Rocky Mountain Redemption

by Pamela Nissen

  “You doubt that she was married to Max?”

  “I never said that.”

  Ben jammed his fists at his waist. “Well, she’s sure not bemoaning her past circumstance. And from what Katie saw, Callie has the scars to prove that her situation was undesirable, at best.”

  “Oh, it was undesirable, all right.”

  He could’ve throttled his brother from here to tomorrow for the caustic way he referred to Callie. “You and I both know that life married to Max must’ve been horrible, yet she’s never uttered one single, bitter word.”

  “Did you ever think that maybe life married to her had been horrible, too?” Aaron challenged, meeting Ben’s severe gaze.

  “Not only have I not thought that, I can’t imagine it, either.” He glanced over his shoulder at her again, the way she lit up the room as she danced with Luke, likely making the boy feel like a king. She brought immeasurable joy to Luke’s life. And to Ben’s.

  “Pete saw her plain as day in Denver.” Aaron’s features creased in a frown. “She was walkin’ the halls of a brothel, dressed in one of those low cut, silky get-ups that no decent woman would wear.”

  Ben’s stomach clenched at those words. His pulse slammed steady and loud in his ears as he remembered the dress she’d shown up in. The tattered, ruby-red satin dress with a dangerously low neckline and a wilting flounce of gaudy ruffles. His blood ran cold as he recalled how sick he’d felt seeing the way his mother’s locket had hung in the midst of all of that.

  “Pete saw her talking to one of those harlots down at the Golden Slipper the other day, too.” Aaron’s voice was low, apologetic. “Callie…she’s nothin’ but a harlot.”

  The night hadn’t ended soon enough for Ben. After Aaron’s disturbing news, he’d walked her home, doing his best not to spoil her perfect evening.

  With a groan, he sank down lower into the stuffed chair in front of his fireplace. Stretching his feet out on the ottoman, he tried to keep his head above the battering, heartbreaking accusation. Much as he didn’t want to admit it, it all made sense. Her showing up here unannounced. In a harlot’s dress. Desperate for a job. Unwilling to parcel out anything but the most general information about her past.

  He swallowed hard, fisting his hands, wishing he could waylay something with his pent-up fury. But what good would that do? It wouldn’t change a thing. Not her situation. Not his situation, either.

  A strong northwestern wind howled outside, emitting an eerie, lonely whistle down the stone chimney, adding to his already dreary mood. He stared into the fireplace, watching the flames leap and flicker, and he wondered how Callie could do such a thing. How could she cheapen herself, selling an act that was designed as a God-given gift for a man and wife?

  He’d tried to act as normal as he could around her when he’d walked her home, but it’d been next to impossible. And sadly, she had to know that something was amiss.

  Until he could corroborate the claim, she wouldn’t know, either. Pete O’Leary certainly wasn’t a man given to gossip or to the telling of tales—he shot straight. Though the fact that he’d walked the halls of some brothel didn’t exactly boost Ben’s opinion of Pete’s character. But regardless of all that, Ben wouldn’t be able to sleep sound until he’d validated the information for himself. If he had to locate the brothel Pete had seen her at and make his own inquiry, then that’s what he’d do.

  He remembered the stories he’d heard told of women who’d been caught up in that lifestyle. When they’d tried to escape they’d been dragged back, beaten or worse, then thrown back into bed to pleasure the next patron as soon as the bruises faded some.

  “What am I going to do?” he forced through a weighted sigh and thick throat.

  He could find out the truth for himself, but would it change anything?

  No.

  Yes.

  Maybe…

  Tension ticked at his jaw. It might well change everything. It would raise all kinds of questions about her life with Max, and why he’d been driven to drink and gamble as he had.

  When Smudge hopped up on his lap, turned a circle then plopped down, purring loudly, Ben smoothed his hand over the soft fur. The cat peered up and gave Ben one of those trusting kind of looks, and Ben couldn’t help but remember how long it’d been before the cat had been this comfortable around him.

