A Reason to Believe

by Maureen McKade

  Rye turned and trudged up the creaking stairs. It sounded like McDaniel’s wife wasn’t exactly what he thought she’d be. Maybe it’d be best if he didn’t see her and simply moved on. After burying her hanged father, she probably didn’t need one of her husband’s old drinking friends stopping by to tell her he was responsible for Jerry’s death.

  Once in his room, Rye removed the smelly sheets from the bed and threw them into the hallway. As he remade the bed, he argued with his conscience. Visiting with Mrs. McDaniel was the decent thing to do, but it had been nearly six months since Jerry died. What good did it do to unearth the past and add to her grief when she had just lost her father?

  Rye checked the corners of the mattress, ensuring the sheets were tucked in neat and snug. Ten years in an orphanage and fourteen more in the army made the inspection second nature. Assured the bed was regulation standard, he placed the room key in his pocket and the saddlebag over his arm. He’d seen a bathhouse on the way into town, and even though he’d use more of his dwindling money, the indulgence would be worth it.

  Five minutes later he arrived at the bathhouse, not surprised to find he was the only customer. After meeting the liveryman and the bartender, Rye figured cleanliness didn’t count for much in Locust. A bearded man took his money and yelled for a boy about eight years old to fill one of the tubs.

  “Make it one at the back,” Rye said.

  The gimlet-eyed caretaker winked slyly. “Sure, mister, whatever you want.”

  Rye didn’t bother to dissuade the man from his presumptions. It was easier than the truth.

  The boy strained to carry two pails of steaming water, and some sloshed over, making the kid hiss.

  “Let me take one of those,” Rye said gruffly.

  The dark-haired boy shot a quick fearful glance back at his boss and shook his head. “I got ’em.”

  Rye didn’t argue but simply took one from him, casting a glare back at the man, who looked away. They emptied the pails into an oval wooden tub at the back of the room.

  “I’ll give you a hand with the rest of the water,” Rye said to the boy.

  “Don’t have to, mister. I can do it.”

  Rye shrugged, noting the boy’s ragged overalls and bare feet. His hair was long and shaggy, brushing his shoulders and falling across his eyes. “I don’t mind.”

  Following the kid to the stove out back that held three kettles of hot water, Rye remembered another boy wearing hand-me-down overalls that were always too short or too long. That boy only wore shoes when the ground was covered with snow or ice.

  “What’s your name?” Rye asked him.

  “Collie,” the boy replied in a barely audible voice.

  “My name’s Rye.”

  Collie didn’t acknowledge him, but reached for a hot kettle, using two old cloths so he wouldn’t burn himself on the handles.

  “Let me do that,” Rye said.

  Collie glanced at him. “If I don’t do it, old man Knobby won’t give me no money.”

  Although Rye suspected that was the case, his temper crackled. He kept his anger hidden from the boy, not wanting to frighten him. “I’ll make sure you get paid.”

  Rye took the cloths from Collie and poured hot water from the kettle into the two pails, plus a third one. He carried two back while Collie handled one. It took two more trips, the last one carrying cold water, to fill the wooden tub.

  Rye dug twenty-five cents out of his pocket and handed it to the boy. “Thanks, Collie.”

  The kid stared at the two bit coin, his brown eyes shining. “Thanks, mister.”

  “You worked hard. Your folks live in town?”

  Collie slipped the coin in his pocket, and his hand lingered, fingering it as if afraid it would disappear. “They’re gone.”

  Rye frowned, wondering if they’d left him behind or were dead. “So where do you live?”

  “With the Gearsons.” His tone told Rye he wasn’t thrilled with the arrangement. Collie picked up the empty pails. “I gotta go.”

  Before Rye could say anything more, the boy was gone. It didn’t pay to worry about kids like Collie. They either learned how to take care of themselves or they didn’t. Rye had been one of the former.

  Shaking his head, he removed his gunbelt but kept it near the tub. He stripped off his grimy, dusty clothes and stepped into the tub. Sighing in pleasure, he lowered himself into the water and tipped his head back.

