KeepingFaithCole (6 page)

She didn’t have to say a
word. Tom already knew what she’d come to tell him. Sally was gone, something
awful had happened, and he’d never see his little sister again.

If only he’d taken her with
him.

He sucked back years of
regret, letting it eat away at him. All those years, he’d always thought
someday he and Sally would find each other again. He’d finally made the effort,
and it turned out he was too late.

Like Ma always said, he’d
never been on time once in his life.

“Yes, Mr. Henderson.”

Tom heard a squalling sound
coming from somewhere. Must be his own pain coming out, some keening wail
rising up from deep down inside of him. He fought to hold it in. Wouldn’t do to
show his sorrow and sadness. Just one more fault he’d be called out for, one
more proof that he wasn’t quite man enough to meet the expectations put upon
him.

“When?” he asked. “How?”

The little knot of men
around him eased away, slinking into the morning sunlight as if bad news were a
disease that might spread if they got too close.

“I understand you’ve been
trying to locate your sister.”

He nodded and looked down.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Lucille still standing where he’d left
her. She hadn’t deserted him, hadn’t left him to suffer alone. If he needed
her, she’d be there for him. The thought comforted him.

“She’s gone, isn’t she.” Not
a question. A simple statement—which Miss Christensen quickly confirmed with a
curt nod.

“About three months past,
Mr. Henderson.”

Sickness? An accident? Maybe
he didn’t want to know how sweet little Sally had died.

That squalling sound came
again, and when Miss Christensen turned and opened the door of the coach, the
sound grew louder. Louder, clearer, and too distinct to be mistaken for anything
but what it was.

A baby’s cry.

“Your sister died in
childbirth, Mr. Henderson. She left behind a beautiful little girl.”

“Can I see her?” Tom
gestured for Lucille to join him. She’d heard every word, he suspected.
Together they peered past the somber spinster, straining to get a glimpse of
the infant.

Miss Christensen eyed him,
checked Lucille over with an appraising glance as well, then turned and
carefully removed the little blanket-wrapped bundle from the coach. Tom smiled,
noting the wicker basket in which his little niece—his niece!—had made the
journey from Denver to Sunset.

“It appears,” Miss
Christensen said, holding the child up for Tom’s inspection, “that you’re the
only family she has.”

Questions flooded his mind.
He wasn’t sure if he should ask any of them.

Lucille stepped up and asked
for him. “Her father? Where is he?” She reached out to touch the baby’s cheek.

“Terrible tragedy.” The
woman closed her eyes as if offering a silent prayer. When she opened them
again, she turned to face Tom. “The child’s father took his own life, I’m
afraid. Grief sometimes makes men crazy.”

Lucille gasped, a cry of
utter, heartfelt dismay. Tom felt it, too, but no sound came out when he opened
his mouth. Too much bad news was coming at him all at once.

“I’m from the Children’s
Foundling Home,” she explained. “The father, your sister’s husband,” Miss
Christensen added, “brought the child to our doorstep, left her there, then
disappeared. Although we tracked him down…” Her voice trailed off.

“What’s her name?” Tom
leaned closer. Soft, crooning sounds came from his throat.

“Lafferty. Baby Girl
Lafferty.”

He blinked. “What sort of
name is that?”

“Her father’s name was
Samuel Lafferty.”

“Yes? So, what’s the baby’s
name? Her
given
name,” he pointed
out. The thought that this innocent babe was nothing more than
baby girl
to the people who cared for
her brought a surge of emotion so powerful it frightened him.

“It’s not our place, Mr.
Henderson, to—”

“Well, whose place is it?”
He reached for the infant, his movements so swift and sudden, the protective
woman had no chance to put up a defense. “She deserves a name. Every baby
deserves a name.”

“Once she’s adopted, her new
family will decide what to call her.” A stricken look appeared on her face.
Obviously she didn’t trust Tom with her precious responsibility. He understood,
but he was kin. Nobody needed to adopt her. She had family.

“What of Mr. Lafferty’s
folks?” Lucille asked. “Do they know about his daughter?”

“He had no family that we
could find.” The woman sniffed again, then held out her arms. “I’ll take her
now, Mr. Henderson.”

Tom took a step back,
clutching the baby more tightly. “She’s got an uncle.” He looked up and smiled.
“She’s got a grandmother, too.” Ordinarily he wouldn’t go around calling any
attention to his mother’s existence, but this was far from an
ordinary
event. After all the hardships,
all the horrors, all the sufferings and shames of Charlotte Henderson’s life,
this one singular moment could change everything. What was that crazy story Ma
used to tell him, about some bird rising up out of the fire? As a boy, he never
understood it, but suddenly its meaning came clear in his mind. Bad things
happened, but good things could still come of it. Instead of wallowing in
ashes, you could look up, see the sky and choose to fly.

