The Promise of Forgiveness (3 page)

J
oe steered the Dodge over to the shoulder of the road, then turned onto a dirt path and drove across a cattle guard. The vibration jarred Mia awake.

The entrance to the ranch was hardly special—two lodgepoles held up a third log spanning the top. The name
Devil's Wind
had been etched into the wood. Ruby pointed to an outcropping of jagged rock that resembled the bony plates of a petrified stegosaurus. “What's that over there?”

“Fury's Ridge,” he said.

Appropriately named—the rocky mass looked angry.

Cumulus clouds dotted the heavens, the puffy cotton balls casting giant shadows over the land. Off to the west the skies grew ominous. Gusts of wind moved the buffalo grass in giant waves across the ground, forcing the bleached utility poles and their sagging wires to bend against their will. The desolate scenery belonged in a sci-fi movie.

The truck whizzed by an antique wind pump, its rusted blades spinning fiercely. Not far from the pump sat a water tank and a lean-to for cattle, which were nowhere in sight. The road sloped upward, and at the top of the incline a two-story house, barn, corral, and shed came into view.

The ranch house looked nothing like the residence in Ruby's dream. Years of incessant wind and sandy grit had peeled away the white paint, leaving behind sun-bleached gray boards. The once emerald roof had faded to mint green, and hailstorms had left fist-size divots in the asphalt shingles. The structure had no gutters, and only a few blades of grass poked through the dirt. The yard would turn into a mud bog after a downpour. A pair of rusty shell-back chairs sat on the porch beneath the overhang, which provided shade from the sun and protection from an air-conditioning unit balanced precariously on a second-floor window ledge. The red flowering rosebushes in front of the porch were the only sign of life in the otherwise depressing scene.

If this was her inheritance . . .
No, thanks
.

“Hank's inside.” Joe got out of the truck. “I'll be in the barn if anyone needs me.” He walked off, and Ruby almost called him back to help break the ice between her and Hank.

Mia leaned over the seat. “The house is worse than our trailer.”

That was saying a lot, considering they'd spent the past four years living in a 1990s mobile home with turquoise trim and plastic sheeting nailed over the windows.

“I bet there's cockroaches inside.”

“If it's infested with bugs, we won't stay.”

Ruby played with her necklace—a nervous habit that had grown worse since leaving Pineville. She hadn't thought to ask Joe if he'd warned Hank he was bringing her and Mia to the ranch. “Maybe you should stay in the truck.”

“It's too hot,” Mia said.

“Then keep the door open.” Ruby crossed the yard, her calf muscles tightening as the dusty ground sucked at her feet. She climbed the porch steps—five of them—then stared at the polished horseshoe knocker behind the screen.

Fancy decoration for a house in need of a wrecking ball
.

She pulled back the screen door, lifted the iron talisman, then let it bang into place. A shadow passed by the front window right before the door cracked open and the barrel of a shotgun slid out to greet her.

“Are you always this neighborly?”

“I wasn't expecting visitors. Who the hell are you?”

She wished she could see his face, or at least his eyes, to determine if he was mentally deranged or just ornery. “I'm Ruby Baxter.” She held up an envelope. “According to this notarized letter, you're my biological father.”

“Who else is out there?”

“My daughter, Mia.”

“You got a husband?”

“No. Are we welcome?”

“You're welcome.” He turned his back and walked away. Hank McArthur was as friendly as a rattlesnake.

Ruby stepped inside the house, then breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted the firearm leaning against the antique umbrella stand in the foyer.

“You gonna let all that dadgum dust blow in here?”

“Sorry.” She moved aside and closed the door—but not all the way.

The sun spilling from a room off the foyer cloaked Hank McArthur in shimmering light—the kind reserved for angels, not fathers who rejected their daughters. He'd probably been taller in his youth, but now he stood only a few inches over Ruby's five feet six. She'd inherited her blue eyes from him, except a murky haze covered his—cataracts. His bushy eyebrows reminded her of a milkweed moth with its white-, gold-, and dark-colored spikes sticking up in all directions.

