Cole was too proud to ask him where he’d slept last night. That wasn’t his problem anymore. Ned could do as he pleased. Get a job, or not. Sleep with Terje, or not.
One thing was certain—Ned would never again make a scene that shamed Cole to the bone, and judging by his sunken shoulders, he realized that he’d crossed the line, and there was no way back.
They didn’t talk beyond grunting directions, or mentioning the mundane, but they both made a bit of effort for Tommy’s sake, so the boy wouldn’t feel as if a funeral procession was taking him to his new life. He must have picked up on the bad mood either way, because he mostly kept to himself and didn’t look into their eyes much.
They’d asked around where the orphanage was, and when the imposing facade of red brick emerged from between old trees on the right side of the sandy road, Cole knew they’d arrived at their destination. St. Nicolas of Myra’s Home for Orphaned Children was only a couple of years old and, when it came to taking care of children, way more civilized than alms houses and poor farms.
It was run by nuns, which meant the Catholic Church would ensure Tommy didn’t go hungry and that he’d learn a trade. What more could an orphan with nothing to his name and no family ask for?
Perhaps the care of someone who wasn’t a stranger, but Cole had been in Tommy’s shoes, and the life he’d led with the Gotham Boys wasn’t meant for someone so young. He had nothing to offer the boy but a bedroll and hard ground to sleep on. All he knew was shooting, killing, and hard manual work, and Ned was even more useless, so despite the growing dullness in his chest, it would be for the best if they left Tommy behind.
Vast grounds surrounded the orphanage, offering space where the children could play, and as they rode along the iron bars of the fence around it, Cole spotted a vegetable garden where several boys worked under the supervision of women in dark veils.
Dust rose from under Nugget’s hooves with the horse’s every step, but while this area wasn’t as peaceful as the countryside, the homes across from St. Nicolas’ had a decent enough appearance, with laundry hung outside of windows and girls in clean clothes playing in one of the backyards. A statue of the institution’s patron saint stood on the left side of the entrance, close to a cart filled with produce offered by a young woman in a somber dress that looked similar to those worn by the nuns. Her hair, however, had been left uncovered, so perhaps she was one of the orphanage's older wards, selling whatever grew in the massive gardens.
It was a day like any other. Sunny. Peaceful. Their last.
Only that there wasn’t even a them since last evening’s fight. Ned’s words had sliced Cole open, and if he wanted to heal, he’d ride away.
Ned was the first to dismount, and he went over to help Tommy off Zeb’s horse. Tommy had gotten into the habit of riding with Dog, who was still healing from the amputation, so the beast would usually come off first.
Tommy didn’t make a sound, or sign, but Ned still spoke to him as if he had.
“Maybe I’ll ask if they can let you keep him,” he said, removing Dog from a nest of sorts he’d fashioned at the front of Tommy’s saddle.
Cole’s mood, which had been dreadful before, reached a new low. Dog had been Ned’s only friend for years. Without him, he’d still have Nugget, but while the horse might have been a wonderful companion, he couldn’t always be by Ned’s side.
Cole dismounted and hurriedly hitched Carol to a post by the orphanage’s gate, casting a glance at the grand building with two wings. The place was big enough to house two hundred parentless children.
Tommy would be fine here.
“Sure, go on,” Ned said to Tommy who whistled at Dog and walked along the tall bars of the fence, looking in with an unreadable expression.
Ned rested his forehead against the metal with a deep sigh, and Cole hated that even with his hair out of place and a dull complexion, he was handsomer than the most dashing actors in New York City.
“Here we are,” Cole said, staring at Tommy’s small form, and then past him, at the children working to produce their own food. Discipline was a healthy thing to instill in young minds. Way more difficult yet infinitely better than teaching those same children to steal.
“Look at the face of that nun,” Ned pointed out with his head. “Like she’d sniffed some manure.”
She did have a big scowl, and Cole found himself chuckling the very moment her severe eyes settled on them. A blink of an eye later, she moved toward them in a robe so somber it absorbed all sunshine and joy.