by Mary Burton
With trembling hands, Rebecca pulled the last pie tin out of her basket and put it on the bar. “I thought you’d ignored the letter.”
“It only found me two months ago.”
She moistened her lips. “I never thought you’d come.”
Seth handed Rebecca her empty basket. “I told Cole that Lily died right after the birthing and that I don’t remember much else.”
She glanced at Seth then back at Cole. “I don’t know what I could add.” He detected a note of steel in her voice.
“I want to know what happened to Lily’s baby.”
She clutched the handle of the basket, her knuckles turning white. “I only wrote the one letter for her.”
Her evasive answer pricked him like a thorn. He closed the distance between them in three strides. “You must know something,” he insisted. “Lily was a proud woman and she wouldn’t have asked just anybody to write a letter for her.”
The old man coughed. “It was a long time ago.”
“Was the child a boy or girl?” Cole persisted.
Rebecca paled. “A boy.”
A son. Lily had carried his son. Cole cleared his throat. His heart thundered with wild excitement and for an instant he savored a moment of pure happiness. “Where is he? Is he alive?”
She stepped back taking her son’s hand. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you and I really must be going.”
He grabbed her by the arm, forcing her to stay. The little boy whimpered at Cole’s sudden movement and clung to his mother’s skirts, sensing danger. “I want to know more, Mrs. Taylor. I must know more.”
She tried to tug her arm free—his touch seemingly offending her—but he wouldn’t release her. “The baby’s gone, Mr. McGuire.”
Silence hung between them. “My son died?”
“Yes,” she said her voice suddenly soft, full of emotion.
His shoulders slumped and he released her. He’d told himself he was returning to White Stone out of duty and honor. Now he realized he’d wanted this child and a family of his own. His entire life had been spent either in the back room of a saloon or in army barracks. He’d grown tired of his gypsy life. This child had been his chance at a new beginning.
He tried to picture the child over a thousand miles of dusty trails. And now he was gone. His insides ached. He wanted to ride as far away from White Stone as he could.
“I’m so very sorry,” she whispered.
Cole stared into her watery blue eyes, unable to speak.
“Mama,” Mac said. “Candy.”
“In a minute, honey.”
Something about the boy grabbed his attention. He looked into the brown eyes and, for an instant, pictured his son who would have been about that age if he’d lived.
Rebecca shielded the boy with her skirt. “I really do have to get going.”
Seth quickly escorted her to the door. “I’ll talk to you later.”
She stared at the old man a long moment, then squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Seth.”
Cole’s instincts had saved him more than once on the prairies when he’d been hunting renegades. He never ignored them. And right now instinct told him something was wrong.
Cole strode to the saloon window and watched Rebecca, her son nestled on her hip as she hurried past Dusty, past the mercantile and down the boardwalk. Wherever she was going, she was in a mighty big rush.
Seth came up behind him. “Maybe it’s best to leave well enough alone, Cole. Mrs. Taylor doesn’t need any more worries.”
Cole had an unexplainable urge to know more. “What happened to Sinclair’s money?”
“Rebecca’s husband stole the profits from the mines and ran off. She was forced to close the Lucky Star when there wasn’t money to shore up the mining shafts.”
“That explains why the town is drying up.” He rubbed the thick, black stubble on his chin. “Where’s her husband now?”
“Shot dead in a Denver gaming hall a couple of years back.”
Cole couldn’t summon any sadness at the news. “That must have been rough on her.”
Seth grunted. “She’s better off. Curtis Taylor was a gambler and a con artist whose thieving nearly destroyed this town and Rebecca. He left her with only pennies to her name.”
“Looks like she’s managing.”
The old man’s eyes shone with pride. “She’s no delicate flower like everybody first thought. She’s proven herself to be a good woman and a fine mother.”
“Surprised another man hasn’t snapped her up.”
“Every man in town’s tried to court her in the last two years with no luck. She keeps ’em all at arm’s length and is content to raise her son alone and run her boarding house.”
