A Reason to Believe

by McKade, Maureen

  “I want to make sure the hail didn’t harm the crops,” she replied.

  “It didn’t.”

  His certain reply brought her gaze back to him. “How do you know?”

  “When I came back from town last night, I swung past them. A few cornstalks were down from the wind, but that was all the damage I saw.”

  Dulcie’s temper flared. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He shrugged, a gesture almost amusing with Madeline on his shoulders. Except Dulcie wasn’t laughing.

  “I forgot.” He perused her silently, his features a bland mask. “I’m surprised you didn’t think of it yesterday.”

  She jerked, as if he’d slapped her. Damn him for being right. And damn him for being so smug about it. Except maybe he wasn’t being smug. Maybe it was her own guilt making her feel so defensive.

  “I was worried about Madeline.” It was more or less the truth.

  “You should’ve worried more about her this morning,” he said in a low voice.

  Dulcie’s cheeks grew hot with humiliation. “I was tired.”

  He merely stared at her, challenging her to confess her lie. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Good women didn’t drink whiskey. Nor did they harbor wicked thoughts about their hired men. “I’ll take Madeline into the house.”

  After a moment, Rye leaned down and lifted Madeline off his shoulders, setting her on the ground. She turned around and held up her arms. “Want another ride.”

  Rye smiled down at the girl, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Later. Right now your ma needs your help.”

  Madeline thrust out her lower lip, but Dulcie curtailed her argument by taking her hand. “You can stir the porridge.”

  The girl brightened and followed Dulcie without balking. Dulcie was aware of Rye’s disappointment with her earlier behavior, but she told herself she didn’t care.

  What was another lie to add to her growing list?

  ELEVEN

  LATER in the day, as Dulcie worked on her hands and knees in the garden, Rye joined her.

  “Do you want me to recover that window?” he asked.

  She squinted against the sun over his shoulder. “No, I plan to get glass for it.” She lowered her gaze. “Soon as the corn and wheat are in.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He walked away.

  Dulcie scrambled to her feet. “Rye?”

  He stopped and turned.

  She approached him and took a moment to make sure Madeline still played with her doll. Shoving her hands in her back pockets, she took a deep breath. “This morning, with the chickens and Madeline . . .”

  She hoped he would say something, to spare her from having to speak the words, but he crossed his arms and simply gazed at her. Although his expression wasn’t judgmental, she knew he was measuring her, and she suspected she was coming up woefully short in his estimation. Steeling herself against his silent criticism, she plunged ahead. “I’m sorry. You were right. I shouldn’t have had her help me feed them. She’s too young.”

  “You should be apologizing to your daughter.”

  Surprised, Dulcie tried to tell if he was serious or merely unforgiving. Or different than any other man she’d known. “You’re the one who was angry.”

  “I’m not the one who was scared and crying.”

  She gauged his sincerity. “You mean that.”

  Impatience flashed across his features, but it was replaced with sudden understanding. “I’m not your father, Dulcie. You might make me mad, but I’d never harm you.”

  Her mouth opened to snap back a retort, but she abruptly closed it. How had he known she’d always been careful not to upset her father? Frank Pollard had a temper, especially when he was drinking, and she’d learned that if she angered him, an apology would usually calm him. “You’re nothing like him,” she said quietly. “Or my husband.” She glanced away, angered by the tears stinging her eyes. “Sometimes I’m glad Jerry’s gone.”

  Awkward silence surrounded them.

  “Did you love him?” Rye asked so softly she almost missed the question.

  The answer was easy. The reasons weren’t. “I thought I did. A long time ago.” She glanced at him. “Did you love your wife?”

  He nodded without hesitation. “I still do.”

  Dulcie’s heart squeezed painfully. “She was a lucky woman.”

  “If lucky is dying during childbirth when you’re twenty-three-years-old, then I suppose she was.” Bitterness bled from his words. He cleared his throat. “I’d best get back to work.”

  He spun around and nearly ran back to the cabin porch.

