KeepingFaithCole (2 page)

With his thumb, Tom wiped a
tear from her cheek.

“I know I made life hell for
you and Sally when you were coming up, and I’m sorry for it. The last few years
have been hard ones for me, but in a lot of ways, they’ve been good ones, too.
Good, because I’ve learned from them.” She lowered her gaze. “I’ve changed,
Tommy, and I intend to do right.” Her breath shuddered, and she looked up
again. “Just keep that damned, self-righteous minister away from me, and give
me one bottle of good rye whiskey. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Ma, I—”

“Hush, baby, let me finish.”
She stroked his callused hand with her long, knobby fingers. “Just let me sit
in my rocking chair at the end of each night, have a little nip of whiskey, and
I’ll be all right. I’ll get up every morning, and I’ll go to work. And I
promise you, I’ll work right hard at that shop, doing whatever I’m asked to do.
I’ll make you proud of me.” She leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. “I had
no right to expect you to give me another chance. But you did.”

He held her close. “It’s all
going to work out.” For the first time since he’d seen his mother standing at
the stage depot that afternoon, Tom actually believed it
could
work. And if he could find Sally, they could be a real family
at last.

* * * *

Too nervous to do any fancy
stitching, Lucille McIntyre held a tin canister filled with buttons on her lap
and pretended to sort through them. She wasn’t accomplishing anything, just
passing time. She glanced up, looked around, then tried to return her attention
to her task. She couldn’t concentrate.

From across the shop, she
heard her mother’s soft laughter.

“Watched pots never boil,
dear.”

“I’m not watching any pots.”
Lucille frowned.

“No, but you’re sure keeping
a close eye on that door.”

“I know.” With an anxious
sigh, Lucille turned toward her mother. She hesitated, unsure whether she
should speak her mind or remain silent. “Do you think we’re doing the right
thing?” she asked at last.

For a moment, mother and
daughter looked at one another. Neither seemed to be too certain. Finally, the
older woman nodded.

“Yes, I think we are.”
Although a smile appeared on her face, her voice showed her doubts. “It’s our
Christian duty to help where we’re able.”

Lucille wished she could be
as accepting as her mother, but she had too many misgivings. “I’ve heard things
about her, Mama. Things we didn’t know when we offered to help.” She clutched
the tin canister with a fierce grip. “The truth is, I don’t think Mrs.
Henderson is a good woman.”

“It’s not our place to judge
others.” The smile faded from Olive McIntyre’s face. “And you know better than
to listen to gossip. It’s evil. Remember our last meeting?”

She referred to the ladies’
society at church. In addition to the charitable work they performed, they met
regularly to discuss righteous behavior. Lucille and her mother both attended
regularly. The previous week, the lesson had come from St. Paul who, in his
letter to Titus, taught “to speak evil of no one, to avoid quarreling, to be
gentle, and to show perfect courtesy toward all people.”

A good lesson. Definitely
one worth remembering.

Chastised, Lucille cast her
gaze down to the buttons once more, then jumped when the bell above the shop
door jangled. The canister fell from her lap, scattering its colorful contents
across the floor.

“I’m sorry, Mama. I’ll pick
them up.” She knelt down and began gathering the buttons with shaking hands.
She wished she could settle her nerves and not always be so edgy, but too many
things had happened in
 
recent
months. Too many
bad
things.

Ever since that horrible
winter afternoon when her father got the crazy notion of stringing garlands of
tinsel to decorate the mercantile they owned in celebration of the Christmas
holiday, then fell to his death when he lost his footing on the icy rooftop,
Lucille’s life had become a nightmare of apprehension and uncertainty.

Her mother had made one poor
decision after another. She’d sold the mercantile to a fast-talking businessman
who assured her she was making a good deal. Once the creditors were paid and
the legal proceedings completed, however, there was barely any money. The last
of it had run out weeks before. To make ends meet, Lucille and her mother
turned to their talent for sewing. Their knowledge and skill served them well
in the little shop they set up.

