A Reason to Believe

Chapter One

Dulcie McDaniel squinted against the hot, harsh sun and refused to give in to the desperation tightening her chest. Instead, she studied the rustling leaves overhead and the robin perched on a branch, cocking its head at the scene below.

A hand tugged at Dulcie's skirt. "Maaa."

Madeline's crabby whine brought Dulcie back to the present. She looked down at her four-year-old daughter. "What is it, honey?"

"Wanna go home."

Dulcie wanted to do the same, but she couldn't leave her father alone while two strangers lowered his pine box into the ground. Bitterness rose like bile and she choked it back.

Her throat constricted and she blinked tears into submission. Her father had been a falling-down drunk who hadn't done an honest day's work since Dulcie's mother died. But he'd been her father and she owed him something for that.

"Ma, wanna go. Hot."

"A few more minutes."

The girl fiddled with her bonnet strings.

"Leave it on, honey, or the sun will burn your face."

Madeline sighed audibly but stopped playing with the ribbons.

Dulcie squared her shoulders and brought her gaze back to the two men lowering the plain casket into the earth.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Trying not to think about how many of her precious coins were used to give her father this simple burial, Dulcie focused on the plain cross marking the new grave beside her mother's final resting place.

Frank R. Pollard.
Rest in Peace.

Resentment filled Dulcie and she bit the inside of her cheek. First her husband and now her father. Although both had been miserable excuses for human beings, her father had given her life and her husband had given her Madeline. But now, she had no one but Madeline, and her father and husband had the peace that was denied the living.

A dull thwump brought Dulcie out of her bitter musings. Thwump. Another shovelful of dirt hit the wood coffin. Madeline's small fingers tightened around Dulcie's hand and the girl whimpered.

Dulcie's stomach tossed and rolled, threatening to lose its meager contents.

"It's all right, honey," she said, surprised by her calm, even voice. "You can have bread with honey when we get home."

Madeline snuffled, the promise of a treat quieting her restlessness.

When they were done, the men slung their shovels over their shoulders and plodded away without a word, leaving Dulcie and Madeline alone by the fresh grave. An expectancy hung in the air, as if Dulcie's father were waiting for something.

Dulcie thought about her mother's bible lying in the trunk at the cabin. She had considered bringing it and speaking some words over her father, but it didn't seem fitting. Not even the minister could be bothered to bury a lynched murderer.

"I hope you and Ma are together now," Dulcie said awkwardly. "And that there's no more whiskey to tempt you."

She stiffened her backbone. She'd done all she could and probably more than her father deserved. But then, even though he was a drunk, he wasn't a murderer. He hadn't deserved to die at the end of a rope with masked men surrounding him.

"Is Grandda sleeping?" Madeline asked.

Dulcie pressed her lips together and nodded. "Yes, honey, Grandda's asleep." And he won't ever wake up.

Dulcie turned away from the grave and, with Madeline skipping alongside her, trudged back to the mule-drawn wagon.

#

Rye Forrester thought he'd left hell behind. Instead, it had followed him from Kansas all the way down to Texas, bedeviling him with scorching heat during the long, dusty days. He adjusted his battered, wide-brimmed hat and tried to ignore the sweat that trickled down his cheeks and jaw. His shirt stuck to his back, clammy and wet against his skin. His inner thighs were damp from pressing against leather.

His mare tossed her head and snorted, letting him know what she thought of traveling in this ungodly heat. Rye patted Smoke's sweat-soaked neck and considered looking for some shade. However, his destination was close and there they'd find shelter, water, and food. There'd also be saloons that served warm beer and burning rotgut.

Rye shoved temptation aside. The sooner he found the woman, the sooner he could atone and move on. He shifted uneasily. There'd probably be tears and accusations, but he'd known this wouldn't be easy. Hell, his whole life hadn't been easy. Why should this be any different?

He continued on, giving his attention to his surroundings rather than the worn-out memories scrabbling for purchase. Fields littered the area, scattered between bursts of trees, giving the land a latticed appearance. Crops were nearly ripe and it wouldn't be long before harvest began. Unless the merciless sun stripped them away and replaced the living plants with brown, withered stalks.

The town appeared as a blur on the horizon, and it took nearly half an hour to reach the outskirts of the sleepy village. His eyes shaded by his hat brim, Rye catalogued Locust as simply another town like so many others, inhabited by mostly God-fearing folks who gave their lives to parcels of land worth less than his horse.

