Six

“Mother, I didn’t expect to take so long in coming for you. Now that I’m here, I’ll take you somewhere warm. Put your arm around my neck.” Hank lifted her into his arms, concerned that the skin barely stretched across her bones. The old woman probably didn’t weigh ninety pounds.

Sidalee finished gathering up the last of Miss Mamie’s things and stuffed them into a bag.

“Don’t forget my bag of rocks, dear,” the old woman said.

“I got them,” Sidalee assured her and followed Hank out to the wagon, where he gently lowered his pretend mother onto the warm bed Sidalee had made. Then Hank helped her up beside Miss Mamie and watched her tuck blankets around the woman who needed a son so badly, she had to invent him.

At least that was Hank’s theory. He’d send some telegrams out as soon as he learned the town she came from.

He climbed up into the wagon box, and with Beau perched beside him, he set off for the ranch town. The sun had faded behind heavy clouds, and the icy wind had picked up. He prayed they wouldn’t have any trouble. This wasn’t a night to be out in the elements. Every so often, he glanced back and always found Sidalee leaning close, talking to Miss Mamie and patting a thin, blue-veined hand.

Sidalee had no one either. She’d spoken of deep loneliness that cut through her at times. The gnawing was bad for a man, but for a sensitive, refined woman? It could destroy her and make her shrink into herself.

There were worse things than taking refuge at the Lone Star Ranch. Lots of worse things.

For no reason at all, Hank smiled.

The return trip didn’t take long. Before he knew it, he was pulling up to Sidalee’s door. He carried Miss Mamie inside and lowered her into a rocking chair in front of the fireplace.

“Thank you, son.” She glanced up at him. “I can’t seem to remember you getting so tall. You’re a handsome boy. You take after your father.”

“How long has it been since you’ve seen me, Mother?”

“What kind of fool question is that? You know it was only a few months ago.”

“Of course. How were things in town when you left there?” Hank met Sidalee’s questioning glance with a quick shake of his head. He’d explain later.

“Well, you know Benton Falls never changes. Except our place. It burned, you know. Your bedroom went up in flames. Nothing survived.”

Hank gently wiped away Miss Mamie’s tears. Here was someone who desperately needed something to believe in. He could be that for her. “That’s all right, Mother. I can replace them. You rest and get your strength back.” He took Sidalee into the kitchen and told her why he needed the name of the town.

“That’s a great idea, Hank. Maybe you can figure out what’s going on. My heart breaks for her. It did when I first saw her freezing to death in that line shack, and it’s only gotten worse.”

“I’ll not turn my back on her, and that I can promise you.” Hank met her blue gaze, sudden longing rising inside so fierce he could barely breathe. He lifted a tendril of her hair, wishing he could kiss her again, but he’d only asked for one, and any more would only make the leaving unbearable.

“Will you stay for supper, Hank?”

He didn’t have the power to refuse. “I’ll be back after I take the horses to the barn.”

A rosy blush colored her cheeks. Hank didn’t think he’d ever seen a more beautiful woman. To share supper with her—and Miss Mamie too, of course—would feed his soul, which had been hungry for so long.

But he wouldn’t make a habit out of it. He just needed a little more of her company to store up for the lonely days after he left the ranch.

* * *

The following morning, Hank set to work trying to uncover information that would shed light on Miss Mamie’s insistence that he was her George. It didn’t take long to get an answer from the sheriff in Benton Falls.

Albert and Mamie Tabor buried their baby boy, George, back around 1823 or so. The sheriff didn’t know the specific year. The child had been about a year old.

Also, their house and all their belongings did not burn as Miss Mamie claimed. She and Albert had gotten evicted from their land by a bunch of land-grabbers. The sheriff hoped they found a better climate at the Lone Star.

Hank sat staring at the telegram for a long time, his heart aching for the old woman. Anger rose. The loss of their land must’ve been too much, and something in Miss Mamie’s head broke. He’d be her son as long as she wanted.

Sometimes people just needed a little something to cling to, something to get them through the long days. To have hope. Lord knew he had—and still did. The thing that gave him strength in prison was the daily tapping on the wall, the conversation with his friend, Robert Gage.