  Trust hadn’t come fast. And it hadn’t come easy. In fact, it’d taken several weeks of proving that he was worthy before Smudge obliged. So why should it be different with Callie? He’d gone slow with her, working hard to get her to trust him. He’d opened his heart for the taking, and…he’d been taken.

  “When will I learn?” he choked out.

  His compassion was like some disease, at least sometimes. In spite of the red flags that had whipped around wildly for any sensible person to see, he’d forged on in his growing admiration of Callie.

  Yet she’d omitted a very large and questionable detail of her past. One that challenged the very standards he lived by. And Ben didn’t know if he could ever look past that omission. Or that she’d falsely represented herself.

  Just Callie…

  She’d been light in his day, humor in his evenings, and a decidedly uncomplicated outlook at the morning’s first break.

  Until now, he had discounted any thought of her as some harlot. Remembering how shy and hesitant she’d felt in his arms when they’d danced that first dance tonight, how she’d glowed when she’d taught Luke to dance, Ben didn’t know if he could imagine her as a harlot now, either.

  Bone weary and emotionally spent, he bunched down deeper in the chair and gave a slow, exhausted yawn. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the winged side of the chair. Just hours ago, he’d entertained thoughts of marrying this woman. And now? Now he had to admit that thinking with his heart had definitely not been safe at all. It’d set him up for a long, painful fall.

  But if he was led by his own understanding, then he was bound to find himself lacking. And if he trusted enough to open his heart and follow God’s leading, there were no guarantees. None.

  Fatigued, he gave himself over to sleep’s coaxing call. His last thought was, if he followed his heart, he would get hurt.

  Again. And again. And again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ben woke with a start, his body protesting the awkward way he’d slept, slumped in the chair all night long. The flames had long since died in the fireplace, giving way to the invigorating chill of the morning. When he shoved himself out of the chair, both Smudge and Molly slid down his legs and plopped unceremoniously on the floor in a furry heap. They gave him one of those what’d-you-do-that-for kind of looks as he hunkered down to pet them.

  “Sorry, little ones.” Ben gave them both a scratch behind the ears. “I didn’t realize you were still there,” he said to Smudge then looked at Molly. “And you joined him sometime in the night, didn’t you? You two kept me warm.”

  Standing, he rolled his head on his neck in a vain attempt to work the kinks out. It’d been a night of unrest. And in the midst of the flurry of dreams, and God-breathed truths that had floated through his mind as he’d slept, one thing had been made startlingly clear…when it came to Callie, he needed to listen to his heart, trust God with the outcome.

  Problem was…he didn’t know if he could. Could he just look the other way?

  Raking his hands through his mussed hair, he noted that he’d never been one to let unresolved conflict fester long. If there was a way to bring resolution, then that’s what he’d do…even though he felt a small reservation in his heart. There was nothing bad, and everything honorable in being open about the claim, getting the truth out on the table. Right? All he needed to do was talk to Callie.

  After he washed up and pulled on clean clothes, he walked next door, grappling for the right words. Words that would bring life into the situation.

  While he slowly moved down the hall to Callie’s door, his heart slammed hard against his chest. His hands gre
w damp.

  He wiped them down his britches as he peered in her room and saw her standing at the bureau, holding the wood box she’d brought with her—the one Joseph had made. Though she looked like the same Callie from last night, he couldn’t seem to see past the startling image of her as some harlot. He fought to push away images of her flaunting herself in front of a man, a commodity for the purchasing.

  He tried to remind himself of what God had spoken to his heart…that he needed to trust God and follow his heart.

  He pulled in a slow breath and watched her as she stared intently at the contents inside the box, as if she were caught up in some faraway memory. Was it a good memory? Bad?

  “Callie,” he said, his voice low.

  She started, dropping the box to the floor with a crash and clatter. “Oh, I didn’t see you there.” She pressed a hand to her forehead.