“Please, Mr. Henderson. It’s
plain to see that you’ve got no way to provide for your niece. I suppose I
should have taken time to make the trip on my own to assess the conditions, but
I was hopeful you’d be in a position to take her. Optimism is one of my
weaknesses, I daresay.”

She didn’t look too
optimistic in Tom’s eyes. He couldn’t imagine her ever having a positive
outlook about anything.

But this child! She needed
hope. She deserved bright blue skies and sunny days. She deserved butterflies
and flowers, and the sweet promise of spring. Not some strait-laced,
tightly-corseted old biddy who thought of her as nothing more than
baby girl.

Tom looked down at the tiny
bundle he held in his arms. So tiny, yet so perfect. He marveled over the
little fingers, touching each one by one. When the baby’s hand closed around
his big thumb, he felt a tugging at his heart so real, so undeniable, he
suddenly couldn’t find his breath.

“Excuse me, Mr. Henderson.”
Edith Christensen’s nasally voice grated on Tom’s nerves. “I have to leave now.
It’s a long trip back to Denver. You need to give me the child.”

“Not yet, ma’am. She’s my
niece. I want a little time with her.” He stroked one soft, pink cheek and was
rewarded with a gurgling, cooing smile. “She likes me,” he said, glancing
toward Lucille.

And he liked her. No, he
loved
her. This precious life wrapped
in a thick gray blanket was kin. Not his own child, but a child who shared his
blood, all the same. She was Sally’s daughter, and Sally was gone now. This
sweet, nameless angel was all that was left to him of his sister’s kindness,
her goodness, her own innocence.

He wished he could have
taken better care of Sally, could have helped her and given her all she needed,
but he’d failed her. Too young, too mixed-up, and too bitter about his own
life, Tom hadn’t been able to save Sally from the wretched evils of their
childhood.

But he’d damned sure save
this baby.

“I’m not giving her back,”
he said in a quiet voice. “I’m going to keep her.”

Chapter Five

Lucille gasped. So did Miss
Christensen.

“You can’t do that.” The
tall, gray-haired woman took a step toward him, her arms outstretched. “You’ve
got no way to care for her.”

“I’m family, ma’am. The only
family she’s got. She needs to stay here with me. I’ll find a way to take care
of her.” Pushing past the spinster lady, he poked his head into the carriage.
“What all will I need? This hers?” he asked, pulling out a square canvas bag
with carrying straps. Inside, it contained what looked to be all the
paraphernalia needed for an infant. Glass bottles rattled as he slung the bag
over his shoulder. Tom hoped he hadn’t broken anything.

Lucille touched his
shoulder. “I know you mean well, Tom, but Miss Christensen is right. You don’t
even have your own place. You certainly can’t keep a baby in a bunkhouse.”

He nodded, realizing how
foolish the idea was. “No, of course not. But I can ask Ma to keep her. Just
until I’m able to make a few changes, get a place of my own.”

“Your mother!” Lucille’s
voice shot up from a bare whisper to an outraged cry. “I’m not sure that’s a
very good idea.”

“It’s a fine idea.” Tom drew
his niece closer. Despite the noise and confusion around her, she’d now closed
her eyes and slipped off to sleep. She nestled against his shoulder. “Ma’s made
mistakes, I know, but that’s all in the past. She’s come to Sunset looking for
a chance to have a better life. And now,” he said, pushing the blanket aside
and peering down at the baby, “this little one has come down from heaven,
looking for a chance of her own. Her mama didn’t make it, won’t be able to
raise up this gentle soul. Who better to do it than this baby’s own grandma?”

“That’s a beautiful speech,
but there’s a lot wrong with it. I don’t think I have to point out the flaws in
your thinking. It would be a crying shame for you to keep her.” Lucille moved
closer. She gazed up into Tom’s eyes. “For the baby’s sake, you need to give
her back. You’ve got to give her a chance to be loved, a chance to be—”

“You think I can’t love
her?” Tom fired back. The baby stirred in his arms.

“A chance to be adopted by a
real family,” Lucille continued, paying no heed to his protests.

Tom stiffened. Damn Lucille
to hell! In her opinion, he wasn’t a
real
man, he didn’t have a
real
home, and
he and Ma could never be a
real
family. Only thing real to Lucille was her own high-
faluting
opinions and self-righteous attitudes.

Her words made him more
determined. Turning away from the dark-haired beauty, he fastened his gaze on
the tall, somber woman from the Children’s Foundling Home. He cleared his
throat.

“You brought this baby here.
You delivered her to me, and I’ve accepted the responsibility. You’ve done your
job, ma’am.” Cradling his precious little niece in the wide crook of his left
arm, he lifted his right hand to tip his hat. “Have a safe trip back to
Denver.” Tom walked toward the bunkhouse.