Decades of toiling in the sun had turned his skin to cracked leather. The wrinkles near his eyes bled into his cheeks, the lines deepening as they drew closer to his chin. A permanent fissure split his lower lip in half, and the left side of his mouth folded inward—a telltale sign of missing teeth. His stooped frame offered a view of the top of his head—splotches of pink scalp with brown spots peeked through thinning gray hair in need of a trim.

As far as first impressions went, Hank McArthur wasn't at all what Ruby wished for in a father.

“Where's that kid of yours?” His throaty rasp and the cigarette pack in his shirt pocket ID'd him as a lifelong smoker.

“She's waiting outside.”

He left her standing in the foyer.

Jeez, the least he could do was act as if not seeing her for thirty-one years affected him. She followed him through the hallway, noting the half bath tucked beneath the staircase. When she entered the kitchen, a mongrel the size of a Great Dane
woof
ed at her. The ugly mutt sniffed the air but didn't budge from his bed pillow in the corner.

“Found him wandering in the road,” Hank said.

“What's his name?”

“Didn't give him one.”

He cared enough to rescue a homeless hound but not enough to name it?

Hank struggled to hold a can of dog food, while his gnarled fingers fumbled with the opener. A short-sleeved cotton shirt and worn jeans hung on his scrawny frame, and his saggy skin was mottled with moles and scabbed-over sores. His shoulders curved inward, forcing his torso toward the floor, gravity tugging him closer to the grave—half buried already by the fine layer of dust that coated his skin and clothes. He dumped the moist food into a bowl, mashed it with a fork, then bent, his knees crunching, and placed the meal before the dog.

While the mutt ate, Ruby scrutinized the kitchen. Burn marks marred the linoleum floor—ash from Hank's cancer sticks. The aging vinyl curled up along the baseboards, and the pattern had been worn off two of the squares in front of the cast-iron sink. The black refrigerator clashed with the white stove. No dishwasher. A table and four chairs sat in front of the window overlooking the backyard. A crock of cooking utensils and a tin canister set—their faded red letters spelling
Flour
,
Sugar
and
Tea
—sat on the gold-flecked Formica counter next to the toaster. Decades of frying food in the kitchen had coated the maple cabinets with a thick sheen of grease. Even though there was no trace of a woman's touch, the shabby room possessed a homey feel.

Ruby crossed her arms over her chest. The Devil's Wind wasn't home and never would be.

“Didn't expect you this soon,” he said.

That Hank had expected her to show up at all pissed Ruby off. Had it never crossed his mind that maybe she wouldn't want to meet the man who'd given her away?

His eyes studied her. “Where'd you get the necklace?”

“From my parents. Why?”

He shrugged.

“How do you know for certain that I'm your daughter?”

“You look like your mother.”

“Where is my mother?”

He wet a dishrag, then rubbed at an invisible spot on the counter. “Haven't seen Cora since right after you were born.”

So her birth mother had left him, too? “Where did she go?”

“Sometimes a person doesn't want to be found.” He pressed his bony hand against his chest and stared into space.

“What's the matter?”

“Had a pacemaker put in a while back.”

Suddenly Ruby understood why he'd tracked her down. “You sent for me because you're going to die soon and you want to clear your conscience.”

“My conscience is clear.”

“You have no regrets about putting me up for adoption?”

“Didn't have a choice.”

“Everybody has a choice.” Ruby choked back a curse. So much for pretending she was tough enough to handle the truth. “I became pregnant with my daughter by accident, but I kept her.”

“I got things to settle before I leave this earth.”

She didn't want to care about Hank's health. But the fact that his heart needed help beating properly was cause for concern. She'd hate to see him keel over before she learned more about him and Cora, not to mention other health issues aside from a weak heart that she and Mia needed to be aware of.