“Don’t worry about those
buttons now.” Her mother’s voice held an unusual sharpness. “Get up off the
floor and come greet our visitors.”

She sucked in a breath, and
when a pair of big leather boots came into her line of vision, Lucille slowly
lifted her gaze.

“Can I help you, Miss
Lucille?” Tom Henderson held out a thick, callused hand.

“No, I’m fine.” Shaking her
head, she clambered to her feet, then brushed the dirt and dust from her somber
black skirts. How incongruous it looked to see the rough, solid-built cowpoke
there in the dressmaking shop amidst the delicate laces and wispy fabrics. All
Lucille could do was stand and stare at him while her heart pounded out a crazy
beat. She’d never really noticed how handsome the man was.

Finally she forced herself
to look past him to the tall blonde woman who stood near the door. With another
deep breath to steady herself, Lucille approached her.

Her mother reached out and
placed a hand on her arm. “Remember what we spoke about earlier,” she said in a
low voice.

“Yes, Mama.” She would be
kind, she would be courteous, she would be gentle and polite. Unsure, however,
of precisely what to say or how to proceed, she stepped closer and extended her
hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Henderson. I do hope you had an
agreeable journey.”

The woman glanced down at
the outstretched hand but chose to ignore it. Her pale blue eyes narrowed. Her
nostrils flared, and her lips curled. She turned toward her son. “Likes to put
on airs, doesn’t she? Does she think she’s better than the rest of us?”

Tom’s face colored. “Ma,
mind your manners,” he said in a rough voice, nudging her with a crooked elbow.
“This is Miss Lucille McIntyre. And that’s her mother, Olive.” He gestured
toward her. “These ladies have been kind enough to offer you employment. I
expect you to treat them with respect.”

Mrs. Henderson nodded. Her
shoulders sagged, her chin drooped, and a heavy breath shuddered from her
lungs. The bluster had been an act, Lucille guessed. The woman put it on much
like a man might carry a sword and a shield to ward off danger. Or maybe it was
intended to prevent people from getting too close. Given what she’d heard about
Charlotte Henderson recently, she suspected the latter might account for the
defensive attitude.

“I don’t know,” Charlotte
said, her gaze still downcast. “I don’t think I belong in a place like this.”

Emotion stirred within
Lucille’s heart. “You’ll do fine, I’m sure.” Instinctively she reached out and
touched the woman’s shoulder.

Charlotte jerked away. “Get
your hands off me.”

“I’m sorry.” Lucille took a
quick step back. “Would you like me to show you around?” She gestured toward
the neat displays of laces, ribbons, fabrics, and notions. “We provide a full
line of dressmaking and sewing services. We do mending, as well,” she added.

“How’s business going?” Tom
asked.

“I’m quite pleased. We sewed
several wedding gowns last month, and now, with the statehood celebration
coming up, we’ve stayed very busy. All the ladies in town are wanting fancy
dresses for the dance.”

Lucille’s mother came to
join them. “Can you sew, Mrs. Henderson?” she asked in a hopeful voice.

Charlotte shook her head.
“Somebody tried to teach me once, but I didn’t care to learn.”

Lucille looked to her mother
again, her expression asking,
Do you
still think this is a good idea?
Her mother turned away. No, it wasn’t a
good idea. From a practical standpoint, they didn’t need any help at the shop
and couldn’t really afford to pay Charlotte more than a few pennies a week.

But helping Charlotte
Henderson wasn’t meant to be practical. It was charity, a service to the community.

“I’m sure we can find little
tasks for you to do.” Lucille took a deep breath. “Mother will show you around
the shop now. I’d be happy to do it, but I need to pick up these buttons.” She
gestured toward the spilled tin.

She dropped to her knees,
then, as soon as her mother and Charlotte were out of earshot, she jumped up
again, grabbed Tom by the sleeve, and yanked hard. “This isn’t going to work.”
Lucille had never been one for sugar-coating the truth. If something needed to
be said…well, best to get it out, not cover it up with pretty words and
sweet-sounding phrases. “Your mother’s got no interest in helping out here.
She’s got no skills, either.”