“Mr. Henderson, you can’t
take that child! There are legal matters to be resolved.” Edith Christensen
shouted after him, but he kept walking. “I’ll have the law on you, and don’t
think I won’t. It’s my duty to look after the welfare of the children placed
with me, and—”

Tom stepped into the
bunkhouse. He shut the heavy door behind him, thankful that, at last, the
strident voice could no longer be heard.

“I’m going to keep you,” he
whispered to the baby who now stirred in his arms. “Lord knows, I’m not sure
exactly what I’ll do with you, but I swear, I’ll bring you up right. I’ll take
good care of you, and I won’t let anything hurt you. I won’t let anybody ever
take you away.”

* * * *

Once the dour-faced Miss
Christensen finally returned to her carriage and instructed her driver to leave
the premises, Tom wasted no time. Holding his niece against his chest, the
baby’s canvas bag slung over his shoulder, and with Lucille staring after him, he
rode to town in search of Amanda Phillips.

She wasn’t a trained
physician, but she knew more about doctoring than anybody else around Sunset. Since
Abner
Kellerman could no longer be counted on to
provide any medical services, Amanda was the one who cured rheumatisms,
stitched up cuts, set broken bones, and brought new babies into the world. He
needed advice, and who better to give it than Amanda?

Although obviously surprised
to find him at her doorstep holding a babe in swaddling clothes, she quickly
welcomed him into her parlor. She listened intently as Tom explained the
situation.

“Would you like me to take a
look at her?” Amanda smiled and reached for the infant. “She’s beautiful,” she
said, stroking a soft, downy cheek. She looked up at Tom. “What’s her name?”

Tom pursed his lips. For a
moment he remained silent. “She doesn’t have one,” he finally admitted. “Sally
never got a chance to name her. I reckon it’s up to me.” A lump rose in his
throat. Had his sister lived long enough to see her baby? Had she been able to
touch her, to hold her? He blinked, embarrassed by the tears coming to his
eyes. Real men didn’t cry. He’d heard that lesson from Ma more times than he
could remember . . . probably the only thing she’d ever taught him.

Be a man, Tommy. Life’s hard, and you’ve got to be tough to survive.

He peered down at the baby
in Amanda’s arms. From the crown of her head with its light sprinkling of silky
blonde hair, to the unquestioning trust that shone in her bright blue eyes, to
the gurgling, cooing sounds coming from her mouth, to the tiny fists she waved
in the air, his niece, like every newborn child, had come into this world
defenseless, wholly at the mercy of those who would care for her. She knew
nothing about the evils of mankind, nothing of anger or hatred. To survive, she
must have someone who would love her, someone who would fight for her.

Amanda rocked the baby with
slow, soothing motions. “You do know, don’t you, that a child’s name is a
mighty important decision? Whatever name you choose will follow her throughout
her life. A lot of folks will go so far as to form opinions of her based on how
she’s called.”

Tom stiffened. “That doesn’t
seem fair.”

“Probably not, but it’s
true, and you know it as well as I do. We look different at a boy named
Percival than we would at one named John, or,” she said with a slight laugh,
“one called Tom.”

“Who in their right mind
would name their son Percival?” He scratched his head and tried to recall if
he’d ever heard that name before. “But, she’s a girl,” he pointed out. “I sure
won’t be naming her Percival.”

“I should hope not.” Still
holding the baby close, Amanda nodded toward a thick, folded quilt on the
nearby sofa. “Grab that, will you? Spread it out over there on the table.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Keep in mind what I’m
telling you. Choose her name wisely. A name,” she went on, placing the baby
atop the colorful patchwork quilts, “should mean something.”

Tom stepped back while
Amanda carefully examined his niece, even going so far as to put one of those
fancy stethoscopes against the baby’s tiny chest. When she removed the ear
pieces and looked up, she smiled, setting his mind at ease.

“She’s healthy. Strong
heartbeat. Clear eyes. Good color.”

All favorable news, but Tom
sensed a hesitation. “Yes, ma’am?”

“She’s also wet plumb
through. Do you have diapers?” Her eyes drew a bead on him. “You do know the
importance of keeping her bottom dry, right? If you don’t, she’ll get an awful
rash, and you’ll have a mighty fussy little girl.”

“A rash?”

“You can use zinc oxide
salve. Or there’s a new patent medicine called Vaseline. You might give it a
try.”

Tom nodded, wondering how he
could remember it all.

“Diapers?” Amanda prompted,
holding out a hand.

Dazed, Tom fished around
inside the big canvas bag, grateful when his hands touched the softness of
fabric. He tugged out a freshly-laundered, neatly-folded square of gray wool,
handed it to Amanda, then looked away. For some reason, it embarrassed him to
watch. He’d have to get over that—and soon.

