Lucas swallowed his disgust and emptied a can into a blackened pan. Shoving a few corn husks into the stove, he lit a fire and heated the beans.
Bard sat at the rickety table, broke a dried biscuit and spread lard on it. He grunted at the tin plate of beans Lucas sat in front of him, dunked the biscuit and tore off a chunk with his stained front teeth. "Sit," he ordered around the mouthful.
Lucas perched his narrow buttocks on an upended crate and took a hard biscuit. He ignored Bard's smacking noises and ate, thinking of nothing. Lately, he spent most of his time focused on not thinking, not feeling, not caring. There wasn't much in life to care about when he really thought about it.
Food. Now, food was important.
Bard's belch punctuated Lucas's thoughts.
A glass of milk would sure taste mighty good. Sometimes Lucas let himself remember the day he'd been at the church lady's picnic. He saved that memory for the really bad days, though; the days a good memory was all that kept him alive.
She'd sure been tall. Closer to heaven than most people, he guessed. She'd smiled like an angel must smile. He'd warmed himself in New York City's big churches many winter nights. He'd studied the angels on the lofty stained glass windows, and he was almost certain that when an angel smiled, she couldn't be no prettier than the church lady. All gold and warm, a pretty that turned into a feeling and slid right to your stomach.
She'd been right about her apple pie, too. Lucas had never tasted anything straight from heaven before, but that pie was it. If he was hers, he'd eat apple pie for breakfast, dinner and supper. And a piece before bed, too. Wonder what that'd feel like on a belly.
A cup landed in his plate, splattering his last few beans on his already stained shirtfront. "Wake up, slum boy! Clean them dishes. There's cows to milk."
Lucas glared hatred at the man. "I was still eatin'."
"Don't back talk me, boy! You was dreamin'. Like yer always dreamin' 'stead o' workin'. I feed you, and you try to get out o' workin'."
Lucas stared back, wishing the hateful man dead.
Bard yanked an ax from a makeshift cupboard and disappeared through the open door.
The scarred tabletop blurred. Lucas concentrated on the aged ring burned into the wood until his vision cleared. This wasn't the worst place he'd ever lived, but it was close. The man had lied about having a wife at home. And heaven only knew where he'd found references for the agent. Lucas could tolerate the bedbugs that chewed him alive at night. He could endure the endless meals of beans and salt pork and dry biscuits. He could even tell himself this snake-infested hole was better than the garbage-filled alleys of New York.
What he couldn't abide was that crude, smelly man. Gophertown, he'd heard some of the townspeople call this section; Gophertown, because the occupants lived in holes dug into the side of a hill. Bard belonged in a hole, Lucas was convinced. However, the hole should have been six feet deep and covered with dirt while he was in it.
"You lazy, good for nothin' alley rat!" Bard shouted from the doorway, and Lucas jumped, falling backward off the crate.
Buttocks stinging, he leapt to his feet.
"I knew you wasn't doin' them dishes. You got to be watched ever' minute!" Bard flexed the leather razor strap between both fists, leveled his rheumy gaze and stalked him.
Lucas was lighter and faster, and he escaped Bard's first clumsy attempts. Dodging and darting in the darkness, he tripped over a stool and fell to the hard-packed dirt floor with a grunt.
Bard was on him like a fly on dung.
Lucas closed his eyes, buried his face in his elbows and rolled into a ball beside the stove. The first blow struck, and he almost cried out. With the next, he gritted his teeth and cringed until his eyes rolled back into his head.
The lashes stung like jets of fire across his spine. Rage festered in his agonized young mind. With a strength born of gripping hated, he jackknifed sideways, grabbed the nearest table leg, yanked himself away from his tormentor and scrambled beneath the table.
Panting, Bard leaned back against a rickety makeshift cupboard. Cans fell and rolled across the dirt floor. Lucas's attention never left Bard's worn boots. The boots moved toward the door.
"Do them dishes, ya skinny bastard."
As soon as the man was gone, Lucas closed his eyes and allowed himself a grimace of pain and festering hatred. Nausea rose in his constricted throat.
