Rocky Mountain Redemption (14 page)

She hugged her arms to herself and shook, her shock-filled gaze planted on the floor as if seeing it all play out again. “And God…” she said, glancing up briefly. “He allowed all of it to happen.”

Ben pulled her to himself, wishing that he could take the grief and pain barraging her body and heart, but only God could heal a wound that deep and that wide. Ben could say and do all the right things, but he'd miss the mark. He smoothed a hand down her back as she gave in to the overwhelming emotion again, her deep sobs coming harder and louder this time.

With her fists bunched and pressing into Ben's chest, she cried, “How could God allow my own husband to do that?”

 

Callie had been cleaning nearly nonstop since she'd learned the truth about her baby two days ago. Ben had insisted she take as much time off as she needed, but if she didn't keep her mind and hands occupied, she'd lose herself to the bitter rage that snapped at her mind and heart.

Having just finished reorganizing the vials of medicine for the third time today, wiping each glass bottle till it gleamed in the lantern's glow, she ceased cleaning for a moment. Reaching into her apron pocket, she withdrew the small square of flannel fabric she'd kept in the wood box all of these years. Brushing her fingers over the soft pile, she remembered how she'd cut the small snippet from the blanket she'd made for her baby, since Max refused to have the blanket lying around. She'd kept the flannel all of this time, every so often holding it while struggling to reconcile the loss of her baby.

Struggling to reconcile something that never happened.

Anger, hot and ready, boiled up inside her at the thought.

Had it ever touched the soft pink of her baby's skin? Or had Max just fled into the cool night with barely a stitch of clothing on their little one, delivering the baby as though she was some crude package?

“Was that from your little girl?” Ben's low voice broke into her helpless thoughts as he stepped up next to her.

She nodded, pulling in a quivering breath. “Do you think she's all right?”

“I don't know, Callie. But I have to believe that whoever received your baby could only love her.” He turned her to face him, his comforting touch remaining on her shoulders. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

She paused, wishing she could release the heavy, dark burden weighing down her heart into his hands, but that wouldn't be fair to him. Her sorrow, grief and anger were hers alone. She'd been without help this far.

Slipping the flannel back into her pocket, she knew that she'd continue to stand and face this alone, just like the past seven years. “There's nothing.”

He slid his hand down her arm and scooped her hand into his. “Are you sure you can't remember who Thomas Blanchard is?”

“The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I can't recall.”

Warmth from his hands moved up her arm to her heart. She longed to make her way into his embrace again—like she had when she'd found the note. Had it not been for his arms holding her then, she surely would've collapsed under the horrific discovery. But if she did give in to her need for his comfort now, she'd
question if he bestowed his compassion upon her because of guilt. Guilt for Max's sins.

She shook her head, hugging her arms to her chest. “It's been six years. Besides, I've thought about this, Ben. What if something happened to her?” Her hands trembled as she tucked wayward wisps of hair back into her chignon. “I don't know if I could bear the idea of learning that now.”

He gave a heavy sigh. “I understand.”

“And if she's with a loving family, then to try and get her back would be no better than Max taking her from me in the first place. It wouldn't be fair to her. It would be just as wrong,” she admitted, her voice tight with emotion. “I'd give anything to know that she's safe, though. And healthy.”

She would, too. But until she fulfilled her obligations here, she'd have no opportunity for searching. And no money.

Ben threaded his hands through hers. “Callie, I'll never understand how Max could do something so awful. I wish I could somehow make it up to you.”

Exactly as she thought. He wanted to make up for Max's mistakes. Well, he couldn't. They weren't his to resolve.

Eager to turn the attention elsewhere, Callie gently tugged her hands from his grasp as she crossed to the exam table to wipe its already gleaming surface once again. “I forgot to tell you…I found this, too.” She pulled a small piece of paper from her pocket and held it out to him. “I didn't see it at first when I found the other—the other paper. But apparently he'd hid this, too.”

“What is it?” he asked, taking it from her.

“It's a wire from my father. The date is hard to deci
pher, but from what I can tell he'd sent it about eight months after I left home.”

Ben stared down at the tattered paper as Callie silently recited the words while he read them.

Callie. Please come home. We'll work things out. I miss you. Dad.

He turned his focus to her again, a shadow of sorrow crossing his face. “You didn't leave on good terms, then?”

“No. He didn't think much of Max. He'd forbidden me to see Max after he found out we'd been meeting secretly.” She took it from him and slipped it back into her apron beside the flannel and the contract. “Until two days ago, I had no idea he'd tried to contact me.”

Ben shoved a hand through his hair. “Why would Max keep this from you?”

