KeepingFaithCole (26 page)

Her mother had given her a few dollars, and she knew exactly
how she would spend the money. She would stop at the mercantile before going
home and purchase one of Tom’s favorite treats. He loved green pickles.

She’d buy something for Charlotte, too.

Peace offerings.

With a resigned air, she drove the wagon toward the livery.
As she approached, a horse in the corner corral lifted its head and neighed as
if in greeting. Lucille turned, surprised to see Dandy, Tom’s beautiful blue
roan.

Her heart froze.

Tom was nearby, and it didn’t take much thought to know
precisely where he was. Lucille glanced toward the Red Mule, pursed her lips,
then willed her heart to start beating again. He was supposed to be working,
not drinking…or worse, carousing with the saloon girls.

No wonder he hadn’t come crawling to his wife for sex. He
was probably getting all he wanted, whenever he wanted it.

“Get up, there,” she called out, flicking the reins and
setting the wagon in motion again.

No need to stop at the mercantile now.

There would be no peace offerings given.

For that matter, there would be no peace, either.

* * *
*

Tom downed another shot of whiskey, then nodded toward Goose
and Ignacio. “It’s been a hell of a lot of work, but you know, it’s going to
pay off for us.”

“We will catch many horses, I am sure.” Ignacio nodded. He
spoke with the same accent as his brother. Although a few years older, a few
inches taller, and maybe a few pounds heavier, he and Goose might have been
identical twins. Tom hoped he could keep the two Mexicans straight, especially
after a few rounds of whiskey.

Earlier, they’d finished building the corrals where they
would hold the wild mares. Tom would keep the best stock and use them to start
his own bloodline of horses. The rest would be sold, and the profits shared
equally among the three of them. Both Goose and Ignacio had agreed to come to
work for the Henderson Horse Farm.

Henderson Horse
Farm.

Just saying the name excited Tom in ways no woman had ever
done. Well, no woman except for Lucille, but it would be a damned cold day in
hell before she’d let him back into her bed again. Lucky for him he had his
dreams to keep him warm at night.

“
Lupita
!” Gustavo called out to
the pretty, black-haired
señorita
,
and when she joined the men, he nuzzled her neck, smooth-talking her with
Spanish words that sounded downright dirty.

Ignacio had grabbed another of the saloon girls, a tall
blonde somebody said had come all the way from Sweden. She didn’t speak
Spanish, didn’t even speak much English, but when it came to entertaining
gentlemen at the Red Mule, everybody spoke the same language.

Lust. The universal tongue.

Tom laughed, knowing that his two Mexican hands didn’t give
a rat’s ass about the horse farm, the corrals, or any wild mares at that
moment. Let them have their fun.

He slapped a few coins onto the bar and got to his feet.

“You leaving us so soon?” Goose stopped nibbling
Lupita’s
neck long enough to ask. “It’s too early, man. Why
you want to go home now?”

Ignacio chuckled. “You know why.” He nudged his brother’s
ribs. “He got his woman there. He got no need to pay no whore for it.”

“Must be nice, get a little
cuca
anytime you want.” Pulling
Lupita
closer, he turned his attention to her again,
forgetting all else.

“Yeah, nice,” Tom muttered. “All I want. Whenever I want
it.” Hell, what point was there in going home? He sat down and let his gaze
roam across the bar. “Then again, a man gets tired of riding the same horse all
the time, know what I mean?”

Ignacio grinned. “You like the tall ones?” He pushed the
blonde in Tom’s direction. “Maybe we both take her, you think?”

For less time than it took him to blink, Tom considered the
proposition—and rejected it. Once he might have been turned on by such bawdy
talk, and he might once have been aroused by a long-legged blonde with a narrow
waist and breasts falling out of her gown each time she bent down. She seemed
to do that a lot.

But instead of being aroused, he only got annoyed. Women
shouldn’t be exposing themselves in stinking saloons, teasing horny cowboys,
and getting paid to spread their legs.

Some of them had no choice. That’s what his mother explained
once when he’d asked about it. Women had a hard lot in life. Unless they had a
man to take care of them, they had to support themselves in whatever way they
could. There weren’t all that many options, and sad to say, whoring paid a hell
of a lot better than most jobs. It sure beat doing laundry.

