KeepingFaithCole

by Christina Cole

  * * * *

  The next morning, Tom saddled up early. He and Goose rode up into the hills, once more searching for the wild horses, this time with new purpose and increased determination.

  Now, he had the land he needed. If he could capture a few good mares, then find a stud available to service them at a reasonable price, he could turn his fledgling Henderson Horse Farm into a viable enterprise.

  They rode westward, and Tom did his best to keep his hopes high. Their last search had ended in failure, but maybe they’d have better luck today. Lately things were going his way.

  As they rode higher into the mountains, the sheer beauty surrounding them left Tom speechless. Unable to utter a word, he peered down at the land below him, his eyes assessing the resources it provided. A narrow stream, now a glittering ribbon of ice, cut through the snowy landscape below them.

  Suddenly Goose punched his shoulder. “Over there,” he said in a low voice. He pointed, and Tom’s gaze followed, catching sight of a small band of horses coming toward the stream. “…ocho, nueve, diez…”

  “I don’t know your numbers, Goose, but I reckon there’s about a dozen of them.” Tom drew in a breath, trying to contain his excitement. The horses, mostly chestnuts and sorrels, were fine-looking animals, indeed. As he watched, a powerful black stallion trotted out. With a snort, the leader took to his heels, leading his mares away.

  “Son of a bitch got wind of us.”

  “You think we can catch them?” Goose pointed again toward the end of the valley. “You think maybe we run them through that gap, trap them?”

  “Might be a possibility. I’ve heard of men running mustangs for days, tiring them out.” He scratched his jaw, trying to figure the best approach. “With a small band like this, I reckon we could probably rope the lead mare. The rest will follow.”

  “What about the stallion?”

  “Damn, what I wouldn’t give for a horse like that.” He pushed his flat-brimmed hat back on his head. Catching the mares would be fairly simple, but capturing a wild stallion…well, no point even thinking about it.

  “So, boss, what we do next?”

  “Boss? Is that what you called me?” Tom turned toward the short man, unsure he’d heard right. In his day, he’d been called a lot of things, but never boss. He grinned. It had a nice ring to it. He squared his shoulders, stood a little straighter, and maybe his voice had a little more authority to it when he spoke next. “We’ve found the route they travel, so that’s going to make our job a lot easier.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Tom settled back, explaining the particulars of bringing in a wild herd. Normally rounding up mustangs required several days of hard riding and the services of a half-dozen strong cowboys. But he and Goose weren’t planning to bring them in by the thousands. They had their sights set on only one very small band. “We’ll have to do some preliminaries. We can cut some timber, use it to block off that narrow gap. We’ll need to construct a couple corrals, too.”

  “Sounds like work, boss.”

  There it was again. Boss. Tom’s grin broadened. “So, you thinking maybe you’d like to come to work for me? I could use a good hand, once I get the place set up.”

  “Yeah, boss. I’m your man.”

  “All right. Let’s get started.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  They made their way down into the valley, and for the next few hours, they worked together, cutting timber, dragging it across the earth and filling in the narrow gap at the western edge. The plan had come quickly once Tom had seen the lay of the land. It would be simple enough to get behind the herd and drive the little band of mares right into the trap. Almost too simple.

  * * * *

  Only two days remained before the wedding. All the arrangements had been made, and Lucille’s gown was nearly finished. Eager to complete it, she arrived at the shop shortly after dawn. She’d hardly slept the previous night. Each time she closed her eyes the dreams came, dreams filled with Tom. Many of her earlier doubts had returned. She’d always believed that men and women should only marry for love, but, of course, that wasn’t practical most of the time. She and Tom wed because of Faith, and that was reason enough, even if the idea of becoming the cowboy’s wife thoroughly rattled her.

  Trying to take her mind off Tom and her upcoming nuptials, she turned her attention instead to the shop. Charlotte had not kept up with her assigned chores. With a sigh, Lucille grabbed a feather duster. She wouldn’t complain, wouldn’t castigate the woman. After all, they would soon be family.

  She’d nearly finished both the dusting and the sweeping when Charlotte came through the door.