“You knew that when you
offered to hire her,” Tom pointed out. He stooped down and began gathering up
the bright, colorful buttons. Lucille stared at the size of his hands,
marveling that he could hold so many of the fasteners in his palm. He handed
them to her, and the touch of his flesh on hers sent strange sensations darting
through her. She dropped nearly all of the buttons again.

“Oh, dear. I don’t know why
I’m so clumsy today. What were you saying?” she asked, unable to recall the
words he’d just spoken. Why did the man have to turn those gorgeous blue eyes
on her?

She’d never really paid much
attention to Tom Henderson before, never really thought of him as anything more
than a roughneck cowpoke. An overgrown boy, she’d often called him. But there
wasn’t anything
boyish
about the
broad-shouldered, well-muscled man who stood before her. Her breath caught in
her throat.

“Please, Lucille,” he said,
bending his head close. “She needs work, something to occupy her time. Even if
it’s nothing more than picking up buttons.” He nodded toward his mother. “It’s
not about the money, you know. It’s about helping her feel useful.”

She understood. Still, she
hesitated. Lucille pressed her lips together and made herself turn away from
Tom. “I do want to help,” she said, “but…”

But, what? She’d given her
word, and she’d never been one to go back on promises she’d made. Plain and
simple, she had no way out. Of course, from the looks of things, Charlotte
Henderson wouldn’t last more than a few days at the shop. The smile returned to
Lucille’s face.

“All right, we’ll give it a
try. We’ll see how it goes.”

She expected the man to step
away now that they’d reached an agreement, but he didn’t move. Instead, he
stood right where he was, towering over her. His broad grin brought dimples to
his cheeks.

“Thank you, Miss Lucille.”
He took off his hat and held it, nervously turning it in his hands. He still
made no move to step away.

“Is there something else?”

“Actually, well, yeah, there
was something I wanted to ask you about.”

Lucille glowered at him. Their
business was done, time was wasting, and she needed to get back to work. She
didn’t care for idle chat. “Yes, what is it?”

“Will you go to the
statehood dance with me, Miss Lucille?”

She leaned back, tilting her
chin up so she could look into his face. He couldn’t possibly be serious. “I
can’t do that. I’m not going to the dance. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Why not?”

“My mother and I are still
in mourning.” She clutched her heavy black skirts and shook them to make her
point. Grim black boots poked out from beneath the hem. Although no one could
see the thick stockings or the underthings she wore, they, too, were black.

Tom put his hat on again,
then rubbed his jaw.

“Grief can’t last forever,
Miss Lucille. It’s sad that your father met with that unfortunate accident, but
don’t you think it’s time to move on?”

“It’s barely been six
months. The customary period for mourning is at least a year.”

“Statehood only comes along
once. It’d be a real shame to miss it because of some old-fashioned custom.” He
stepped closer. “You know, you’d look so much prettier, and so much happier, if
you weren’t wearing those mourning clothes.” His seductive blue-eyed gaze swept
over her with obvious interest. He licked his lips.

Lucille’s ears burned.
Although his remark sounded innocent on the surface, she picked up definite
undercurrents. Her throat went dry, her legs turned weak, and her hands shook.

“I think you’d better go
now.” She turned away from him.

“I remember the fancy
dresses you used to wear,” he told her. “And I remember how you used to laugh
and smile. Sad thing to see how much you’ve changed. I was hoping maybe I could
show you a good time. It might cheer you up, you know.”

He didn’t deserve a
response, Lucille decided. Or maybe it was just the fact that she couldn’t have
uttered a word if she’d tried. With a ruffle and a flourish she gathered her
gloomy black skirts in her hands and whirled around. The heels of her boots
click-clacked over the worn hardwood floor.

She wanted nothing more to
do with Tom Henderson.

Or with his mother. She’d
find good reason to fire the woman soon enough. She’d be done with the both of
them.

