KeepingFaithCole (12 page)

“Yes, can I help you?” Instead of looking at the boy, she
lifted her gaze to scan the horizon, searching yet for any sign of a horse and
rider.

“Message for Miss McIntyre.” The boy held up an envelope.

“I’m Miss McIntyre.” She reached for the note, but the boy
drew it back and held out an empty hand. Palm up. “Wait here.” A moment later
she returned to the doorway, a copper coin clutched in her fist. She placed it
in his hand. “Are you supposed to wait for a reply?” she asked.

“No, Miss McIntyre.” He thrust the letter toward her, then
when she accepted it, he tipped his cap and turned away.

Lucille tore the envelope open, her heart pounding.
Messengers never brought good news, only word of misfortunes, accidents—or
worse.

As she pulled the paper out, she saw the carefully-formed
block letters, recognizing at once Tom’s neat but labored script. He’d made
such wondrous progress in a short time. Although Lucille didn’t feel she should
take credit for his success, it nevertheless made her proud.

But why would Tom be sending a message? Her heartbeat
quickened.

She read the note—only a few lines—then crumpled the paper.
He would have to put his studies aside for a time, he wrote. No further
explanation was given.

Maybe he felt he’d learned enough already.

Or maybe he no longer wanted to spend his evenings with her.

Lucille sighed. She would miss Tom.

At least, she still had Faith.

Chapter Eight

The afternoon sun hung low in the October sky, a huge
red ball looming at the edge of the horizon. Autumn had always been Tom’s
favorite time of year. The searing heat of earlier months had passed now. While
bitter cold, ice, and snow would soon threaten the land, this glorious golden moment
in between summer and winter always made him feel alive. Today, perhaps, even
more so than usual.

He rode slowly toward home, satisfied at having
completed another long, grueling shift out on the range. He’d hired on for the
fall drive at the J Bar K, the ranch owned by Joshua and Kat Barron. Gustavo,
his old
amigo
from the Flying W, had
also left Wes Randall’s employ and signed up at the
Barrons
’
ranch. Although Tom missed having time for his lessons with Lucille, it was
good to be working hard, and good to see Goose again too.

For the last several days they’d worked alongside the
other hands, riding out to round up the cattle and bring them into the corrals.
Physical exertion strengthened a man in many ways. Not just his body, but his
spirit.

Especially his spirit. At least, when that hard work led
to real possibilities for the future.

Goose had taken him aside, told him about a band of wild
horses he had spotted out in the rocky hills to the west. He’d seen them
several times.

Thinking now about the possibilities, Tom leaned back in
the saddle and grinned. Although he had yet to lay eyes on the wild herd
himself, he trusted the Mexican. They were two different men from two different
lands, but they shared the same dreams—dreams of building a future for
themselves and for those they loved.

As soon as time allowed, he and Goose would ride
together and scout the area. If they could find those mustangs and trap them,
they could drive them to market and sell them at a good profit. With his
knowledge of horses, Tom had no doubt they could succeed in the enterprise.
Maybe Wes Randall had done him a favor by firing him. Now he could utilize his
skills for his own benefit instead of working to make another man rich.

As Tom
neared the cabin he heard shouting, and an uneasy feeling settled over him. He
couldn’t make out the words, but he could sure enough distinguish the voices.
One belonged to his mother, the other to
Abner
Kellerman. From the sound of it, they were both liquored up on tarantula juice
and having themselves one hell of a row.

Tom
urged Dandy, his big blue roan, into a canter and rode on, but before he
reached the cabin, Kellerman’s old buggy came bouncing over the ground, passing
within a few yards of him. The doctor kept his gaze straight ahead, not even
acknowledging Tom.

Ahead,
he could hear his mother howling like some banshee. Obviously she’d had a spat
with
Abner
. Tom’s good mood quickly soured. Even on
the best days, his mother wasn’t all that pleasant. After a fight with her only
friend, she wouldn’t be fit to be around. For a moment, he considered riding
right back into Sunset, heading for the Red Mule, and having a few drinks of
his own, but that’s more than likely where
Abner
would end up. Given a choice, Tom would prefer not to spend time with either
one of the two, but all things considered, he’d rather put up with his mother
than listen to Kellerman’s side of the argument. Tom didn’t much care for
taking sides in whatever disagreement they’d had but felt obligated to stand
with his mother. He’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t.

