Rocky Mountain Redemption (15 page)

Even now, knowing that he'd tried to contact her didn't seem to remove the rut his words had formed in her soul.

“I've been trying, God,” she whispered, stepping over the trash littering the floor. It just seemed like every time she was getting her footing, feeling like maybe she could approach God without fear of punishment, something came in to knock her off her feet.

A shaky sigh escaped her lips. She cushioned the crumbling anticipation of seeing her daughter with the idea that maybe the place had been empty for some time and had fallen prey to passing thieves.

She could only hope, could only pray that her daughter was safe. But when she spotted a little girl's dress, tattered, filthy and heaped near a straw-filled mattress, dread crept like a whole host of spiders down her spine.

Ghastly images infiltrated her thoughts. When she spied a small rag doll in the corner, her hopes faded to a deathly pallor. She knelt and picked up the doll, held it to her chest, trembling with the thought that perhaps her daughter had held this very doll. She pulled it to her face. Breathed in the distinct scent woven in the fibers. The doll hung limp in her hands. It was worn, almost to shreds, really. Probably well-loved by her little girl.

Carefully, almost reverently, she tucked the doll inside her cloak, her heart quaking with ready emotion. But when she felt the makeshift contract in her pocket and recalled how Max had boldly signed his name, her heart churned with revulsion. The deep, cavernous hole those emotions created threatened to consume her.

If she allowed that to happen, she'd go to the grave knowing that she'd been no better than Max. Or her
father, who'd become so bitter and angry after her mama had died.

Callie refused to let that happen.

She'd faced plenty of bad things before and she'd made it through. She could do it again.

It's just that she'd so wanted to see her daughter. Just one glimpse to ensure that her little girl was healthy and happy and content…then maybe that huge hole in Callie's heart would begin to heal.

At the distant pounding of horses' hooves, she hurried to the door, eager to leave before someone discovered her here and accused her of pilfering. On the way to the door she caught sight of a silver filigree frame lying on the floor, the glass broken, photograph torn, and the frame bent. She picked it up.

Her breath hitched as she peered at the image. A woman, her hair dark and her smile timid, cradled a baby, her arms wrapped around the little bundle in motherly protection. The woman looked happy, Callie decided, blinking back tears as she raised a hand to her mouth. Very happy.

While the pounding hooves grew closer, she glanced at the man in the photograph. A chill set her hair on end. Her heart came to a grinding halt.

She'd never, ever forget that face.

It was him.

The man who had shown up at their small home. Nearly breaking down the door to get at Max.

Being well into the ninth month of pregnancy, Callie had been hard-pressed to find a hiding place when the man barged in, drunk and mean as a cornered badger, insisting on Max paying up. Max had put him off with a partial payment. But not before the brutish man knocked him across the room with his meaty fist.

Callie had thrown herself at the man's mercy, begging him to stop, but he'd thoughtlessly pushed her to the side then jammed a boot firmly on Max's heaving chest. Threatening far more than that if he didn't pay the rest by week's end.

Max had paid up, all right. With his very own baby girl.

A small moan escaped her lips. A quiver ran down her spine as she stumbled out the door. To know that her husband had given their precious baby into the hands of a man like that weighted her heart with such sorrow she couldn't help but release a strangled cry.

At the same time, anger, deep and penetrating, sprang to life within her like a choking weed as she made her way to the horse she'd tethered near the tree line. Her entire body shook. It scared her, the feelings that kind of rage invoked, because, had Max not been dead already, and had he been standing here with her, she would've killed him.

And she'd hate herself for it, too.

She could write a book of regrets and give it to Max, signed and sealed just for him, but even that wouldn't release the anger and regret that barraged her soul.

She could fight. Fight to get her child back, wherever the little girl was. But what did she have to fight with? Her daughter had been signed away with a contract, however malevolent and unfair. The fact that Callie hadn't given her consent would mean nothing in a court of law. She could do nothing. At least not now. Maybe when she was back on her feet again, after she'd paid back the debt to Whiteside.

Callie untied her mount and swung up into the saddle just as two riders made their way around the bend. She edged her horse into the cover of trees, watching as two
men with badges dismounted and stalked toward the cabin.

