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Even at the fort they could expect to be shunned by both races because of the blood of the other flowing through their veins. Colt learned a person fit nowhere but in his own skin. He’d found his place by doing what he liked best, what he was good at—caring for horses and riding the high pastures.
The table was empty, and Macpherson indicated Colt should help shove it into the place he’d chosen. That done, he handed Colt a rag. Little Joe tagged along after Colt’s every step.
“Might as well clean it while it’s empty.” The older man grabbed a broom and swept the floor.
“Nice prayer this morning,” Colt said. The man’s words stuck in his brain. Did he really mean them, or had he simply uttered them out of habit?
“My pa, God rest his soul, believed a man could only order his days aright if he put God first.”
“You really think God cares about a man’s daily activities?”
“I do believe so.”
Colt wondered if that only applied to a select few. “I suppose it’s only for white men.”
“Nope. For everyone. Seems to me if God makes all men, then He must like different skin colors.” Macpherson scooped up the pile of dirt and dumped it in the ash bucket.
“Hmm.” No doubt the sound contained more of Colt’s doubts than he meant it to. But he’d seen the caution and warning in Macpherson’s expression as he watched Colt when his daughter was around.
Macpherson leaned into the counter and considered his words. “Maybe it’s like a farmer with his animals. Think about it. Sheep, goats, chickens, pigs, horses, cows...each is so different, yet of great importance to the farmer.” He shrugged. “Here, give me a hand putting the fabric back.”
Colt welcomed the task providing, as it did, an opportunity to consider Macpherson’s words without having to comment on them. He’d seen no evidence that God cared for a man of mixed heritage.
Or—he jerked up and stared at the display of harnesses and yokes—was he mistaking man’s actions for an indication of what God thought? Interesting concept. He’d have to give it some study.
They finished rearranging things to Macpherson’s liking. The man circled the room, as if hoping to find something else to do. Little Joe trotted after him. Finally Macpherson went to the counter and sighed. “I have accounts to deal with. You might as well take the little guy into the living quarters. Maybe Becca can find something to amuse him.” Every time either one of them turned around, they practically tripped over Little Joe.
Colt’s thoughts reined to a skidding halt. He could not get his brain or his feet to function.
“We go.” Little Joe grabbed his hand and led him toward the door.
Colt followed like one of those mindless sheep Macpherson had mentioned. He stepped into the living quarters and stared at Becca bent over the table with Marie.
She glanced up. “You’re just in time. I’m showing Marie one of the books I read as a child.”
Little Joe trotted over to his sister, pushed a chair close and climbed up beside her, chattering away about the pictures.
Becca’s expression indicated she waited for a comment from Colt.
“That’s nice.” Certainly not very profound, but it was the best he could do. Thankfully, she seemed satisfied.
“This is one of my favorites. It’s a Bible story book. Maybe you’re familiar with it.” She waved him over to examine it.
He managed to make his feet move to the table and bent over the children, aware Becca did the same thing next to him.
She turned a page. “Look how worn the edges are. That’s because it was my favorite. The story of Jesus born in a manger.”
“Will you read it to us?” Marie asked.
“I’d love to.” Becca straightened and looked at Colt as she told the story. Once she turned a page, but she never referred to the book.
Colt suspected she had the words memorized perfectly, but he didn’t turn from her gaze to look at the page, so he couldn’t say for certain. He was trapped by her voice and blue eyes...and something more that he couldn’t name. A sense of being drawn forward by a woman who would remain forever out of his reach. At the same time, a memory pulled him to the past.
“I spent Christmas one year with a family at the fort.” The words came slowly and without forethought. He simply spoke the memory as it formed in his mind.
“The mother read this same story.” Her three children had gathered round her knees. Colt had been allowed to listen from a distance. But the words enticed him then, even as they did now.
“I like the story,” Marie said, pulling Colt back to the present.
He stepped back until the big armchair stood between himself and Becca.
Marie continued. “Papa told us this story just before Mama died. He said Mama went to live with Jesus.” A sob escaped her lips before she clamped them together. Silent tears tracked down her cheeks.
Becca gave Colt a despairing look, as if hoping he could somehow fix Marie’s pain. He couldn’t. Tears made him itch with discomfort as he recalled being cuffed across the head for shedding a few of his own when he wasn’t much bigger than Marie.
But Becca seemed to know what to do. She lifted Marie from the chair and sat down, cradling the little girl in her lap. She rocked back and forth, making comforting sounds.
Little Joe scrambled from his chair and edged close to his sister to pat her leg. “Not cry. Not cry.”
“It’s okay little guy,” Becca soothed. “She’s not hurt.”
Marie struggled to contain her tears, but seemed powerless to stop their flow.
Little Joe wrinkled up his face. An ear-piercing wail rent the air.
“Don’t cry,” Colt ordered, which only made him cry harder.
Becca tried to pat both children but couldn’t quite manage. She shot him a look so full of appeal he couldn’t resist. He sat on the chair next to her, pulled Little Joe to his lap. Imitating Becca, he patted the boy’s back. Little Joe’s cries softened to shudders as he clutched Colt’s shirtfront. Colt tried to decide if this felt right or if it threatened his careful self-containment.
Marie sat up. “I’m better. Thank you.” She stood before the table and paged through the storybook.
“You done, too?” Colt asked Little Joe, then tried to put him down, but he burrowed his fingers into Colt’s shirt and hung on.
Becca chuckled at the sight. “Guess he needs to be held a little longer.”
Colt settled back. “Guess so.”