Her
frantic cries stopped, and a sense of dread settled over him. The closer he got
to the cabin, the more ill at ease he became. Even the air seemed to have a
peculiar feel about it—heavy and oppressive. The skies had turned dark as the
sun slipped below the horizon. Tom slowed his horse to a walk as he rode into
the yard. In the gloom of the late evening shadows, he almost didn’t see the
body sprawled out on the ground. He jerked back hard on the reins.

“Ma! What
the hell happened?”

She lay
spread-eagled, face down in the mud. He called to her a second time, but still
she made no movement. For a moment Tom wondered if she were dead or alive.
Maybe he ought to be ashamed that he felt no emotion either way. But then she
lifted her head, opened one eye, and grunted a few unintelligible words.

“I’m
not picking you up,” he called as he rode on toward the corral. “Far as I’m
concerned, you can stay there and rot.”

He took
his own sweet time unsaddling Dandy, rubbing him down, and filling the trough.
Now and then he glanced over his shoulder, wondering why he bothered. In her
condition, Ma wasn’t going anywhere, at least, not anytime soon.

When he
came from the corral, she was still prone, her body shivering from the chill
night air.

“Damn
it, Ma. You can’t stay out here. Get up and get inside.”

“He’s
gone,” she whined. “I tried to stop him. He just drove away. Said he’s never
coming back.”

Obviously
she wasn’t going to move on her own. Tom crouched down beside her.

“Forget
him. Come on, let’s get you into the house.” The stench coming from her body
gagged him as he lifted her up in his arms. Sweat, dirt, and cheap booze came
together to produce a nauseating odor. She coughed, her mouth hung open, and
Tom had to turn his face away from the foul-smelling breath. “You’re drunk
again. When are you ever going to learn, Ma?”

Fighting
to control the fury growing inside of him, he tossed her limp form onto the
bed, then yanked a quilt from a pile of dirty blankets and threw it over her.

She
pushed at the covers with her hands and struggled to sit up.

“Tommy,
I got to—” Her words ended in another fit of coughing. She leaned her head over
the side of the bed and hurled a wad of spit onto the floor.

“Damn
it, Ma! Stop it. You’re disgusting, and I’m tired of cleaning up after you.”

“Got to
get up.” She wheezed out the words in between more coughing. “Gotta clean up
this place. Gotta get my baby back.”

Tom
placed a hand at his mother’s cheek. Her skin was afire with fever. Her
breathing came out labored and harsh.

“You’re
not doing anything.” He pushed her down onto the bed. “You’re sick, Ma.”

Sick.
Drunk. Delirious. How was he supposed to deal with all of it at once?

“When’s
the baby coming home, Tommy?” She grabbed at his sleeve. “That baby loves me.
She’s the only one who loves me.” She burst into sobs, her shoulders quivering.
“I thought
Abner
loved me, but he’s like all the rest
of them. You know how men are. Just take what they can get.” Tears streamed
from her eyes.

“Hush,
Ma. I’m sure he’ll be back.” He had no right to say such a thing, but his
mother needed whatever reassurance he could offer. In her delirium, she
wouldn’t remember a word he said or any promises he made.

“I
don’t care about him anymore. I don’t care if he comes back or not.” She
sniffled and burrowed deeper into the covers. “I just want my baby. When’s my
baby coming home, Tommy?” She reached for his hands, but the effort proved too
much for her. Her arms fell limp at her sides and she moaned softly. “I need my
baby.”

Tom
wiped a hand across his brow. Making false promises—even to a sick woman who
wouldn’t remember a word he said—didn’t set right with him.

No more
lies, he decided. No more covering up the truth. It was like trying to cover up
the smell of liquor. Ma attempted to hide it with cheap cologne or peppermint
drops, but that only made it stink even more. Same with the words a person
spoke. Trying to sweeten them didn’t mask the ugly truth. “You’re damned lucky
I’m a patient man, otherwise I’d throw your ass out of here so fast, your head
would spin. Not that it’s not already spinning,” he said, noting the incoherent
look in her eyes. “I know you’re sick, awful sick, and I suppose I ought to
feel really bad about that. Maybe I ought to even worry about whether you’re
going to live or die, but frankly, right now, I’m not sure I care. You’d be a
hell of a lot less trouble if you were dead.” He glared down at her, his
emotions surging. “You’re still so damned drunk, you don’t even know what’s
going on around you. You don’t know a thing I’m saying.”