He pointed to the door on the opposite side of the kitchen. “Made the back porch into a bedroom. Cooler out there at night.” He picked up the empty dog bowl and rinsed it in the sink. “Joe'll clear his things out later. You 'n' . . . What's your daughter's name?”

“Mia.”

“Can bunk down on the porch.”

Ruby didn't know which was worse—sleeping on Hank's porch or in Elvis's pop-up trailer behind the diner.

A scuffling sound alerted her that she and Hank weren't alone. “I told you to wait in the truck.” Not that she'd expected Mia to listen to her. The teen had a mind of her own—like her mother.

“You're my grandfather?”

Hank's expression softened as he peered at his granddaughter. “You have an unusual name, Mia.”

“Mom named me after a stupid character in
The Princess Diaries
. They made a movie out of the books.”

“You don't say.”

“Did you name my mom Ruby?”

Of all the questions that had come to mind when Ruby had learned she'd been adopted, who had named her hadn't been one of them.

“I'm afraid I didn't.”

Good
. Hank hadn't earned the honor of naming her.

“Your grandmother called her Faith,” he said.

“Why?” Mia asked.

Hank's gaze traveled around the room, skipping over Ruby. “When she held your mother in her arms, she said she knew the baby would remain loyal.”

Loyal to whom
? Hank, herself, or—Ruby glanced at Mia—her daughter? The old man was in for a big surprise if he believed he'd win her over with a sentimental story about her birth moniker.

He lifted a cowboy hat from a hook on the wall and clucked his tongue. The hound padded after him through the porch and out to the backyard, where he stopped to light a cigarette.

Mia watched the pair through the kitchen window. “What's the dog's name?”

“It doesn't have a name.”

“Your dad's not very friendly.”

“No, he's not.”

“A
re we gonna stay?” Mia asked Ruby.

“Hank said we could sleep on the porch. Let's take a look at our accommodations and then decide.”

Ruby surveyed the cramped quarters. A washer and dryer had been placed in the corner across from the door that opened to the backyard. A generic brand of laundry detergent and a jug of bleach sat on the shelf next to the machines. Old-fashioned roller shades, yellowed from age, hung above the window screens. An inch of dust coated the furniture, and when Ruby walked across the rug in front of the queen-size bed, puffs of dirt swirled next to her feet. The only sign that anyone occupied the room was the pair of men's athletic shoes resting beneath a chair in the corner and the quarter, two dimes, and penny left on the nightstand.

Ruby had slept in worse places, but she didn't feel right about evicting the foreman from his room. Why hadn't Hank suggested they use one of the second-floor bedrooms? Mia pointed the remote at the TV on the dresser, then stretched out on the bed.

“What do you think?” Ruby said. “Is it okay with you if we stay?”

Silence
.

“If Hank makes you feel uncomfortable, we can leave.”

No answer
. Ruby was damn tired of being ignored, but she squelched her frustration. “It doesn't matter to me whether we stay or not. It's more important that you feel safe here.”

Mia flipped over on the mattress. “Why wouldn't I feel safe?”

Well, for one thing, your grandfather answered the door with a shotgun in his hands
. “I'm not saying it isn't safe. It's just that—”

“You want me to decide. Then if anything goes wrong, it's not your fault.” The accusatory glower in Mia's eyes cut Ruby to the bone.

“Let's not make this into a big deal.”

“Fine. We can stay.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Ruby went out to the pickup to retrieve their luggage. One bag slung over her shoulder and two more in hand, she returned to the porch just as the back door opened and Joe stepped inside. He froze when he saw Mia on the bed.

“Hank said we should sleep here tonight, but if you'd rather . . .” Ruby's words spurred Joe into action. He removed a duffel bag from beneath the bed, tossed his shoes inside, and then emptied out a clothing drawer before collecting his change from the nightstand.