He crawled from beneath the table. His back and shoulders stung. His face was wet, but he didn't know how that had happened, because he never cried. With sharp movements, he shoved his extra shirt and socks into the drawstring bag he'd brought from the Home. Deliberating for mere seconds, he opened the potato bin and removed the slim .36 caliber he'd discovered earlier.
After a quick glance, he darted across the yard through the tall weeds, ran as fast and as far as his aching legs would carry him, and finally found a wooded area for cover.
Without a backward glance, he caught his breath and limped alongside the stream.
* * *
After knocking on the back door, Booker wondered if he should have gone to the front. But the drive led to the back porch, and judging by the hard-packed dirt path and scuffed stairs, this was where the family entered. The door opened.
The statuesque woman who greeted him wore her strawberry blond hair caught up on the back of her head, one loose strand dangling over her ear to her shoulder. Catching the wayward tress with long fingers, she tucked it into the shiny mass. Her pale pink skin was flushed, and her blue-green eyes assessed him curiously. His attention was called to her unadorned loveliness. Booker self-consciously realized his clothing was wrinkled from the train ride, and he hadn't shaved in days. He hadn't wanted to waste the time.
"Sir?" she asked, wiping one long-fingered hand on the white cotton apron she wore over a drab brown house-dress.
"I'm looking for Thea Coulson."
Her gaze drifted over his shoulder to where he'd tethered Gideon to a stump, then returned. "That's me."
"I expected someone older."
She smiled with charming, open friendliness, crinkling her red-gold lashes. "Time seems to be hurrying that right along, Mr...."
"Hayes, ma'am. Booker Hayes."
She stepped back without hesitation. "Come in. What can I do for you?"
He moved past her into the bright, cinnamon-smelling kitchen. She gestured to the table, covered with a sunny yellow gingham-check cloth that matched the curtains on the two enormous windows. The sights and scents reminded Booker of times long past, of childhood mornings shared with his mother and sister. At her invitation, he slid out a chair and sat.
She placed a mug of steaming black coffee in front of him, and he noticed the sprinkling of freckles across the back of her hand.
"Mrs. Jennings gave me your name."
"Jennings." She sat across the table and tapped a forefinger on the checked cloth. "I'm trying to remember who that might be."
From another room, a baby cried. Immediately, she rose. "Excuse me a minute."
He watched her hurry toward the sound. The plain brown dress did little to flatter her well-molded figure, but Booker couldn't help noticing the way the apron's sash rode her arresting backside.
She returned a few minutes later, a baby on her hip, and paused at the stove to spoon something gray and unappetizing into a dish.
"Sorry," she said, returning to her seat and settling the infant on her lap. "This is David."
Booker regarded the child's wide blue eyes and fuzzy golden head. "How do you do, David?"
Mrs. Coulson tied a white cotton towel around the boy's neck and reached for the dish. "Now, where were we?"
Carrying half a spoonful to her lips, she blew on the contents and touched it to her upper lip before feeding it to the baby.
Booker observed the procedure with keen interest.
"Good boy, David." The spoon dipped back into the shallow dish, hovered before her pursed lips, and she blew. Gently. "Mr. Hayes?"
Enraptured, his gaze collided with her aquamarine eyes. Booker cleared his throat. "Mrs. Jennings," he reminded her. "She runs the New York Children's Foundling Home."
"Oh, of course." The corners of her full mouth started to turn up, but the smile faded. "You're from the Foundling Home, then?"
"No. No, I'm not from New York. My sister died there, and I'm looking for her child. Mrs. Jennings told me you'd organized homes for the orphans, so I'm hoping you'll know where I can find her."
Her features took on an expression of concentrated detachment. "I'll do what I can." The baby grunted, and she spooned another mouthful between his lips, scraping his chin with the edge of the spoon. "Who are you looking for?"
"Zoe Galloway."
David's mouth hung open birdlike, anticipating the next bite. Thea's heart sank to somewhere around her suddenly trembling knees.
This man had come for Zoe.
