then sucked in a deep breath. “I got no pity left. Not a bit of it. Now, get out and take your weeping with you.”

  * * * *

  Blinded by both fury and tears, Lucille fled from the house, desperate to get away. How could Charlotte sit there as she’d done, nice as a sunny morning, making polite conversation, then suddenly turn into a madwoman? She was a lunatic! The crazy bitch had come after her once before with a twelve-gauge—and that was when she’d been stone-cold sober. No telling what the woman might do while drunk.

  Thank goodness Lucille hadn’t brought Faith with her.

  Trembling from head to toe, she struggled to get aboard the wagon. She reached for the reins, but she couldn’t unknot them. Her hands shook too badly. Too frightened to look back, she stared straight ahead, her gaze fixed on the grassy ridge.

  When she saw the horse and rider appear at the crest, she pressed a hand to her heart and bowed her head. Never in her life had she been more grateful to see anyone as she was to see Tom astride his big roan, cantering toward her.

  He waved his hat in greeting, oblivious to her distress.

  Lucille’s knees nearly buckled when she jumped down from the wagon. The moment he dismounted, she rushed to him and grabbed his arm.

  “You’ve got to do something about her!” she cried out, not bothering to lower her voice. With Tom at her side, her fears had flown. Now she felt brave and bold. “Your mother is dangerous. It’s not safe to be around her.”

  “Dangerous?” Tom repeated, scratching his chin. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about her drinking.” She fisted her hands on her hips and shot a hard glare his way. Her tears had stopped. “It’s affected her brain. Whenever she gets upset, she starts drinking again. You need to put a stop to it.”

  “I got rid of all the whiskey.”

  “Well, she must have had a bottle hidden away. She’s in there now guzzling it down.”

  Tom glanced toward the house. “She’s trying to stay sober, but nobody wants to give her a chance. Everybody thinks the worst of her.” He pushed his hat back on his head and stared down at her. “Did you bring Faith today?”

  “No.”

  “You said you would. Want to tell me why you didn’t?” Before she could answer, he shook his head. “No need to explain. I already know. You didn’t think it would be a good idea. You worried about what Ma might do.”

  “I was right to worry,” she countered. If Tom meant to play on her sympathies, he’d made a huge mistake. She had none where Charlotte was concerned, and she wasn’t about to back down. “You’ve got to stop making excuses for her.”

  He shifted his weight, planting his feet wide apart. He wasn’t backing down either. “What gives you the right to tell me what I’ve got to do? Truth of the matter, Miss McIntyre,” he said, his nostrils flaring, “you’re a big part of the problem.”

  “Me?” Lucille croaked, leaning back as Tom stared her down. “I’m trying to help. Can’t you see that?”

  “If you and your mother and all those high-minded, self-righteous church ladies had kept your noses out of my business, things would have been just fine. It’s because of your meddling that we lost Faith—”

  “You asked me to look after her.”

  “I didn’t have much choice, did I?” Now he took a step toward her. “If I’d brought her home, if Ma and I had tried to take care of her, every one of you fine ladies would have been on our doorstep watching every move and making one threat or another.”

  “Stop it,” she said. “You’re doing it again, don’t you see?” Even though he took another step toward her, she didn’t give an inch. “Yes, I’m sure your mother is all broken up about me taking care of Faith, but when are you going to open your eyes? It’s just one more reason for her to keep doing what she’s done all along. All she wants is a chance to feel sorry for herself so she can get another bottle of rotgut whiskey and drink herself into a stupor.”

  He started to say something, then stopped. His mouth worked, and he was obviously chewing hard on his thoughts. Lucille remained quiet and waited. Finally he spoke again.

  “Maybe there’s some truth in what you’re saying,” he admitted, staring down at his boots. “But it’s not her fault. Not completely.”

  “Tom! You’re doing it again.”

  His head snapped up. “Damn it, it’s Abner’s fault, don’t you see? Ma’s been hanging out with him. They’re a pair, I swear. He’s probably the one who brought her that whiskey.”

  “And again, you’re doing nothing about it.” She drew herself up and shook a finger at him. “You’ve got to put a stop to it.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” He pushed his hat back. “I’ve got a job to do. I work long hours, and I work damned hard. I can’t be watching over my mother every minute of the day.”

  “Which proves my point, don’t you think?” Lucille gave him a triumphant smile. “You can’t watch over your mother, and neither can you watch over a child. You can’t be responsible for Faith.”

  It almost hurt to see the way Tom seemed to crumple before her eyes. His shoulders sagged beneath the heavy weight of her scorn, and a long, low sigh escaped from his throat.

