A Reason to Believe Page 8

  Dulcie remembered Lyle Martin from school even though he’d been three years older than her. What she recalled didn’t exactly lend much faith in his abilities as a lawman.

  “Hello, Lyle. Did you find the men who murdered my pa?” She didn’t bother couching her question with tact.

  His face reddened and he glanced down even as he shifted his feet like a schoolboy caught diddling in the school outhouse. “Well now, Dulcie, I wouldn’t rightly call it murder.”

  The presence of Madeline kept Dulcie from throwing back her first heated response. “What would you rightly call it, Sheriff?” she asked coolly.

  More feet shuffling. “I reckon the Bible would call it an eye for an eye.”

  “Except for one thing—Pa didn’t kill anyone.”

  Impatience slipped across Martin’s face. “Everyone knows you was just covering for your pa. A lot of folks woulda done the same iffen it was their kin. But the fact is he was seen having words with Mr. Carpenter not long afore he was killed. So I figure it’d be a waste of time to try’n track down the thirty, forty folks who done the lynching.”

  Dulcie narrowed her eyes. “Funny how you know the number involved. You told me you didn’t see anything because they locked you up in one of your own cells.”

  The sheriff ’s cheeks flushed a brighter red. “I saw a little through the window in the back. Not enough to recognize no one though, ’specially since they wore coverins over their heads.”

  Dulcie stared at him as the cold ball of anger grew in her belly. “You don’t plan on doing anything about Pa’s murder, do you? You’re just going to wash your hands of it.” She took a step closer to the lawman. “You realize by doing nothing you’re condoning murder in the name of justice and you’re letting the real killer get away scot-free.”

  Martin clenched his jaw. “Now you look here, Dulcie. You was gone five years, and in that time your ma died and your pa hit the bottle hard. He wasn’t the man he was afore you left.”

  It was the same argument Mr. Coulson at the store had used. She wondered if the townsfolk had had a meeting to figure out what to say to her when she came around asking questions. She wouldn’t put it past the small-town politicians.

  “I know that my father didn’t kill him, and I’m going to prove it.”

  Dulcie led Madeline out of the stifling office. She paused on the boardwalk to gather her fury and regain her composure. Nobody believed her.

  She looked across the street, and her gaze settled on the saloon. Her heart battered her ribs. Apprehension replaced her anger. If she wanted a bottle of whiskey the only way to get it was to step inside the bar and buy it. If her pa was still alive, she could’ve said it was for him.

  She glanced around nervously, seeing a handful of people on the boardwalk. If she walked into a saloon in broad daylight her name wouldn’t be worth the paper to write it on. The respectability she’d paid Lamont for with silence would be squandered.

  No, she didn’t need the liquor. However, the possibility of not having any in the cabin brought a measure of panic.

  Still holding Madeline’s hand, Dulcie guided her down the boardwalk. She kept her head down, knowing she’d wonder about every person she passed. Had this one been involved in the lynching? Had that man slipped the noose around his neck?

  They reached the end of town and Dulcie took a deep breath before crossing the street. She spotted a boy peeking out from between two buildings. As they neared the alley,

  Dulcie slowed. Her gaze met the kid’s, who stared back at her. Not scared, but guarded. Not unlike a wild animal.

  “Hello,” Dulcie said.

  The boy, dressed in hand-me-down overalls that were too short, continued to study her.

  “My name’s Dulcie McDaniel.”

  “I know who you are.” His defensiveness surprised her.

  “This is my daughter Madeline.” Dulcie kept her voice calm and gentle.

  The boy’s gaze flicked to Madeline and back to Dulcie. “Folks call me Collie.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Collie.” She glanced down at her daughter. “Say hello, Madeline.”

  “Hi,” the girl said, eyeing Collie closely. “Want a gumdrop?”

  Collie tried to hide his delight behind a façade of indifference, but Dulcie saw through the mask.

  “Sure,” the boy said.

  Madeline opened the sack and poured two gumdrops into her small palm. She extended her hand to Collie, who took the pieces and popped them in his mouth. Madeline held the bag up to her face and pulled out a red one that she put in her mouth.

