“Yeah, sure.”
Cole grunted. He didn’t believe him.
Dusty smoothed dirty hands over tattered overalls. “Hey, you need me to watch your horse today? I got some time on my hands. I reckon Pa’s so mad, he won’t be back in town for a month.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
Dusty shrugged. “It’s a holiday.”
“You’re a bad liar, kid.”
Dusty took two quick steps for every one of Cole’s. “Maybe, but I still got the whole day free.”
Cole paused at the entrance of the saloon. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“Yesterday. Maybe the day before.”
“I’ve a taste for bacon and eggs. Join me.”
The boy hesitated. “I ain’t supposed to go in there. Mr. Osborne said he’d skin me alive if he ever caught me in the saloon again.”
“Why?”
“It might have something to do with missing money.”
“You take it?”
“Maybe,” the boy said.
The kid was a survivor and if that meant he stole to put food in his belly, Cole wasn’t going to pass judgment. He grabbed the kid by the shirt and pulled him inside the saloon. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
The fresh smell of bacon mingled with the stale odor of whiskey, making Cole sorry now he hadn’t taken his breakfast at the Shady Grove. He chose a table in the corner. He ordered Dusty to take a chair then took one next to him.
Within minutes Seth sauntered from the back room. His shirt was stained with last night’s liquor and his long gray hair hung loose around his shoulders. He studied Cole and Dusty with red-rimmed eyes. “Cole, I’m holding you responsible for anything that boy steals.”
“Dusty isn’t gonna steal anything.” Cole’s voice held a threatening note.
Seth reached for a pot of coffee and a pitcher of milk. He set both on their table along with a mug and a glass. “See that he don’t. I suppose you’ll be wanting breakfast for two.” His voice wasn’t as gruff as it had been.
“Eggs, bacon and extra helpings of biscuits,” Cole said as he poured a glass of milk for Dusty.
“Sure.” Seth sauntered to the back room.
Dusty finished his milk just as Cole was raising his mug of coffee to his lips. He poured the boy another glass.
Seth was quick with the biscuits, eggs and bacon. Cole sipped his hot coffee as the boy ate his fill. He marveled at the amount of food the child could pack into his body.
After Dusty had finished his fifth biscuit, Cole chuckled. “Boy, I believe you got a hollow leg.”
“Just an empty stomach.” Dusty took the remaining three biscuits from the basket and shoved them in his pocket.
“How long you been in town?”
“Pa dropped me off in the spring after ma died. Said I was too much trouble.”
Dusty kept all traces of emotion from his face, but Cole noticed the way his little hands shook as he dabbed up the crumbs on the table with his fingertips.
“Why’d he come after you today?”
“Reckon he’s thinking about the fall harvest.”
Cole felt a hitch in his throat. If he left town now, there’d be no one to look after the boy. Hell, he didn’t have anywhere else to be for a couple of months. “I’ve got some business to attend to, but I want you to meet me here for lunch.”
Dusty stood, biscuits bulging from his pants pockets. “You need me to do anything for you?”
“Just show up for lunch.”
“Sure thing.”
Cole watched the boy scamper out of the saloon, his narrow shoulders a good bit straighter. He swallowed the dregs of his coffee, scooped up his hat and tossed two bits on the table.
He walked over to the bar where Seth stood polishing a glass tumbler. “Where in potter’s field are Lily and my son buried?”
Seth stopped what he was doing but didn’t look up. “They’re not in potter’s field. They’re in the town cemetery.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” Seth turned and went into his back room.
For as long as Cole could remember, the town cemetery had been reserved as the final resting place for the town’s finest. People like his ma and Lily ended up in crudely marked graves on the north side of town.
Curious now, Cole strode down Main Street past the collection of shops toward a grassy patch of land up on a hill. His boots crunched against the dirt, eating up the half mile of terrain in record time.
He still remembered the cold Friday afternoon in May when he’d stood at his mother’s fresh grave. The wind had whipped through the valley that day, blistering his skin as he stared at the plain marker he’d ordered with the name Betty McGuire carved on it.
He remembered how he’d felt—guilty. Guilty that he’d been working when she’d died. Guilty that he hadn’t been strong enough to save his ma from the bottle.
