This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [7]
“Where is her mother?”
“At the dance hall or the saloon. A whore’s what she is!”
Summer’s lips tightened. “Well . . . that’s not the child’s fault. Open the door, and I’ll talk to her.”
“She locks the door afore she goes off nights.”
“I can’t believe a mother would do such a thing. What . . . what if this building caught fire?”
“I got me a notion,” he growled, ignoring the question, “to haul that squallin’ brat over to the dance hall. I ain’t a havin’ no more of it.”
“That’s no place for a child, and you know it. Open the door, and I’ll take care of her until morning.” Summer’s anger was rising.
“I’d have to get the key,” he protested.
“Then go get it!” She pulled herself up to her full height of five feet, four inches and glared at him.
He looked for a moment as if he were going to protest again, but seeing that she was not going to back down, he growled something under his breath and turned away. At the head of the stairs, he looked back at her standing firmly by the door, her arms folded, watching him.
“Damn lucky fer you I ain’t a wantin’ to tangle with that bastard Bulldog works fer.” Still growling to himself, he stomped back down the stairs.
Summer kept her back straight and her chin lifted until the man was out of sight. It wouldn’t do for him to know how tired and small she really felt. She placed her ear to the door. The child’s sobs were ragged.
The room was dark as night when she opened the door. The faint glow from the lamp in the hall showed the outline of the bed and the small bundle huddled on it. Large, wet eyes looked up at Summer from a chubby face framed by long, curly hair. Small lips trembled as she peered past Summer toward the hotel man standing beside the door.
“Come stay with me until your mama comes back.” Summer held out her arms and the little girl went into them eagerly and hid her face against her shoulder. Summer got to her feet holding the child.
“I’ll take care of her,” she said to the sullen man as she walked past.
In her own room, she kicked the door shut, and her eyes sought her brother. He was still looking out the window, and she doubted if he knew she had been gone.
The child’s large, sad eyes tugged at her heart. She couldn’t be more than three years old. And such a beautiful child, even in the huge shapeless nightdress. Her hair was copper-brown and curled in tight ringlets. A spattering of freckles crossed her short, pert little nose. She looked around the room with interest and her eyes caught John Austin by the window.
“What’s your name?” Summer asked as she poured water into the wash bowl. She wet a cloth and wiped the child’s face.
The little girl hiccoughed. “Mary Evelyn.”
Summer barely heard the little girl’s shy voice.
“My name is Summer and the boy is my brother. His name is John Austin.”
Shaken from his reverie, John Austin turned to look with astonishment at the little girl sitting on the cot.
“Where’d she come from?”
“From the room next door. She’s going to stay with us till her mama comes back.”
The two children eyed each other.
A pleased smile came over John Austin’s face. He went to the cot, sat down, and picked up the little girl’s hand.
“She’s so pretty, Summer. Look at that curly hair.” He reached up and pushed the hair back from the child’s face. “What’s she been cryin’ for?”
Summer had thought nothing her brother could do would surprise her anymore, but she wasn’t prepared for his interest in and compassion for the little girl. Involuntary tears of love sprang into her eyes, and she swallowed the lump in her throat.
“I suspect she’s hungry.” She lifted the lid on the stew pot. “Wash your hands, dear, and I’ll dish up the stew.”
By the time the meal was over, the little girl’s eyes were dry, and only wet, spikey lashes remained. She smiled often. Once she laughed out loud at John Austin’s antics.
Seeing them together, Summer thought she could remember another time when a small child gazed with adoration at a boy; a tall, slim, dark-haired boy, who held her hand and walked with her