As he studied the town, he was aware of being the center of attention. Even two years after the War Between the States, every stranger in these southern towns was regarded as an enemy until proven otherwise. Rye never stuck around long enough to prove one way or the other.

He glanced around and caught movement on a hillside at the edge of town. A woman with a young girl stood in a cemetery as two men shoveled dirt into a grave. It seemed odd, just the two mourners.... But then, it wasn't any of his concern.

Rye steered Smoke to the livery and dismounted in the shade of the barn.

A man wearing overalls stuffed with a low-hanging belly ambled out. He pulled a soiled handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his wrinkled brow. "Four bits a day. Includes a can of oats," the man said after a jaw-cracking yawn.

Rye suspected the can was the size of a tomato tin, but he wasn't in any position to argue. And the liveryman knew it. Rye tossed him two coins and the man caught them with his thick, stubby fingers. "For that price you'd best be giving a rubdown, too."

It wasn't a question, but the stout man gave a choppy nod. Rye tossed his saddlebags over his shoulder and untied the rifle from the saddle, hefting the scabbard comfortably with one hand. He gave the liveryman the reins. Rye's nose wrinkled at the stench of old sweat, horse shit, and other odors he didn't want to mull over, having smelled them too often in army barracks.

"There a place to sleep in this town?" Rye asked.

"There's rooms upstairs in the saloon."

Rye frowned. "Isn't there a hotel or rooming house?"

The liveryman shrugged and picked at a scab on his beefy forearm. "Ain't got enough folks comin' through. 'Sides, most that do are men lookin' for whiskey and a woman--saloon got both."

Six months ago Rye would've been looking for the same. He nodded to the man and ambled away, his legs stiff from sitting in the saddle for so long. Out of the shade the sun's heat struck him like a blow and the hot air stole any moisture left in his mouth.

Going into a saloon thirsty and tired wasn't the best idea, but Rye didn't have a choice. He paused in the doorway, his forearms holding open the swinging doors. The stench of stale beer and whiskey, along with unwashed bodies and old tobacco, invoked memories of nights spent drinking himself into oblivion. He breathed through his mouth to lessen the effect, wondering if maybe he shouldn't just camp under the stars again. But the thought of sleeping on a mattress was too tempting, and that was a temptation Rye could surrender to.

He wove between chairs and tables, his footsteps muffled by the sawdust on the floor.

The tall, thin bartender placed his hands against the bar. "What can I get you, mister?"

"A room," Rye replied.

"We got four. You want the one closest to the stairs or the farthest one back?"

With morbid fascination, Rye watched the man's long mustache bounce with every word. He mentally shook himself. "I just want to get some sleep."

"Farthest one, then. That'd be two dollars for the night."

Rye glared at the man. "It got a solid gold bed?"

The bartender laughed, exposing rotting teeth. "We get that much for letting a whore rent the room for her business."

"Provided she's on her back from sundown to sunup."

"Take it or leave it, mister."

As much as Rye wanted to tell him where to shove his room, he wanted a night in a real bed more. "Clean sheets?"

"We got 'em, but it's two bits extra and you got to make up the bed."

Rye grabbed the man's shirtfront and jerked him forward, bringing them face-to-face. "You give me the clean sheets for the price of the room and I won't break your goddamned nose. Take it or leave it, mister," he said, throwing the bartender's words back at him.

"You're bluffin'." The quaver in the man's voice gave lie to his bravado.

"You and me both know you won't get two dollars from a whore on a Tuesday night in this one-horse town."

The bartender gave a jerky nod. "All right."

Rye released him and the man stepped back, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his crane-like neck.

Rye tossed two silver dollars on the bar, wincing inwardly. He'd have to find another job soon to restore his scant money supply.

The bartender scooped up the coins and reached under the bar for a key. He handed it to Rye then went into the back room. He appeared a few moments later with an armload of fresh bedclothes. "Here."

Rye accepted them without comment. He turned to head up the stairs, but remembered his reason for being there. "You know a woman named Dulcie McDaniel?"

The bartender frowned. "No McDaniel around here." He paused. "Seems to me Dulcie Pollard married some soldier fellah, but I don't recall his name."

Rye suspected that was the woman he was searching for. "She live around here?"

The man crossed his long, thin arms. "Ever since she come back here 'bout four months ago. Lives on the farm three miles west of town." He shook his head. "Buried her pa today. Bastard murdered a good man. Got hanged for what he done."