Cautiously, she met his penetrating dark gaze. His thick short hair was black, the growth of whiskers on his chiseled cheeks blacker yet. Fine white lines at the corners of his mahogany eyes testified to hours in the sun. His square chin, straight nose and hard mouth didn't relieve his severe appearance. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he already knew she had Zoe, that he knew everything about her and was just waiting for her to try to deny it.
David whimpered.
"Have you seen Zoe, Mrs. Coulson?"
Thea shoveled a spoonful of oatmeal into the baby's mouth. "Yes," she replied when she found her voice. "I know Zoe."
Mrs. Vaughn had told her she wouldn't be able to keep Zoe. Thea'd told herself for the last two months that, eventually, suitable parents would show up to adopt the little girl. From the first day, she'd reminded herself not to grow too attached, not to consider Zoe hers. But instructing herself to stay detached and actually doing it were two different things.
Zoe had eaten an excessive amount of dinner the first day, and supper again that night, then lost everything. For a week everything she'd eaten had come back up. For days she'd been pitifully sick—so sick that Thea had summoned Dr. Gilbert all the way from Fremont. He hadn't arrived until near morning, and, after a brief examination, he'd explained that Zoe's stomach wasn't used to so much food. Thea had fed her small, bland amounts to adjust her stomach, and eventually she'd been able to eat normally.
Through all that the child had never cried, never spoken, never moved farther than a few feet from Thea while she was awake. She'd become Thea's tiny shadow. Thea knew she should check on Zoe now to see if she'd awakened from her nap.
"Where is she?"
Mr. Hayes's question cut through her thoughts. She fed David the last bite of cereal and met the man's examining gaze. She had to tell him. She didn't want to, but she had to. "She's upstairs."
His clear-cut features didn't register emotion. His black brows rose fractionally.
"Mrs. Vaughn left her with me. Until..." Oh, she didn't want to do this. "Until she found a family."
"Is she all right?"
"Yes. She's healthy. She had some problems eating at first, but she's better."
"Mrs. Jennings said she's a cripple."
Thea's spoon dropped into the empty bowl with a clatter. "Zoe is not a cripple."
She wiped David's chin with the towel and threw the cloth down on the tabletop.
"Can she talk?"
Calming herself, Thea loosened her grip on her nephew and smoothed his hair. "I don't know."
"Either she talks or she doesn't," he said matter-of-factly.
Evading the stranger's eyes, she rose, placed David on a quilt in the corner and arranged his toys within reach. "She hasn't said anything," she finally admitted, straightening. "But that doesn't mean she can't."
He seemed to think that over. "All right," he said at last, "Thank you for looking after her. I'll take her now."
Beneath her apron front, Thea's heart thudded. "Mr. Hayes—" she struggled for words "—you can't just take her away. Where will you take her? Do you have a wife to look after her?"
He allowed a wry grin to turn up one side of his mouth. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of her, Mrs. Coulson."
Panic rose in her chest.
"I have some land nearby," he assured her, and his deep voice had taken on an almost soothing quality. "I'm going to build us a house."
Confusion and worry blotted out the information. "She's so little," she almost whispered. "And she's frightened." Thea fought to control the tremor in her voice. "Can you imagine what she's been through?"
A look of pain crossed his hard-set expression. "Yes. I can."
"She's just begun adjusting to living here. I—I can't bear to think of her being uprooted again so soon."
Mr. Hayes stood, pushing the chair behind him with the backs of his legs. "What are you suggesting? What? Do you want Zoe yourself? Do you plan to fight me for her?" He took a few steps toward her. "If you do, lady, you'll have a hell of a battle on your hands, and you don't stand a chance of victory. She's my sister's child. My blood relative."
Thea met his furious, dark scowl. He was right, of course; she didn't stand a chance. Just because she'd foolishly allowed herself to grow attached to Zoe didn't give her any rights. The little girl rightfully belonged with him if—she examined his sharp features, the black growth of whiskers lending him an even more menacing countenance, and her heart broke imagining Zoe with this uncompromising, rock-faced stranger—if he was who he said he was.