The back of Cole’s scalp itched just like it did before an ambush. He picked up his hat from the table and traced the black brim with his finger. He strode toward the swinging doors and pushed them open.
Seth came up behind him. “Cole, the best thing you can do for yourself is ride out of White Stone. There ain’t nothing for you here.”
And go where? California had lost its appeal. “It’s as good a place as any to live.”
“White Stone’s dying. A young man like you needs a town that’s got more to offer.” A hint of desperation laced his words.
“I was thinking about staying for a while.”
Seth coughed. “You was?”
“Why not?”
Seth glanced in Rebecca’s direction. “Well, uh, you’re welcome to your old room,” he said nudging him back inside the Rosebud.
Cole shook his head. “Thanks. But I reckon I’ll stay at Mrs. Taylor’s boarding house.”
Chapter Two
Cole McGuire had returned.
Unshed tears burned Rebecca’s throat as she hugged Mac close and hurried down the boardwalk toward home. For two years, she’d thought herself safe and that he’d never return to White Stone to claim his son. Now, he was here.
She cursed the day she’d written that letter to him.
Rebecca remembered writing it as if it were yesterday….
Curtis had run off only days before and she hadn’t been able to muster the strength to face anyone.
So she didn’t respond to Lily’s persistent knocking on her front door, expecting her to give up and leave her alone just like everyone else had.
“Anybody home?” Lily shouted as she opened the front door. Her husky voice echoed down dusty hallways. True to form, the saloon singer sounded as brazen as Delilah herself. “Mrs. Taylor?”
Rebecca sat at the small kitchen table, a half-cup of cold coffee in front of her. Her eyes ached from crying. She glanced up at the tall woman who wore a lemon silk dress with layers of lace around the collar and cuffs. She had hair as black as ink, brown eyes and like Rebecca, she was pregnant, her time only two months away.
An angry dismissal sprang to mind, but years of etiquette kept Rebecca’s tongue in check. She pushed herself to her feet, her hand cupping her swollen belly. “May I ask what brings you here?”
“You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“Did you come here to critique my appearance?”
“No. I need your services.”
Lily snapped open the curtains and let sunshine pour over unwashed dishes in the sink. “I need you to write me a letter.”
Rebecca squinted against the glaring light. “This isn’t a good time. Maybe you could come back tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t impose normally, but I need a letter written to my baby’s daddy. I’m willing to pay.” Lily set two bits on the table.
Fresh tears burned Rebecca’s puffy eyes. A whore was paying her for her services. How could she have fallen so far so fast? “Please just leave.”
“Word is you could use the money.”
Sympathy echoed in Lily’s voice. Unable to bear her pity Rebecca faced Lily. “I don’t need anything from you or anybody else in this town.”
The corners of Lily’s mouth kicked up. “Well at
least you’re getting mad. That’s a step in the right direction.” Her eyes softened. “I know this is a hard time for you.” Lily laid her hands on Rebecca’s shoulders and guided her into the library toward an overstuffed chair. “But you got to learn to take care of yourself.”
Rebecca sank into the chair. Her marriage, her world, everything she’d believed in was crumbling. “I don’t know how to take care of myself much less a baby.”
Lily marched to the window and opened the curtains, letting light flood over shelves of dusty leather-bound books that had belonged to Robert Sinclair. “Honey, you got this big old house just sitting empty. If I was you, I’d turn it into an inn. Lord knows White Stone needs a decent place for folks to stay and with the stage coach coming through a few times a month, you’re guaranteed customers.”
“Maybe.”
“You gotta stop feeling sorry for yourself. You got a baby on the way to think about.”
Fresh tears filled her reddened eyes. “How do I pick up the pieces and go on?”
“You ain’t got any choice.”
Rebecca wanted to escape to her bedroom and pull the covers over her head, but she knew Lily was right. She smoothed her hand over her rounded belly. A warm feeling tugged at her heart and the mournful haze that had clouded her mind began to clear. If she didn’t fight for herself and her baby, no one else would. “I do have five extra rooms.”