“Clean sheets are in the upstairs linen closet.” He stopped at the foot of the bed. “It gets windy out here at night. You'll want to use the latch hook on the screen door to keep it from blowing open.” Then he was gone.

“Is he mad that we took his room?” Mia asked.

“I don't think so.” If he was, he'd hidden it well. “I'll find the sheets. Then you can help me make the bed.”

Ruby climbed the stairs to the second floor. She paused on the landing and counted the doors—three plus the linen closet at the far end of the hall. Faded yellow wallpaper with pink roses clinging to mint-green vines buckled in the corners where brown water splotches marred the ceiling. The floorboards needed a new coat of stain, and the only footprints in the hallway led to the two doors on Ruby's right. The dust in front of the door to her left remained undisturbed. No one had gone into that room in ages.
Why
?

She checked out the bathroom—toilet, tub, and pedestal sink. Next, Hank's room—bed, dresser, and a brown rug that covered the wood floor in front of the bed. There were no photographs, artwork, or anything personal that hinted at a woman having ever shared the space with Hank. The door across the hall beckoned her. Who cared if he noticed her footprints? She tested the knob, then poked her head inside—pink walls and white baby furniture.

What the . . . ?
She tiptoed into the room and ran her hand across the crib rail. Then she fingered the satin ruffles on the bassinet before giving the rocking chair in the corner a gentle push. The top drawer of the dresser held a supply of pink hair bows and ruffled socks. The middle drawer was filled with disposable diapers—yellowed with age—and flannel baby blankets had been stowed in the bottom drawer.

The evidence in the room suggested Hank and Cora had never intended to give Ruby up for adoption. What had changed their minds about keeping her? And why after three decades hadn't Hank painted the nursery a different color and gotten rid of the furniture?

Maybe there were other children after you
.

Ruby didn't have time to ponder the possibility because she heard the front door open. She ducked from the bedroom, then hurried to the closet at the end of the hall.

Hank appeared on the landing. “What are you doing?”

“Getting fresh sheets for the bed.” She wiped her sweaty palms against her dress before removing a set of dingy linens from the shelf.

His gaze tracked her footprints to the nursery, and the parentheses lines bracketing his mouth deepened. “You can use the bathroom up here, but keep out of the other rooms.”

“We need to talk.” She hovered in his bedroom doorway.

“I have to exercise one of the horses.” He sat on the bed and switched to a different pair of boots.

She exhaled a noisy breath through her nostrils. “I didn't come here to be ignored.”

“You in a rush to leave?”

Yes. No.
Maybe
. “I have to be in Kansas two weeks from now.”

“Then we have time to talk.”

Ruby let him win this round and stepped aside. “Did you have plans for supper, or would you like me to throw a meal together?”

“Make what you want. Joe and I go our separate ways.” He hitched his drooping pants, then descended the stairs and walked out the front door. Ruby went into the parlor to snoop.

The room smelled of musty wood and moldy fabric. Nose twitching, she walked past a love seat and matching chair to check out the piano against the wall. Had Cora played the instrument? She ran her fingers over the yellowed keys, picturing a blond-haired woman singing as she played.

Faith
. Cora had named her Faith. The gentle-sounding moniker conjured up images of charity work and Sunday sermons—things Ruby had no experience with. It was a good thing her adoptive parents had changed her name. She'd never been one to hold much faith in anyone—certainly not herself.

Ruby returned to the back porch, finding it empty. She peered through the window and saw Mia and the ugly dog out by the corral, watching Hank put a harness on a horse. Feeling the need to supervise their interactions—at least until she was convinced Hank wouldn't say or do anything to offend Mia—Ruby dropped the sheets on the bed and went outside.

Hank held the rope and turned in a slow circle, forcing the horse to trot around him.

“I'm bored.” Mia waved her arms in the air.

Hank ignored her.

“I said, I'm bored!”

“I heard you the first time.” His focus remained on the horse. “You ever ridden before?”

