A Reason to Believe

by Maureen McKade

  “Sure is,” Dulcie said, eyeing the sun’s angle. “How is the corral coming?”

  “As soon as I get the new poles up, I’ll chop the old ones so you can use them in the stove.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “It’s my job, ma’am.”

  Madeline tapped her mother’s hip. “Go play with Aggie?”

  “Sure, honey,” Dulcie replied absently. “Just stay in sight.”

  Madeline scampered off to the porch, talking to her doll the entire way.

  Forrester’s gaze followed the girl. “You must be proud of her, Mrs. McDaniel.”

  Dulcie slid her hands into the trousers’ back pockets. “Usually.”

  Forrester grinned, his eyes creasing at the corners. “I’m sure she’s a handful sometimes. I know I was when I was her age. I don’t think I grew out of it until I was out of knee pants.”

  Dulcie should’ve walked away and gone back to work, but the temptation to talk to another adult was too enticing. “I was, too. Pa used to tan my hide. It didn’t help. Guess I was too stubborn.”

  “There were times I skipped school ’cause I couldn’t sit down.”

  Despite herself, Dulcie felt a rush of sympathy for him. “Sounds like your pa was even worse than mine.”

  He glanced away and donned his hat, hiding his features in shadows. “Wasn’t my pa. It was the headmaster at the orphanage. I’d best get back to work.”

  He strode to the corral, leaving Dulcie to stare after him. She recalled a family of orphans in Locust when she’d been a child. They’d all been separated and had gone to different families. Dulcie recalled one in particular, a girl a year younger than her, who’d rarely smiled and often sat by herself during recess, staring into the distance. The girl had taken refuge in solitude, but Dulcie suspected Forrester had hidden his sadness behind boyish pranks, which had led to getting his hide tanned.

  Her gaze shifted to Madeline, who conversed in a singsong voice with Aggie. She didn’t want to imagine Madeline being forced to live with someone who didn’t love her, or worse yet, would hurt her. Profound terror swept through Dulcie and she wrapped her arms around her cramping belly.

  It was her responsibility—hers alone—to ensure that her daughter never lost her sweet smile.

  WITH supper on the stove and Madeline taking a nap, Dulcie went out to the porch to clean the vegetables she’d taken from the garden earlier. She paused to watch Forrester washing up by the well, using the dented tin basin, soap, and threadbare towel which she’d put there for his use. With her floppy hat shading her eyes, she glanced over to see he’d finished replacing the corral poles, and had chopped the old ones into firewood. Impressed again by his labor, she managed a slight smile when he looked over at her.

  Taking a seat at the top of the porch steps, she tried to ignore him, but could see his movements at the edge of her vision. Picking up a carrot, she trimmed it and tossed the greens into a tub. She’d only done a few carrots when she felt more than saw him approaching. Her fingers tightened on the knife handle.

  “Mrs. McDaniel,” he said by way of greeting.

  Steeling herself against the effect he had on her, she met his blue eyes. “Mr. Forrester. I see you’ve finished for the day.”

  “I figured it was too late to start something new. Hope you don’t mind.”

  How could she mind? She had never expected him to be such a hard worker, given his pay. She shook her head. “As long as the work gets done.”

  Dulcie kept her focus on the carrots as she continued to lop off the tops, but the strength of his perusal set heavy on her.

  “Got another knife?” he suddenly asked.

  She jerked her head up. “What?”

  “If you have another knife, I can give you a hand.”

  She thought of the dull, worthless knives in the cabin and shook her head. “I don’t need any help.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t mind. I’m not used to being idle.”

  It struck her that someone like him shouldn’t have any problem finding a paying job, rather than working for only room and board. However, she shied away from that thought, unwilling to look too closely lest she lose his badly needed help.

  She nodded at him. “Suit yourself. If you’re bent on doing something, you can snap the ends off the beans.”

  He grinned. “I haven’t done that in years.”

  She snagged the large kettle that she’d put the beans in and handed it to him. He took it and lowered himself to a step, setting the kettle on the ground.