Glancing down at the photograph again, she realized that God might exact punishment on her for her mistakes, but she'd never understand how He could allow an innocent child to fall into the hands of a man like Thomas Blanchard.

She struggled to hold back the emotions that tore through her like some hungry tornado raking across the plains. Her fingers quivered as she worked the photograph free from the frame and tucked it inside her cloak, tossing the broken frame aside. In spite of the fact that that horrible man was in the picture, looking as mean as she remembered him being, she wanted to keep the photograph. If this was the one and only visual memory she had of her baby then she'd treasure it. Until the day she died. Though it was tattered and she couldn't see her baby's face for the bundle of blankets, Callie just knew that the little baby, cradled in another mother's arms, was her little girl.

C
allie barely remembered the ride back to Boulder. It was probably close to ten o'clock when she trotted the horse into town and returned him to the livery.

When she walked the few blocks home from the livery, she stared up at the stars that studded the dark night sky. How could a God who lavished such brilliance and glory in His creation seem to be so finicky and vengeful with His children?

As low as she felt right now, she was desperate to believe something more pleasant and hopeful, but she was afraid. Afraid that if she opened her heart and soul enough to see if God was more than that, she'd be sorely disappointed. She just didn't think she could take that kind of disappointment, again.

Arriving home, she was surprised to find the lamps burning in the office. Ben must've gotten home from his trip already and was probably tending to a patient, since he wasn't normally at the office this time of night. Likely, he wondered where she'd gone off to. He did say that she was free to do whatever she pleased while he was away, but still…

She quietly unlatched the door and moved inside.
When her gaze collided with Ben's, her heart faltered for a moment at the tender, gleaming look in his eyes. He sat before the fireplace in a rocking chair, holding a child in his lap.

He motioned her closer with a crooked finger. “Callie, you have to see her.” His comforting voice was almost a whisper.

Callie shed her cloak, fingering the doll again, then stepped closer, concern mounting for the young child in Ben's arms. “What can I do?” she whispered so as not to disturb the patient. “Is the child fevered? Would you like me to get a cool compress?”

“She's fine.” He grasped Callie's hand. “She's yours, Callie.”

Her gaze darted to the child in his lap.

Then to Ben.

Her stomach surged to her throat. Her brow beaded with perspiration. And her pulse swished through her head with bright clarity. Smoothing her free hand down her dress, she grappled for her bearings as the words echoed through her soul.

Had she heard him right? Did he just say—

“Yes. I said she's yours.” The warm smile tipping his lips made her heart skip several urgent beats. “This is your little girl.”

“Wh-what?” Her vision narrowed as she pulled in a thin gasp of air. When her legs grew watery beneath her, she sank to her knees at Ben's feet.

He snuggled the little girl closer and scooted to the edge of the chair, his hand still firmly locked on Callie's.

“Just look at her.” Ben's voice quavered as he crooked a finger beneath her chin and raised her gaze. His eyes shone through a glimmer of tears, and she was certain
she'd never seen such visible, magnificent, powerful pride before. As if the little girl in his arms was his very own.

“She's beautiful.” When he trailed the back of his fingers down Callie's face, a warm rushing sensation cascaded all the way down to her toes. “She looks just like you.”

Disbelieving, she studied him for a long moment, searching his face for any hint that this was some sick and horribly cruel joke. But she knew, even as the thought crossed her mind, that he would never, ever do something like that. He was just too good. Too honorable. Too noble.

He was Ben.

A far cry from the man Max had been.

Time skidded to a halt as she inched forward. She leaned over the little girl in his arms, her lungs craving just one full breath of air. With a trembling hand, she edged the thick quilt away from the little girl's face. Peered at the child—her child. She could barely see the cherublike face through the hot, wet tears clouding her vision.

Choking back a sob, she pulled her hand from Ben's grasp. Set it to her mouth as she watched the little girl's pink lips pucker. Her breath catch. Her petite brow furrow then smooth out in a distinct expression of…

Peace.

Security.

And of comfort.

For six years her arms had ached—a real, tangible ache—to hold her little girl. She'd longed for the feel of her little girl's soft skin against her cheek. Longed for the fresh baby scent and sweet voice to hang in the
air around her, like some eternal and blessed tribute to motherhood.