  Although he’d been burning under the sun less than an hour ago, Rye luxuriated in the hot water. He used the harsh soap to get rid of the accumulated sweat and dirt on his skin. Using the mirror and razor in his saddlebag, he shaved.

  Some time later, he rose from the tub and dried off with the rough towel that hung on a wall peg. He kept his back to the wall as he donned his clean clothes. As he put on his shirt, he brushed the mark on his shoulder, the reason he’d asked for a bath away from prying eyes.

  Regrets rose and nearly strangled him. He’d ruined his army career because he was a damned coward, and he had the scar to prove it. Leaving town without seeing the widow of the man whose death he’d caused would be the coward’s way out.

  Rye finished dressing and strode out of the bathhouse.

  The day he’d walked out of the stockade he made a promise never to let cowardice rule him again.

  THE Pollard farm was easy to find. Rye reined in his horse a hundred yards from the dilapidated cabin. Out of habit, he reconnoitered the farm in the waning afternoon light. Sagging corral fences, holes in the porch, a broken cabin window repaired with uneven slats, and the barn door leaned up against the wall told Rye that Frank Pollard had spent all his money on whiskey. A swaybacked mule rubbed its rump against a corral post that threatened to topple at any moment and a milk cow stood nearby, chewing its cud. A half dozen scrawny chickens scratched at the dry soil.

  From what Rye could figure, the farm hadn’t been kept up for some time now. He flicked his gaze to the field behind the house and whistled low. Maybe the buildings needed major repairs, but the grain crop was thick and golden under the sun. Somebody had managed to get the field plowed and planted last spring.

  He couldn’t put off the meeting any longer. After wiping his damp brow with the scarf tied around his neck, he tapped Smoke’s sides. The horse carried him into the yard.

  The cabin door opened, and the barrel of a shotgun emerged a moment before the owner. “Hold up,” came the sharp command.

  Rye halted his mare, startled rather than frightened by the shotgun and the accompanying order.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  This time Rye realized the voice was a woman’s, even though the shotgun holder wore breeches. “Are you—”

  “Get your hands up.” The words were supplemented by the unmistaken hammer cock of the shotgun.

  Rye did as she said and took a few moments to study the woman. Trousers and a baggy shirt camouflaged her figure, and a floppy hat hid her hair, except for a few loose reddish tendrils curling around her grim face. Dressed as she was, nobody could accuse the woman of being a beauty, but there was strength in her features.

  “What do you want?” she asked, both barrels aimed unerringly at Rye’s head.

  He opened his mouth to tell her who he was, but the disrepair of the farm made him pause. From what he heard, Mrs. McDaniel and her daughter lived here alone. There was no way she’d be able to do the work required to bring in the crop and fix up the place. If he told her who he was and what he’d done, she’d likely order him away. However, his leaving wouldn’t help her, nor would he be able to make amends.

  “My name’s Rye Forrester and I’m looking for a job, ma’am.” The words slipped out before he could think them through.

  Something akin to hope flared in her expression, but faded just as quickly. “If you’re looking for a paying job, I don’t have one.”

  Rye shrugged but kept his hands raised. “I’d be willing to work for room and board, ma’am.”

  Al
though the shotgun barrel didn’t waver, Mrs. McDaniel seemed to be considering his offer. He waited patiently.

  “The only place to sleep is the barn,” she said.

  “I’ve slept in worse.”

  “You’d be fed the same as my daughter and me, but you’ll eat on the porch.”

  Rye understood her wariness, with a young daughter and having just lost her father. “That’d be fine, ma’am.”

  She studied him, as if gauging his sincerity . . . and degree of danger. He kept his expression friendly. He owed this woman.

  Finally, she eased the hammer back and lowered the shotgun. “I have one more thing to tell you, then you can decide if you want to work here or not.” She lifted her chin, met his gaze squarely. “I buried my pa this morning. They said he murdered someone in town then they hanged him without a trial. If you take the job, you’ll be working for that man’s daughter.”