“I keep asking myself the same question.” She fingered the two life-altering pieces of paper in her apron, wishing she could find a reasonable excuse, even a small one.

Ben came to stand across the exam table from her. “Are you going to contact your father?”

“Eventually, maybe,” she answered, staring down at the small scars in the exam table, remembering how bad things had been when she'd left home. She'd never imagined her father could seethe with such rage and hatred. “But as much time as has gone by, he may have already burned the olive branch.”

“Oh, I'm sure he'll still want to see you, Callie. More than likely, he'll gladly open his arms to you again.” Bracing his hands on the table, he leaned heavily over it. “I know that if Max had come home, I would've opened up my arms. No matter how much water had streamed under the bridge.”

That, she'd learned over the past three weeks, was the exact antithesis of what Max had ever told her. And now she knew enough to grasp how much Max had lied. About most everything. She should've never trusted him.

But could she put her trust in Ben?

And could she put her trust in God when it seemed He'd looked the other way?

Would all of this have been easier had she not discovered the notes? There were so many unanswered questions that swirled through her thoughts.

“Ben? Why do you suppose Max kept the notes?” Staring out the window to where the sun eased down to meet the horizon, she felt where she'd worn the edges of the papers down to a soft, buttery feel. “It seems like it would've been easier for him to just burn them.”

With weighted steps, Ben moved over and parted the lace curtains to look outside. “Maybe he figured that someday he'd have the courage to admit his failures—though I can't imagine Max doing that. He never could seem to apologize for things. He was always bent on blaming someone or something else, instead of himself.”

That much was true. He'd blamed Callie plenty…for everything bad that had happened. It'd taken a while for her to see it for herself, and from that point on she'd silently refused his blame when it wasn't hers to take.

Now, if only she could face her own blame.

T
hree days had never lasted so long. From the moment he'd learned about Callie's baby, he'd been compelled to do all he could. He'd had the sheriff working with him; even Aaron had lent a hand.

Though Ben had almost refused his offer, something kept him from doing so. Maybe Aaron was having a change of heart or maybe this was his way of getting back at Max…either way, Ben was grateful for the help.

Ben rode out as the break of day began a slow and steady creep over the eastern horizon. He prayed his trip would produce something hopeful. He had to allow God to work out the details. As much as Ben wanted to take matters into his own hands, he had to trust God. He couldn't jeopardize the life of Callie's daughter.

It was a long shot, and nothing short of a miracle that he'd managed to locate Thomas Blanchard. Six long years had passed since Callie's baby had been born, but with the sheriff's help, and the help of Brodie Lockhart, a U.S. marshal living in the area, they'd discovered the man's whereabouts to be in the Golden area, a few miles from where Callie had given birth.

That's exactly where Ben was headed now.

The trapper by trade was no stranger to the law, and no stranger to gambling tables around the area, either. He'd even spent some time in jail.

That small detail strummed a chord of urgency deep in Ben's heart.

He touched his hand to the wad of money in his heavy, deerskin coat pocket. Yesterday at the wide-eyed, disapproving inspection of Thurman Franklin, the bank teller, Ben had made the hefty withdrawal. He figured that maybe with a little coaxing, a man like Blanchard could be paid off and relinquish what he'd purchased six years ago.

Pulling his coat a little tighter to ward off the wind that stormed through the canyon, a small niggling of guilt ate at him thinking of Callie back home. He could've brought her along, but had chosen not to. He didn't want to get her hopes up only to have them crash down again if they arrived to find out that something had happened to the child. She'd said herself that she didn't think she could bear such news.

He wanted to protect her…any way he could.

Rounding a narrow bend a few miles south of Golden, his watchful gaze landed on a small, run-down cabin with a rickety front porch hanging on the house like a frail old woman on her way to her grave. After leading the horse into the yard, he tethered the gentle, trusty mare to a post, giving her a pat before he strode up to the house.

Spotting a ruffle of hen feathers beside the house, he was surprised that a mangy dog or two wasn't skulking around the edge of the scrub brush like ravenous wolves circling their prey.

He scanned the property, his attentive gaze snagging
on a makeshift lean-to hidden in a thick grove of trees, where the sound of a few nickering horses met his ears. Brodie had mentioned that Blanchard was suspected of horse thieving.

With a shake of his head Ben decided that he'd gladly tip off the U.S. Marshals. But only if he had the girl in the safety of his arms and far from this place first.

“You got yerself exactly ten seconds to git yer hide off'a my property.” The gruff voice came from the deeply shadowed porch.

This wasn't getting off to a good start.

Setting a hand to his brow, Ben shielded his eyes from the sun and peered straight ahead to see a grizzly mountain of a man prowling at the edge of the porch, his britches hooked low beneath a rounded belly. A shotgun lodged in the crook of his arm.