But now that her child was here within her reach, she felt clumsy, awkward. As if she had no idea what to do.

She'd faced an angry father with grief and suspicions that ran deep.

She'd faced a husband who drank, gambled and had fallen into long months where his personality changed so dramatically, Callie wondered if he was the same man she'd married.

She'd faced a man like Lyle Whiteside, who'd seemed to delight in holding the threat of her wicked demise over her head like some noose.

But she'd never felt as afraid as she did right now. Facing her daughter. Knowing that this little girl was dependent upon her now for food, care, love. And for hope.

Callie trailed a finger, featherlight, over her child's brow, scared to death that she might fail her daughter. What if the mistakes of her past trickled down to her little girl, bestowing a legacy of pain and hardship?

“How?” she finally asked, the word buried in a ragged whisper. She willed her hand to stop trembling. “How? I just came from there and the place was in shambles.”

“You were there?” He peered at her, his brows creased in a look that had her feeling suddenly ashamed.

Callie dipped her head to the side. “I'm sorry. I just wanted to see her. That's all. I shouldn't have left, and I—”

“Don't be sorry.” Ben smoothed her hair from her face. “It doesn't surprise me that you tried to find her—
you're determined like that, Callie. I'm just glad you're home, safe and sound.”

Was this her home?

Deep inside, she wanted to be able to call someplace home. Her daughter needed a place to call home. But if Callie allowed her heart to get too attached to this place and this man, she might lose herself once again. She might end up right where she'd been seven years ago, with a man who'd stood before her as a valiant hero, when in reality he'd been more like a shameless villain.

Ben related the events of the day to her, his voice like some quiet, serene lullaby echoing in the room.

And all the while, Callie kept her frantic gaze clasped to the little girl in his arms, frightened that she wouldn't be able to make up for the significant years she'd lost with her daughter. And desperately afraid that if she looked away, even for a moment, her child would be gone. Again.

 

Ben had saved lives. He'd been an instrument of healing in God's hands for many townsfolk. He'd been a source of comfort for those who passed on to their eternal reward.

But he didn't know if he'd ever felt quite as good as he did right now, holding Callie's daughter—Max's daughter.

Just hours ago he'd ridden away from Thomas Blanchard's farm, his pocketbook empty and his arms full of a precious little girl.

He couldn't help but smile down at the child as she slept. Her breathing even and deep as she dreamed, her sweet face passing from an expression of peace to
stubbornness to moments of apprehension that made his heart surge with protectiveness.

Ben saw Callie, through and through.

Callie…a welcome breath of fresh air in his stale life. Callie…a beautiful young woman with courage that made his heart hurt. Callie…an uncharted treasure with walls so thick he wondered if he'd ever get through.

If ever he thought he might be falling in love with Callie, it was now. He glanced at the woman who'd shown up on his doorstep just four short weeks ago. Her big blue eyes were suspended in pools of unshed tears as she peered almost reverently at her daughter.

Her face contorted with emotion, real and raw. As if she didn't know what to feel. How to feel. Or whether to trust that this little girl was really hers.

Ben had thought Callie would've scooped the child up in her arms and hugged her till she could hug no more. But instead, she threaded her hands nervously at her waist, as if holding her own child would break some kind of magical spell.

It'd been no small task getting her child back, and over the past hours Ben had thanked God plenty for blanketing him with favor and protection.

It was another matter altogether to break through the mistrust and reserve ruling Callie's every move. That loomed before him as an even bigger undertaking. He had to trust that God was big enough to handle a slight young woman like her, because Ben didn't know if he could gain control over the way his heart beat a sure and steady rhythm for Callie.

But finding just the right moment when he could confront her about the truth of her past, the truth of her present and her plans for her future seemed a difficult undertaking. There was the child now…little Libby.
And Ben had no intention of letting the auburn-haired, delicate-boned, flesh-and-blood remnant of Max go.

A few days ago, when Callie had discovered the paper, signing the child over to Blanchard, Ben had wondered if Max hadn't wanted the child because the baby had been a product of some other man's lust. But once Ben had the little one safe in his arms and several hundred feet away from Blanchard's stingy grasp, he'd looked at the little girl closely. The moment she'd flashed him even a hint of a smile, he knew that this child belonged to Max.