  Rye was surprised she told him, but then she probably knew he’d hear about it in town. Still, it was a brave thing to do. “You sound like you don’t believe he was guilty.”

  “He wasn’t.” No hesitation. No tears. Merely a statement of fact. “Do you want the job or not, Mr. Forrester?”

  Rye didn’t have a choice, not if he wanted to hold on to whatever honor he still possessed.

  “I’ll take it, ma’am.”

  TWO

  DULCIE kept her relief hidden from her new employee and merely nodded with cool affirmation. “I’m Mrs. Dulcie McDaniel.”

  Forrester touched the brim of his hat and inclined his head slightly. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  The rough but not unpleasant timbre of his voice rolled through her, leaving behind pockets of warmth she refused to acknowledge. His gaze moved away from her, to the ramshackle cabin and across the general disrepair of the farm. Embarrassment heated her cheeks, and she felt compelled to add, “I’m a widow.”

  He shifted in his saddle. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  She frowned at the flush that touched his cheeks and the way his eyes shifted to some point over her shoulder.

  Madeline scrambled through the doorway, and before Dulcie could stop her, she scampered over to Forrester’s horse. “Nice horsey,” she said, petting the mare’s nose.

  Dulcie set her shotgun against the doorframe and rushed over to snatch up her daughter with trembling arms. “Madeline Margaret McDaniel, you know better than to run up to a strange horse.”

  “No harm, ma’am.” Forrester dismounted and held the reins loosely in one hand. “Smoke here is about as gentle as they come.”

  Dulcie tilted back her head to meet his veiled gaze. Long sooty lashes framed startling blue eyes, and his sun-darkened cheeks and lesser-tanned jaw told her he’d recently shaved. The scent of soap and his faded but clean clothes were evidence that he’d also bathed not long ago. It was a relief to know her hired man wasn’t averse to taking a bath now and again.

  Her daughter stared at Forrester, her fist pressed to her mouth.

  “Hello, Madeline,” he said with a gentle smile.

  She hid her face in the curve of her mother’s neck.

  “She’s shy with strangers,” Dulcie explained, noting the defensive edge that crept into her tone.

  “But not horses.”

  A smile twitched her lips, but she didn’t allow it to form. “No, not horses.”

  “Most youngsters are more scared of people than animals.” He shrugged, a surprisingly self-deprecating gesture. “Always figured that makes them smarter ’n most of us.”

  Dulcie narrowed her eyes. “Do you have children of your own?”

  He looked down as he fingered the reins. “No, ma’am. If it’s all right with you, I’ll start work tomorrow, bright and early.” He stuck his boot toe in the stirrup and slung his leg over his horse’s back.

  Alarm tightened Dulcie’s muscles. If he left, she had no guarantee he’d return. “Mr. Forrester.”

  He paused and gazed down at her, his head tilted in question.

  “Why are you willing to work for me?” she asked.

  “You were the first to offer me a job.”

  “And if you get a better offer?”

  “I won’t.”

  Puzzled but unwilling to turn away the badly needed help, Dulcie nodded. “Be here by six thirty, and I’ll have breakfast ready.”

  “I’ll do that, ma’am.”

  He touched the brim of his hat, and Dulcie stepped back as he reined his mare around and trotted out of the yard. Madeline raised her head from her mother’s shoulder and waved, but Forrester didn’t look back.

  Madeline squirmed in her mother’s arm. “Down.”

  Dulcie set her daughter on the ground.

  “Will the horsey come back?”

  Dulcie crossed her arms over her waist. “I hope so, honey.”

  Few men would work for room and board, especially when the room was a leaky old barn. Still, the repercussions of the War between the States continued. Jobs were difficult to come by, and it was reasonable that a man might work for what he could get.

  She absently watched Madeline chase a yellow and black butterfly while she considered her hastiness. The man was a stranger. For all she knew he might murder her and Madeline in their sleep and no one would even miss them.

  Yet what choice did she have? If she lost the farm, she’d have no means to provide for her child. She’d have to remarry or sell herself. From her point of view, there wasn’t much difference. Either a woman gave her body to her husband every night so she’d have a roof over her head and food to eat, or she gave her body to numerous men so she’d have the same.