It took a moment for Rye to digest the news. The woman he'd seen at the cemetery must've been McDaniel's widow, and the little girl his daughter. He didn't know whether he should be surprised or not. The fact was he'd never met her and Jerry hadn't talked much about his family. He'd been too busy drinking and whoring.

"Damned shame," the bartender commented, shaking his head. "Frank Pollard was a good customer. Used to buy his whiskey here."

Obviously the bartender could care less about Mrs. McDaniel's grief, which angered and disgusted Rye. "A woman lost her father and all you can think of is that you lost a customer?"

The man's thin lips turned downward, his mustache making his face--and frown--appear longer. "You're a stranger 'round here, mister, so you don't know how it is. If you did, you wouldn't go 'round defendin' her."

"She didn't kill anyone."

"Apple don't fall far from the tree."

Rye stared at him, wondering if most of the town felt the same way. As if reading Rye's thoughts, the bartender added, "The man her pa killed was well-liked. Everyone respected him. That's more than could be said for Pollard and his daughter."

Rye turned and trudged up the creaking stairs. It sounded like McDaniel's wife wasn't exactly what he thought she'd be. Maybe it'd be best if he didn't see her and simply moved on. After burying her hanged father, she probably didn't need one of her husband's old drinking friends stopping by to tell her he was responsible for Jerry's death.

Once in his room, Rye removed the smelly sheets from the bed and threw them into the hallway. As he remade the bed, he argued with his conscience. Visiting with Mrs. McDaniel was the decent thing to do, but it had been nearly six months since Jerry died. What good did it do to unearth the past and add to her grief when she just lost her father?

Rye checked the corners of the mattress, ensuring the sheets were tucked in neat and snug. Ten years in an orphanage and fourteen more in the army made the inspection second nature. Assured the bed was regulation standard, he placed the room key in his pocket and the saddlebag over his arm. He'd seen a bathhouse on the way into town and even though he'd use more of his dwindling money, the indulgence would be worth it.

Five minutes later he arrived at the bathhouse, not surprised to find he was the only customer. After meeting the liveryman and the bartender, Rye figured cleanliness didn't count for much in Locust. A bearded man took his money and yelled for a boy about eight years old to fill one of the tubs.

"Make it one at the back," Rye said.

The gimlet-eyed caretaker winked slyly. "Sure, mister, whatever you want."

Rye didn't bother to dissuade the man from his presumptions. It was easier than the truth.

The boy strained to carry two pails of steaming water, and some sloshed over, making the kid hiss.

"Let me take one of those," Rye said gruffly.

The dark-haired boy shot a quick fearful glance back at his boss and shook his head. "I got 'em."

Rye didn't argue but simply took one from him, casting a glare back at the man, who looked away. They emptied the pails into an oval wooden tub at the back of the room.

"I'll give you a hand with the rest of the water," Rye said to the boy.

"Don't have to, mister. I can do it."

Rye shrugged, noting the boy's ragged overalls and bare feet. His hair was long and shaggy, brushing his shoulders and falling across his eyes. "I don't mind."

Following the kid to the stove out back that held three kettles of hot water, Rye remembered another boy wearing hand-me-down overalls that were always too short or too long. That boy only wore shoes when the ground was covered with snow or ice.

"What's your name?" Rye asked him.

"Collie," the boy replied in a barely audible voice.

"My name's Rye."

Collie didn't acknowledge him, but reached for a hot kettle, using two old cloths so he wouldn't burn himself on the handles.

"Let me do that," Rye said.

Collie glanced at him. "If I don't do it, old man Knobby won't give me no money."

Although Rye suspected that was the case, his temper crackled. He kept his anger hidden from the boy, not wanting to frighten him. "I'll make sure you get paid."

Rye took the cloths from Collie and poured hot water from the kettle into the two pails, plus a third one. He carried two back while Collie handled one. It took two more trips, the last one carrying cold water, to fill the wooden tub.

Rye dug twenty-five cents out of his pocket and handed it to the boy. "Thanks, Collie."

The kid stared at the two bit coin, his brown eyes shining. "Thanks, mister."

"You worked hard. Your folks live in town?"

Collie slipped the coin in his pocket and his hand lingered, fingering it as if afraid it would disappear. "They're gone."

Rye frowned, wondering if they'd left him behind or were dead. "So where do you live?"

"With the Gearsons." His tone told Rye he wasn't thrilled with the arrangement. Collie picked up the empty pails. "I gotta go."

Before Rye could say anything more, the boy was gone. It didn't pay to worry about kids like Collie. They either learned how to take care of themselves or they didn't. Rye had been one of the former.