  “You’re here awfully early, Miss McIntyre.” As she removed her coat, Charlotte kept her gaze fastened on Lucille.

  “I haven’t been sleeping very well.”

  Charlotte hung her wrap on a peg, then took a step toward Lucille. “You’re looking a bit peaked. Are you all right?”

  The question took her by surprise. Tom’s mother had made her dislike clear, but maybe she’d finally come around. Knowing that they would soon be family might have softened the women’s attitude somewhat. Lucille appreciated the unexpected change in attitude. Perhaps she should be more courteous, as well.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

  Charlotte crossed the shop, pushed back the wooden shutters, then hung the cheery Open for Business sign, declaring the official start of the day. Her eyes went once again to Lucille. “Are you sure you’re well enough to work today? If you need to go home, I can take over here.” Her face reddened. “I can’t sew like you do, but I can do mending, and as for the rest of it, I could take orders, write up names and addresses, that sort of thing. I really wish you’d let me help out more.”

  “No, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  Had she replied a bit too quickly? Had her voice been a bit too sharp, too curt? Judging from the hurt expression on Charlotte’s face, her words had wounded. Probably she should apologize. For some reason, though, the apology wouldn’t come.

  She shrugged. “Like I said, I haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.”

  “Thinking about my boy, I suppose. Thinking about your wedding.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, don’t you fret. He’ll take good care of you.”

  “I know.” Lucille rubbed her temples and nodded. “He’s a good man.” Indeed, he was, and he’d be a good husband. A good father for Faith, too. She looked up and smiled. “How about a cup of coffee?” She motioned for Charlotte to follow through the office to the tiny kitchen at the back. “Maybe it’s time you and I got to know each other a little better.”

  “Maybe so.”

  When they reached the kitchen, Charlotte placed a hand on Lucille’s shoulder, stopping her from entering. “Let me fix it. It’s the least I can do.” She smiled and gestured toward the table. “I doubt any ladies will be out shopping so early. Besides, if a customer comes in, we’ll hear the bell. Sit down and relax a little.”

  Moments later, carrying two cups of freshly-brewed coffee, she joined Lucille at the table.

  “Thank you, Charlotte. It’s nice of you to do this.”

  “You’re welcome.” She settled herself into a chair across from Lucille. “We didn’t get off to a very good start, did we? We can change things now, don’t you think? We can learn to like each other.”

  “Of course.” Heat rose to Lucille’s cheeks. “But please, don’t think I ever disliked you. It was just difficult at first…having someone else working here.”

  The now-familiar bark of laughter shot from the woman’s throat. “Don’t go thinking you can hedge the truth with me, honey. You hated me when I first came to town, and it’s all right.” She leaned forward. “I hated you, too.”

  They laughed together. Lucille picked up her cup and clasped her hands around it, grateful for its comforting warmth. As she sipped the soothing brew, her taut nerves gradually loosened. Who knew what th
e future might hold, what possibilities might await her? Someday she might come to hold Charlotte Henderson as dear as her own mother.

  And Tom? The mere thought of him made her blush, especially when she thought of what being his wife could mean. When they’d agreed to marry, they hadn’t talked about intimacy and what role, if any, it would play in their lives, but surely, he would expect to have marital relations. She licked her lips.

  “I’ve always heard brides-to-be got the jitters before their wedding day.” Charlotte stared down at her hands, holding the cup between them. “I never had the chance to find out myself. You know Tom was born out of wedlock.” She lowered her gaze. “I’ve never even been in love.”

  “Not even when you were a young girl?”

  Charlotte looked up, but her eyes seemed dull, almost lifeless. “I didn’t have a very happy childhood. I didn’t have any opportunity for a social life. I never had any real friends.”

  Be quiet. Don’t push.

  What had Tom said? His mother refused to speak of the past, he’d warned. Lucille worried that she might have ventured too far into dangerous territory.

  She quickly rose. “I’d better get busy. I have several orders to finish,” she said, doing her best to put a lilt in her voice.