  Dulcie wrapped her arms around her waist, feeling a chill despite the heat of the September sun. If Jerry had loved her like Rye had loved his wife, her answer to Rye’s question would’ve been different. And Jerry would probably still be alive.

  She returned to her garden and let the scent of the rich soil and growing plants soothe her. Dirt coated her hands and got under her fingernails, but it was clean dirt. Not like the dirt that stained a person’s soul or dirt that marred a conscience. Those couldn’t be washed with soap and water, and rarely ever got clean again.

  The afternoon passed, and Dulcie’s headache leached away. With an end to the dull throbbing came another assault from her conscience. She gazed at her daughter, who helped her carry the harvested vegetables to the porch. Dulcie had made a horrible mistake last night by drinking too much whiskey. “Would you like to walk down to the creek?” she asked.

  Madeline’s eyes lit up and her face broke into a blinding smile.

  Dulcie’s own heart lightened, and she held out her hand. Madeline clasped it, and mother and daughter headed to the creek.

  RYE, his arms filled with boards, came out of the barn and paused. Dulcie and Madeline were walking down the path. For a moment, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but Dulcie was actually skipping with her daughter. He smiled, pleased to see this carefree side of Dulcie.

  Curious as to where they were going, Rye set his things down and followed. Their giggles reached him before he spotted them beside the narrow creek. He drew closer, but kept hidden in the brush some twenty-five feet from the water. Feeling slightly guilty for intruding, Rye told himself he was only watching out for Madeline. After what had happened that morning, he didn’t fully trust Dulcie.

  He knelt down and settled back on his heels as he observed their fun. Madeline stood in the shallow stream, the water at her knees. She splashed about, getting herself and her mother wet. Dulcie laughed and sat back on the bank to remove her boots and stockings. She rolled up her trousers and Rye couldn’t help but admire her slender ankles and gently curved calves. Then she removed her hat and tossed it down beside her shoes. Her hair, bound in a ponytail, spilled past her shoulders and halfway down her back. She joined her daughter in the water, laughing like a young girl.

  Blood surged through Rye’s veins. The sun kissed Dulcie’s face, and he could almost see the sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. His gaze moved downward, to the two buttons she’d opened at her collar to the tempting shadows of the slope of her breasts and the valley between them. And lower still, to her slender waist and gentle flare of her hips, down her willowy legs, exposed below her knees.

  Dulcie and Madeline scampered about in the clear water. Tendrils of hair clung to their faces but neither woman nor girl cared. For a moment out of time, their world consisted of sunshine, cool water, and each other.

  Anguish punched Rye and stole his breath. If Mary and their child had lived, this would be Rye’s world, too. Instead, he lurked on the fringes, sitting in the place of a man who’d died because of him. If what Dulcie said was true, he doubted Jerry would’ve recognized the value of this moment—a moment Rye would sell his soul to possess.

  The ache expanded, and he rubbed his fist against his chest to try to ease the pain. But he knew nothing would ever take away the horrible emptiness. Just as nothing would ever remove the brand on his should
er. Both would be with him the rest of his life.

  Rye crept away and returned to the farmyard, where he used work to forget. He focused on pulling off the crooked and rotting boards that covered the broken window. Although Dulcie had told him not to redo the repair job, he couldn’t leave it like it was. Just as he finished putting the last board in place, a man rode into the yard. Rye didn’t recognize him, but he did recognize the glint of silver on his vest. He set his hammer down and ambled out to meet the lawman.

  “Afternoon,” Rye said.

  The sheriff stared down at him. “I’m lookin’ for Mrs. McDaniel.”

  “She and her daughter went for a walk. They should be back soon.”

  “Who’re you?”

  Irritated by his officious tone, Rye replied, “Forrester, Rye Forrester. I work for Mrs. McDaniel.”

  “She didn’t mention anythin’ to me about a hired man.”

  Rye shrugged, but his voice was steely. “She probably figured it wasn’t any of your business.”

  The lawman frowned and his face reddened. “You’ve got a smart mouth on you, mister.”

  “Forrester. Mister Forrester.” Rye didn’t bother to hide his annoyance. “What is it you want to talk to Mrs. McDaniel about?”