Chapter Two

Tom kept his gaze fastened
upon Lucille as she hurried away. Give her time, he told himself. She’d stop,
she’d turn, and she’d look him over once again. All the women did.

He leaned back, crossed his
arms over his broad chest, and waited.

Lucille kept right on
walking.

Well, hell! It’s not like he
gave a damn about her anyway. His only reason for asking her out was pity,
plain and simple. He hated to see a pretty girl get so down-at-the-mouth about
life. Inviting her to the dance was his way of trying to brighten her day, give
her something to feel good about.

Yeah, keep at it, and maybe you’ll come to believe your own lies.

“You ready to go, Ma?” he
asked. His throat felt as dry as dusty straw, and he had a hard time swallowing
down his disappointment. Ignoring Lucille—it made him feel better—he aimed his
most-charming smile at Olive McIntyre. “What time you want Ma here tomorrow?”

“We open at nine each
morning, so—”

Lucille whirled around. “No,
that’s too late,” she called out, her voice a bit louder than necessary. All
heads turned her way. She glanced down, brushed a hand over her black skirts,
then lifted her chin. “I want to open the shop early tomorrow. What with all
the excitement about the dance and so many orders for gowns…”

Her smile looked a bit
forced, Tom noted, and she suddenly seemed at a loss for words.

Maybe it had something to do
with the way he was staring at her. He liked seeing her flustered, liked the
color it brought to her cheeks. In some crazy way, it helped ease the sting of
her rejection.

His mother had come to stand
beside him now. She placed a hand on his arm. With the grace befitting a true
lady, she inquired in a quiet voice, “What time should I arrive for work, Miss McIntyre?”

“Eight o’clock. No, make it
seven.”

“Seven? Isn’t that a bit
early?”

“If you’re going to work for
me, you’ll need to follow my instructions. Seven o’clock,” she repeated.

His mother’s grip on his arm
tightened, a sure sign of her growing anger. To her credit, she held her
emotions in check and put up no fuss.

“All right, seven it is.
I’ll see you then.”

Tom tipped his hat, opened
the door, and escorted his mother from the little shop.

All things considered, he’d
come out all right. Like his mother, he’d managed to rein in his emotions,
hadn’t let Lucille see how much her rebuff bothered him. He’d saved face, and
he ought to be mighty proud of himself.

But damned if it didn’t
hurt, all the same.

“How did I do?” his mother
asked. “Was I polite enough? Did I kowtow enough to please you?”

“Ma, you did good, so don’t
start trouble now.”

“You’re right.” She let out
a long, slow exhalation. “She’s an unhappy one, isn’t she?”

“Lucille, you mean?”

“Can’t recall ever seeing a
girl her age look so puckered up and sour.”

Tom linked arms with his
mother, and together they strolled along the boardwalk. “The last few months
have been rough on her.”

“Yes, well, we all have our
sorrows, don’t we?”

“That we do,” he replied.
“Indeed, that we do.”

Neither spoke another word,
made mention of drowning those sorrows in a shot of whiskey, or even looked to
one another, but somehow, they both seemed to know exactly where they were
going.

“One drink, that’s all,” she
assured her son as he pushed open the swinging doors of the Red Mule Saloon.

As a rule, ladies weren’t
allowed in the Red Mule, but his mother had never been a lady in her life, and
Tom would bet a week’s wages that nobody would raise a ruckus about him
bringing her in. He was right. A few gentlemen—as they liked to be called—turned
toward the pair with curious eyes but turned away again just as quickly.

His mother headed straight
to the bar, took a seat, and immediately struck up a conversation with the
drunken fellow at her side.

Abner
Kellerman.

Tom chuckled. He couldn’t
remember ever setting foot inside the Red Mule without seeing
Abner
Kellerman seated on the same damned stool, slouched
over the bar. The man never moved, rarely spoke, and as often as not, fell
asleep with his drink in his hand. Jake Walker, the owner, never disturbed the
man’s slumbers. When closing time came each night, he’d round up a couple
well-muscled cowboys or miners to carry
Abner
home to
his own bed.