  It took one glimpse into her eyes to realize that the light he’d seen there recently had dimmed some, and that stirred up a sadness he really had no business feeling right now. Not if he was going to keep his head about this whole thing. She’d lied. She’d falsely represented herself. And…more than likely, she was guilty of stealing the medical things that had come up missing over the past three weeks.

  He didn’t know what she planned on doing with the items she’d taken. Maybe sell them. The money she might make from the objects certainly wouldn’t be the equivalent of her ship coming in. Not even a small boat.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to sneak up on you.” He moved into the room to help her gather the few paper items that were strewn about the floor. Then realized that the box had broken into several pieces.

  “Oh, no.” She crouched down and fingered the pieces.

  “It’s my fault,” he breathed.

  “No.” She neatly tucked away any vulnerability. “I dropped it.”

  The sight of her tenderly gathering the few photographs, along with a small square of fabric apparently taken from some cherished garment or blanket, tugged at his heartstrings. This attempt to clear the air wasn’t getting off to a very good start. Already, moments into seeing her, he was losing focus.

  She began picking at the wood pieces, her breath catching as she fingered a folded paper. “What’s this?” She picked up the yellowed and stained paper. “This wasn’t in the box before. It must’ve been hidden.”

  He noticed how one wood piece was thin, square and made of a different kind of wood than the rest, as though it’d been added at another time. “Hmm…looks like there might have been a false bottom to the box.”

  He collected the remaining pieces and set them on the bureau in a neat pile then gave her a hand up.

  Callie lent him a strained smile as she swept a trembling hand down her lavender print dress then carefully unfolded the paper.

  She stared down at it. Her brow furrowed. Face contorted in a look of utter horror. Her hand shot to her mouth, but not before a small, unforgettable and haunting whimper escaped her quivering lips.

  Dread rooted firmly in the core of his being. He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Callie?”

  “Oh, dear,” she cried, sagging to the point that he caught her against his chest. “No. It can’t be. It can’t be.”

  His heart surged to his throat as he wrapped her in his embrace. “What? What is it, Callie?”

  It was several moments before she responded, and with each second that ticked away, the sense of dread building in Ben cut a path, deep and wide, straight through his heart. Since she’d never allowed herself to give over to emotion, he had no idea what the paper in her hand could say that would induce such a strong response. He braced for the worst.

  She pushed away enough to slide the paper out. With hands that quivered almost unnaturally, she held it up to Ben, her tortured gaze locked on the yellowed parchment. He took it from her and folded her into the crook of one arm. Read the words to the heartrending backdrop of her anguished, muffled cries.

  I, Maxwell Henry Drake, deed my infant daughter, born August 22, 1884, to Thomas Blanchard, as payment in full for the said amount of one hundred eighty dollars in gambling debt.

  Maxwell Henry Drake

  The hair at Ben’s neck stood on end. His pulse pounded through his veins.

  No. There was no way…

  Surely he’d read it wrong.

  He blinked hard, wondering if maybe his gaze was still sleep-fuzzed. Ben held the paper up, read the words again and examined the signature. Bile rose and burned in his throat as he peered at Max’s unmistakable, looped scrawl that had been scratched across the bottom, sealing the deal.

  His brother, his flesh and blood, had sold a child, a baby girl, to pay some gambling debt?

  He swallowed hard, nauseated.

  How?

  What would cause Max to stoop so low?

  His hands seemed to burn from holding the contract. He set the paper, a validating, sickening stamp of his brother’s legacy, on the bureau.

  Flexing his hand, he crooked a finger beneath Callie’s chin. Lifted her focus to him. “Whose baby, Callie?”

  His heart came to a grinding, arresting halt. His jaw bunched and his blood ran red hot with anger at Max for deeming a young life, an innocent baby, so invaluable.

  “My baby,” she squeaked through a muffled cry. Her whole body shook. “My baby girl.”

  He folded her in his arms. Held her. When she glanced up at him again, pasty-white with tears streaming down her face and pooling in her eyes, his concern grew tenfold.