  “That’s between her and me.”

  Rye studied his doughy face and narrow-set eyes. He doubted the sheriff had arrested anybody for anything worse than being a nuisance. “Did you find the men who hanged her father?”

  The sheriff jerked his attention back to Rye. “You from around here?”

  Rye tipped back his hat. “No, but a person can’t help but hear things.”

  “What’ve you heard?”

  “Only that Mrs. McDaniel’s father was lynched, and she says he was innocent.”

  The sheriff barked a laugh that held no humor. “Yeah, she tells everyone the same thing, but someone seen him arguin’ with Carpenter not long afore he was murdered. He was guilty.”

  “Because if he wasn’t, you let an innocent man be hanged?” Rye kept his tone mild.

  The man’s face turned crimson. “There was nothing I could do. There were too many of them.”

  “I find it damned hard to believe that in a town this small, you didn’t recognize any of them.”

  The lawman glared at him and opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  Rye spotted Dulcie and Madeline walking back from the creek. Dulcie had put her shoes and stockings back on, as well as rolled down her trousers. However, she carried her hat, and her cheeks were flushed with laughter. When she noticed the sheriff, her amusement abruptly disappeared and furrows returned to her smooth brow. Dulcie spoke to Madeline and the girl trotted off into the cabin.

  The sheriff dismounted as Dulcie approached.

  “What brings you all the way out here, Sheriff Martin?” Dulcie asked, her tone thick with sarcasm.

  Martin removed his hat, but a scowl curled his lips. “I jest wanted to let you know that I ain’t been able to find anyone who was involved with the lynchin’.” He shrugged. “I figure it’d be a waste of time to keep on lookin’. Asides, everybody but you figures he was guilty.”

  Rye, knowing Dulcie’s temper, saw it flare in the flattening of her lips and the stiffening of her shoulders.

  “You took one man’s word that Pa done it. What if that man was lying?” Dulcie demanded.

  “Why would Virgil Lamont lie?”

  Dulcie’s angry expression faltered a moment, but her challenging tone remained. “Maybe he killed Mr. Carpenter.”

  “And why would he do that?” Martin shook his head and placed his hat back on his head. “The whiskey changed your pa, Dulcie. Maybe you didn’t want to see it, but when your ma died, he didn’t do nothin’ but drink. The only way he could buy whiskey was to do odd jobs around town. Carpenter tried to get him to quit drinkin’. Your pa didn’t like his meddlin’.” Martin shrugged. “Frank was probably drunk when he killed him.”

  “He was drunk all right, but he was in our barn out cold, not in town killing anybody.” Dulcie’s voice trembled.

  “There’s only your word.”

  Rye sensed Dulcie’s anger and humiliation. “You’re saying Mrs. McDaniel’s word is no good?”

  “I’m sayin’ that Frank was her father and she’d say anything to protect him.” Martin glanced at Dulcie almost apologetically. “And herself.”

  Dulcie spun away.

  Rye watched her leave then turned back to the sheriff. “Instead of looking for those who lynched her father, maybe you should be looking for the real murderer.”

  “That’d be a waste of time, Forrester.” Martin shifted his weight from one foot to the other. When he looked at Rye, his face held regret and something more. “Me and Dulcie went to school together. She was the prettiest girl in school, but she had some of her pa’s wild streak in her. She had this restlessness in her. When she run away to marry the soldier fellah, everybody knew why.” His face reddened slightly.

  It took Rye a few moments to figure out what the sheriff was telling him. Knowing Jerry, it shouldn’t have surprised Rye that he didn’t wait for a wedding to bed Dulcie. However, he suspected Dulcie wasn’t unwilling. She’d wanted to leave Locust, and she’d found the easiest way to do that.

  He shook aside the thought. That was part of the past. “Do you mind if I nose around a bit?”

  Martin studied him. “You’d be wastin’ your time.”

  “It’s mine to waste.”

  “Suit yourself.” He mounted his horse and gazed down at Rye. “But don’t be surprised if folks ain’t willing to talk to you.” The lawman rode away.