  “You’re right. About everything.” He leaned against Lucille’s wagon. “I don’t deserve Faith. I’ve got too many strikes against me, too many things I need to change. I’ve got too much to learn, too much to do.”

  His speech moved her, but she stiffened her resolve. This wasn’t about Tom. “It’s admirable that you want to be a better man, that you want to make something of yourself. You can do it,” she added, giving him the encouragement he warranted. “But it won’t mean anything, Tom, if you don’t deal with your mother.”

  “I can’t be responsible for her actions.”

  Lucille’s last hope faded. No way could she reach this man with logic or rational thinking. “You need to do something, and you need to do it fast. Don’t you want to help her? She nearly died from pneumonia. Is that what you want?” she challenged. “Are you hoping maybe next time she gets drunk she will die?”

  “You can’t talk to me that way.” T
om’s anger surged forth anew. “Ma needs help, damn it.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You’ve got to stand up to her, make her understand that she’s hurting herself. She’s hurting others, too. Until then, no judge in this fine country would allow you to bring Faith here.”

  “What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to fix everything that’s broken?”

  Lucille reached out to him. She placed a hand on his arm and gazed up into his blue eyes. “I know this is hard for you.”

  “I don’t want her to die. I want to help her.” His arms closed around Lucille, drawing her into an embrace. “I want so much,” he whispered. “I want to be a good man. I want a home of my own, a piece of land where I can raise horses and make a future for myself…and for Faith, too. Dear God, I want Faith.”

  He pressed his body against hers. At once, desires stirred within her. Lucille rested her head against his broad chest, thrilled by the closeness as the powerful beat of his heart pounded in her ears. She licked her lips and closed her eyes, lost in thoughts of his sweet kisses.

  He reached down and lifted her chin in his hands, tilting her face up toward his.

  He bent down, bringing his mouth close.

  Realization came quickly. It wasn’t her kiss he sought but only her compliance. Aware of his manipulative intentions, Lucille stiffened and pushed away.

  “It won’t work.” She studied the confusion in his eyes. Maybe he hadn’t intended to sway her thoughts. No matter. Kissing Tom—then and there—would still be wrong. “We can’t do this,” she said in a quiet voice. “We can’t allow our personal feelings to get in the way. It will only complicate things. I’ve told you that before.”

  “You have feelings for me?” he asked, reaching out for her once again.

  “Yes, of course, I have some feelings.” She didn’t dare let him know how strong those feelings were, how often she lay awake at night thinking of him, all the times he slipped into her dreams. “Why else would I agree to take care of your mother? Why else would I be willing to take time to help you learn to read and write? But I won’t be at your beck and call. I’m not here for your pleasure.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “No offense taken,” she replied, maybe too quickly. All the while she kept staring at his mouth, wishing he might try kissing her again, but knowing if he did, she would have to push him away once more. She breathed deeply and forced her thoughts away from kissing, back to more important matters. “I’m making a rule.” She lifted her chin. “As long as there’s a drop of whiskey in that house,” she said, gesturing toward Charlotte’s abode, “I won’t set foot inside it. I won’t be bringing Faith here, and I won’t come back to stay with your mother.”

  Shaken by the turn the day’s events had taken, and shaken, too, by Tom’s appearance, Lucille couldn’t get away fast enough. She’d called his mother a madwoman, but hadn’t she gone mad, too?

  Mad with crazy desires for Tom, mad with wanting him, desperate to please him.

  Good Lord, the man had driven her over the brink. She had no idea how to get back to sanity.

  Chapter Ten

  As Tom rode across the valley early the next morning, he put aside all thoughts of Lucille, his mother, and the problems he faced with both of them. As always, thoughts of Faith remained with him. He thought of her with each breath he took, with each beat of his heart. All he did was for Faith.

  It was his love of Faith that had brought him to that valley, riding slowly alongside Goose. They ascended one cedar-covered ridge—more of a foothill, really—then came into a narrow, rough valley. Ahead of them rose a rocky crest, and beyond it lay the mountains themselves. Tom loved this wild, untamed country. An exhilarating sense of freedom coursed through him. For a moment, at least, he could put aside all worries, forget the troubles that plagued him. Here, in the high country, lay hope.

  But with each passing moment, those hopes faded. Goose swore there were wild horses roaming in the valley. Tom had yet to see any sign of them.

  They rode on, climbing higher to get a better view of the valley that stretched out below them. Still, no sign of wild mustangs.

  Shortly after noon, Tom reined up. Resting his hands on the pommel of his saddle, he leaned forward and threw a hard look at the man who rode beside him.

