A Reason to Believe

by McKade, Maureen

  It was only after Jerry had hit Madeline that she’d denied him. He’d never struck their daughter again, and rarely did he come to his wife’s bed.

  She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. The peddler was more evidence of her immoral character. He’d threatened to abandon them in the middle of nowhere to get Dulcie into his bed. She’d hated lying there beneath him and hated the way her body betrayed her under his knowing touches. But she hated herself the most for riding the passion and crying out when the ecstasy crashed through her.

  The moment Virgil Lamont dropped them off at the farm, Dulcie swore to deny that depravity within her. She had everything she needed with the farm and Madeline. And if there were some nights when her body burned, she’d learned how to quench the fire herself.

  Dulcie’s mouth was parched, and she rose to get some water from the pitcher. As she drank, she gazed out into the darkening night. Rye should be back soon. As if her thoughts conjured him, he and his gray mare materialized out of the darkness. He drew his horse up by the barn and dismounted.

  Dulcie set the empty cup down and was halfway across the yard before she realized what she was doing. She paused, noticing the cool evening air on her warm cheeks and the low clucking of the chickens. Her restless gaze settled on Rye, and she continued over to him.

  “Did you have any trouble with the Gearsons?” she asked.

  He didn’t seem surprised to see her. “Not exactly.”

  His answer didn’t allay her concern. “Did they hurt him?”

  “No.” Rye undid the saddle cinch. “I don’t think they’ve ever hit him.” He lifted the saddle and blanket off Smoke’s back and carried them into the barn.

  Dulcie followed him inside, where a kerosene lamp offered a circle of light. She shoved her hands into her trouser pockets, uncertain why she was out here after dark, without the buffer of Madeline between them.

  “I can’t figure out why they took him in if they didn’t want him,” Rye said.

  “Obligation.”

  The lantern’s light lent menacing shadows across his face as he gazed down at her. “That’s not enough.”

  “Sometimes that’s all there is.” She tipped her head to the side, studying the frustration coloring his expression. “He reminds you of yourself, doesn’t he?”

  Rye stilled, then his long, sure fingers untangled the saddle strings. “I suppose.”

  For a moment, she wanted to comfort him like she comforted Madeline when she was sad. Instead, she pressed her hands deeper into her pockets.

  Rye straightened, grabbed a currycomb, and strode out of the barn. Frowning, Dulcie hurried to catch up to him. She leaned against the corral and watched him brush his mare.

  “Maybe if you got hitched, you could take Collie yourself,” she remarked.

  Rye paused in his task to gaze at her, his eyes burning with something akin to passion. Dulcie’s body responded to his hot look and she swayed toward him.

  Suddenly he grinned. “You askin’ me for my hand, Dulcie?”

  Embarrassment scalded her face. “Of course not. I was only thinking out loud.”

  “That’s good, ’cause I don’t aim to get married again.”

  Surprised, she asked, “You were married?”

  “She died,” he answered, his flat tone clearly indicating he didn’t want to talk about his wife.

  Although curious, she respected his privacy.

  He curried his mare with long, slow strokes, his free hand following the path of the brush to smooth his horse’s smoky coat. Dulcie studied his hands, the easy motions and light, sure touches. Would he be as gentle with a woman?

  What would it have been like to be married to a man like Rye instead of someone like Jerry? She imagined him lying with his wife. She suspected he’d been tender, then more insistent, but never demanding, never hurting. He wouldn’t take, even from his duty-bound wife, but ask with a husky, passionate voice.

  “Is Madeline asleep?” Rye asked.

  She cleared her throat. “Yes. The storm really frightened her.”

  “Scared me, too. Especially with us out in the open like that.”

  “I never thanked you for what you did.” She shifted uncomfortably, not used to being grateful to someone. “You protected us when the hail started. If those stones had been any larger, you could’ve been badly injured.”

  “They would’ve hurt you and the children a lot more than they hurt me.”

  Dulcie’s heart slid into her throat, and she looked away. Without asking for anything in return, Rye had risked his life for theirs.

