A Reason to Believe Read online

  “You’re up early.”

  Her cheeks heated and she peered down at her hands, which were wrapped around her cup. “It’s a beautiful morning.” She held up his cup of coffee and lifted a brow in question.

  He smiled, revealing white teeth free of tobacco stains, unlike so many other men. “Thanks.”

  He took the cup from her and eased down on the far side of their shared step. The cacophony of birdsong surrounded them, with the occasional moo from Flossie, as they sipped their steaming coffee.

  “I don’t usually have time to drink coffee before tending Flossie and gathering the eggs,” she said. “I figured since I was awake early, I’d take advantage of it and enjoy the peace and quiet.” She realized she was rambling and bit the inside of her cheek.

  Rye didn’t seem to mind. “Reminds me of mornings when I was just a mite, probably a year or two older than Madeline.” His gaze took on a faraway look. “My folks were early risers, so us kids were, too.” He chuckled. “Slater never took to getting up early so it was up to me and Creede to pull him out of bed. Creede had to take the brunt of his orneriness.”

  “Sounds like your family was close.”

  “We were. Guess that’s why it hurts so much to think about them.” He gazed into the distance. “And why it’s so hard to forget.”

  “Have you looked for them?”

  “Long time ago. Never found either one.”

  “Maybe you should try again.”

  “It’s been nearly twenty-five years, Dulcie. For all I know, they both could be dead now.” He glanced away, but she didn’t miss the flash of pain across his face.

  “Or they could both be alive, and thinking the same as you.”

  “Then why haven’t they come looking for me?”

  “Maybe they did, but you’ve come a long way from the orphanage, with no word of where you went.”

  Rye stared down at his empty coffee cup. “I reckon that’s possible. If I had any word of them, I’d go searching, but there’s been nothing in all these years.” He lifted his head. “Would you if you were in my position?”

  She frowned, unsure how to answer. “I don’t know. I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”

  “Maybe not, but you have a daughter. Would you ever give up on her?”

  Her heart tripped in her chest, reminding her how close she’d come to losing Madeline before the storm. “No. Never. She’s my daughter. My flesh and blood.”

  Rye nodded knowingly. “Even though I haven’t seen them since I was a kid, my brothers are still my only family. My own flesh and blood.” His gaze took on a distant look. “I haven’t given up. I don’t think I can.”

  Dulcie laid her hand on Rye’s. “There’s no sin in holding on to hope.”

  The warmth of his skin pulsed through her. The peace of the morning and the knowledge that no one was near added to the awareness. It would be so easy to simply lean forward and kiss his inviting lips and press her tongue to the tiny indent in his chin.

  Despite the voice yelling at her to stop, she yielded to the swirling passion. At first his mouth was hard. But, using her knowledge of men, she flicked her tongue along his upper lip and his mouth submitted to hers. His hand curved around her cheek and she moaned, giving in to the pleasure of a man’s touch—of Rye’s touch. Straining forward, she brushed her breasts against his chest, and his sharp inhalation revealed her power over him. A part of her reveled in the triumph of her charms, while a larger part was disappointed he fell so easily.

  Suddenly, he pulled away. “Stop it, Dulcie. This isn’t right.”

  Her desire thwarted, Dulcie glared at him. “I’m not good enough for you?”

  His mouth dropped open with shock. “No, that’s not it.” He licked his lips. “I won’t be staying, and it’s not right to take advantage of you.”

  She wanted to laugh. How could a woman be taken advantage of when she wanted it? Yet something in Rye’s tone and expression stopped her. Reminded her she had a responsibility to her daughter and to this farm. And to herself.

  Humiliated by her actions, she shot to her feet and strode across the yard to milk Flossie. Grateful he didn’t follow her, Dulcie mechanically milked the cow. Leaning her forehead against Flossie’s side, Dulcie allowed the monotony of the chore to numb her thoughts.

  When Rye came to stand outside the corral, she sensed him before seeing him. She steeled herself and met his gaze. “Breakfast will be ready in about half an hour.”