It always puzzled Tom how
anybody—drunk or not—could sleep through a night’s entertainment at the saloon.
The Red Mule put on a fine show. Dancing girls kicked up their heels to the
music of a honky-tonk piano while nattily-dressed gamblers competed in games of
chance. Faro, poker, and three-card
monte
were always
popular. A man who played his cards wisely might get lucky in more ways than
one and win enough to pay for a different sort of pleasure when the music ended
and the dancing was over.

For all the clamor and
excitement of the nights, the Red Mule offered its patrons little by day. Cheap
whiskey still flowed from the taps, but instead of laughter and songs, the few
voices were hushed and low. The gaming tables sat empty, their chairs upturned,
and the hanging lamps above them unlit.

With his mood already low
after his unsuccessful encounter with Lucille, Tom felt the gloom and grayness
of the saloon more keenly than usual. At his age, he’d already learned that
only a fool—like
Abner
Kellerman—would truly believe
a drink or two would make a man feel better, but like countless fools before
him, he insisted on proving the fact time and again.

The worst part about sitting
in a saloon on a hot summer’s afternoon was the way it caused a man to start
thinking. Something about the unaccustomed quiet made it too easy to hear all
those thoughts inside his head.

Thoughts like why he’d
bothered asking Lucille about the statehood celebration. It had nothing to do
with pity. Not a thing to do with feeling sorry for her or wanting to cheer her
up. As much as it pained him to admit it, he’d asked Lucille because he liked
her. He’d always liked the dark-haired girl, who—up until the past year—had
been counted the prettiest and wittiest young lady around the town of Sunset
and its environs.

Oh, how she used to laugh! A
smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at the thought. Even now, he could
recall the lilting sound of her laughter, so sweet, so enticing.
 
It had always made him yearn for a chance
to spend a little time with her.

Of course, she’d never given
him that chance. In the past, too many other young men—men with more brains,
men with more money, men with more possibilities—had vied for her affection.
Whatever her reasons, she’d turned them all down.

Now, she’d found herself in
far different circumstances. Puckered up and sour. Yes, indeed, his mother had
called it right. Even more, Tom suspected, the once-popular Miss McIntyre might
now be a bit lonely and forlorn.

Maybe that was why he’d
hoped she might at least consider his invitation. Yet, all along, he’d known
she would turn him down.

Was he a glutton for punishment?
Did he like making himself miserable? That’s what Caleb Bryant, another cowpoke
at the Flying W and Tom’s only true friend, had told him once. Didn’t make much
sense, really.

Too much to think about, too
much to deal with.

Determined to put Lucille
out of mind, Tom followed his mother’s lead and headed for the bar.

“Afternoon, Doc.” He placed
a hand on
Abner
Kellerman’s shoulder. Although the
old man was officially the only full-fledged doctor in Sunset, he hadn’t done
more than wash a kid’s scraped knee or maybe pass out a packet of headache
powders for going on twenty years. His wife’s death had utterly destroyed him,
leaving him unable to cope with his own problems, let alone cure anyone else’s
ailments and illnesses.

“Good to see you, Tom.”
Abner
rarely looked up from his drink, but out of the
corner of his eye, he must have caught sight of the tall woman on the next
barstool. His chin rose, and his bleary, bloodshot eyes widened. “And a very
good day to you.” He lifted his glass. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Take it easy, Doc. She’s my
mother.” Tom nudged him.

“Get away from me, cowboy.
I’d rather look at her. She’s prettier than you.” Doc grinned.

From the other side of the
bar, Jake Walker whistled. An inveterate gambler by night, he tended the bar
during the day. Tom sometimes wondered when the fellow ever slept.

“Now, that’s a first,” the
owner said, extending a hand toward Charlotte. “Mighty nice to see you, ma’am.
Just so you know, you’re the first female who’s ever got that fellow to speak
more than a word or two.”

Charlotte came alive under
the attention. She laughed more, smiled more, kept up a lively conversation.
She said nothing about prison, nothing about the manslaughter charges she’d
been convicted for, and thank the Lord, she didn’t mention her former
livelihood.