  From her position above him, Dulcie could see his long fingers pick up a bean and snap one end off, then the other, tossing the ends into the tub with the carrot tops.

  “Looks like you haven’t lost your touch,” she commented.

  “The orphanage used to have a huge garden. All of us kids had to take care of it.” He kept his head turned to his task so Dulcie couldn’t see his expression, only the top of his damp hair. “If one of us didn’t do our share, we couldn’t eat. It didn’t take many missed meals to get us to work.”

  Intrigued in spite of herself, Dulcie asked, “How many children were in the orphanage?”

  A shrug of his broad shoulders. “Numbers changed, but usually anywhere from twenty to thirty.”

  “Did many get adopted?”

  “Some. Mostly bigger kids who could do the work on a farm or ranch.”

  “What about you?”

  He grinned boyishly. “I was a skinny runt. Those who came looking for a boy said I was too small, wouldn’t be able to do my share.”

  Dulcie stopped cutting in midmotion and studied his broad shoulders, wide, strong hands, and the muscles that flexed beneath his tanned forearms. She couldn’t imagine him as skinny or small. “These people who came to adopt didn’t want children to love?”

  Forrester chuckled, but it wasn’t a pretty sound. “Maybe a few of them did, but mostly they just wanted cheap labor. At least I was spared that.”

  Dulcie continued her work, but her mind sifted through what Forrester said and, more importantly, hadn’t said. Her memory flashed back to the sad orphan girl. “How old were you when you got put in the orphanage?”

  Forrester paused, his motions stilled. “Six. I had two older brothers. Creede was sixteen so he didn’t have to go there. Slater was eleven.”

  His voice was even, almost flat, but Dulcie had the impression his control was hard-earned. “At least you had Slater,” she said.

  “Not for long. Someone took him away a month after we got there.” He resumed his task and snapped off the ends of a handful of beans before speaking again. “I haven’t seen either of my brothers in twenty-five years.”

  Dulcie gasped, unable to imagine having family but not knowing where they were or even if they were still alive. In spite of her father’s drunkenness, he’d been family. “I’m sorry, Mr. Forrester.”

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Call me Rye. And no need for you to be sorry, ma’am. It was a long time ago, and I’ve made my own way.”

  Ill at ease and uncertain what to say, Dulcie finished lopping off the carrot tops. “I can give you a hand with those beans.”

  Forrester—Rye—set the pan on a step where they could both reach. As they worked, the quiet snaps blended with birdsong and the far-off barking of a dog. Occasionally a hawk’s haunting cry echoed down from the hot blue sky.

  “So what about you?” Rye asked. “You live here all your life?”

  “Most of it,” Dulcie replied, uncomfortable talking about herself.

  “When did your ma die?”

  “Pa said a couple of years ago.” Fresh anguish squeezed her lungs, bringing a lump to her throat, which she cleared with a cough. “I wasn’t here.”

  “Were you with your husband?”

  Dulcie’s defenses, which had lowered, slammed back into place. “Yes.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry, ma’am.” Obviously he’d picked up on her renewed guardedness. “I just figured since y
ou said you were a widow . . .”

  She relaxed only slightly. Too accustomed to men wanting but one thing from a woman, she had to watch her words. “He was in the army. Died about five, six months back.”

  “So you came back here.”

  “It was the only place there was.” She kept her focus on her hands as she worked, afraid if she caught his eye, he’d ask more questions. Questions like how had her husband died and what kind of man had he been and how she’d made the journey back home.

  Time lengthened, and Dulcie finally breathed a sigh of relief when it appeared he wasn’t going to continue his interrogation. He might be merely curious, but she didn’t like talking about her past. Her failures were her own, not things to be held up in the light of day to gain pity or charity. Or to be used against her.

  She reached into the pan to draw out another bean and her fingers brushed Rye’s. Awareness tingled at her fingertips and flowed into her belly. Trembling at her reaction, she jumped to her feet and dusted off the seat of her breeches. “I’ll check on supper. Could you get rid of the greens?”