“You cowboy?” The blonde sidled up to him, ran a hand across
his chest, and stuck those damned milk jugs out as far as she could. “You like
me, cowboy? You want some good time?”

He reached for her hand and moved it away.

“What’s the matter, cowboy?” Her hands went to her neckline
and tugged it lower. Tom glanced down. He could see the dark aureoles
surrounding her taut nipples. “You need some love?”

“We all need love,” he replied, wetting his lips. His parched
throat craved more whiskey, but his glass was empty. “That’s not what you’re
offering.”

“I give you lots of love.” The buxom creature leaned toward
him, her ripe breasts bouncing beneath the skimpy bodice. “All you want,
cowboy.”

A bottle of whiskey came sliding down the bar toward him.
Tom blinked, caught it, and grinned.

“On the house,” Jake Walker called. “Looks like you might be
getting a bit hot down there.”

Gustavo and
Lupita
had
disappeared, Tom noted, as he glanced around the saloon. No doubt they’d
slipped upstairs. Ignacio had found himself not one, but two new girls—another
blonde and one whose henna-colored locks couldn’t possibly have come from
nature.

“Cowboy?”

Tom shook his head. “No, thanks. I’ve got to go.”

“You don’t want my love, cowboy? I suck your cock.”

Damned, pathetic whores. What the hell was wrong with the
world? No woman should have to resort to such despicable acts just to keep a
roof over her head and food on her table.

He headed for the door, eager to ride home to his wife. Time
to put all the quarrels aside and make things right between them.

* * *
*

For two hours straight—the
time it took to drive from Sunset to their little farmhouse—Lucille cried. Her
shoulders shook with sobs, and if the old horse plodding along hadn’t known
which way was home, she might not have even made it.

She’d lost Tom, all because
of her foolish pride and her stubbornness. In refusing to accept his mother,
she’d refused to accept him as well. The husband was meant to be the head of
the home, the provider, and the decision-maker.

It wasn’t a question of
regaining his love. She’d never had it to lose.

When she drove over the
crest of the hill and stared down at the little house, the muscles in her neck
tensed. A buggy sat outside the front door. It belonged to
Abner
Kellerman and was as woefully out-of-style as its owner.

Probably she should have
been amused to think of the old doctor coming to call on Charlotte, performing
his own version of the ritual of courtship. At the moment, Lucille couldn’t see
much humor in anything.

She parked beneath the
boxelder
tree beside the house, unhitched the horse from
the wagon, then returned to pick Faith up from her wooden carrier. How the
child had slept through all the weeping and wailing Lucille had done was one of
those truly inexplicable mysteries of life.

“Come on, little one, let’s
get you inside.” Lucille sniffed back the last of her tears, and gave Faith a
smile.

As soon as she stepped onto
the porch, she heard the noises. Grunts. Groans. Raspy shouts and wild moans
filled the air accompanied by the steady creaking of bedsprings. All of it came
from the big bedroom downstairs.

“What do you think you’re
doing!” she shouted, knowing all too well what the sounds were about. Shaking,
she slammed the front door behind her—at which point Faith let out an
ear-splitting cry. Lucille opened the bedroom door and slammed it again,
wanting to make certain the occupants of the bouncing bed knew she’d returned.
“Get out of my house!” she demanded.

They paid her no mind.

Trying to keep her eyes off
the sweaty couple going at it in the four-poster, Lucille hurried through the
bedroom toward Faith’s room. The little girl squalled at the top of her lungs.

“Hush, baby,” Lucille
crooned, placing Faith into her crib.

She squared her shoulders
and stepped through the doorway to confront the fornicators.

“I should have expected
this. Once a whore, always a whore, I suppose.”

Charlotte, at least, had the
decency to grab a blanket and cover herself. Kellerman, on the other hand, didn’t
seem to care that every flabby inch of his body was exposed, his flaccid penis
now dangling uselessly between his legs. Lucille closed her eyes, knowing she’d
never be able to erase the image.

“You’re no better than
rutting hogs. I won’t have your filth in my house.” Lucille forced herself to
open her eyes, but she couldn’t look at the bed again. Her gaze came to rest on
the nightstand where a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses—all empty—sat
beside the lamp.