  “That isn’t why I came over here.”

  She shrugged, hiding her tension.

  “It’s not that . . .” Rye cleared his throat and tugged at his hat. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who was nervous. “It’s not that I don’t think you’re a pretty woman and all, but it’s just that, well, there’re things you don’t know about me.”

  Her interested piqued, Dulcie studied his tense figure. “What kind of things?”

  He laughed, although there was more anxiety than amusement in the sound. “Things I don’t like to talk about.” He sobered. “If you want me to leave, I will.”

  Alarmed, she finished milking and stood. Her knees shook slightly, and she locked them in place. She hadn’t expected the offer and wasn’t certain she wanted to accept it. Her mind told her that if he had secrets, he should leave. Yet her heart told her whatever secrets he possessed, they weren’t harmful to her or Madeline. His concern for her daughter seemed sincere. She didn’t think a person could act so convincingly, but she’d been wrong in the past.

  “Truth be told, I’m still not sure if I can trust you,” she said. “You seem trustworthy, but you might be looking for something else.”

  “All I want is a roof over my head and three meals a day. I have that.”

  She picked up the pail and walked over to stand directly across from him. “Most men want more.”

  “Maybe I’m not most men.”

  “Or maybe you have another reason.” She peered at him, trying to read behind his bland mask.

  “Maybe, but even if I do, you can be certain I won’t hurt you or Madeline.”

  Dulcie studied him a moment longer then passed him the milk pail. He stepped back as she slipped between the corral poles.

  “Maybe I’m being a fool, but I don’t want you to leave,” she admitted.

  He smiled, his expression giving way to relief. “I’m glad.

  I promised to help you through the harvest, and I hate to break my promise.”

  Her apprehension eased. Maybe he was a man who took promises seriously. If he was, he was a rare man indeed.

  TWELVE

  THE afternoon was hot and stagnant as Rye put the pump in the cabin back together. Months of disuse had made it difficult to take apart, but he’d finally managed to do so that morning, skinning and bruising his knuckles in the process. He’d found the broken piece and fashioned a new one from some metal lying around in the barn.

  Dulcie and Madeline stayed outside, and Rye suspected it was because he’d unwittingly given Dulcie reason to distrust him. She’d forced him into a corner, and since he didn’t dare tell her the truth, he’d given her cause to question him. Not that she hadn’t before, but she’d begun to trust him. And now that bridge would have to be rebuilt. Of course, he didn’t need her trust to pay his debt, but he’d begun to care for both her and her daughter.

  The kiss told him he cared too much. He’d nearly lost the battle against his conscience, but he’d managed to draw back before being carried away by their combined desire. There was no doubt Dulcie was a passionate woman, but she was probably lonely, too. He wasn’t a man to take advantage of a lonely woman, especially when he was the cause of her loneliness.

  Sighing, Rye dismissed his regrets and concentrated on tightening the last piece of the pump. He oiled the parts, primed the pump, and worked the handle. Sweat dripped from his chin onto his chest. Finally, he heard the gurgle and rise of water through the spout. A surge of mud came through, splashing his face, and he wiped his ey
es. Grumbling, he continued to work the handle.

  Eventually, the water ran cold and clear down the pipe that drained the water outside. Rye cheered loud enough to bring Dulcie and Madeline running into the cabin. They stopped just inside the door and stared at him.

  “It’s working.” He knew he was grinning like a fool but didn’t care.

  They continued to stare at him.

  “What?” he asked, annoyed.

  Dulcie didn’t speak but motioned to her own face.

  “Coon,” Madeline said, her eyes wide.

  Dulcie’s snort was followed by laughter. She covered her mouth, but her eyes twinkled. “Your face is covered with mud except for your eyes.” She paused. “You look like a raccoon.”

  Rye frowned and felt the pull of drying mud on his face. He touched his cheek and grimaced, but when he looked at Madeline, he grinned. “I’d best wash up before the other coons come to take me away.”

  “You got it working?” Dulcie asked, shifting her attention to the pump.