Whiskey
bottles lay scattered across the room, and the smell of unwashed bodies from
the bed brought back memories from the past too shameful to bear. As a boy,
he’d been helpless, unable to put a stop to the awful scenes he’d witnessed,
the appalling sights he’d seen, the reprehensible sounds he’d heard.

Now, a
grown man, he was in a position to take action, to unleash all the agony and
put a stop to the misery. Tom grabbed a whiskey bottle from the bureau and
slammed it against the wall. It shattered into thousands of sharp-edged pieces,
each separate one another reminder of disgrace and unutterable sorrow. He
hurled another bottle, and another. The stench of whiskey rose on the air like
the perfume of a two-dollar whore.

“Tommy,
you’re breaking—” Too weak to talk, his mother tried to sit up, then fell back
into the bed again, the effort far more than she could muster.

“Better
these bottles than your neck, that’s all I’ve got to say.”

“Please…don’t…”

“Ma,
you’ve had enough. Don’t you understand?” His fury spent, he sank down onto the
foot of the bed. “Listen to me. If you want to get Faith back, things have to
change around here. You’ve got to stop drinking. There’s no way we can keep
that baby if you’re getting drunk every day.”

She
wasn’t listening. Her eyes closed and she drifted off into a restless sleep.
Her son stayed at her bedside, pulling blankets up over her when she shook with
chills, then wiping her brow with a wet rag when the fever rose again. He did
his best to get her to drink a little broth, but she clamped her mouth shut and
shook her head.

Toward
dawn, he dozed off for a few minutes, then came wide awake when his mother’s
keening voice shattered his dreams.

“She
stole her! That awful girl stole my baby.”

“Ma,
stay still.” Tom jumped up and placed strong hands on his mother’s shoulders to
keep her in her bed. “You’re sick. You’re talking crazy.”

He
scratched at the day’s growth of beard. Probably looked a bit scraggly at the
moment, but shaving his face was the last thing on his mind. Damn it, but what
was he supposed to do with his mother now? The thought of leaving her alone
worried him, but he had to summon help.

“I want
you to stay in bed. I’m riding into town. I’ll get Mrs. Phillips and have her
come out here to take a look at you.”

“No.
Get
Abner
.” The words wheezed out between labored
breaths. “Please, Tommy. I want to see him.”

Did she
remember the quarrel they’d had? Did it matter? Obviously not. For that matter,
he probably wouldn’t remember it either, judging from the amount of alcohol the
pair of them had consumed.

His
mother might not make it through another day, and if she died now, he would be
responsible. He was the one who’d left her lying out in the cold, wet mud. He’d
been the one too angry to help, too bitter to care.

Maybe
it was too late to save her, but he’d do his best to ease her aching heart.

“All
right, I’ll get
Abner
. I’ll bring him back.” Tom
planted a kiss on her burning forehead. “Hang on, Ma, please.”

* * *
*

“Kellerman!
Get your sorry ass off that damned barstool.” Tom jerked the collar of the
man’s suit-jacket, and sure enough, the fellow tumbled off the seat. He would
have hit the floor if Tom hadn’t caught him. “I don’t know what’s gone on
between you and my mother, and to tell the truth, I don’t care. Whether you
love each other, or hate each other, it don’t make me no never mind, but
whatever you’ve done, you’ve got her mighty upset.”

“All I
did was speak my mind.” Kellerman held a hand up in front of his face as if to
ward off any potential blows. “Just told her she’d best forget about getting
that babe back.”

“Like I
said, it doesn’t matter to me. Only thing concerns me right now is that Ma’s
sick. She’s barely able to breathe, and I’m not sure she’s going to make it.
For some reason, she wants to see you. Now, sober up, and get out to the house
before it’s too late.”

At the
mention of his mother’s perilous condition, Tom noticed, Kellerman’s entire
being changed. He’d heard of men getting real sober real fast when a situation
demanded it, but he’d never seen it actually happen until now.

“What
kind of sickness? Give me the details, Tom.” Kellerman took him by the arm and
all but dragged him along as he headed for the door. “Tell me all you can.”

Grateful
for the man’s quick response, Tom filled the physician in on when, where, and
how he’d found his mother.

“Fever?”
Kellerman queried.

“Yeah,
I think so, but then she gets to shaking, says she’s cold.”

“What
about a cough?”

Tom
grimaced. “Yeah, nasty cough.”