More relaxed and able at
last to put Lucille from his mind, Tom swallowed down his first drink then
ordered another round. After all, the day could easily be counted as special; a
bit of celebration was in order.

“This will be the first time
Ma and I have been together for years,” he mentioned, smiling at her. No matter
what his head told him, in his heart Tom knew she truly meant to keep her word,
to do right. She’d get up each morning, she’d work each day, and she’d do her
best. “Only thing missing now is my little sister, Sally. I’d like to find her,
just don’t know for sure where to start.”

Abner
Kellerman’s face grew serious. “I’ve got some connections, you know. Maybe I
could make a few inquiries.”

Despite doubts that the
drunken doctor’s efforts would be of any use, Tom nodded and clapped the old
fellow on the back. “It would be appreciated. Much appreciated.” He strolled to
the other end of the bar and settled onto a tall stool.

Jake Walker came over,
another drink in hand. “On the house,” he told Tom, setting it down before him.

“Thanks.”

“I wouldn’t put much stock
in Kellerman, you know.”

Tom laughed. “I don’t.”

“Want me to ask around a
bit? I actually do have a few connections.”

Tom nodded. Maybe between
Kellerman and Walker, somebody would get a lead on Sally. Miracles didn’t
happen too often, but now and then, one came along, and maybe there was one
headed his way, one with his name on it.

He grabbed the shot of
whiskey. As he drank it down, a good feeling spread throughout his body. A
damned good feeling. Something fine was coming his way. He’d swear on it.

* * * *

To Lucille’s surprise, when she arrived at work the
following morning, she found Charlotte Henderson waiting outside the
dressmaking shop. She hadn’t expected the woman to show up at all, let alone be
on time.

“It’s half-past, Miss McIntyre.”

“I’m running a little late,” she replied, embarrassed by
both the lie she told and by the obvious disregard she’d shown the woman. She
fumbled with the key and the lock, then pushed open the door. “Please, call me
Lucille. I’ll address you as Charlotte, if you don’t mind. I think working
relationships should be somewhat informal.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Had the woman not heard the instructions to use her given
name? If Charlotte weren’t willing to listen and do as she was told, she’d soon
find herself out of work. Lucille considered mentioning that fact, then thought
better of it.

“Mama comes in a bit later each morning.” She directed her
new employee to step inside, wishing her mother were with her now to advise her
on the best way to deal with Charlotte. Having never been in the position of
manager before, Lucille had no idea what approach to take. Perhaps the best
course would be to establish definite rules from the start. “Since you can’t
sew, your duties will be mostly custodial—”

“In other words, you want me to clean up after you.”

Taken aback by the woman’s interruption—and the cutting look
in her harsh blue eyes—Lucille stiffened. “There’s a broom and dustpan in the
storeroom, along with a few other cleaning supplies. Come with me, Charlotte.
I’ll show you where to find them.”

She squared her shoulders and marched toward the rear of the
shop, not caring whether Tom’s mother followed or not. Sooner rather than
later, the disagreeable woman would fall short of the expectations Lucille
placed upon her. When it happened, Charlotte would be summarily dismissed.

When she heard the sound of footsteps behind her, Lucille
sighed. So far, her new worker had done nothing to warrant a firing. Of course,
only a few minutes had gone by. Give her time, and she’d do something wrong.

“My personal office is over there,” she explained, pointing
to a small room that adjoined the shop. “That’s where I write up orders, handle
invoices, and deal with other paperwork.”

“I’d be glad to help with any of it, Miss—, Lucille, I mean.
In addition to my custodial duties, as you call them.”

Lucille stopped long enough to throw a judgmental look over
her shoulder. She doubted Charlotte had received much education. Certainly she
wouldn’t know how to manage ledgers or keep accounts. “That won’t be necessary.
I don’t need any assistance. You’ll be expected to sweep the floors and do a
bit of dusting in the office, but nothing more.”