“Now, wait a minute,” said
the doctor, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “We’re consenting
adults, and we’ve got the right—”

“Not in my home, you don’t.
And not in my bed.” She saw Kellerman’s suit jacket on the floor, stepped over,
and kicked it toward him with the toe of her patent leather shoe. “Get out, and
take her with you,” she shouted, pointing toward Charlotte.

She banged the door shut as
she hurried out. Once she reached the parlor, she collapsed on the old settee,
buried her head in her hands, and wept. Faith’s cries echoed from her little
room, but Lucille was in too much agony to answer. Through it all, she could
make out the shuffling footsteps, the hushed words between Charlotte and
Abner
, and at last, the sound of the door opening and
closing. Except for Faith’s wails, the house was quiet. Even Lucille’s tears
had stopped. Maybe she’d finally cried out all the tears she had inside of her.

Chapter
Seventeen

Lucille didn’t know how long she stayed there, simply
staring at the wall, too shaken to think. The door flew open again, startling
her from her reverie. Faith was still bawling, she realized, but she couldn’t
find the strength to stand.

“What the hell is going on in here?”

Lucille’s head jerked up. “Tom?” Before she could get
up, he disappeared into the bedroom, then returned with Faith in his arms and a
fearsome scowl upon his face.

He stopped in front of her. “Are you screwing around on
me, Lucille? Who is he?” Muscles bulged at his neck. “I guess that’s why you
haven’t wanted me back in your bed.”

“Tom, no, it was your mother. Your mother and
Abner
.” The images she couldn’t blot out returned.
Revulsed
anew, she shuddered. “I caught them in bed. In the
act.”

Tom drew in a sharp breath, and he peered through the
open doorway at the rumpled sheets. “I’m sorry,” he said, slowly exhaling. “I
shouldn’t have accused you like that.”

Lucille swallowed hard. “I threw them out. Both of
them.”

He went suddenly silent. He carried Faith to her play
area in the parlor, then got down on the floor with her. Tom picked up one of
the tops he’d made and set it spinning. Then another. And another. “It must
have been a real shock for you,” he said, glancing up at his wife.

“Are you angry with me?”

“Can’t say that I blame you for throwing them out. I
probably would have done the same.”

Even though he said nothing more, Lucille suspected he
was displeased. She blinked back tears. Her temples throbbed, and as she
studied her husband’s long, lean form sprawled out across the floor, she
thought back to the Red Mule, picturing him stretched out atop some whore’s
bed. A wave of nausea swept over her, and she fled from the house, barely
making it to the edge of the bushes before she retched uncontrollably.

* * * *

Tom set
the spinning tops aside and got to his feet. From the doorway, he heard Lucille
vomiting. He had his work cut out for him, and he had no idea where to begin
cleaning up the mess—not just the mess in the bedroom, but his mess his life
had become. Even Leland’s adages about starting wherever you were didn’t help.
He didn’t have a clue where he stood.

“I’ve
done all I can,” he told Lucille late that evening. After spending most of the
day sick, she’d finally rested a bit in the parlor. “I’ve stripped the sheets,
burned them, and I’ve scrubbed everything in the room.”

It
wouldn’t do any good, really. The memories of what his wife had seen and heard
would linger.

“Anything
I can do for you?” he asked, bending down beside her. “You want something to
eat? Something to drink?”

“No,
nothing.”

“Faith’s
sleeping. Poor kid’s all tuckered out. Too much noise and confusion today.”

“I’ll
probably go to bed soon myself.”

Tom
rose, grabbed his hat from the table, and headed for the door. “I’m riding into
town. Might be late before I get back.”

He
expected Lucille to say something, but she remained silent. For a moment
longer, he waited, but she said nothing.

“All
right. Get some rest.” He headed for the wagon. Earlier, he’d gone through the
house and packed up everything that belonged to his mother. Wasn’t much to
speak of, but for Lucille’s sake, Tom didn’t want anything left behind.

