do was follow any road long enough and he was bound to get somewhere even if only Steveville. At first he had resented the old man’s presence, reminding him as it did of Pa, but Arty was harmless. He got sloppy drunk not fighting drunk.
“Colby? When did you get back in town? What are you doing with yourself?” Arty jerked toward the bar. “Sol, get us another glass. Colby here is going to share my bottle.”
“Don’t use that stuff anymore.”
Poor old Arty almost jolted off his chair. “You’re joshing. A Bloxham that don’t drink. Ain’t possible.”
An old familiar anger at his upbringing seared through Colby like a struck match then died as quickly and harmlessly. “I decided I didn’t want to turn out like my old man.”
Arty studied the bottle regretfully and yet affectionately. “Wise move, my boy. So watcha been doing?”
He wasn’t about to tell anyone the truth about where he’d been and what he’d done since he’d last wandered the streets of Steveville. Hopefully news of his doings hadn’t trickled back this far and never would. But Arty waited, clutching his glass with both hands and studying Colby with the unblinking stare of a man whose thought processes had been dulled by drink.
“Arty, I been wandering around a bit.”
“Looking for anything in particular?”
Colby laughed. “Yup. Me.”
Arty blinked, drained his glass, wiped his mouth and tried to decide whether to laugh or sob.
Colby patted the older man’s shoulder. “Never mind. It don’t make sense to me, either.” He’d glanced around the room when he first entered, noted several men but paid them scant attention. Now he looked around again, hoping to see a familiar face or two. He specially wished to see Hugh, the only man who’d felt like a friend. He used to come over and play cards with Colby and Nora in the evenings and often stayed the night. Hugh had been with him after Nora’s death. Colby didn’t know how many times Hugh had dragged him from the bar and made sure he got home before he got arrested. Saved his hide on one specific occasion, yet last time he’d seen Hugh, Colby had been fighting drunk and accused the man of all sorts of horrible things. Even accused him of having his eyes on Nora. Some way to treat a friend who had likely saved him from the hangman’s noose.
He didn’t see Hugh but met the eyes of a bold stranger, recognizing immediately a man itching for trouble.
The man left the bar and moseyed over to flick a finger at Arty’s bottle, bringing a defensive grab from the older man. “This old drunk a friend of yours?”
There was a time in the near past when Colby would have jumped at the chance to respond. But no more. He thought of sweet Anna, who had once been his friend, and the way she’d looked at him, ordering him away like some kind of rabid dog. Yeah, she might have once had good reason to think so, but he’d win back her friendship if it took the rest of his life.
He hoped it wouldn’t take near that long.
“Let the old man alone,” he murmured in a soft, not-wanting-a-fight tone. “He ain’t hurting no one.”
“He hurts my nose.” The dark-eyed stranger chose to flick at Arty’s hat, sending it askew.
Arty clung to it with both hands like he feared further tormenting.
Colby pushed his own hat back so the man could see his expression clearly and crossed his arms over his chest. “I said leave him alone.”
The man jeered. “Says who?”
Colby recognized the challenge. Hoped he wouldn’t have to accept it. He gave the man his hardest look, one birthed before his sixth birthday and matured over the years. This past year had given it a whole new depth. He allowed himself a moment of victory as the annoying man shrugged and returned to his drink at the bar, muttering, “Ah, who cares? Just another old drunk. Seen hundreds of ’em.”
Colby pulled his hat back to where it usually rode. Hugh wasn’t there. He’d determined that. But he deliberately lingered in the saloon for a while longer, not wanting anyone to think he had reason to hurry away. But he knew if he stayed too long word would somehow get back to Anna about where he chose to spend his time. He knew small towns, knew this one better ’n most. Person couldn’t so much as cough without it being reported and discussed freely. He knew her opinion about the evils of drinking. Had heard it many times especially after Dorrie was born. “Won’t find any solution in the bottle,” she said. He remembered the perverse pleasure he got out of asking her where she thought he’d find an answer for his loss. Always she said the same thing. God is the great healer. God has a plan for your life. God loves you. He almost believed. So many times he almost believed.
But how could God love him when he constantly found himself in one sort of trouble after another. Sure, anyone would say it was of his own making. For the most part, it was. But this time he intended to prove he was something more than a Bloxham living from a bottle. A better Bloxham than his father was or that he’d been in the past.
He waited a suitable amount of time then sauntered out the door as if it mattered not to him if he stayed or left.
He led his horse down the street, his feet aching to wander south toward the church and Anna. He didn’t believe she truly meant it when she said she never wanted to see him again, but it might be wisest to give her a chance to get used to him being back in town and adjust to the idea he had changed.
He forced his steps to some of his familiar haunts, thinking he might find Hugh. But after an hour of looking he’d not seen the man. Likely he’d show up after he finished whatever job he currently held. Colby would make a swing by the Lucky Lady again later in the evening.
In the meantime…
Well, he’d give anything to see Anna hurrying between the house and the church like he had that very first time. Maybe he’d just ride on down the street, casual-like, no hurry, no destination in mind. Might be she’d have cause to cross the yard, perhaps carrying his little daughter with her. He wondered if Dorrie favored him or Nora. Or did she reveal a likeness to both her parents?
Anna carried Dorrie to her high chair. For a moment she held her close and buried her face against Dorrie’s warm neck, breathing in the familiar scent. “My sweet, sweet baby.” This child filled her with such joy. What if Colby had come back to claim her? Anger and determination drilled through her limbs and up her spine.
She would stand between Dorrie and her father, fight him like a wildcat, protect Dorrie from anything that would hurt her. No matter what. She loved this child as her own.
Dorrie squirmed. “Down, Mama.”
Anna reluctantly ended her hug and put the baby in her chair. She’d brushed Dorrie’s blond hair back and tied it with a white ribbon, letting little curls escape to frame the heart-shaped face. For the past year, she had allowed herself to pretend Dorrie was hers, allowed herself to believe Colby would never return, a thought that filled her with a strange mixture of relief and regret. She’d never been certain which was the stronger emotion.
Dorrie drank half her milk then threw back her head and wailed.
“Poor baby. You didn’t get enough sleep, did you?”
And Colby was
