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