  As did the pure fury that was directed completely at a man who could no longer answer for his actions. A man who’d taken his pitiful reasons for doing such a heinous thing with him to his grave.

  Ben held her for some time, stroking her silky hair, tightening his arms around her to give warmth to her quivering, shuddering form.

  Through a pool of his own tears, he glanced at the window, to see the sun spilling inside in cheerful rays, a direct contrast to the grief-stricken pallor that filled the room. “I’m so sorry, Callie. So sorry.”

  She pulled in a fractured breath. “I thought my baby had died. Max told me she’d been stillborn.”

  He gave his head a slow shake. “Why would he…”

  “He’d never want—never wanted the baby,” she braved on a fractured breath. Even in the light of this kind of revelation it seemed she still felt the need to protect Max’s honor.

  “Callie, listen to me.” He grasped her arms and set her back a few inches so she could see him. Dipped his head to catch her eerily blank gaze. “You don’t need to protect him. Not from me or anyone else. I want you to tell me everything. Do you hear me?”

  She finally gave a hesitant nod and slid her focus to the note on the bureau. Her face contorted in a pain that went way beyond the physical. “He didn’t want the baby. Not from the time I’d gotten pregnant.”

  “Why?” Seeing her shuddering with such force, Ben pulled her into his arms again. “Why wouldn’t he want the baby?”

  Then Ben remembered the reason he’d come here this morning. To question Callie as to her past. If she’d sullied herself, if she’d become pregnant from some long-gone patron, then Ben might be able to half reason why Max would’ve had a hard time accepting the baby. But he’d never even begin to reason the fact that Max had sold off the baby.

  The child wasn’t at fault.

  “I don’t know. Once, when I was six months along,” she continued, clasping her hands beneath her chin, “he pushed me down some stairs. He said it was an accident, and I wanted to believe him, but it had seemed so deliberate,” she choked out, her entire body heaving on a sob.

  If Ben had thought he was angered before, it was nothing like what he felt now. Whether or not the child was Max’s was irrelevant. In Ben’s book, any man who’d lay a hand on his own wife or child, born or unborn, to bring harm wasn’t worth the air he breathed.

  “Then when my time came, he—he didn’t want to help.” Her voice pinched off like the heart
rending sound of a child, terrified and alone. “I asked him to bring someone to help if he couldn’t, but he ignored me.”

  “No woman should have to go through that alone.” He pressed a silent kiss to her head. “I’m sorry, Callie.”

  Callie’s breathing came in short, labored gasps, as if she’d run the length of town and back. “I’d been laboring for over thirty-six hours. I was so tired, Ben,” she whispered against his chest. She burrowed deeper into his arms, as if trying to hide from the memories. “So tired. I could barely hold my head up.”

  “I’m sure you were. Anyone would be tired.”

  “When it came time to push, I couldn’t seem to get enough breath. I was so worried about my baby. Would the little one be all right? I hadn’t felt any movement for some time.”

  She peered up at him; the frantic look in her eyes sent an alarming chill straight down his spine. He raised a hand, and with the pad of his thumb caught a tear that poised just above her lips. “He shouldn’t have done that to you, Callie—or your baby. It wasn’t right.”

  In a roundabout way he felt responsible for all of this. If he’d been able to turn Max around then the man wouldn’t have turned out like some minion of darkness.

  “It didn’t seem like the labor should be so hard. And Max wouldn’t help. I was scared, Ben.” She gave a strangled cry.

  After a few moments, she sniffed raggedly and raised her chin a notch, that same look of bravery she’d shown the night she’d arrived here right there on her face.

  Ben thought he might break down himself, for the sight of it.

  She wiped her eyes then pulled in a steadying breath. “I barely remember Max coming in at the end. And right before the baby came I lost consciousness. I ha-had no idea of anything until probably two hours later.”

  “You could’ve died,” he breathed, his insides seething with anger so deep he could’ve killed Max in cold blood—if the hopeless excuse for a man wasn’t already stiff in his grave.