“Now you’re talking. And I’m willing to be your first customer.”
For the first time in a string of days, life didn’t seem hopeless. Rebecca went to her father’s old desk and sat down. She reached for a creamy white piece of paper embossed with Mrs. Curtis Taylor and dipped the nub of her pen in the ink. She met Lily’s direct gaze. “You said you needed a letter written.” She cleared her throat. “For two bits.”
Lily laid her money on the desk. Her eyes sparkled with approval. “I think you’re gonna do just fine.”
And Rebecca knew then, somehow she would.
Lily dictated her thoughts to her baby’s father, and Rebecca wrote every word down. And from then on the whore and the rich girl became friends.
Over the next few weeks bitter January winds blew as the two women spent hours together, sharing their fears and hopes.
And then Rebecca went into labor. Lily held her hand, offering words of comfort during the long agonizing labor. Rebecca’s baby—a girl—was stillborn. Lily stayed at her side during the next few agonizing days, offering solace to Rebecca for her lost child.
Then Lily’s time came and Rebecca, still grief-stricken and exhausted, dragged herself out of bed to be at her friend’s side. The birthing had been quick and easy, but then Lily had started to hemorrhage and within hours she was gone.
Engorged with milk and her heart aching, Rebecca held her friend’s limp hand, stunned at how fragile life was. She could barely believe Lily and her own baby were gone. She didn’t know how long she sat in the darkened room alone before the cries of Lily’s child penetrated the darkness around her.
She stared at Lily’s infant son still covered with afterbirth as it kicked and squirmed on the bed next to his dead mother. She picked up the boy and held him close. She whispered soothing words and rocked him back and forth.
It seemed only right that Rebecca care for Lily’s child until Cole came for him.
But when she took the baby to her breast and suckled him, her heart filled with unimaginable happiness. In that instant, the boy had become her son and she knew she’d never give him up.
“I’m sorry, Lily. Mac is mine now!”
* * *
“Miz Rebecca!”
Startled from her thoughts, Rebecca looked up to find Sheriff Ernie Wade standing in her path. She’d almost walked right into the grizzly bear of a man who smiled down at her. His shoulder-length hair and close-cropped beard resembled the color of well-traveled snow. The man wore faded denims, a plaid shirt and a dented tin star on his chest.
Rebecca hugged Mac tighter to her breast, impatient to get him home. “Afternoon, Sheriff.”
“Miz Rebecca, you’re looking mighty fine today.”
“Thanks.” She started to leave.
“I was just thinking about the Fourth of July picnic. You know it’s next week?”
“Yes.” She didn’t want to sound rude as she tried to step around him, but she had to hurry. “Perhaps, we could talk later.”
“Well, we could, but what I got to say won’t take but a minute.”
She wanted to scream. She needed to get home. “What is it, Sheriff?”
“I was thinking you and Mac could come with me to the festivities.”
She tried to step around him. “Sure, that would be fine.”
His eyes brightened. “You mean it?”
“Absolutely. Perhaps we can talk about it later. I really need to get home.”
“Oh, sure. You get home and I’ll stop by later and talk over our plans.”
“Great.”
She nestled Mac on her hip and quickened her pace across the dusty street, her mind brimming with worries. Instinct told her to take her son and run as far away from White Stone as she could. If she sold what remained of her mother’s silver, she could reach Denver or Cheyenne and stay hidden for months.
Rebecca opened the gate to the picket fence surrounding the wood frame house built by her father. Just looking at its whitewashed exterior, gabled roof and wraparound porch soothed her nerves. Her most treasured and difficult memories were as much a part of the house as the timber and nails.
Rebecca yanked open the front door and the smell of freshly baked cookies drifted out to greet her. Bess. When Mac was a baby, she had hired the widowed Bess Gunston, a no-nonsense pioneer from Kentucky who at seventeen had followed her husband to White Stone twenty years ago when he’d come in search of gold. The prospector had never struck it rich and when he died, Bess had needed a place to live. Rebecca had needed the help and what had started off as an arrangement grew into a deep friendship.