  Dulcie eyed the boy, an idea forming, and she tried to quell it, telling herself he was a child, only a few years older than Madeline. “Where are your parents?” Dulcie asked him.

  He shrugged. “Dead.”

  “I’m sorry.” A memory niggled at her. “They were killed in a wagon accident, right?”

  Collie stuck his hands in his pockets and nodded.

  Dulcie had heard about it right after she got back to Locust. She’d heard the Gearsons had taken in the boy and felt sorry for the orphan. Yet this was the perfect opportunity to get whiskey without going in a saloon. “Would you like to do something for me?” she asked.

  Collie’s suspicion returned. “What?”

  Dulcie took a deep breath. “Go into the saloon and buy me a bottle of whiskey.”

  Collie shuffled his bare feet. “What do I get?”

  “Five cents.”

  “Don’t seem like much.”

  She suspected Collie might have a bit of con man in him. “Fine. I’ll find someone else.”

  Collie took a step toward her. “How do I pay for it?”

  Dulcie swallowed her satisfied smile. “I’ve got a dollar.” She dug into her pocket, thrusting her guilt aside even as she withdrew a silver coin and held it up between her thumb and forefinger. “You won’t run off with it?”

  Collie scowled. “I ain’t no thief.”

  Dulcie handed him the dollar. “Buy the whiskey and bring it to the alley. I’ll give you your nickel then.”

  The boy nodded then dashed off.

  Dulcie watched him go, disgusted with herself for using a kid and spending money for whiskey when she wouldn’t even buy a treat for her daughter.

  However, worse than the guilt was the fear of not having whiskey to drown her ceaseless conscience.

  SEVEN

  AS Dulcie drove the wagon into the yard, she adjusted the cloth over the pail. The eggs and butter were gone and the bucket provided a means to carry the bottle of whiskey into the house unseen. Not that she cared one whit about Rye’s opinion, but she didn’t want him to think she was like her father. Because she wasn’t. Not in the least.

  Rye looked up from where he knelt on the porch, and although it was too shady for her to see his expression, she had the impression he was glad to see them. She couldn’t deny her own pang of pleasure.

  As Dulcie halted Jack in front of the cabin, Rye rose and wiped his hands across his thighs. He walked to the edge of the porch, carefully watching where he placed his booted feet among the broken and rotted planks. “That didn’t take long.”

  Her heart beating a little faster, Dulcie said, “We didn’t need much.”

  If he saw through her lie, he didn’t say anything. He started to come around the wagon, but Dulcie leapt down before he could offer a hand. With only a slight falter, he changed direction and held up his arms to Madeline, who went to him without hesitation. After he set the girl on the ground, he swept his hand across her hair, smiling fondly.

  He glanced in the back of the wagon and seemed surprised by the few items there. “Do they go in the house?”

  Dulcie nodded.

  She tried to ignore the flex of muscles in his forearms as he effortlessly lifted the sack of flour onto a shoulder. Using one arm to balance it, he wrapped his other arm around the bag of salt.

  Realizing he meant to take them inside, Dulcie quickly opened the door. She preceded him
and motioned to a corner. “You can put them there.”

  Rye set the sacks down, and his gaze moved about the two-roomed cabin. It was the first time he’d been inside, and Dulcie had no doubt he was taking in everything and judging. Seeing her home through his eyes, she was more aware of its shortcomings. The sparse furnishings—worn chairs and wobbly table—and the shafts of sunlight that streamed in through the slats covering a glassless window. Heat flooded her cheeks, but she wasn’t about to apologize for what was hers.

  “Thanks,” she said curtly. “I can get the sugar and coffee.”

  “You got a pump in here,” Rye commented, motioning toward the hand pump.

  Dulcie shrugged, hiding her resentment at more evidence of her pathetic home. “It’s been broke since I came back home. Pa was never sober long enough to fix it.” One time her father had gotten so far as bringing tools in the cabin, but then he’d disappeared into the barn to get drunk. Dulcie had tried to do it herself but she’d only managed to scrape her knuckles and bruise her palms.

  “If you’d like, I can take a look at it.”