He knew
all too well what it was like to listen to those awful sounds, those disgusting
grunts and the damned creaking springs. Of course, his mother wasn’t whoring
around now. Nothing really wrong in what she and
Abner
had been doing. No different from what he and Lucille had done one night in her
little dressmaking shop.

Of
course, his wife wouldn’t see it that way. Tom wouldn’t argue the point with
her.

* * *
*

With
Charlotte gone, life for the
Hendersons
should have settled
into a comfortable routine. It didn’t. Tom couldn’t figure out exactly what was
wrong, though. Lucille seemed to enjoy keeping house, she adored Faith, and she
looked after Tom’s needs—to a degree. They’d begun sleeping together again, and
if Tom wanted pleasure, she obliged him. Trouble was, that’s all she did. He
wanted the passion they’d shared before.

Two
weeks passed. He hoped that, with time, their relationship might heal itself.
Instead, his wife grew more withdrawn day by day.

“Do you
want to call it quits?” he asked one night as they prepared for bed.

Lucille
sat before the mirror, brushing her long tresses with slow, methodical strokes.
When he spoke, she paused, glancing over her shoulder at him. “No, of course
not.” She returned to the image in the mirror and resumed her nightly routine.

“You
don’t seem happy.”

Again,
her hand stopped moving. This time, she quietly placed the brush on the vanity
and turned to face him. “Happiness was never part of the agreement, was it? We
got married because it was the only way we could be sure of keeping Faith. That
hasn’t changed. If we don’t stay together as husband and wife, we could lose
her.”

Something
akin to relief washed over him. Not that his marriage was anything close to the
blissful state he’d once imagined it might be, but all the same, getting out of
it now that they were lawfully wedded could be a lot of hassle. Not to mention
the awful fact that, once again, his wife was right. No marriage. No Faith. It
was as simple—and as complicated—as that.

“Are
you unhappy because of me?” he asked, getting up from the bed and coming to
stand beside her. “Never mind. I already know the answer.” He leaned against
the wall and lowered his head. His gaze went to the brush. Almost without
conscious thought, he reached for it, then moved behind Lucille. She gasped as
he drew the brush through her hair. At first, she stiffened, then gradually her
muscles loosened. Her head fell backward, exposing the creamy smooth skin of
her throat.

“That—that
feels nice.”

“Just
relax,” he urged, lengthening his strokes. Her eyes closed, and her shoulders
dropped as more tension eased from her body. “I’m done a lot of thinking
lately, and I can see that I haven’t been much of a husband. I haven’t done
much to make you happy.” Her eyes opened, but Tom shook his head. “Truth is,”
he went on, “I’ve been a real jackass, haven’t I? You know, I never had a
father around to teach me about being a man—”

She
placed her hand on his. “You are a man, Tom.”

“Right,
I am, but what I’m saying is that I don’t know much about how marriage is
supposed to work, how husbands are supposed to treat their wives. You grew up
in a home with a mother and a father. You’ve seen how a good marriage should
be.”

“Yes,
my folks were very happily married.”

“Tell
me about it. I want to know.” He set the hairbrush aside, then drew up a chair
so he could sit close to her. Their knees nearly touched, and he saw the light
in her eyes as she began to speak about her parents and the love they’d shared.

“My
father was a very kind man, yet he was also very strong. He and my mother
worked together in so many ways, raising me and my sister, building a
successful business, managing both the store and our home. Whenever my mother
had questions about what to do, she turned to him. He was a wise man.” She
smiled.

“Who
made the decisions?”

“They
both did. Some decisions were clearly Mama’s to make, decisions about the
house, for instance. That was her bailiwick, she called it, her area of
expertise. My father trusted her to make the right choices.”

“What
decisions did your father make?”

“His bailiwick,”
Lucille said, leaning slightly forward, “was the mercantile. He had a good head
for business.” She reached out and took Tom’s hands in hers. “I think you have
a lot of the same skills he did. You catch on to things quickly, and you’ve got
a knack for numbers. You’re good with people, too.”

Hearing
such unexpected compliments from Lucille pleased him. “Thank you.”

“Of
course, you know, there were a lot of decisions that neither one felt they
should make without consulting the other.”

“Two
heads probably are better than one.”

“I wish
we could have that kind of marriage, Tom.”

