by Angel Smits
Faith was even more confused. Laying down her pen and notebook, she looked over at Lorenia Watson. “I’d really like to see your father now.”
The older woman paused, then taking a drink of her tea as if it were fortifying whiskey, she nodded. She stood and motioned for Faith to follow.
A makeshift hospital room had been created in a small room off the kitchen. One entire wall of thick glass overlooked the eleventh green. Sunshine warmed and cheered the room.
The tiny figure of a man lay in the sterile, white bed. His eyes were closed. Faith couldn’t tell if he was awake—or even alive. His hair was sparse, but what there was gleamed white as spring snow. His skin, thin and filled with tiny blue veins, had a gray cast.
As their footsteps echoed on the floor, his eyes slid open. He pinned Faith with a surprisingly alert stare.
“Papa?” Lorenia spoke. “This is Ms. McCoy. I told you about her coming to visit today?”
He motioned for them to come over by the bed. “Sit down, Ms. McCoy.” His voice was raspy but strong. She sat in the chair beside the bed. “Why don’t you see what Miriam is fixing for dinner?” he urged his daughter, who dutifully turned and left them alone.
“So, Ms. McCoy. You’re interested in my brothel. Why?”
His directness bothered her. She had imagined a semi-senile old man who would have little to tell her. She suddenly wasn’t sure she wanted to know any answers.
“I’m fascinated with the Victorian Era,” she said. “There’s a magic about that time that we’ve forgotten these days.”
“And?” he prompted.
From the gleam in his eye, Faith realized he knew. Knew why she was here. Knew there was more to this than the answers for a book.
“Don’t glamorize those women’s lives, Ms. McCoy. They were hookers. Nothing more, nothing less. They lived terrible lives.”
Faith hesitated. She didn’t want to upset him; she had promised his daughter she wouldn’t. His gaze turned to hers, filled with curiosity and understanding. She hoped he would believe her. “The fact they were bad or good doesn’t diminish their place in history.” She met his gaze with a defiant lift of her chin.
He leaned forward, an angry frown adding creases to his brow. “Now tell me the truth. Why are you here?”
She swallowed. What did she have to lose? She’d already finished photographing the house. “I have dreams. I’ve had them for as long as I can remember. I’m in that room—the observation room.” She watched a scowl settle on his brow. “I’m un . . . undressing before a man.” Heat bloomed in his cheeks. “At the end the man informs me he is my husband. He’s very angry.”
“I can understand his anger.” He relaxed against the pillows, watching her closely.
“A couple days ago, I met a man. He looks just like the one in my dream. He has the same dreams.” She watched the snow-white eyebrows rise in surprise, but he didn’t speak. He waited for her to continue.
“It’s strange, but basically we think we may be the reincarnation of Rafe and Maria Cumberland. She was one of the women who worked in the brothel. They had a son named Timmy who supposedly died under rather strange circumstances.”
“That’s quite a story, Ms. McCoy. Are you expecting me to believe it?”
Her eyes sought his. There was challenge there. “Yes, I do, Mr. Gibson. It’s the truth, or as much truth as I know.”
“And you came here to see if I was that long lost son? That maybe I hadn’t died?” He paused to give her a long, silent stare. “Do you want to know the truth, or are you looking to ease a guilty conscience?”
His words struck her nerves like a cat o’nine tails. She saw Timmy’s face from the photo in her mind, and the pain of his voice reached out to her again.
“Yes. No. I don’t honestly know.”
A smile suddenly broke on his face, and some of his warmth eased the hurt in her heart.
“I’m not condemning you, Ms. McCoy. It’s a bit much to digest all at once.” He watched her for a long stress-filled moment. “I think I believe you. You seem sane enough.”
“Thank you.” She didn’t know why it meant so much to her for this man to believe her, but it did.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
“I promised your daughter I wouldn’t keep you too long. I appreciate your time, though.”
“Ah, Lorenia means well, but she smothers me sometimes. You’ve brightened an old man’s day with your presence. You’re a pretty young lady.”
“Th . . . thank you.” The compliment felt good. “I’ll bet you were quite a dandy when you were young.”
“Don’t tell my daughter.” He winked, and the smile remained on his lips. “Ms. McCoy?”
“Yes?”
“In the bureau over there—open the top drawer.” He raised a long, thin hand and pointed to the tallboy in the corner.
Faith walked to the dresser. Pulling the drawer open, she gazed at a myriad of items.
“See that blue envelope down on the left side? Bring it here.”
He indicated she should open it. Pulling the old photograph into the light, she gasped. Stinging tears flooded her eyes. Rafe, Maria and Timmy stood together in front of an old-fashioned Christmas Tree. Like most old-time photographs, they stood stiff and unsmiling.
“I think you have more right to it than I. I know they weren’t my family.”
“I . . . don’t . . . understand.” Faith struggled with her composure.
“My mother was Delta Delange. Her legal name was Annie Gibson.” He raised a restraining hand as she started to speak. “I was a year old when she died.”
“But your daughter just told me she died an old woman.”