  He moved toward her, stopped only inches in front of her. Worry furrowed in his brow. “Are you all right?”

  She wanted to look away so he wouldn’t see her need, but her eyes refused to obey. “Fine,” she whispered.

  Recognition of her desire dawned in his eyes and in the sudden flare of his nostrils. But there was also denial, a rejection of the mirroring passion she knew he felt. She touched his chest, feeling the heat of his skin and the beat of his heart through his shirt.

  Humiliation burned within her, and she drew her hand away. “I should get back inside,” she said with a hoarse voice.

  Before she could see the disgust in his eyes, she strode across the yard, her vision blurring. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it. Struggling alone to raise a daughter and make a living on a farm, she had no cause to dwell on such selfish yearnings.

  Her gaze strayed to the bedroom, to the trunk at the foot of the bed. As if of their own volition, her feet carried her to it and she lifted the lid. The whiskey beckoned her, promised her respite from the chaotic swirl of shame and desire and guilt. Without hesitation, she plucked the brown glass bottle from the trunk.

  As Dulcie tugged the stopper out, her conscience gave her pause. But then the biting scent of the alcohol hit her.

  I’ll only have a couple of sips, just enough to help me sleep.

  RYE gathered his tools the next morning, determined to finish his work on the porch and roof. Fortunately, he’d had enough completed that no water had leaked through the roof into the cabin during the storm. As he walked out of the barn with his arms full, he was surprised to see Flossie where he’d tied her to the corral, her udder heavy. A glance at the quiet cabin told him Dulcie wasn’t up yet.

  Frowning, he carried his things to the porch and set them down quietly. He had planned to start work early since Dulcie was usually up by now, but maybe after yesterday’s scare, both she and Madeline needed the extra rest.

  He sat down on the step to wait, and unease flitted through him. His exchange with Dulcie last night had left him restless and tense, in more ways than one. He was no stranger to that look she’d had in her eyes, and if she’d been anyone but Jerry’s widow, he would’ve taken her up on her offer. Hell, a man only had so much self-control and, intentional or not, Dulcie was driving him to the brink of that control.

  He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but better she be miffed now than embarrassed and angry later. She was a lady who’d had some tough times, and he wasn’t about to take advantage of her. A year ago he might have thought different, but he’d had a lot of time to think while he’d been in the stockade. And he’d thought long and hard.

  The door creaked open behind him and he turned, expecting to see Dulcie. Instead, Madeline poked her head out.

  Rye greeted her with a smile. “Morning, sunshine.”

  The girl grinned and tiptoed out to sit by Rye. Still wearing her nightgown, she leaned against his side.

  “Your ma still asleep?” Rye asked.

  Madeline nodded vehemently.

  “Sleeping in the rocking chair.” She giggled. “With her clothes on.”

  Rye kept his growing unease masked from the girl. “Maybe she woke up earlier and put on her clothes.”

  “No.”

  Although Rye wondered how she could be sure, he didn’t ask her. Kids often sensed and knew more than adults gave them credit for.


  Flossie bawled mournfully from the corral.

  “Why don’t you get dressed and you can help me milk Flossie?” Rye suggested to the girl.

  “Okay.” Madeline jumped to her feet and scrambled back into the cabin.

  When she rejoined him, she stood with her back to him. “Button,” she said.

  Smiling at the bossiness so like her mother’s, Rye did as she commanded. His big fingers fumbled with the tiny buttons, but he finally managed to get them.

  “All done,” he said.

  Madeline spun around to face him, and her tangled hair framed her innocent features. “Gotta go.”

  Rye frowned. “Go where?”

  She rolled her eyes as if he were as dumb as dirt. “Privy.”

  His face heated. “Oh. I’ll wait here.”

  On bare feet, she dashed to the outhouse and disappeared inside. Rye stood, wondering if she might need help. For all he knew about four-year-old girls, she might fall in or something.