For once, as she pulled herself up and stared back at him, her height gave her a definite advantage. A normal-sized woman would have been dwarfed by this man's massive stature. "You can't take her. Not like this. Not without Mrs. Vaughn's consent. I don't know you, Mr. Hayes." She paused and another thought struck her. "Does Zoe know you?"
She'd hit a nerve. His granite expression cracked. He cleared his throat. "I haven't seen Zoe since she was a baby. But that makes no difference. She belongs with me."
"Maybe she does," Thea conceded. "But Mrs. Vaughn and the Foundling Home will have to decide. Understand," she pleaded, her voice softening, "I can't just send Zoe out the door with a man I've never laid eyes on before. I feel... responsible for her."
Thea wasn't certain how he'd accept that admission. For several tense minutes he said nothing.
"I want to see her," he said at last.
Apprehension tightened every nerve in her body. Thea glanced at his hip. No weapon rode there, but that didn't mean he didn't have one concealed beneath the dark jacket. He was a powerful-looking man... a stranger. Trudy and Thea's half sisters had gone visiting. Her father and Denzel wouldn't be back until noon. How would she defend herself and the children if Mr. Hayes threatened them? She glanced at David, content with his playthings. Then she thought of the revolver she kept in her bureau upstairs.
Reconciled, she led him up to her bedroom. In the center of the four-poster, Zoe slept. Thea's wedding ring quilt was tucked around the little girl's legs and feet. Aunt Odessa had sewn the quilt thirteen years ago for Thea's hope chest, and a few winters past Thea had resignedly decided to enjoy it before the moths did.
She breathed an inward sigh of relief at Zoe's sound sleep and stepped to her bureau.
Mr. Hayes stood beside the bed and studied the child. Stealthily, Thea opened her top drawer and found the gun beneath her handkerchiefs. Gripping it, she buried her hand in the folds of her skirt.
After several long minutes spent watching his niece deep, he glanced around, took stock of the hand-crocheted white bedspread and curtains, the rose-patterned wallpaper and the silver-backed brush and comb set on Thea's bureau. When he turned, she wondered at the shimmer she thought she'd seen in his eyes.
He strode from the room, and she followed him briskly along the hall, down the stairs, through the house to the back door. He jerked open the door and marched into the yard.
Thea felt foolish holding the gun at her side. What would she have done with it? "Mr. Hayes..."
He stopped and cast h
er a dark glare.
She couldn't think of anything to say. If he was who he said he was, he would get Zoe next time. "Where will you take her?"
The man didn't waste time with careless gestures. "There's a soddy on my land. I'll stay there until I get my house finished."
A soddy? She'd lived in one twenty years ago before her father'd built their home. There'd been snakes, and the roof had leaked.
The black stallion with white-stockinged forelegs snorted from the yard's edge and shook its massive head impatiently, its snaffle ring jingling across the open yard. Mr. Hayes calmed the horse with a quiet word and the touch of his palm over the beast's nose.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, matching Thea's turbulent emotions. The self-assured man settled a flat-brimmed hat on his head and swung into the saddle in one graceful movement. A rifle hung in a leather holster from the military-issue saddle.
With two fingers, he touched the hat's brim in a parting salute. "If you mean to use that gun, make sure it's loaded. I'll be back."
A jagged streak of lightning punctuated his vow. He wheeled the horse and galloped in a northeasterly direction. From the west, Thea heard her father bringing in the team before the storm broke. Behind her, David fussed. MaryRuth would be coming for him soon. The men would be ready for dinner in an hour, and she hadn't started the meal yet.
Thea closed the door and leaned her forehead against the wood. He'll be back.
* * *
Booker cast a glance at the threatening sky and tugged his slicker from the roll behind him. How ironic that instead of finding Zoe in some hovel or a state of near starvation, he'd found her safe and warm on a beautiful woman's bed in a dress, obviously new and of good-quality fabric. Why did that fact cut him almost as deeply as if she'd been mistreated or hungry?
He was grateful that the Coulson woman had taken her in and cared for her. Even though the woman had at least one child of her own, she'd made time and a place for Zoe.
Land of Dreams Page 3