Ben ignored good sense and moved closer so that the sorry looking structure with its crumbling rooftop created a block for the sun. “I'm a doctor from up north. Are you Thomas Blanchard?”

He narrowed his black eyes on Ben. “I am. What're you wantin' with me?” The man's voice reverberated, thick and liquor-slurred.

Blanchard shifted his feet awkwardly against the decaying porch floor. Made several clumsy grabs at a suspender hanging down his back, invoking images of Joseph's Newfoundland, Boone, halfheartedly chasing his own tail. Finally he pulled it forward and hooked it to his pants.

He looked just as Ben had imagined…like a filthy, gambling drunk who'd heartlessly agree to forgive a debt with the procurement of an innocent baby.

“I'd like to talk with you about—”

The rickety front door creaked open and a small face
appeared. A little girl with lily-white skin, smudged with dirt, her clothes in need of a wash, and her thick, auburn hair awkwardly tied up in a tattered, pink bow, squeezed through the door. She stood there, timid as a church mouse yet brave as any orphaned kitten.

And he knew right then that this little girl, the spitting image of his stubborn, brave assistant back home, had to be Callie's little girl. She had the same courageous tilt to her chin.

It was all Ben could do to keep a steady front.

“Didja git yer chorin' done, girl?” The abrasive sound of the man's voice sent a whole flock of birds fluttering madly away, their wings beating the air as though their very lives depended on it.

She gave a quick nod, glancing longingly at the birds for a brief moment before she locked her wary gaze on Blanchard's hands. “Yes, sir. I did it all, just like you said.” The slight quiver in her voice raised the hair at the back of Ben's neck.

“Then git yerself back in there.” He gestured the little girl away with a brisk nod. “I got me some business out here.”

With a certain dignity that defied her age, the girl slowly turned then scampered back inside. But not before she passed one last glance Ben's way, her large, innocent eyes sadly shuttered, just like Callie's had been.

Ben advanced to the bottom step, throwing off any plans of easing through this confrontation with diplomacy. “I'll not beat around the bush. Is the girl yours?”

Blanchard cocked the hammer on the shotgun, holding the gun with both hands now. “You insultin' me, son? Cuz iffin' you are, you better hope that horse'a yers can cut and run fast.”

He held his ground, his jaw tensing. “Is she yours? Because I heard otherwise.”

Blanchard spat a brown wad of tobacco, just missing Ben's boot by a few inches. “Course she's mine. I won 'er fair and square.”

At that thick-skinned response, Ben could've knocked the drunk to kingdom come, if not for the fact that the life of Callie's child—his niece—was at stake.

“Won her?” He set his back teeth and stepped up to the porch. Resisted the urge to ball his fists. “How's that?”

“The wife never could seem to grow herself a young'un. She was always belly-achin' 'bout needin' a baby to put things right,” he slurred, liquor's loose lips on Ben's side. “Yessiree, Lady Luck smiled on me when some fella over his head in a game'a cards made me an offer I couldn't refuse.” He tapped his thick fingers against the gun's steel barrel. “Didn't have to listen to the wife's wailin' and carryin' on no more. No sirree, she shut right up, sure shootin', soon as she had the baby in her arms.”

Setting his focus over the man's shoulder to the door, Ben's heart dropped a notch. Any woman who'd ache like that had to love this little girl. “Your wife…is she here?”

“She gone and died. Four months back.”

Ben cleared his throat. “I'm sorry for the loss,” he managed, not because Blanchard seemed overly wrought with grief, but because the little girl had been in this man's sole care for so long.

“That's the way of it,” Blanchard dismissed as though referring to the loss of one of the poor laying hens Ben had spotted. “Bein' a doctor and all, you should know that.”

“It must be hard…raising her on your own.” Ben jammed his hands into his pockets. “Without a woman around.”

“I'm doin' fine.” He snorted. “Just don't know what I'm gonna do with 'er come winter.”

“Hate to be the one to break the news to you, but winter is here,” Ben added, rubbing his gloved hands together.

“That's what I mean,” the man retorted, impatiently. “Trappin'. All over them hills.” He peered with a half-lidded gaze at the mountains surrounding him, as if they were his very own pot of gold. Then with a sneer said, “Ain't no place for a sissy girl like her. The wife spoilt her somethin' awful.”

Having seen the girl and the surroundings with his own two eyes, Ben found that impossible to believe. He didn't doubt the woman had loved her, he just didn't think Blanchard cared much about providing. And was repulsed by the fact that the man considered Callie's daughter so lightly.