  “He’s a jackass,” Dulcie said.

  He turned to find her standing behind him. “He said you two went to school together.”

  She shrugged. “You grow up in this town and everybody knows everybody.”

  He considered getting her reaction to what else the sheriff had said, but rejected it. He’d made his own share of mistakes with his life. How could he blame Dulcie for the same? There was no evidence now to suggest she was a loose woman, and Jerry had never accused her of being unfaithful, although he had often been.

  “He’s giving up, isn’t he?” Dulcie asked.

  “Sounds like it.”

  “He always did take the easy way. He used to cheat on tests in school.”

  Rye couldn’t help but chuckle. “I have to admit I might have done that once or twice myself.”

  Dulcie allowed a wry smile. “I guess we all have. It’s just that . . .”

  “You want your father’s name cleared,” Rye finished softly.

  “Yes.”

  “I told the sheriff I was going to ask around, find out if anyone else might have had a grudge against this Carpenter.”

  “You believe me?”

  The hope in her eyes was almost too painful for Rye to bear. “I believe that you believe he was innocent.”

  She searched his face, and he forced himself not to squirm under her scrutiny. She sighed and looked away. “I can’t blame you. You’ve only heard that he was a no-account drunk.”

  “I admit I don’t think much of a man who would let a place like this go to ruin.” He looked around the farm deliberately. “But there’s a lot of difference between being lazy and being a murderer.”

  “Calling Pa lazy was about the best I could do, too, but he’d never kill anyone.” Determination gleamed in her eyes. “That I’m certain of.”

  Loyalty was an admirable trait, but blind loyalty could be dangerous. He hoped Dulcie knew the difference.

  DULCIE didn’t sleep well, but she managed a night without the assistance of whiskey. She awakened early and instead of lying in bed to toss and turn for another hour, she rose and put on coffee. Once it was ready, she poured herself a cup and carried it outside to drink in the hazy sunrise.

  She sat sideways on the step so she could examine the repaired porch. Even though her feelings were mixed up concerning her hired man, she had to admit R
ye knew how to wield a hammer. Every task he’d undertaken, he’d completed, and his work was better than her father could’ve done when he was sober. She was damned lucky the day Rye Forrester had shown up looking for work, even though she wondered why he’d chosen her place. If he was thinking of taking advantage of her, he’d done nothing to further that goal.

  Except gain my trust.

  She tried to ignore the voice of suspicion, but she knew enough about people to know nothing was ever free. There was always a price, and she doubted Rye’s price was a room in a leaky barn and three meals eaten on the porch. Yet if there was more, she had yet to see any sign of it.

  The barn door swung open and Rye stepped out. Although he was dressed, his shirt was unbuttoned and untucked, the tail fluttering about his lean hips. The broad expanse of his chest narrowed to his flat belly. Heat flared in Dulcie and she shifted, bringing her legs together.

  Rye lifted his head and looked right at her, as if sensing her presence. He froze, like a buck scenting a doe. Dulcie could do nothing but hold his gaze as her stomach clenched and her breathing grew more rapid.

  Suddenly, he returned to the barn. Dulcie gasped, as if she’d been holding her breath, which she might have done. His masculinity frightened her, but not nearly as much as her own passion. Was it only physical attraction? Dealing with her yearnings was difficult enough, but what if there was more to it than lust? If she cared for him, it would be more difficult to resist, and twice as dangerous to give in.

  Rye reemerged from the barn, but this time his shirt was buttoned and tucked into his trousers. As he sluiced water across his face by the well, Dulcie rose and went back into the cabin. She should milk Flossie, but it was still early enough that she could enjoy another cup of coffee. With Rye.

  Ignoring the warning voice inside her, Dulcie refilled her cup and poured coffee for Rye. She carried them onto the porch and sat back down on the step, deliberately setting Rye’s cup in plain view.

  After a moment of startled hesitation, Rye dried his face and ambled over to join her.

  “Morning, Rye,” she said, forcing herself to look up and meet his eyes. He didn’t wear his hat and water droplets in his hair glinted in the morning sunlight.