  Dulcie preferred neither. With the farm she didn’t need a man, except as hired help to do the heavy labor. If Rye Forrester was sincere about working for room and board, she couldn’t afford to send him away. She also couldn’t afford to let him get too near her or Madeline.

  Never again would she be any man’s whore.

  DULCIE smelled rain in the air when she awakened the following morning. She turned her head toward the single square window in the loft to find raindrops on the glass and gray clouds hovering in the drab dawn sky. She couldn’t hear any patter on the roof and was surprised she’d slept through the shower.

  Although she knew she should get up and prepare breakfast, she continued to lie on the straw tick beside her sleepingdaughter. She listened to the excited chittering of birds and Flossie’s low mooing that told Dulcie she was ready to be milked.

  On the surface, little had changed since Dulcie was a girl growing up in this same cabin. But the years, like a flooding river, left nothing untouched. Currents and landscapes had altered, just as Dulcie’s outlook and appearance had changed. No longer was she the seventeen-year-old girl who’d eloped five years ago.

  The years had given her an appreciation for family, and although she had never held much respect for her father, he’d been a constant in her life. When she’d been a child and when she’d returned to this shack as a widow four months ago, he’d been here. And now he was gone. No snores emanated from the bedroom below and there would be no more curses when he woke with an aching head.

  Dulcie didn’t want to think about him and focused on what needed to be done today. As usual, there were more chores than hours to get them done, especially with today being wash day. Then she remembered the man who’d promised to return today. Would Forrester keep his word?

  Swallowing back the gloominess that matched the day, she rose quietly so she wouldn’t wake Madeline. She descended the rickety ladder and tugged her gown off over her head. With a wrinkled nose, she donned the patched breeches and baggy shirt, tucking the tails into her waistband. Faded braces over her shoulders held up the too-large pants that had been her father’s. At one time she would’ve been scandalized to wear men’s clothing, but now it was a necessity. In fact, she could count on one hand the times she’d worn a dress since she’d arrived home. Including yesterday at her father’s grave.

  As she
brushed her hair in front of the cracked shaving mirror, she studied the dark circles beneath her eyes. Since her husband’s death, she hadn’t slept a night without waking at least a half dozen times. Sometimes it was nightmares and other times it was disturbing memories that jarred her from a sound sleep with the abruptness of a rifle shot. However, they were a small price to pay for Madeline’s health and safety.

  From a peg by the door, she retrieved her father’s old jacket then jammed the floppy hat that hung beside it on her head, tucking her hair beneath it. After using the necessary, she gathered the eggs, deftly dodging the chickens’ sharp beaks. She carried the eggs to the house, and ensuring Madeline remained asleep, Dulcie went back out to milk the cow.

  She led the docile animal to a corral post and tied her. Grabbing the milk bucket and placing it under the cow’s heavy udder, she sat on another old pail while she did the milking. Two months ago her father had almost sold Flossie to buy whiskey. Fortunately, Dulcie had talked him out of it. Madeline needed the milk, and Dulcie churned butter to trade for goods at the mercantile.

  She leaned her forehead against Flossie’s side as despair threatened to choke her. Her father, a tolerable man when sober, became mean-ugly when he drank. He’d angered a lot of people, and small towns nursed grudges like a grizzly nursed her young. Dulcie’s mother had smoothed ruffled feathers and mended bridges, but once she was gone Dulcie’s father had lost little time in un-smoothing those feathers and destroying those bridges.

  When Lawrence Carpenter was murdered, it didn’t take long for the townsfolk to lay the blame at Frank Pollard’s feet. But then, they’d had a shove in his direction. . . .

  “Mrs. McDaniel.”

  Dulcie jerked her head up from Flossie’s side and spotted Rye Forrester standing on the other side of the corral fence. Her heart slid into her throat as relief nearly brought tears to her eyes. She hadn’t realized until this moment how much she’d been counting on him returning.

  “Mr. Forrester. You’re early.”