“The woman who pretended to be my mother died an old woman. She wasn’t my mother. She gave my grandparents money to help with my care. She sent gifts when I was married and when my daughter was born. I believed her to be my mother, but her real name . . . was Maria Cumberland.”
Faith slumped in the chair. She had hoped that today she would learn a great deal. This wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind.
“I’m confused. Why did she pretend to be your mother?”
The old man smiled. “Just before she died, I went to see her.” His eyes took on a distant cast. “She told me the truth that day, about her own Timmy dying so tragically. I believe she was trying to make up for things she couldn’t change.”
Tree branches rubbed against the wall outside, startling Faith. Tim Gibson’s voice sounded weary all of a sudden.
“She gave me the house, asking me to never again allow it to become such a place. We’d both been hurt so deeply by that house and all it represented. She made one stipulation. The observation room must be sealed and never seen again.”
“Did she tell you why?” Faith’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Yes. Are you sure you’re up to this? You look worse than I do, and I’ve got a good eighty years on you.” His concern for her brought a smile to her lips. “That’s better. Come here for a moment.” He extended his hand, clasping hers in his and settling them both beside him in the bed.
“Her husband died there. She hadn’t been in that room since his death, though many of her treasured belongings were there. Each time she tried, her heart broke all over again. She was with him when he died.” His fingers tightened around hers. “It was so hard for her to talk about it even after all that time.”
“Then she didn’t have anything to do with his death?”
“I don’t think so. What gave you that idea?”
“Something someone said.” A portion of the burden lifted from Faith’s heart, but the weight still seemed great.
“You resemble her very much. I can see her eyes in yours.” His voice caught, and he patted her hand. “Forgive me. Forgive yourself. Forget it a
ll,” he whispered. “Lord knows I’ve spent almost a century trying.”
“What do you have to forgive yourself for?” she whispered.
“There are many errors in a man’s life. Some I had no control over. Like what my mother was. I wish I’d pushed harder to know the woman who tried to make up for what my own mother couldn’t give me. Her last days were lonely. We could have been good for each other.”
“Probably.” Further words failed her.
“On that last visit, she asked me to take her for a drive.”
Faith didn’t want to ask to where, but she did anyway. It took him a long time to answer.
“To a hidden grove. Hand me that atlas on the third shelf over there.” Once the heavy book was nestled on his narrow lap, he flipped pages until he found what he wanted. “Look here. See that mark by the town of Altman?”
Faith nodded.
“That’s where their farm used to be. Pretty little place, covered with aspen. That day they were as golden as I’d ever seen them.”
“Why did you go there?” Faith could barely get the words out. Suddenly, an image came into her mind, and she knew. She had to hear his words, but she already knew. Her two men were there.
“There are graves back in the trees. She wanted to see them one last time. She knelt down and sobbed as if they’d just been buried. I’ve never heard such heartache.”
Faith felt the soul deep pain. Knew exactly what he was talking about. “You are a special man, Timothy Gibson.”
His eyes closed, and Faith bent to kiss the paper-thin skin of his cheek. A melancholy smile tugged at the edges of his lips as a tear slipped between his closed eyelids.
“It’s good to see you again—Maria,” he whispered. “Good-bye, Faith.” He didn’t open his eyes. “Put some flowers on those three graves for me, would you?”
Ten
RAIN HIT THE windshield just as Faith pulled onto the highway and headed home. The slapping of the wipers was loud in the silent car. The antique photograph sat on the seat next to her as she maneuvered her car north through Denver, the silent, lifeless eyes staring up at her. She hadn’t put the photo back in the blue envelope, unwilling to hide the images again. They had been put away in a drawer for so long. At the second stop light she jumped when a car horn sounded, and she looked up. The light had turned green and traffic whizzed past. She turned the picture over.
Even the back of the tattered gray board, which the photo was mounted on, couldn’t block out the images. Maria’s hand on Rafe’s shoulder, possessive and comforting. The way Rafe’s head tilted toward hers, as if keeping her within his peripheral vision. The strong hand curled around Timmy’s tiny waist as he leaned against his father’s knee. A warm inviting portrait of the Christmas holiday. Despite the staid pose, she saw the love in their eyes.
Suddenly, the vision from the other night jumped into her mind. At the next light, she grabbed the picture and turned it over, searching its black and white surface. She didn’t care if every car in town honked.
There, under the tree sat the toy bear Timmy had excitedly brought into her fantasy bedroom. The bear the wind had stolen away. Where had the bear gone? She didn’t remember it being in the trunk. A lump wedged in her throat.
Memories of Faith’s own childhood crowded in, of her childish tears at the loss of a beloved bear. Just one more pain she shared with the little boy.
Shadows engulfed the city. The evening had control when Faith turned onto her street. Exhaustion—both physical and emotional—threatened to overwhelm her. She looked forward to a soak in a nice warm tub.
The headlight beams sought out a path through the quiet residential neighborhood and found the familiar street. A battered blue jeep sat on one side of her driveway. Surprised, Faith stepped hard on the brake.
She sat in her car, debating about turning around and going to the convenience store a couple blocks away to call the police. She slipped the car into reverse when a figure separated itself from the shadows on the front porch.