“No, but I rode a motorcycle once.”

Ruby stopped at Mia's side. “When?”

“Sabrina's brother gave me a ride to their house once after you went to work.”

What else had Mia's friend talked her daughter into doing? Had she been so caught up in her troubles with Sean that she'd missed all the warnings signs that Mia was testing her boundaries?

Hank clicked his tongue and the horse slowed. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Fourteen. How old are you?”

“Seventy-one.”

“You look older than that.”

“Reckon I do.”

“My mom makes me wear sunscreen, but she never does.” Mia stared defiantly at Ruby. “And she said I couldn't get a tattoo, but she got one on her boob.”

Why was Mia intentionally trying to make her look bad in front of Hank?

After a ten-second glare-down with her daughter, Mia looked away and spoke to Hank. “I can see his bones. Is the horse gonna die?”

“He'll be okay, once he fattens up.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was abused.”

“How?”

“His owner moved away and left him without food.”

“What happened to my grandma?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” he said.

“So?”

It was difficult to tell with the late-afternoon sun in her eyes, but Ruby swore Hank's mouth lifted in a smile.

“Where's my grandma?” Mia asked.

“Don't know.”

“How come you don't know?”

“Your grandmother left after your mother was born.”

“Were you mean to her?”

Hank scowled, and his eyes disappeared into his wrinkles. “You always speak your mind, young lady?”

“I'm afraid she does,” Ruby said.

He clicked his tongue and the horse stopped. “I didn't beat your grandmother.”

“Then why'd she run off?”

“If I knew, I'd tell you.”

“Do you have the Internet in your house?”

“Don't have any use for a computer.”

“Everyone needs a computer. I found out Pinky's boyfriend got her pregnant on the Entertainment News website.”

“Never heard of Pinky,” Hank said.

“She's a singer in a band from England.”

Hank walked the horse closer to Mia.

“Can I pet him?” she asked.

“Be gentle. He's not used to strangers.”

Ruby got the feeling no one on the ranch—the horses, Hank, or Joe—was used to being around people.

Mia stroked the animal's neck. “He's sweaty.”

“Where's your father?” Hank glanced between Ruby and Mia.

“Dylan and I never married,” Ruby said.

Hank must have been satisfied with her answer, because he changed the subject. “You want to feed the horses?”

“Sure,” Mia said. “What's this one's name?”

“Didn't name him.”

“How come?”

When Hank didn't answer, Mia rubbed the horse's nose and asked, “Can I name your animals?”

“Suit yourself.”

“I'm gonna call your dog Friend.”

“That's a stupid name.”

“Is not.” Mia pointed to the hound. “He follows you everywhere just like a friend.”

“Guess you got a point there.” Hank pulled a pack of Winstons from his pocket, then flicked his lighter.

“Cigarettes cause cancer.”

“We all gotta die of something, kid.”

“And they make you stink.” Mia met Hank and the horse at the gate. “A grandfather shouldn't smell like an ashtray.”

Hank dropped his smoke on the ground and stomped it with his bootheel, then looked at Ruby. “You coming?”

Mia's cold stare warned Ruby to stay behind. “I have to make the bed.” She drew in a ragged breath as she watched the pair saunter off. She and Mia had been at the ranch less than an hour and already her daughter and Hank were bonding, which left Ruby feeling like a third wheel.

Hank was
her
father, not Mia's.

Oh, hell. What kind of mother was jealous of her own child? Ruby had been thinking only of herself when she'd made the decision to meet Hank McArthur. She hadn't considered how the visit might impact Mia.

Before arriving in Unforgiven, Ruby had made up her mind that she wasn't going to like her biological father. But Hank's unconditional acceptance of his granddaughter chipped away at her plan to keep him at arm's length.

First the animals, and now Mia saw something worthwhile in the old man. Maybe Ruby should give Hank a chance even if she had to wait in line behind her daughter for his attention.