  Throughout the morning, Lucille kept busy, indeed. The little shop was soon filled with laughter, good wishes, and excited chatter as ladies of all ages stopped by to visit. Some even ordered dresses or dropped off garments to be mended.

  She smiled brightly, accepted the good wishes of her friends, and blushed at a few suggestive remarks. Yet she couldn’t shake off an uneasy feeling. Must be wedding jitters, sure enough.

  When the last lady left late in the afternoon and the shop was quiet again, Lucille returned to her work. The day’s activities had put her a bit behind schedule. She stitched quickly, hoping to finish sewing the ruffles on the dress Kat Barron had ordered.

  Kat…wearing ruffled dresses! The thought brought a smile to Lucille’s face. Love could be a powerful force for good. It could change a woman’s life in so many ways.

  “Did you say you’d ordered a bit of Irish lace?” The voice drew Lucille back to the moment. Charlotte stood before the notions counter, running a long, knobby finger over a spool of thread. “I was thinking maybe I could trim the collar on my blue dress, make it fancy enough to wear to the wedding.” A delicate blush of color rose to her cheeks. “I know it’s probably terribly expensive, but could you take the cost out of my pay?” She sounded almost like a child, her voice wistful, pleading. “You know, it’s been a very long time since I’ve set foot in a church, but I suppose I can do it for Tommy. Never thought I’d see the day when my son settled down.” She stroked the thread again. “Anyway, that blue dress is the best I’ve got, but it’s awfully plain. I was hoping I could find a way to make it a little prettier.”

  “A shipment of lace came in a few days ago,” Lucille said. “I had the delivery man put it on the shelf for me.” She gestured toward the tiny storeroom, all but hidden away behind a heavy door. “If you’ll get the box down, I’ll measure out enough for a collar. Maybe we could even add a bit of trim to the sleeves.” At the ill-concealed look of dismay on Charlotte’s face, she quickly added, “You don’t have to pay for it. Consider it a gift from me.”

  Giving goods away wasn’t going to help her financial situation but might stand her in good stead with her future mother-in-law.

  Charlotte’s smile held a hint of embarrassment, but she merely nodded, and hurried toward the storeroom. She carefully propped open the door before setting foot inside. Moments later, she returned.

  “What shelf is that box on?”

  “I don’t know.” Lucille had picked up her sewing again. She didn’t like being interrupted while she worked. “You’ll have to look, Charlotte. The boxes are all marked.”

  Moments later, Charlotte came out again—still empty-handed.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t find them. Are you sure the lace came in?”

  Lucille threw down her sewing and got to her feet. Her heavy steps echoed as she marched across the little shop. She yanked the door open and gestured for Charlotte to step aside.

  “All the laces are right here. I keep everything in order. I don’t know why you can’t find the right box.” Agitated by the woman’s incompetence, Lucille stepped into the little storeroom and reached toward one of the upper shelves. When the heavy oaken door swung closed behind her, she let out a gasp. In her annoyance, she must have kicked away the door stop.

  Click!

  Lucille groaned. She should have asked Tom to look at the broken latch. The next time he came to the shop, she’d point it out to him and have him fix it.

  “Charlotte,” she called. “Open the door, please.” Grabbing the handle, Lucille pulled as hard as she could. The door didn’t budge an inch. “Charlotte,” she called again, shouting to make her voice heard through the thick walls. “I’m locked inside here! Let me out.”

  She could hear a commotion going on in the shop, but she couldn’t figure out quite what was happening. Lucille frowned. If she could hear Charlotte bustling about, surely Charlotte could hear her as well.

  “Charlotte? What’s going on? Where are you?”

  Lucille’s nose twitched. Her eyes suddenly began to burn. She closed them as the unmistakable smell of smoke—sharp, acrid, and stinging—crept in around her.

  Dear Lord, the shop is on fire!

  Lucille fought back panic. Her heart raced; her mouth went dry. Desperate to escape, she beat her fists against the door, pounding until her hands ached. Tiny slivers of oak broke away to embed themselves in her ragged, bleeding flesh.

  There must be a way out! A frantic glance around the cramped space only confirmed her worst fears—she was trapped like an animal in a cage, locked away in the storeroom of her own little shop.