“That you, Rebecca?” Bess called.
“Yes. I’m home.”
“Bess! Bess!” Mac squealed.
Rebecca set her son down and watched him run toward the kitchen. He moved like a big boy now, no longer a baby.
When she reached the kitchen, she found Mac hugging Bess’s skirts. The older woman stood at the kitchen table, her meaty hands buried in a mound of bread dough. Flour smudged her blue homespun dress. “I just put a pie outside to cool and a loaf of bread like you asked. You know that urchin boy is gonna steal ’em.”
Rebecca smoothed a curl off her face with a trembling hand. “His name is Dusty. And he won’t take charity.”
“So you put out food for him to steal.”
“He’s got to eat.”
“Cookie!” Mac squealed.
The little boy’s brown eyes, olive complexion and blond hair reminded her so much of Lily—the friend she’d just betrayed with her lies. Guilt tugged at Rebecca’s heart.
Pushing the unwelcome blame aside, Rebecca went to a blue jar and fished out a large sugar cookie. Mac heard the rattle of the jar and hurried to Rebecca. He clapped his hands and laughed. She knelt and handed him the cookie, content to watch him gobble the treat. She brushed crumbs from his rosy cheeks then stroked his silken hair. Maternal pride welled inside her. “How’s that cookie, big boy?”
He cupped her face with his small, sticky hands and grinned, revealing his six teeth. “Good.”
Bess shoved the heel of her hands into its spongy dough. “It ain’t smart to hand out sweets so close to lunch.”
“Bess, Mac and I are leaving town.”
Her words met stunned silence. “What are you talking about?”
“He’s back.”
“Who’s back?”
“Cole McGuire.”
Bess hissed in a sharp breath. “You sure it’s him?”
“I spoke to him at the saloon not ten minutes ago.”
“What’s he doing in White Stone?
”
“Looking for Lily.”
Worry lines creased Bess’s brow. “Oh, lands. He got the letter.”
“Yes.” Rebecca’s thoughts turned to finding her luggage—the set she’d bought on her honeymoon. Where was it?
“Cole came looking for his child?”
“Yes.” Luggage, downstairs closet, top shelf.
“Does he know about Mac?”
Distracted, Rebecca strode toward the hallway closet without answering. Standing on tiptoe, she pulled a dusty brown satchel down. She thought about Cole’s dark, dangerous gaze burning into her and she pushed back a feeling of panic.
“Does he know about Mac?” Bess had followed her out of the kitchen and spoke behind her.
“I told him the baby died.”
“Rebecca!”
She jerked a large square bag down to the floor. “I know it was wrong, but I was so afraid.”
“Honey, it’s a matter of time before he finds out. Too many people in town know.”
“That’s why Mac and I are leaving.”
“But White Stone is your home.”
“My home is with my child.”
Rebecca hurried to the kitchen to check on Mac who now sat on the floor. He’d smashed his cookie into small bits and was now eating the crumbs one by one.
“What if he follows you?” Bess demanded.
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t find us,” she said turning back to face her.
Bess sighed. “Honey, you’re heading down a dangerous path.”
Rebecca shook her head, more worried than before. “I have to protect Mac.”
“Cole is the boy’s father,” Bess warned.
“That doesn’t mean he’s fit to raise Mac. Look at Dusty’s pa. He deserted that boy two months ago.”
“But Cole ain’t been given a chance with his son.”
“Whose side are you on?” Rebecca asked.
“I’m on your side. But you best think long and hard before you start lying to Cole McGuire.”
“If I tell him the truth, he will take Mac from me.” Rebecca smacked her fist against her thigh. Life had finally become good, happy and safe again. And now this.
“Think about Lily,” Bess asked softly. “She would have wanted Cole to know his son.”