Along with all of the perfect and utterly feminine physical attributes that clearly pointed to Callie as her mother, the child had the distinct, telltale dimples bracketing her rosebud lips. Just like Max.

 

“Who's the girl?” Luke furrowed his brow, his questioning gaze nearly lost behind a thick sweep of blond hair. He folded his arms against his chest in such an adult manner that Ben fought to hide his grin.

“Her name is Libby,” Ben answered when he heard Luke shift his boots impatiently against the wood floor.

The little girl sat in front of the crackling fireplace, her attention fixed on the picture book in her lap. She'd been in Boulder for almost two days now, and had taken to following him around whenever he wasn't out on a call, chattering on and on, just as Luke often did.

She'd won his heart, just like her mama had won his heart.

But Ben couldn't ignore the awkwardness that seemed apparent whenever Callie was with her daughter. She'd watch her mama with a keen, studying gaze, the warmth and openness she readily showed with Ben turning up
missing with her mama, as if she hadn't decided whether to trust her as she had Ben.

Both Callie and Ben had talked with Libby the morning after she'd arrived. The little girl had planted herself on Ben's lap, clinging to his neck as they told her that this was her new home now. That Ben was her uncle. Callie, her mama.

He'd been hard-pressed not to tear up when she'd flashed him a bright grin and hugged him so tight, he thought she might never let him go. But the pained vulnerability apparent on Callie's face when her daughter draped her arms around her neck in a loose-fitting and hesitant hug was hard to ignore.

Luke gave a curt snort. “So…where's
she
from?”

“She came from down around Golden. She's Miss Callie's daughter.” Hunkering down a bit, he settled a hand on Luke's shoulder. “And she's come to live with her.”

The boy's eyes grew wide with surprise as he slid his gaze to where Callie walked into the room. He'd fallen over himself to please her, and suddenly his surly expression turned congenial. Just like that. “Yer daughter?”

Callie gave Luke a quick hug. “Yes.”

“Maybe I could bring my kittens by to show yer girl. You know how girls like them kinda things.”

Before Ben or Callie could get out one word of response, Luke marched over to Libby and plunked down beside her.

“Hi.” He stuck out his hand. “Name's Luke.”

The shy smile Libby gave him brightened the room, just like Callie's did when she smiled. “Hello.”

Luke roped his lanky arms around his raised knees. “I got me some kittens.”

Shrugging, the little girl glanced back at Ben. “Uncle Ben's got kitties, too.”

“Molly and Smudge? I know them cats.” With a sorry shake of his head, Luke acted as though the felines that he'd painstakingly helped Ben care for were suddenly old news. “My cats…they're kittens. They're babies,” he added, dragging out the word
babies,
as if Libby was ignorant of the English language.

Ben turned and caught a forlorn smile pass momentarily across Callie's face. She fingered the locket at her neck.

“Oh, I love little kitties,” Libby cooed, as if he'd opened a treasure box of brilliant baubles. “Are they fluffy? What color are they? Can I see them?”

Luke rolled his eyes. “You can see 'em. But ya gotta promise me somethin' first.”

Libby scrambled to her knees, clapping her hands together. “I promise. I promise.”

Inching away, Luke's brow furrowed in an exaggerated look of alarm, but beneath the apprehension Ben felt sure a tender smile lay in wait. “Ya cain't make a promise when ya don' know what yer promisin'.” He threw a determined gaze over to Ben. “Can she, Ben?”

He chuckled, pulling his hand over his freshly shaved jaw. “Well, I—”

“Ya hafta' be real careful with my kittens, cuz they're still young'uns.” Fumbling with the new leather strings Ben had laced through his boots the other day, Luke set his focus on his new charge, drawing his chin up a notch. “But they're gonna grow up to be real good hunters. Prolly the best in town, I'm thinkin'. I'll be a doctor jest like Ben,
and
I might even be a cat trainer, too.”

Libby's mouth dropped open. “Are
you
teachin' 'em how to hunt?”

“Not yet, silly.” He gave a long, loud sigh. “They're still babies. Won't be long 'fore I start learnin' 'em, though.”

“Teaching them,” Ben corrected with a chuckle.