  Rye nodded. “I’ll give them to the livestock then wash the carrots and beans.”

  “Thank you.” She hurried into the house. The potatoes were boiling, as were the peas and corn. All she had left to do was fry the salt pork and slice the bread.

  She got Madeline up so the girl had time to wake and wash up before eating. Twenty minutes later the meal was ready and Dulcie settled Madeline at the table. Before she joined her daughter, she carried Rye’s meal out to him.

  Rye had swept the porch, and only the two pans of washed carrots and beans remained.

  “Thanks for taking care of them,” she said stiffly.

  “It wasn’t any hardship, ma’am.” He accepted the tray from her. “Smells good.”

  “Salt pork,” she stated with a shrug. “It’s all we have for meat.”

  “Did your father hunt?”

  “He used to, but not since Madeline and I came back.”

  “What about you?”

  She shook her head. “I never learned, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have trusted Pa to stay sober long enough to watch Madeline.”

  “If you can spare me, I’ll go out tomorrow morning and see what I can find,” Rye said.

  She’d hoped he might offer, but she was unable to bend her pride to give him her gratitude. “As long as you aren’t gone all day.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or not.

  “Done eating, Ma,” Madeline shouted.

  Saved by her daughter’s call, Dulcie fled back into the cabin.

  That night, after the dishes were washed and Madeline was asleep, Dulcie settled in the old rocking chair with a tin cup in her hand. Silence filled the darkness, and with it came the familiar emptiness.

  The memory of her body’s reaction to her accidental touch of Rye’s fingers tainted her. She lifted the cup to her lips and welcomed the whiskey’s heat that burned her throat and belly, and dulled the unwanted and unwelcome desire.

  PREDAWN found Rye riding away from Mrs. McDaniel’s place. His mare, unaccustomed to days of inactivity, tugged at the reins and Rye let the horse gallop down the road. He closed his eyes to fully appreciate the cool morning breeze against his face. After three months of long, endless days where there had been only dank, stale air, Rye had sworn he’d never again take anything as simple as a morning ride for granted.

  It was good to be away from the woman and her daughter, if only for a few hours. It was tough keeping up his pretense of not knowing Mrs. McDaniel’s husband. The lie of omission grated on his conscience, but he was convinced he’d done the right thing in keeping the truth from her. The proud woman wouldn’t have accepted his help otherwise.

  Two hours later, he had two rabbits hanging from his saddle horn. He’d spotted deer tracks, but never had a decent shot. With his money and supplies low, Rye didn’t want to waste even one rifle cartridge.

  As he headed back to the cabin, his horse suddenly shied, and Rye, lulled by the morning’s warmth and peacefulness, was nearly unseated. Regaining control, he patted the mare’s neck and glanced around to see what had spooked her. A flash of color not twenty feet away caught his attention.

  “Who’s out there?” he yelled.

  Leaves rustled and a group of finches rose up not far away, startled by something. Knowing something or somebody was there, Rye dismounted and looped Smoke’s reins about a nearby branch. He ducked under branches and pushed through spiny brush.

  “Who’s here?”

  Even as he called out, Rye cursed himself for ten kinds of a fool. If it was someone who had nothing to hide, he would’ve answered him. If the stranger didn’t want to be found, Rye was probably going to be shot for his trouble, or at the very least, have his horse stolen.

  Hoping he hadn’t gotten smart too late, Rye retraced his steps back to his mare. He spotted a figure standing by Smoke and drew his revolver. As he neared the opening, he realized the person was very small or very young. Or both. Then he recognized the too-short and oft-mended overalls. He stuck his revolver back in his holster and strode through the brush, not bothering to mask his approach.

  “What’re you doing out here, Collie?” he asked.

  The boy who worked at the bathhouse shrugged as he continued to stroke the mare. “I’m out here a lot. I heard the shots. Looks like you was hunting.”

  Rye had to take a moment to process the boy’s seemingly unrelated statements. “I wanted some fresh meat.”

  “You mean you and the widow?”