For Miss Mamie, it was pretending her son was alive and well.

The door opened and Stoker Legend strode in. “How’s it going, Destry? Have everything you need?”

Hank stood. “It’s going fine, boss. I picked up the code just like I never stopped. I suppose you came for a report.”

“No. It’s early yet, and if you had anything, you’d have brought it.” Stoker removed his gloves. “I need you to send a telegram to Joe Jameson right away. I have business to conclude with him before Christmas.”

Ice froze the blood in Hank’s veins. Dark foreboding rippled through him, and there was a foul taste in his mouth. He should have known this was all too good to be true.

After what felt like an eternity, he forced himself to focus and handed Stoker a tablet and pencil. “Write out what you want me to send, and I’ll get to it.”

Then he’d have to decide if it was time to saddle up and ride out.

Stoker scribbled out the message and drew on his gloves. “I’m real glad we found you. You’re sure a godsend, no doubt about it.” The big rancher’s gaze swept over Hank. “Christmas should be spent with family though. I’ll understand if you need to leave.”

“I have no family.”

“Then I’m glad you can join ours. The Legend and Lone Star families are one and the same. I throw a dance on Christmas Eve and you’ll be welcome.”

“Thank you, but I don’t much like crowds.”

“I know a few pretty ladies who’ll be very disappointed.” Stoker strode to the door and turned. “Maybe you’ll change your mind. My day will be made if all my sons get to be here. A man can’t ask for more than that.”

“I reckon not. I’ll keep burning up these wires until I find Luke.”

With a nod, Stoker stepped out into the snow. The fire crackled and popped as Hank focused on the message to Joe Jameson. The boss was telling Jameson to be there in four days or the deal was off. From the strong language used, it appeared Stoker didn’t think any more of the man he was doing business with than Hank did.

The owner of the Lone Star rose even higher in his estimation, but either way, Jameson was coming to the Lone Star. Hank had four days. Did he stay or run?

If he stayed, Jameson would only make trouble for him. The man had more money than God and more lies than the Devil, with a lack of a conscience to match. Jameson had destroyed Hank once.

A muscle worked in Hank’s jaw. This time the man would find out just how much Hank had learned about surviving. He’d aged far beyond his twenty-eight years.

He wondered if Jameson’s boy would come. If he was going to show, Hank might be tempted to stay. He’d like to see if Seth was still a spoiled braggart. But likely someone had silenced him by now.

A troubled breath left him as he sat down to send the telegram. Soon he immersed himself in work, and the bitter taste in his mouth left. He was on the hunt for Stoker’s son, Luke Weston. Hank still thought it odd that Luke didn’t go by Legend. Maybe he’d ask Houston—if he got to know him well enough.

That wouldn’t happen if he decided to leave before Jameson arrived.

Still undecided, Hank refocused and found comfort in the tapping sound. He was narrowing down Luke’s location. He only had a few more days, or it would be too late for Stoker’s son to arrive in time. It was important to give the man who’d offered him a second chance the Christmas he wanted.

When Hank was growing up and before he learned what a dark place the world could be, Christmas had been exciting. Hank could barely wait to see what he’d get—not that he couldn’t guess. His mother always knitted a scarf, gloves, or a warm cap. His father would make some toy by the light of the lantern after Hank went to sleep. He missed those times where the love of family wrapped around him like soft wool. But Christmas had ceased to exist for him.

There wasn’t any use in pretending it did.

A handful of ranch hands wandered in to send telegrams to family, making plans to spend the holidays together. Those left and more came. One tall cowboy sent a note to his sweetheart, saying he loved her. An older one, his face weathered by the sun and wind, told a woman named Alice that he couldn’t make it this year. A young homesick cowboy asked Hank to write out his message for him on account of never learning to read and write. It was to his mother, apologizing for not making it.

Hank watched them, wondering about their lives and what they dreamed about at night when they stumbled to their beds, dead tired after a long day. They weren’t much different from him—except they seemed content. Hank was still searching for a home and a place to belong.

Sidalee had said this was a good place to start over. He’d like to think she was right…but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before he’d have to say goodbye.