“She ain't nothin' but a bow-decorated, ruffle-clad girl who don' like to get dirty. It's jest like I told the wife. Tess, I says, she gonna be nothin' but trouble.”

Ben swallowed back the bile burning his throat. Perhaps Max had felt the same way…that this little girl was going to be too much trouble. The thought made his blood boil hot with rage and regret for how Max had gone so astray.

“I believe I told you that I'm a doctor…”

“What of it? I'm fit as a fiddle.” He stood up a little straighter then sagged a moment later. “Don' need no doctor pokin' on me.”

Ben pulled his shoulders back. “You're in a predicament, Mr. Blanchard,” he stated boldly. “With the missus
gone and winter setting in, you won't be doing much trapping with that young lady in there.”

“I'm not stickin' round just cuz'a her. If'n I don' git my lines out in them hills, some other greedy son will,” he guaranteed, confirming that his trapping territory was of more importance than a little girl.

“Well, you can't exactly leave her here to fend for herself. She's hardly old enough.”

Blanchard aimed the gun at Ben and spat again. “T'ain't none of yer business. 'Sides, I got me some other prospects that'a way. She's nearin' the marryin' age.”

“Well, it's my business now. Now that I know.” He stared hard at the sorry excuse for a man. “And she's nowhere near the marrying age.”

Decayed, yellowed teeth showed through Blanchard's sneer.

“The law will have to know, too,” he added. The last thing Blanchard would want if he possessed stolen horses was the law sniffing around. “It's only right.”

Blanchard's gaze slithered the length of Ben, as though sizing him up to see if he'd fit into a boiling pot. “The wife's the one who wanted her. I had nothin' to do with 'er till Tess up and died.”

“Exactly.” Grasping at his fading self-control, Ben bit back the vicious litany of names he could let fly at the man. “Tell you what…I know of a young woman who lost a baby girl some time back. She'd love this little girl as her own.” With the most authoritative air he could muster, he added, “I'd be glad to take this young charge off your hands.”

After tenuous moments of deliberation, where Blanchard's knuckles turned white around the barrel of the shotgun, Ben wondered if he'd gone about this all
wrong. He'd tethered a small handgun to his saddle, but that would do him little good now. The man had done jail time for attempted murder. Ben didn't want to give him a reason to pour out his rage on an innocent little girl.

He nailed the man with a steady, unwavering stare.

Blanchard met his gaze with a hungry grin. “For a price.”

 

Callie hugged her arms to her chest and grasped for some silvery thread of hope, her heart barely thudding inside her chest.

On her way down to Golden, her optimism had surged to new levels, thinking that she might be able to see her little girl—just once. But when she'd asked around town and finally located the Blanchard homestead just minutes ago, she'd made the agonizing discovery that Thomas Blanchard was gone.

The weathered door hung open, dangling by a single rusty hinge as it creaked with eerie sadness in the brisk wind. The run-down house had been ransacked, and every last item in the sparsely furnished dwelling had been turned upside down.

Much like her life.

For six years, she'd lived in turmoil, had thought that God had punished her for the way she'd disobeyed her father and run off with Max. That had been a horrific and shameful reality to come to terms with. Learning that her baby had been born alive, and that Max had given the little girl—
his little girl
—as payment for a gambling debt, had been devastating. How could God allow such a horribly unjust thing to occur?

And now this?

A chill worked down Callie's spine as she slid her
gaze over the small, two-room cabin. She could barely breathe. Had there been some kind of attack? Some kind of ambush that sent her little girl fleeing for her life?

Aided by the wide-open door and the daylight that streamed through cracks in the walls where chinking had long since fallen away, she gave the cramped cabin a thorough, bone-chilling perusal. There were no signs of blood—at least that much was good.

She pulled in a steadying breath, wishing that Ben was here with her. She'd feel safe then.

He'd been a refuge in those moments after the discovery. Her saving grace…the way he'd held her and listened as she'd spilled more information than she ever should have. At the time, she hadn't been able to stop herself. The words had tumbled out so hard and so fast that if she'd tried to put a lid on them she might well have exploded.

Her head and heart still swirled with unanswered questions. She longed for peace…any kind of peace she could find.

She wanted to find peace with God. It wasn't good standing on the other side of a powerful and wrath-filled God.

Before her mama had died, Callie remembered watching Mama sing the hymns at church. Where the other adults had seemed so stoic and somber as they'd sung, Callie had often wondered if her mama was singing the songs to God Himself. She'd looked so beautiful. Had sung beautifully, too.

But it was her father's fear-invoking, anger-filled words that had haunted her time and again, marking her steps. He'd always said that until she straightened herself up and lived by the Lord's word and commands, the Almighty wanted nothing to do with her.