He’d barely caught sight of the black iron fence encircling the plots when he saw Rebecca’s blond curls dancing in the gentle breeze as she opened the gate that encircled the graves.
He held back, crouching, wondering what she was doing here. He reckoned her pa was buried in the cemetery and maybe even that husband of hers that had got himself shot in Denver. The thought of her pining for a dead husband didn’t sit well.
Wicker basket in hand, she knelt in front of a grave. She slipped on a pair of work gloves then carefully cleaned all the fallen leaves and sticks from the plot. She brushed dirt from the headstones then laid a bunch of blue and yellow flowers at the base of the stone marker.
He edged closer, as quiet as the Indian scouts who’d trained him.
“I’m sorry,” he heard her say. Her voice sounded strained. Thunderclouds plump with rain loomed over as she covered her face with her hands, chanting, “I’m sorry,” over and over again.
His heart constricted at the sight of Rebecca weeping. He didn’t have reason to care if she was upset or not, but he did. And when she finally straightened her shoulders and wiped away her tears, relief washed over him.
Rebecca gathered up her basket and rose slowly. Cole backed behind a large tree careful not to be seen.
Wind rustled through the valley. The rusted hinges on the gate groaned as she opened and closed the door, then hurried down the hill, her skirts whipping around her ankles.
Cole waited until Rebecca was out of sight before he rose and dusted himself off, and strode up the hill. He opened the gate, not bothering to close it as he crossed the burial ground. He went straight to the grave where Rebecca had left the fresh spray of flowers.
When he reached the ornate stone marker etched with angels he stopped. His breath caught in his throat and his mind filled with questions.
The name on the marker read: Lily Davis and Child—Never Forgotten.
Chapter Five
Lily, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Rebecca brushed fresh tears from her cheeks as she hurried away from the cemetery down the hill toward town. Leaves swirled around her feet and rain drizzled from gray thunderclouds, ripe and full. Cold raindrops coated her hair and dark shawl.
She tightened her shawl, warding off a sudden chill. She’d been up half the night, unable to sleep as the minutes clicked by slowly one by one. Rebecca had wrestled with the lies she’d told, her mind pulsing with images of Mac, Lily and Cole. This morning she’d risen, blurry-eyed, with a dull headache pounding her head, resolved to visit her dead friend’s final resting place.
She’d not been to the graveyard in over two months. Life had become so busy there were always good reasons not to go. But this morning, she’d wanted—needed—to come. She felt compelled to explain her actions and pay homage.
But as she’d knelt in front of the headstone and cleaned away the brush and debris, her gnawing guilt grew worse. It didn’t matter that she’d entrusted her own child to Lily’s arms, paid for their fancy headstone by selling pieces of her mother’s silver or that she’d faithfully
tended the grave these last two years. What mattered was that her lies had betrayed Lily’s memory.
She stopped her descent sensing someone was watching her. She scanned the rolling hillside as the wind swept over the tall grass. The gate to the cemetery creaked eerily in the breeze, making the skin on the back of her neck tingle. But there was no one.
Feeling the fool, Rebecca resumed her brisk pace down the rocky path. She willed herself to stop crying. It wouldn’t do for Cole McGuire to see her like this. He already suspected something wasn’t right about her story and if she didn’t tread very carefully, he’d discover her secret.
The raindrops fell faster and Rebecca knew if she didn’t hurry, she’d be drenched. She ran down the boardwalk, past the drab shops and up the hill toward the Shady Grove. When she reached the front porch gooseflesh puckered her skin and the hem of her dress was damp and stained with mud.
Rebecca took off her shawl, shook the rain droplets from the light wool and draped it over one of the rockers on the front porch. She smoothed a damp curl behind her ear and drew in a deep breath.
She tried to shove her worries aside by mentally detailing what needed to be done for the day. Today was Tuesday. Sheets needed to be washed and floors polished.
As Rebecca reached for the front door it burst open. Dripping wet, Bess stood before her, a bucket full of water in one hand and a scowl on her face. The older woman strode past her and dumped the water over the edge of the porch railing. “The roof’s leaking again.”