  Carrying water from the outside well was a job she despised and she tried not to sound too eager. “If you don’t mind.”

  “After I’m done with the porch and roof I’ll see what I can do.”

  She nodded, keeping her anticipation tamped down. It never paid to get excited over a man’s promise.

  Dulcie followed him back outside, where Madeline played hopscotch in the dirt.

  “Go into the house and change into your everyday dress, honey,” Dulcie said.

  Her daughter frowned and trudged past her and Rye, reluctance in every dragging step.

  Rye chuckled softly after the girl disappeared into the house, and Dulcie couldn’t contain her own tiny smile. Her gaze met his and they exchanged shared amusement at Madeline’s dramatic exit.

  Realizing she’d allowed too much familiarity with him, Dulcie turned and her smile melted away. Her heart pounded against her ribs and she chastised herself for allowing their relationship to become more personal. She set her mind to practical matters and retrieved the coffee and sugar from the wagon bed. Knowing the bucket with the whiskey remained in the box, she glanced covertly at Rye. He’d gone back to his work, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She climbed onto the wheel spoke and lifted the pail from the floor.

  “Did you trade all your eggs and butter?” Rye asked.

  Dulcie jerked, startled to see him looking at her from the other side of the wagon. “Yes, for the dry goods.” She hoped he didn’t notice her breathiness.

  He continued to study her, and she restrained the impulse to squirm under his perusal. It was only her imagination that he could see through the cloth to know what nestled in the pail. She strolled into the cabin and once inside, allowed a sigh of relief.

  Madeline came down from the loft, a frayed dress having taken the place of her town one, and she’d removed her shoes. They were the only pair that fit her and she wore them only for town trips or when the weather was too cool to go without. She skipped over to Dulcie and turned around so her mother could button the dress.

  “Play inside while I make dinner,” Dulcie said once she was done.

  Familiar stubbornness glinted in her daughter’s eyes. “Wanna play hopscotch.”

  “You can do that later when I’m out in the garden.”

  Madeline stomped a bare foot. “Wanna play now.”

  Dulcie resisted an impatient sigh. “I won’t be able to watch you.”

  “Mr. Rye can. He’s outside.”

  Although Dulcie wasn’t as wary of him as she’d been when he’d arrived, experience taught her to remain cautious. “He’s busy.”

  Madeline thrust out her lower lip. “Wanna go outside.”

  Dulcie considered Rye’s apparent fondness for Madeline and the fact she could check on her daughter from the doorway, too. “We’ll ask Mr. Rye. If he isn’t too busy to watch you, then you can stay outside until lunch.”

  Madeline’s pout vanished, replaced by a bright smile. She dashed out the door and, rolling her eyes, Dulcie followed.

  “Mr. Rye. You watch me?” Madeline was already asking him.

  Rye met Dulcie’s eyes but spoke to her daughter. “Is it all right with your mother?”

  Madeline bobbed her head up and down.

  Dulcie gave a short nod.

  Rye gazed solemnly at Madeline, although Dulcie noticed a sparkle in his eyes. “As long as you stay within sight of the porch.”

  Madeline scampered away and grabbed a stick to draw a new hopscotch game in the dirt, closer to the cabin.

  Dulcie crossed her arms, watching her daughter’s enthusiastic play. “Thank you.”

  Rye shrugged. “It’s no bother, Dulcie.”

  She believed him, and she didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

  “Lunch will be ready soon.” She hurried back into the cabin.

  Dulcie stashed her whiskey in the trunk beside the nearly empty bottle. Before she could close the lid on her secret, shame slammed through her. Shame for using a child to enter a saloon in her stead and shame for spending their precious money for liquor when Madeline went without new clothes and shoes.

  Even as sickness roiled through her, she was tempted by the whiskey’s promise of solace. She shoved the temptation aside. That was the last bottle of whiskey she’d bring into this house. She didn’t really need it, after all.

  RYE’S stomach growled but he tried to ignore it, just as he ignored his headache. While he was involved in his work, he was able to forget about his throbbing head. However, dividing his attention between his task and watching Madeline, he was acutely aware of both his hunger and his headache.