Swallowing a cry, she watched the figure take shape. A thick head of hair glinted in the dim starlight. Broad shoulders filled a worn leather jacket. He stepped into the eerie glow of the streetlight with a vaguely familiar swagger.
Cord.
A sigh of relief escaped her lips and then transformed into a frightened cry of uncertainty. Clarissa’s words from yesterday rang through the empty night. Rafe murdered Delta DeLange.
What could she do? If she turned around and called the police what would she tell them? There was a murderer at her house? She could hear some sergeant asking her, “Who did they kill? When?” And she’d reply, “About a hundred years ago. A psychic told me?” Oh, that would be good. She had to face him, but she needed a couple minutes to prepare.
Cord isn’t Rafe, she reminded herself and forced her thoughts and her heartbeat to calm. She punched the button on the garage door opener and drove inside. Quickly, she punched the button again and the door slid closed. She knew Cord stood on her front step, but she needed time to think. Time to hide the picture. To put all the information she’d learned in the past twenty-four hours into perspective.
Then maybe she could face the man whose existence was changing from a recurring dream into a never-ending nightmare.
THE SUN HAD slipped behind the mountains, leaving a blanket of shadow across the town. As the sun dipped, so had the temperature. Cord had almost given up, planning to go some place for a cup of coffee and to warm up.
When he’d seen headlights coming down the road toward the house, he knew it was Faith. No other cars had passed this way since he’d arrived.
For several long moments after she’d entered her garage, he stood on the front step, looking around, waiting. The tiny, baby-blue house fit her. A small verandah wrapped around part of the front and one side of the house. An old-fashioned porch swing hung on the far end. He pictured her there on a warm day, sipping iced tea and gazing out at the mountains. The view was lovely from the hill on which the house sat.
A cut glass window and a lacy curtain were all that prevented him from seeing inside. There’d been no indication earlier that she was home. Now a faint light shone through the lace. Raking his fingers through his hair, Cord pushed the little lighted button beside the door. Chimes echoed through the house in a soft, lonely sound.
The rain had stopped, and a gentle breeze slipped through the air, causing the swing to creak as if in invitation. If he had to, he’d use it. He had time to wait for her. After last night he had no choice.
He paced, burning off the nervous energy that had kept him company for what seemed like an eternity. The debate he’d held with himself all the way here repeated in his mind. In the end he’d given in, knowing he had to try to figure things out. He’d never been one to ignore a problem, and he wasn’t about to start now.
He was patient for the first few minutes, then he bypassed the doorbell and rapped on the doorframe. What was taking her so long? He knew his being here was a surprise, but she wasn’t hiding from him—from their disagreement yesterday—was she? The old glass rattled, announcing his presence all over again.
A meow sounded on the other side of the door. It didn’t stop until Faith turned on the porch light and opened the door. A streak of white, that Cord assumed was a cat, sped past his legs and disappeared around the corner of the house.
“I hope he’ll come back.” Cord smiled at her, unable to control the warm desire spreading through him. The hall light haloed around her hair and caressed the smoothness of her brow, her cheeks, her lips . . . He caught himself before he leaned forward.
There was no smile for him. She stood slightly behind the door, as if it were a shield. “When he gets hungry, he’ll come begging for his dinner.” Belatedly, he realized she was talking about the cat.
“Hello, Faith.” He shoved his hands
into the pockets of his jacket.
“Hello, Cord. How did you find me?” Faith’s fingers squeezed the doorknob, as her heart pounded hard against her ribs. Why was he here?
“Opal has your address, remember? May I come in?” He didn’t wait until she agreed but brushed past her.
Cord’s height and bulk filled the small foyer. The hall light glowed in his dark hair. He turned away, looking at her house.
“Nice.”
She’d always been proud of her little home. Items from her various travels, and from her parents’ home, filled the nooks and crannies. Some thought it hodgepodge. She liked it. A shiver of pleasure shot through her at his approval. She quickly squelched it.
A cool breeze slipped through the open door, reminding her it was still open. She quickly shut it. The house grew immediately warmer, but she felt trapped and closed in with him so near.
“I’ll have to speak to Opal about keeping my address confidential,” Faith mumbled as she walked past Cord and into the front room. With a flip of a wall switch, soft recessed light bathed the room. Out of habit, she also flipped the companion switch that turned on the gas logs.
The bouncing flames in the stone fireplace sent shimmering light about the room, and Faith regretted the impulse. She wasn’t willing to admit the error and turn it off. The constant warmth of the flickering gas flame usually gave her comfort, but not tonight. Cord’s presence was too unsettling.
Clarissa’s words suddenly leaped into her mind, and Faith rubbed her hands nervously up and down her arms.
This isn’t Rafe.
This is Cord.
Maybe if she repeated it over and over enough times, she might actually believe it.
“Why are you here?” she whispered. Her eyes didn’t meet his, but her gaze traveled over the rest of him.
“I . . . ” He suddenly grinned at her. “I was wondering if you’d had dinner.”
“You drove all the way from Cripple Creek to see if I’d had dinner?” She crossed her arms in front of her, finally meeting his gaze.
“Well, no.” He shifted on the balls of his feet. “Have you had any more dreams?”