  The cabin door flew open and Dulcie rushed out, her hair even wilder than her daughter’s. “Is Madeline out here?”

  Rye caught Dulcie’s arms as she stumbled down the steps and the smell of stale whiskey on her breath nearly bowled him over. He turned away, disgusted by the evidence of her drinking. “She’s in the privy.”

  Dulcie sagged, then as if remembering herself, jerked out of his hold and backed away. “I-I must’ve overslept.” Her voice was tentative, guarded.

  Whiskey will do that to a person.

  “You were tired,” Rye said. He kept the irritation out of his voice. “I’ll take Madeline with me to milk Flossie. That’ll give you some time to clean up.”

  Bloodshot eyes met his and she glanced away. “Thanks.”

  She shuffled back inside, leaving Rye more angry than sympathetic. If it was only herself she was hurting, he’d simply be disappointed that she’d followed her father’s path. But Madeline could wander off, get hurt, or a dozen other things while Dulcie was drunk. Didn’t she think of that?

  Shaking aside his misgivings, Rye started walking toward the privy. Madeline hopped out before he reached it, her nose wrinkled. She quickly dipped her hands in the basin of water set out on an upright chunk of wood and shook the droplets off.

  “Milk Flossie now?” she asked, her eyes shining with excitement.

  “Flossie would appreciate it,” Rye said.

  As he walked, Madeline placed her small damp hand in his larger one. A lump climbed into his throat, and he gently closed his fingers around hers. She skipped along beside him, thankfully oblivious to his mixed-up feelings.

  “You stay on this side of the corral and pet Flossie while I milk her,” Rye said.

  Madeline immediately stroked the cow’s nose, smiling and whispering to the animal as if Flossie understood her.

  Rye went to work relieving Flossie of the pressure in her udder. The cow remained placid, probably enjoying both the petting and the relief of getting milked.

  “Your ma sleep late very often?” Rye asked, keeping his tone light.

  “Sometimes.” She resumed her one-sided conversation with the cow.

  “A lot of times?”

  Madeline shrugged. “No. Only when she’s sad. I can tell.”

  Considering she’d lost her husband and her father in the past six months, she had a right to be sad now and again. “Does she miss your father?”

  Madeline pressed her lips together and shrugged. “He yelled at me,” she said.

  It took a moment for Rye to figure out who she was referring to. His insides clenched. “Did he ever hurt you?”

  One small shoulder lifted in a half shrug.

  Rye leaned his forehead against Flossie’s side. The milk pail was over a quarter full and he fought the urge to kick it over.

  It hadn’t even entered his mind that his drinking and whoring friend might hurt his daughter. At the time, he’d been blind to everything but his own grief.

  Rye finished milking Flossie and stood, picking up the milk pail. He set it on the other side of the corral and untied Flossie so she could wander back into the pasture to graze.

  Madeline tried to pick up the pail, but Rye intercepted her. “I’ll carry that, Madeline.”

  She surrendered it without an argument and fell into step beside him.

  Dulcie came out as they walked across the yard. She’d brushed her hair and changed into a different shirt, but the familiar signs of the previous night’s drinking remained in her pale face. The lines in her brow and at the corners of her eyes bespoke a pounding headache. Despite himself, Rye felt a twinge of sympathy. He recalled those mornings too well.

  Madeline raced ahead and greeted her mother with a hug, which Dulcie returned. Bittersweet warmth kindled in Rye to see mother and daughter embracing. It reminded him too much of what he’d lost.

  “Thanks for taking care of Flossie, Rye,” Dulcie said.

  “She was getting impatient,” he said.

  Dulcie’s face reddened, and she reached for the pail. “I’ll take it in.”

  “I’ve got it. You might want to feed the chickens and collect the eggs.”

  She didn’t meet his gaze, but only nodded. “C’mon, Madeline. You can help.”

  The girl seemed overjoyed to be given such an important job. Rye smiled at her and carried the milk to the cabin, setting it on the porch by the door.