  He set aside his saw and straightened his back. A pop and crack set his spine to rights again. They were also a sobering reminder of the hard years he’d lived. Thirty years old and some days he felt twice his age. Too many cold nights sleeping on the hard ground, as well as the hard labor—mucking stalls, digging latrines, building bridges—soldiers were tasked with when they weren’t out on patrol. Throw in a few saloon brawls and there were times when he woke up moving like an old man.

  “Watch me, Mr. Rye,” Madeline called.

  Rye raised his head to find the girl standing on one foot. She grinned and leaned down to pick up her rock, keeping her balance with only a slight wobble or two. Madeline held up the rock and finished her hop, jump, and two-foot landing.

  Rye applauded her performance, and Madeline giggled.

  He felt more than heard Dulcie come to the open doorway. He turned his head to see her standing there, once again wearing trousers, his lunch tray in her hands. Despite him having been in the cabin, she still didn’t trust him to eat with them. He shrugged aside his disappointment.

  “Come and eat, Madeline,” she said.

  Without her earlier reluctance, the girl dashed into the cabin, forcing Dulcie to lift the tray higher and turn aside lest she be bowled over.

  “Someone’s hungry,” Rye said.

  Dulcie’s stomach growled.

  “She’s not the only one,” Rye added with a wink.

  Her face reddened. “You’re probably hungrier than the two of us put together. You’ve been working all morning.”

  Rye didn’t bother to deny it. Dulcie set the tray on an undamaged part of the porch. He stood, and when Dulcie turned around, she bumped into him. Rye steadied her with his hands at a slender waist that was camouflaged by the masculine clothing. She froze and met his gaze.

  Unable to look away from her, Rye remained motionless. The golden brown flecks in her green eyes darkened. The heat radiating from her skin warmed his palms through her too-large shirt. Passion pulsed between them, thick and hot.

  He stared down at her full, red lips. It would be so easy to swoop down and eliminate those last few inches separating them. Her breath came in soft, quick puffs between those parted lips, and he reckoned he could feel the moist warmth tickle across his n
eck. His body responded without conscience, reminding him of the long months of abstinence.

  Madeline shouted from the cabin, “Ma.”

  Dulcie jerked and stepped back. Rye’s hands slid away from her waist and fell to his sides, bereft of her womanly curves.

  “I have to . . .” She fled into the cabin.

  Abruptly alone, Rye fought for dominance of his wayward body. He took a deep breath, letting it out in a long, shaky exhalation. Dulcie was the widow of a man for whose death he felt responsible, and she deserved better from him even if she didn’t know why he was here.

  Resolutely, he focused on eating. After washing down dinner with cool water from the well, Rye immersed himself in his work. It was a hell of a lot easier than dwelling on Dulcie.

  Later that night in the empty silence, Rye lay on top of his makeshift bed in the barn. The heat of the day carried into the evening and he had removed his shirt, boots, and socks. Dressed only in his breeches, he still felt the heat like a heavy blanket thrown across him. He amused himself by guessing where the next droplet of sweat would roll off his body. However, it wasn’t enough to occupy his mind.

  Thoughts of Dulcie he’d staved off earlier returned with keen vengeance. In his solitude, he relived the feel of her smooth curves beneath his palms and the gentle murmur of her breath across his neck. In his mind, Madeline didn’t interrupt them, and he kissed Dulcie’s sweet mouth, imagining her taste and passion. He unbuttoned her shapeless shirt and pressed it aside, revealing ivory skin. Flicking his tongue across the valley between her breasts, he tasted her clean saltiness. He turned his face, and his cheek rested against the warm, soft slope of her breast.

  Rye’s erection strained against his trousers, and his hand traveled down to his fly. It’d been a long time since he’d felt the overpowering urge to gain release, and he flicked open the top button. As he started on the next one, his motions stilled. Anger and embarrassment coursed through his blood.

  He focused on the blunt memories of Dulcie’s dead husband, on the unseeing eyes as Jerry lay on the ground, his neck bent at an impossible angle. The man who’d been married to Dulcie. The man who’d fathered little Madeline. The man who’d be alive today if not for Rye.