“Be sure to wash her and all
her garments in mild soap, Tom.” Amanda gave him the wet, smelly diaper she’d
removed. “I’d suggest you pick up a few yards of wool. It’s the best material
for diapers. Trust me, you’ll need a good supply. I’m sure your mother will
know how to cut the cloth and fold it.”

More to remember.

“You look a bit confused.”
Amanda peered at him. “Would you want me to write down these instructions?”

“No, ma’am. I’ll hold it all
in my head.” Wouldn’t do a damned bit of good for her to write any of it down.
He wouldn’t be able to read a word of it. But he didn’t care to share that
fact.

“I’d also suggest doing away
with that silly corset.” Amanda nodded toward the squirming, kicking bundle of
life atop her parlor table.

“She’s wearing a corset?” To
Tom, the idea sounded downright ridiculous.

“Some folks actually think
corsets help hold a child’s innards in place. I don’t agree, but it’s up to you
to do what you think best.”

All up to him. He was
supposed to do what he thought best. He’d accepted a hell of a big
responsibility, one that would require careful decision-making, a wealth of
patience, and more practical knowledge than he could ever hope to keep in his
thick-headed skull.

“Now, as far as feeding,”
Amanda went on, “the ideal thing, of course, would be to find a wet nurse.”

“Do you know of anybody?” he
asked.

Amanda frowned and shook her
head. “Sad to say, the only woman I know with milk right now is Caroline Smoot,
and she’s barely got enough to keep her own babe satisfied.”

“The woman at the home
brought these with her.” Tom took the heavy bag from his shoulder and set it
beside his niece. Inside were a half dozen glass bottles. “Can I give her cow’s
milk?”

“Yes, or goat’s milk,
whatever you have.” She smiled down at the infant, made a few maternal clucking
sounds, then looked at Tom again. “She’s a beauty. A real little charmer.”

“And I’m sure she’s going to
be a mighty hungry one awful soon. I’m just not real sure what to give her.” Or
how to hold her, how to feed her, how to burp her, change her, and do all the
little things that came naturally to women but were far beyond a man’s
understanding. “In fact,” he admitted, “I’m not sure of anything right now.” He
sank down into a chair, fearing he’d made a huge mistake. Yet the thought of
taking this innocent baby back to Denver and handing her over to Miss
Christensen or another woman like her left Tom with an aching, empty feeling
unlike anything he’d ever known before.

“You’ll do fine,” Amanda
assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “In addition to the milk, you can
give her a bit of pap. Bread soaked in water,” she quickly explained. “As she
grows, you’ll also be able to give her spoonfuls of broth, and mashed foods.”

“Ma’am?” Tom bit his lip
then turned to the woman, knowing every doubt in his mind showed on his worried
face. “Do you really think I can do this?”

“I’m sure you can. Mostly
it’s just a matter of common sense.”

Common sense? At the moment,
Tom wasn’t sure how much of that he actually possessed. After all, what rowdy,
roughneck cowboy in his right mind would take on the responsibility for a child
so pure and so innocent it brought tears to his eyes to look at her?

But he could raise this
little one. He would find the way.

Hadn’t his mother managed to
raise both a son and a daughter despite her many flaws? Granted, she hadn’t
done the finest job of rearing them, but she’d kept them alive.

“Common sense,” Tom
repeated. Yes, a lot of good, old-fashioned common sense, and he’d throw in the
most important ingredient of all.

Love. Huge, heaping helpings
of love.

“I’ll come check on her from
time to time, if you’d like.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’d like that.”

Amanda gathered up the
bottles and returned them to the bag.

She picked up the infant, carefully tucked the blanket
around her, and handed her to Tom. “Send for me if you need anything, all
right?”

* * * *

For the first two hours
after Tom arrived at his mother’s cottage and placed the baby in her arms, she
didn’t speak a word to him. Tears rolled down her cheeks and an occasional sob
of grief tore from her throat. All the while, she held the tiny bundle of life
close to her heart. Tom hoped she drew some comfort from the child.

Funny thing, really—not in a
humorous way, but in that hard-to-understand way life sometimes had—neither of
them had seen Sally in years. They’d had no idea where she was, and maybe
they’d gotten accustomed to it. Now, knowing that she was dead and that she’d
never be coming back made it all different. Death had an awful finality about
it. Probably that was why so many folks clung to the belief in an afterlife.
Without that belief to ease the soul, death was a cold, dark emptiness looming
in the distance, growing nearer each day.

The hair on his arms
prickled. He rubbed the unnerving feelings away and glanced over his shoulder
at his mother.

“You all right with this?”
he asked, slowly turning around.

She sat cross-legged on the
floor, cradling the babe in her arms. “Tommy, we’ve got to get us a rocking
chair.” She looked up at him, and although her cheeks were stained with tears,
never had he seen her face look so bright, so beautiful, so radiant. Her whole
being seemed to glow.