  Rye stepped back. “Try it.”

  Dulcie took Rye’s place by the pump. Water free of dirt came through. She whooped and smiled widely. For a moment, he thought she was going to hug him, but she drew back. Her eyes glittered with gratitude and pleasure. “Thank you. I won’t have to carry water inside anymore.”

  “I should’ve fixed this sooner. It would’ve saved you a lot of extra work.”

  “I’m just glad you fixed it.” She turned to her daughter. “Would you like to try it?”

  Rye stepped back as Madeline, with Dulcie’s sneaky assistance, worked the handle until more water came through the spout. The girl laughed in undisguised delight and put her hands under the stream. Dulcie grabbed a towel before Madeline made a mess.

  As she dried the girl’s hands, Dulcie looked at Rye. “It might seem like a little thing to you, but I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”

  Rye’s throat thickened. “I understand, Dulcie.” He paused. “I really do.”

  She studied him a moment longer and nodded. “It’s still a few hours before supper, so I think I’ll give the pump a good workout. I’ve got more vegetables to put up.” She glanced away, appearing nervous. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? You can get rid of your raccoon face and do what you’d like for a change.”

  Rye’s first impulse was to turn down her offer, but the temptation of bathing in the creek was too strong. And if he went into town, he might be able to learn more about Carpenter’s death and Dulcie’s father’s lynching. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take you up on that.”

  “Why would I mind? I was the one who suggested it.”

  Rye nodded. “Thanks.” He glanced around, suddenly uncertain of his decision. There were a lot of things left to do to get the place back into shape.

  “Go on. You deserve some time off,” Dulcie urged, guessing his thoughts.

  Ducking his head, Rye grinned. “I’ll just get my tools put away and head to the creek.”

  Three quarters of an hour later, his hair still wet, Rye saddled Smoke. He’d bathed, as well as washed the clothes he’d been wearing, in the running stream. After donning the clean but wrinkled clothes from his saddlebag, he brought the wet ones back to dry on the clothesline.

  Rye ensured the cinch was snug and led Smoke out of the corral. He glanced at the cabin. The food from the garden was gone from the porch and he assumed Dulcie had taken it inside to start putting it up.

  He mounted Smoke and rode down the narrow, rutted road that led to Locust. A leisurely half hour later, he tied Smoke’s reins to a hitching post in front of the saloon. Since he hadn’t touched booze in over six months, he knew it would be difficult to enter the bar. However, it was the best place to pick up information.

  He steeled himself against the lure of alcohol and pressed through the batwing doors. It was dim inside, especially after the afternoon’s brightness. There were two men drinking beer at the bar, and he went to stand a few feet from one of them. He ordered coffee from the bartender, relieved to see it wasn’t the same one he’d dickered with for the room.

  “Have to make a fresh pot,” the man said.

  “I’ll wait.”

  The bartender gave him a dirty look, but Rye merely looked at him. When he went into the back room, Rye pretended to study the bottles behind the bar.

  “You’re new around here,” one of the two beer drinkers said.

  Rye turned to face the redheaded man and rested his arm on the bar. “That’s right. I’m working for Mrs. McDaniel.” At their puzzled looks, he added, “Pollard’s daughter.”

  The man sneered. “The murderer’s daughter.”

  At his slur, Rye’s hands fisted but he made them relax. “I heard tell he was lynched.”

  “It was justice, pure and simple,” the other man, who sported a shaggy beard and mustache, said.

  “Not so pure and simple. He didn’t get a trial.”

  “Didn’t need one. He was guilty, no matter what his girl said.”

  “So you don’t think the wrong man was lynched?”

  The first man snorted. “Don’t seem likely.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He shrugged. “A peddler seen him with Carpenter right before the murder.”

  “Peddler still around town?”

  “Left right after the hangin’.”

  “Maybe it was the peddler who’d done it and covered his ass by blaming it on that other fellah.”

  “Why would he?”

  “Why would Pollard?”

  “There was bad blood between him and Carpenter. Don’t know of no one else who had a beef with him.”