  “Tell me again about those horses, Goose. You sure you’re not just pulling my leg.”

  “Pull your leg, señor? What do you mean?”

  “It’s an expression. If you’d take time to learn English, you’d understand. It means joking around with somebody, saying things that aren’t true.” Now that he’d grasped the rudiments of reading and writing, Tom figured other folks ought to do their share of learning, too.

  “No, no, señor. Yo no mendigo. He grinned up at his boss, flashing his white teeth. “If you’d take time to learn my language, gringo, you’d understand.”

  “You don’t tell lies, I know.” Tom swung down from the roan’s back, then dropped the reins to let the horse graze. “Reckon I might be a bit smarter than you think,” he said as he opened the saddlebag and reached inside. “I catch on to things real fast.” He pulled out a slice of cornbread, unwrapped it, then looked toward Goose again. “I’m going to sit down and enjoy a bite to eat, and while I do, you can tell me more about those caballos you claim to have seen running wild in the valley.”

  “You don’t believe me?” Goose slid down from the saddle. He squared his shoulders and thrust out his chest. “I tell you nothing but the truth, the whole truth.”

  “How many horses did you see?”

  Goose shoved his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels, and appeared to be thinking hard. He grinned. “A few. Not a lot. But a few is enough for a couple smart fellows to make a bit of…” His lips puckered. “What you cowboys call it? Scratch?” He lifted a hand and rubbed his stubby fingers together.

  “Scratch, dinero, moolah.” Tom shrugged, and swallowed a drink from his canteen. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “Doesn’t matter what you call it. It all spends the same.” And any of it he could lay hands on would bring him closer to his dreams, dreams that now included Faith. Maybe Lucille, too. Dreams weren’t enough, though. “We need a plan, hombre. Catching a herd of mustangs can be tricky.”

  “You really think we can we do it? I mean, you are not going to pull on my legs, are you?”

  “If it’s a small herd, we might be able to handle it.” He frowned. With only the two of them, the odds would be against them. “Maybe we should bring Caleb in on this. He’s a hard rider, and a good hand.”

  “Nah, now that he’s sheriff, he’s too busy chasing all the pretty women. I get my brother, Ignacio.”

  “You think he’d be interested? All right,” Tom went on when the other man nodded. “With three of us, we should be able to set a trap. First, we have to know exactly where to find those broomies you claim to have seen.”

  Broomtails. Long, bushy-tailed mares. That’s what Tom expected to find—if, indeed, they found any horses at all. But even a lesser quality animal could fetch a decent price. A well-trained mare might bring a hundred dollars or more. Between the soldiers from the nearby forts, the hard-working miners, and the men who ranched and farmed, there would be no shortage of buyers.

  Gustavo’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Wild horses move around. Hard to say for sure where they are now.”

  “But you’d swear on your mama’s grave there’s horses in the valley, right?” Tom’s patience was growing a bit thin. He wanted to believe all that Goose had told him, but the wiry Mexican had a reputation for playing tricks.

  “No, señor, that I cannot do.”

  “No? Then why the hell are we out here traipsing over these rocky hills?”

  “My mama is very much alive,” Goose said with a white-toothed grin. “But if she were dead, si, señor, then I would swear it.” He raised a hand as if making a solemn vow.

  “You love your moth
er?” The question came out of nowhere, surprising Tom. It must have surprised Goose too. His dark eyes drew a bead on Tom.

  “What kind of loco talk is that? Of course I love her. Every man loves the woman who brought him into this world. At least, he ought to love her, ought to show her respect.” He turned up the collar of his jacket. The air had turned chill, and a crisp wind rippled through the tall pines. “Maybe it’s different for you. You probably don’t have much love for that whore who gave you life.” He shrugged.

  In a blur of motion, Tom’s arm swung out. His fist plowed into the man’s face, knocking him to the rocky ground.

  Gustavo didn’t stay down. Like a sinewy black panther, he jumped to his feet. He clenched his hands and raised them in front of his face, ready for a fight. “Come on, white boy. You want a piece of Gustavo? You want to prove what a man you are?”

  Each kept a wary eye on the other as they circled.

  “Don’t ever talk like that about my mother,” Tom warned.

  “I said it before, hombre. I don’t tell lies. I only speak the truth.”

  “Just keep your damned mouth shut.”

  Tom jabbed at the man with his right fist, followed up with a blow from a left hook. Gustavo ducked and turned, all the while throwing a few punches of his own. One caught Tom on the shoulder and sent him reeling backward. He fell against a huge, rough-edged boulder. Loose bits of dirt and debris flew as he tumbled onto the ground.