Becca gave him a look brimming with warmth and—he swallowed hard—approval? She chuckled again.
“He seems very content.”
“Huh?” Oh, Little Joe. Of course. “Probably worn out from kicking me all night.”
Becca laughed, and Colt allowed himself a grin.
But Little Joe wasn’t prepared to sit quietly for long. He wriggled down and began to trot about the room. He stopped in front of a small table near one of the chairs and reached for a picture. Glass. If he broke it—
Colt leapt to his feet and crossed the room in three strides, capturing the picture before Little Joe got it.
“This isn’t for little boys,” he explained to the startled child.
Little Joe giggled. “You run fast.”
“Guess so.” He looked at the picture. A beautiful woman in a fancy outfit.
Becca crossed the room to his side. “My mother.”
“I see the resemblance.”
“She’s the reason I’m going east. Here, I’ll put it out of his reach.” She took the framed photograph from Colt and set it on top of a cupboard.
Colt tried to sort out his scrambled thoughts, but they were so tangled he needed a rake to arrange them. With a mother like that, Becca didn’t belong in the untamed West. No wonder she planned to leave. Yet she seemed the sort of woman the West needed. She seemed unfazed by the storm, as well as the challenge of frontier life. She was gentle, accepting of half-breed kids...
He allowed one thought to surface. She’d been kind to him as well, as if oblivious to his mixed race.
Little Joe ducked behind the chair and poked his head around. “Peek.”
Becca nudged Colt. “Someone wants to play with you.”
“Me?” He sucked in air. She thought he should play with the boy? The idea both thrilled and frightened him.
Little Joe poked his head around the chair on the other side. “Peek.”
Colt laughed.
Becca grinned. “He’s adorable. They both are.”
Colt sobered. “Too bad everyone won’t see that.”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head. He wouldn’t voice his reasons in front of the kids, knowing how much it hurt to hear the words people would use to describe them. Instead, he hunkered down and crab-walked forward until he was at the front of the chair. He waited for Little Joe to poke his head around the corner.
“Boo.”
The boy jumped and then giggled. “You scared me.” Mischief flashed through the child’s eyes seconds before he rushed forward to tackle Colt, catching him off balance. The pair tumbled to the floor, and Little Joe bounced happily on his chest.
Marie sidled up to them, searching Colt’s face as if to make sure he wasn’t upset.
“Come here, you.” He grabbed the girl, pulled her down beside him and tickled her.
Becca sank down in the chair, so close her skirts brushed his arm. She chuckled, her eyes brimming with amusement and—he would not make the mistake of thinking she smiled approval on him. But when had he ever felt so...so...
As if he’d arrived where he belonged?
The children’s laughter washed through him. Becca’s smile melted the edges of his heart.
He shifted the kids to the floor, pushed to his feet and brushed himself off—more because he needed to collect and arrange his thoughts than because he’d found any dirt on the floor. He strode to the window. Every nerve in his body screamed to leave right now.
While every beat of his heart longed for each minute to last forever.
Thankfully, Macpherson chose that moment to step into the room. “The temperature is dropping.” He glanced around the room, and Colt wondered if he resented having his space invaded by three visitors. But Macpherson smiled.
“I think some games for the children would be a good idea.” The man might not approve of Colt, but at least he didn’t seem to look at the children with the same narrow-eyed concern.
“Games?” Marie’s eyes widened with hope.
Becca clapped her hands. “Oh, yes. Pa, do finger puppets for them.”
“Very well.” He pulled pen and ink from the cupboard.
“I’ll show you on my own finger.” Macpherson dipped the pen into the ink and drew a simple face on one finger.
“This is a little boy. He can hide.” He curled his fist and the puppet boy disappeared.
“He can dance.” Macpherson sang a little ditty, and the finger danced.
“He can talk.” He held the finger to his ear and listened intently, nodding as if he understood a whispered secret.
“Who wants to go first?”
Marie edged forward and held out her hand.
“I can make one or a whole family. Which would you like?”
“A family. A mama, a papa, a little girl and a littler boy.”
Colt realized the importance of Marie’s choice—her own family. He couldn’t look at Becca, but heard her suck in air. It drew his attention. He glanced her way to see if she was okay. Her blue eyes glistened with tears, and she pressed her lips together. She looked at him and gave a watery smile.
He returned her smile, wondering if his lips trembled just slightly.
“There you go,” Macpherson said, and Colt jerked his attention back to Marie, who thanked the man and stared at her fingers. A slow, dazzling smile filled her face, and she pressed her hand to her chest.
This time Colt dared not look at Becca. Instead he forced his attention to Little Joe, who stood before Macpherson with a fist held out.
Macpherson took the tiny hand and drew a face on the index finger. Little Joe backed away, staring at his finger. He circled the room holding the finger up, turning it toward objects then back toward him.
Macpherson chuckled. “It doesn’t take a lot to amuse children.”
“Or make them happy.” Becca’s voice rounded with emotion.
Marie sat cross-legged on the floor, murmuring softly to her finger people.
“I wish they could be protected from the harshness of life.” Becca spoke softly, so only the adults would hear her comments.
Her pa went to her side and wrapped an arm about her shoulders. “Life is generally what we make of it. If what I’ve seen of this pair is any indication, their parents have prepared them to face things with calm assurance. That’s bound to go a long way.”
Colt shifted to block Becca and her pa from his view, and wished he could likewise block their words from his mind. Sometimes a child didn’t have any opportunity to make good or bad of his life. Other people did that for him.