  Rye pressed his hat back off his forehead and crossed his arms. “So how do you know I’m working for her?”

  “I seen ya.”

  Mrs. McDaniel’s farm was three miles from town. “Why have you been out there?”

  Another indolent shrug. “Nothin’ else to do. Ain’t many folks that use the bathhouse.”

  Rye wasn’t surprised. “What about school?”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Don’t like it.”

  “What about the family you’re staying with? Don’t they worry about you?”

  “Why?” Collie seemed genuinely curious. “It ain’t like the Gearsons is my real folks. They only took me in ’cause they said it was their Christian duty.”

  Rye considered the boy’s words. He’d known people like the Gearsons, and oftentimes their Christian duty included working the adopted children like slaves under the guise of teaching them a work ethic. He fought down a wave of anger. “Do they give you chores to do?”

  “Nah.”

  Startled, Rye tried to see past Collie’s indifference. “None?”

  “The other kids do ’em. I’m just underfoot.”

  The way Collie said “underfoot” Rye suspected the Gearsons used the term a lot around the orphan. “So they don’t miss you when you’re gone?”

  “Hard enough to keep track o’ their own.”

  Rye eyed the boy’s skinny frame. “They feed you?”

  Collie turned his back to Rye and rubbed the horse’s nose. “Yeah.”

  Something told him the kid wasn’t being entirely truthful, but he didn’t want to push him too hard. “Want a ride back to town?”

  Collie spun around, his eyes wide. “Sure, mister.”

  “The name’s Rye, remember?”

  “Sure, Mr. Rye.”

  Smiling, Rye mounted his mare. He leaned down to grab Collie’s wrist and hauled him up to sit on the horse’s rump behind him. “Hold on to me.”

  Collie wrapped his thin arms around his waist and Rye tapped Smoke’s sides.

  “You ever ridden before?” Rye asked the boy.

  “My pa used to let me sit in front of him.”

  Collie’s wistful tone stirred Rye’s own memories. “When did your folks die?”

  “ ’Bout a year ago.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “I had a little brother, but he got sick a
nd died when he was a baby.”

  So Collie was alone.

  “How many children do the Gearsons have?”

  “Seven.”

  Rye was surprised a couple with that many of their own would offer to care for an orphan. “You like them?”

  He felt Collie’s shrug. If Collie spent so much time roaming alone, it was doubtful he did much with the Gearson children.

  “Mrs. Gearson was Ma’s friend. She said she was obla . . . obla—”

  “Obligated?” Rye guessed.

  “Yeah. Obligated to take care of me. Mr. Gearson didn’t want to.” Collie tightened his hold around Rye’s waist. “At least he don’t hit me.”

  And for a young boy alone that was probably the best he could do. Rye patted the boy’s arm. “You mind stopping at Mrs. McDaniel’s place before we go into town?”

  Collie stiffened. “Don’t want to.”

  “But you said you’ve been there already. This way you can meet the widow and her little girl.”

  “No!” Collie released Rye and wiggled backward off the horse, dropping to the ground.

  Rye halted Smoke and turned to see the boy climbing to his feet from where he’d fallen, his eyes wide. “Why’d you do that?”

  Collie merely shook his head, his shaggy hair falling across his eyes. He shoved the strands back and, without a word, turned and fled.

  “Collie,” Rye shouted. “Come back here. Collie!”

  Only the sound of crashing brush answered him. Rye was worried about the boy, but he knew that if Collie didn’t want to be found, Rye wouldn’t stand a chance of locating him.

  Why was he frightened of Mrs. McDaniel?

  The answer was plain to see. Collie probably feared her for the same reason the townsfolk shunned her. She was the daughter of a supposed murderer.

  FOUR

  HER shoulders aching, Dulcie placed a cloth over the eight loaves of bread she’d made that morning with the remaining flour. With the sun already hot, it wouldn’t take long for the dough to rise. She dreaded the thought of firing up the stove, but they’d used the last of the bread this morning. Fortunately, the headache she’d awakened with had diminished to a tolerable throbbing or she’d be even more miserable.