Shaking his head, he removed his gunbelt but kept it near the tub. He stripped off his grimy, dusty clothes and stepped into the tub. Sighing in pleasure, he lowered himself into the water and tipped his head back.

Although he'd been burning under the sun less than an hour ago, Rye luxuriated in the hot water. He used the harsh soap to get rid of the accumulated sweat and dirt on his skin. Using the mirror and razor in his saddlebag, he shaved.

Some time later, he rose from the tub and dried off with the rough towel that hung on a wall peg. He kept his back to the wall as he donned his clean clothes. As he put on his shirt, he brushed the mark on his shoulder, the reason he'd asked for a bath away from prying eyes.

Regrets rose and nearly strangled him. He'd ruined his army career because he was a damned coward and he had the scar to prove it. Leaving town without seeing the widow of the man whose death he'd caused would be the coward's way out.

Rye finished dressing and strode out of the bathhouse. The day he'd walked out of the stockade he made a promise never to let cowardice rule him again.

#

The Pollard farm was easy to find. Rye reined in his horse a hundred yards from the dilapidated cabin. Out of habit, he reconnoitered the farm in the waning afternoon light. Sagging corral fences, holes in the porch, a broken cabin window repaired with uneven slats, and the barn door leaned up against the wall told Rye that Frank Pollard had spent all his money on whiskey. A swaybacked mule rubbed its rump against a corral post that threatened to topple at any moment and a milk cow stood nearby, chewing its cud. A half dozen scrawny chickens scratched at the dry soil.

From what Rye could figure, the farm hadn't been kept up for some time now. He flicked his gaze to the field behind the house and whistled low. Maybe the buildings needed major repairs, but the grain crop was thick and golden under the sun. Somebody had managed to get the field plowed and planted last spring.

He couldn't put off the meeting any longer. After wiping his damp brow with the scarf tied around his neck, he tapped Smoke's sides. The horse carried him into the yard.

The cabin door opened and the barrel of a shotgun emerged a moment before the owner. "Hold up," came the sharp command.

Rye halted his mare, startled rather than frightened by the shotgun and the accompanying order.

"Keep your hands where I can see them."

This time Rye realized the voice was a woman's, even though the shotgun holder wore breeches. "Are you--"

"Get your hands up." The words were supplemented by the unmistaken hammer cock of the shotgun.

Rye did as she said and took a few moments to study the woman. Trousers and a baggy shirt camouflaged her figure, and a floppy hat hid her hair, except for a few loose reddish tendrils curling around her grim face. Dressed as she was, nobody could accuse the woman of being a beauty, but there was strength in her features.

"What do you want?" she asked, both barrels aimed unerringly at Rye's head.

He opened his mouth to tell her who he was, but the disrepair of the farm made him pause. From what he heard, Mrs. McDaniel and her daughter lived here alone. There was no way she'd be able to do the work required to bring in the crop and fix up the place. If he told her who he was and what he'd done, she'd likely order him away. However, his leaving wouldn't help her nor would he be able to make amends.

"My name's Rye Forrester and I'm looking for a job, ma'am." The words slipped out before he could think them through.

Something akin to hope flared in her expression, but faded just as quickly. "If you're looking for a paying job, I don't have one."

Rye shrugged but kept his hands raised. "I'd be willing to work for room and board, ma'am."

Although the shotgun barrel didn't waver, Mrs. McDaniel seemed to be considering his offer. He waited patiently.

"The only place to sleep is the barn," she said.

"I've slept in worse."

"You'd be fed the same as my daughter and me, but you'll eat on the porch."

Rye understood her wariness, with a young daughter and having just lost her father. "That'd be fine, ma'am."

She studied him, as if gauging his sincerity...and degree of danger. He kept his expression friendly. He owed this woman.

Finally, she eased the hammer back and lowered the shotgun. "I have one more thing to tell you, then you can decide if you want to work here or not." She lifted her chin, met his gaze squarely. "I buried my pa this morning. They said he murdered someone in town then they hanged him without a trial. If you take the job, you'll be working for that man's daughter."

Rye was surprised she told him, but then she probably knew he'd hear about it in town. Still, it was a brave thing to do. "You sound like you don't believe he was guilty."

"He wasn't." No hesitation. No tears. Merely a statement of fact. "Do you want the job or not, Mr. Forrester?"

Rye didn't have a choice, not if he wanted to hold on to whatever honor he still possessed.

"I'll take it, ma'am."