  “So he just killed him out of meanness?”

  “Prob’ly. Like Ernie said, there was bad blood ’tween ’em.”

  “I hear Pollard’s daughter claims her father was innocent. Claims he was in their own barn, passed out drunk.”

  The redheaded man guffawed. “’Course she’d say that. Pollard was a drunk, but he was still her pa.”

  The bartender came out of the back. “Coffee’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  Rye grinned. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t feel like coffee anymore.”

  He touched the brim of his hat, and the bartender’s muttered curses followed him outside. He breathed deeply of the hot but fresh air, untainted by stale alcohol, dirty sawdust, and sweat.

  It seemed Sheriff Martin’s attitude was probably a common one. Rye figured he’d get pretty much the same from most of the townsfolk.

  A sign that read Carpenter’s Hardware caught his attention. He headed to the store and entered, surprised by the array of goods displayed. Most hardware stores weren’t nearly as well stocked, nor as clean and neat.

  A young man, around eighteen or nineteen, came out of the back, an apron protecting his starched white shirt and black trousers. “What can I help you find?”

  “Are you the owner?” Rye asked.

  Grief flashed across his face. “I guess. It was my father’s, but he was murdered. I’m Peter Carpenter.”

  Rye shook his hand. “Rye Forrester. I work for Mrs. McDaniel.” He paused. “Frank Pollard’s daughter.”

  Peter flushed red. “The man who killed my father.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Rye flinched inwardly, realizing some of his sarcasm had slipped through. “She says he didn’t do it.”

  Peter made a chopping motion. “Nobody believes her.”

  “What if she’s right?”

  “She’s not. Mr. Lamont said he saw my father and Pollard together not long before the murder.”

  “Pretty convenient.”

  “Get out of here, mister,” Peter ordered.

  A woman joined Peter. She looked to be a few years older than him, and the top of her head didn’t even come to his shoulder. “What’s going on out here?” she asked.

  Peter moved to her side protectively. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with, Martha.”

  “And
you are?” Rye asked.

  “Lawrence was my husband,” Martha said, her voice as stiff as her starched collar.

  Rye’s gaze arced between her and Peter, comparing her lustrous black hair and flashing green eyes to Peter’s dark hair and hazel eyes. He’d assumed they were brother and sister, but obviously he was wrong.

  “How long were you married?” Rye asked.

  “We married three years ago, right before we moved here.” Martha crossed her arms and exchanged a glance with her stepson. “Peter was seventeen at the time.”

  Studying her, Rye doubted she was more than twenty or twenty-one when she married the elder Lawrence. “I’m sorry about your husband’s death, Mrs. Carpenter, but I’m sorry for Mrs. McDaniel, too. It was her father who was lynched.”

  “Whoever lynched him did so without conferring with Peter or me. I don’t condone lynchings, but in this case, Frank Pollard deserved it.” For such a petite woman, she carried a whole lot of hatred.

  Rye wanted to argue, but suspected neither the widow nor son would listen. They were both convinced of Pollard’s guilt.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you.” He turned to leave.

  “Mister?”

  Rye paused and looked over his shoulder at the woman. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Tell Mrs. McDaniel I’m sorry for her loss, but I’m not sorry he’s dead.” Steel edged her tone. “He was a murderer and he deserved to hang.”

  Rye’s temper flared, but he restrained it. “Next time you see her, you tell her.”

  With that, Rye stalked out of the store. He’d heard Carpenter was well-liked in town and wondered if that sentiment extended to his young widow and son. In Rye’s opinion, they weren’t folks to be admired. In fact, they were downright mean. Of course, grief could turn a person, too. Still, to give Dulcie such a message was cruel and uncharitable.

  He looked around and spotted a boy walking with his mother across the street. Maybe he’d head over to the Gearsons’ and check on Collie, find out if his foster parents were keeping a closer watch on him. Instead of riding his horse, he walked the short distance and found a passel of kids playing in front of their house. He searched for Collie among them, but the boy was absent.