  A cry spun him around, his heart nearly pounding out of his chest. Madeline pressed against Dulcie’s leg, as the chickens pecked close to her feet. Rye hurried over to them.

  “You have to throw the feed out farther,” Dulcie said to her daughter. “That way they won’t go after your toes.”

  Wide-eyed and her lips turned downward, Madeline stared in fear at the hungry chickens. The rooster strutted over to the girl, so close his feathers brushed her legs. Madeline whimpered and clung to Dulcie’s waist.

  Rye marched through the chickens, scattering them in all directions. He picked up the girl, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, burrowing her face in his shoulder.

  “Why’d you do that?” Dulcie demanded.

  “She was scared.” Anger vibrated through his voice.

  “They weren’t going to hurt her. She has to get used to them.”

  “She’s barefoot, Dulcie. They could’ve drawn blood.”

  Dulcie’s gaze went to her daughter’s feet and her eyes widened. The only color in her face was two red splotches on her cheeks. “I-I didn’t—”

  “No, you didn’t.” Rye bit the inside of his cheek, torn between fury and pity for the woman. “I’ll watch Madeline until you’re done gathering eggs.”

  Temper flashed in Dulcie’s expression, but she turned away and went into the ramshackle coop to collect the eggs.

  “Help Ma get eggs?” Madeline asked, watching her mother with wounded eyes.

  Rye shook his head, his throat tight with empathy. “How about you and I go check on Jack and Smoke?”

  “I pet them?”

  “They’d be sad if you didn’t.”

  Excitement replaced Madeline’s gloominess. Rye leaned over to set her on the ground and she clung to his neck.

  “I’ll keep the hens away from you,” Rye said. “I promise.”

  After a moment, she released him, but held tightly to his hand. Rye gazed down at Madeline, humbled by her trust. It had been a long time since anyone had depended on him.

  And it felt damned good.

  “DAMNATION,” Dulcie swore, staring down at the three broken eggs. She resisted the urge to dash the basket on the ground.

  Gritting her teeth, she cleaned out the slimy mess from the basket then continued going through the piles of straw. She found three more eggs to add to the four unbroken ones and hurried out of the coop’s stuffy confines.

  Breathing in the fresh air eased the pounding in her temples only slightly and did even less for her sour mood. She searched the yard for Madeline and Rye, then the pasture, and spotted them by the livestock. Made
line was safely held in Rye’s arms.

  Dulcie swallowed back the impulse to retch. She knew how vicious the chickens and their sharp beaks could be. How many small scars did her own hands bear from them? Yet she hadn’t even thought of Madeline’s bare feet. It was Rye who’d saved her daughter from harm.

  Her throat closed and tears burned her eyes. Although she recognized her weak nature with men, she’d believed she was a good mother. Yet, in addition to the incident with the hens, Dulcie had slept through Madeline rising and leaving the cabin that morning. What if Rye hadn’t been here? Where would the girl have gone? Would she have disappeared like she’d done before the storm?

  Dulcie had drunk more whiskey than she’d intended last night. If she’d only had a few sips to ease her nerves as she’d planned, none of this would’ve happened. It was Rye’s presence that made her turn to alcohol to find sleep. If he wasn’t around, she wouldn’t have touched the whiskey, wouldn’t have overslept, and Madeline wouldn’t have been out by the chickens.

  It was all his fault.

  But if he hadn’t been here, Madeline might still be lost and maybe hurt or worse. The cabin would be falling down around them and the corral wouldn’t be standing. And her corn and wheat would rot in the fields.

  My crops. A chill swept through her. She’d put all her hopes in them—hope for new shoes, clothing, and food, as well as hope for independence. What had the storm done to them? Had the hail destroyed them? No, the stones hadn’t been that large. At least, she didn’t think so.

  Her heart beating a harsh staccato in her chest, she set the basket of eggs on the porch and started down the path that led to the fields.

  “Dulcie.” Rye, carrying Madeline on his broad shoulders, strode through the pasture toward her. She waited impatiently for him to draw near.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.