  “Charlotte, please!” She clawed at the edge of the door then ran her fingers over the metal hinges. “Charlotte!” she called again, but no answer came. “For God’s sake, Charlotte, help me!” Struggling for breath, she barely managed to choke out the last words as the awful truth hit her.

  She was going to die.

  She knew it as surely as she knew the color of the deep blue Colorado skies or the beauty of the snow-capped mountains.

  Had Joe Love’s curse struck again? Lucille scoffed as that thought crossed her mind. This had nothing to do with the outlaw. It had everything to do with Charlotte Henderson. Without a doubt, she was to blame.

  Lucille sagged against the door. She’d once heard it said that at the moment of death, people saw the entirety of their lives flash before their eyes. She closed hers, and at once, visions came. Images of her father played inside her head, along with memories of her mother, and sweet thoughts of Faith. Blue-eyed apparitions of Tom floated through her mind, his dimpled cheeks and enticing smile too painful to bear. A sorrowful wail tore from her throat. Life had promised so much joy, so much happiness. Now, all of it had been taken from her.

  Sooner or later, she reminded herself, death came for everyone. Willing herself to be calm, she said a silent prayer and gave herself up to her fate.

  Suddenly the air rushed from her lungs. Her feet went out from under her as she fell against the shelves. Boxes tumbled down. Charlotte had pushed open the door, knocking Lucille to the floor. Caught off-balance and unprepared, she flailed her arms wildly before landing with a bone-jarring thud. She lay sprawled across the hardwood floor, breathing heavily, and grateful to be alive. Tears streamed down her cheeks. The air at that level was clearer, and she sucked it up in huge gulps.

  Charlotte knelt beside her.

  “I’m sorry, really sorry.”

  The woman looked a fright. Her face was smudged, and her long hair had come undone, falling around her face in wild disarray. She dragged Lucille from the little storeroom, then leaped to her feet again. Grabbing a bolt of canvas, she did her best to beat out the fire. Her efforts only fanned the
flames.

  From where she lay, still dazed, Lucille tried to make sense of things.

  “What happened?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “No time to talk. We’ve got to put out this fire before the whole place goes up in a blaze.”

  Hundreds of yards of colorful calico, gingham, satins, and silks surrounded the women. All highly flammable.

  Scrambling to her feet, Lucille fought past her terror. “I’ve got water stored over there.” She pointed to a large wooden keg in the far corner beside the stove. “Help me drag it closer to the fire.”

  Together, they worked to move the huge barrel. They pried off the lid, then spilled its contents out. The flames around them sizzled and sputtered, but new tongues of fire leapt from one corner to the next. Thick walls of smoke rose up once more.

  “It’s spreading. The whole shop is going to burn!”

  “I’ll go for help,” Charlotte volunteered, making her way toward the door. She stopped and turned to Lucille. “You can’t save it. Forget the shop. Get out!” When Lucille didn’t move, Charlotte rushed back, grabbed her, and pulled her away.

  Too weak to protest and too scared to think, Lucille collapsed to the ground outside the shop. Already people were running, shouting, calling out for help. In the distance, she heard the familiar gong signaling the town’s men to gather together. Help was on the way.

  Soon, Charlotte returned. The two women huddled together a safe distance from the burning shop. Questions filled Lucille’s head. Maybe this wasn’t the best time, but she had to ask anyway.

  “How did the fire start?”

  Charlotte looked away. “When you got yourself locked up in the storeroom, I tried to help. I came running, but I tripped. I fell against the work table.” She lifted her arm to show the dark bruises and discoloration. “I guess I knocked over the lamp.” The woman must have sensed Lucille’s suspicions. “It was an accident,” she added. “I swear.”

  “Yes, of course. An accident.”

  Lucille leaned back. They were sitting beneath an old plains cottonwood tree, one too stubborn to be easily moved when the merchants had first started setting up their storefronts along Main Street. The little town had left the tree, a reminder to all of the value of perseverance. Its sturdy trunk now offered strength and emotional support.