“So do
I.” He pulled her toward him, locking his arms around her. “Who’s to say we
can’t? I know I’ve made mistakes, but I can learn to be a good husband.”

“I
probably haven’t been a very good wife.” She rested her head against his chest.
“We both have a lot to learn.”

“Where
do we begin?”

Lucille
scooted away from him. “Well, I have a few thoughts on that.”

“I’m listening.”

Turning
back to her image in the mirror, Lucille reached up and began braiding her dark
hair, her fingers working nimbly. “I want to go back to work, Tom, but only if
you agree. I want to open another dressmaking shop.”

“Really?
Why?”

Insurance
had covered the loss from the fire. Lucille and Olive had been able to walk
away free of debt. It surprised him that she would even consider going back
into business.

“I know
how hard you’re working, trying to build something for the future, but you
shouldn’t have to do it all on your own. I want to help out.”

Tom
grinned. Maybe they hadn’t been married all that long, but already he’d learned
to read Lucille fairly well—especially when she wasn’t being completely
truthful with him. “Your little dressmaking shop didn’t exactly bring in a lot
of cash,” he reminded her. “Are you sure maybe this doesn’t have something to
do with wanting to spend more time with your mother and your friends?”

Her
face reddened.

“Lucille,”
he said, tugging at the braid she’d finished, “it’s all right to admit how you
feel. I’ve brought you all the way out here to live, you don’t get into town
too often, and it’s a long drive for anyone to come calling on you. I’m sure
you probably do feel a little lonesome now and then.” Why hadn’t he thought of
that before? Another thought jolted him. “What about Faith? Were you thinking
of taking her to the shop with you? Do you think that’s a good idea?”

To his
surprise, Lucille shook her head. “No, I couldn’t possibly have her at the shop
with me. She’d be into everything.” Her eyes sought his. “I thought we might
ask your mother to watch her.”

“Ma?”
At once, he was on his feet, pacing the bedroom, trying to get a handle on what
his wife had just told him. His wife. The woman who hated his mother. “I must
not have heard you right.”

“Yes,
you heard me.” Lucille’s breath rushed out as she jumped from the vanity bench
and flung her arms around him. “If our marriage is ever going to work, your
mother and I have to get along. The reason we haven’t been able to do that is
because of me. Like she’s said all along, I’ve never been willing to give her a
chance. You’ve told me the same thing.”

“What
about…” His voice trailed off.

“Catching
her and
Abner
?” Lucille rubbed her forehead.
“Throwing them out?” She slumped back onto the vanity bench. “I probably
over-reacted a bit. I wasn’t having a very good day. I had things on my mind.
It happened so suddenly, and I wasn’t expecting to find them that way—”

When
she bit her lip and began to shake, Tom worried he’d pushed too hard. Maybe
he’d lost the chance he’d longed for to set things right. With long strides he
crossed the room and swept her up into his arms. “We won’t mention it ever
again, all right?”

“Can we
drive into town tomorrow and talk to her? About keeping Faith? Do you think
she’d be willing to do that?”

“I
think that might make her very happy.”

* * *
*

Happy did not begin to describe Charlotte’s reaction
when Lucille and Tom visited and shared their plans with her. It would take a
 
week or two to find a suitable location
and make all the arrangements which meant Tom’s mother would have a little time
to prepare for her role as caregiver.

On opening day, when Lucille made the long drive into
Sunset and dropped Faith off at Charlotte’s, she found the little cottage spick
and span. Even so, doubts suddenly assailed her. She surveyed the surroundings
with a careful eye, looking for any possible reason to change her mind, but she
found nothing to hold against Charlotte. The floors had been swept and waxed, and
the dust and dirt had been shaken from the throw rugs. The furnishings, though
sparse, gleamed in the morning light, and a faint scent of lemon oil hung in
the air. Even the window panes, Lucille noted, had been thoroughly washed.

After kissing Faith’s cheeks and reminding her to be a
good little girl, Lucille reluctantly drove on to her new shop. Tom had seen
right through her, she had to admit. Although she looked forward to running her
business, she was even more excited by the prospect of chatting with her
friends and keeping up to date on the goings-on around Sunset.