by Kristen Iten
“It's all right; you don't have to explain anything. I had no right to do what I just did.”
“For the most tight-lipped man in town, you’re awfully chatty this morning.” Her soft laughter hung in the air. “Are you going to let me talk?” She tugged on his arm and pulled him around to face her. “I'm not engaged anymore. I called it off with Carson almost as soon as we got back to town yesterday.”
Micah stared at her in stunned silence, his mouth hanging open. Rosie stood on her tiptoes and threw her arms around his neck. Hot chills ran the length of his body as she twirled the hair at the nape of his neck with her fingers.
“It's always been you, Micah.”
His pulse ran wild when she closed her eyes and moved in for another kiss. His limbs suddenly came alive, and he wrapped her in a bear hug. Lifting her off her feet, he spun her around as their lips met for the second time.
“Eh-hem, I hope I'm not interrupting anything.” Marshal Big Sky stood a little way off wearing a silly grin on his face.
“You are,” said Micah, “but that's all right.” He sat Rosie down. “That signal of yours was a nice touch.”
“What signal?” Cole came around the corner, forcing Dub to hobble along in front of him with hands bound behind his back.
“I let the sun glint off my conchos,” said Sky. “The light flashed on the wall in front of the old man here. I didn't know if he’d notice, but he's as sharp as ever.”
“And here I thought those pretty pieces of silver were just for impressing the ladies.” Cole raised his eyebrows twice in quick succession before breaking out into a hearty laugh.
“I don't need conchos to do that,” said Sky. “But they do help,” he added with a wink. The apples of his broad cheeks turned crimson as he laughed at his own joke.
Micah cleared his throat, a smile playing on his lips. “If y’all are done, I think it's time to pack up and move out. I'll start ahead with Miss Rosie while you two finish cleaning up around here.”
“Will do, boss,” said Cole.
Micah led Rosie to his horse and lifted her easily into the saddle before climbing up behind her. “We've got a long road ahead of us. You willing to ride it with me?”
“Well, of course I am.” Rosie leaned back and rested against Micah’s chest.
“There may be storms along the way—twists and turns we’re not expecting. Bumps even.”
Rosie turned in the saddle and looked at Micah, questions clouding her eyes.
“But if you're willing to ride with me to the end of the trail, I'll never turn loose of you or that child as long as I live.”
“Why, Micah Lagrange! If I didn't know better, I'd say that you're proposing marriage to me on the back of a horse.”
Blood rushed into Micah’s cheeks. “That's exactly what I'm doing.”
“Well, then, I'd say that you just got yourself a new trail partner. I'll ride anywhere with you, Lawman.” She ran her fingers along his jaw line and gazed into his eyes. Their lips lightly touched as they swayed with the motion of their mount. “To the end of the trail.”
Chapter 21
The late afternoon sun shone on a stand of trees at the end of town, illuminating the fiery colors of the fall. Rosie stood on her front porch taking in the dazzling scene, reflecting on all of the changes happening around her.
She ran her fingers absently across the sign tacked onto her front railing. It read “Miss Rosie’s Boardinghouse.” Its rough, weathered edges contrasted with the soft, scrolling letters painted on the front surface. Empty boardinghouse, it should read. The last few days since Cole and Senator Carson Wagoner had moved out had brought about a quiet change over the household. A change Rosie had craved for many years.
A sudden gust of wind caught her skirt, sending it flying out to the side. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear and turned to see to it that the blanket covering little Joseph was still in place as he rested in a comfortable basket next to her.
The early November air was bracing, and she savored its freshness. “How’s my big boy doing?” She tickled his chest before tucking the soft knitted blanket snugly around his shoulders.
Warmth flooded Rosie’s heart when their eyes met. Tiny feet kicked beneath the blanket. She caught them in her hands and marveled at how perfectly they fit in her palms. Unshed tears pooled in the corners of her eyes while she let the moment sink in. His round, blue eyes twinkled as his face lit up in a wide smile. The warmth she felt in her heart rose into her own blue eyes as she smiled sweetly at her son.
A thrill of excitement raced through her body at the sound of a familiar bass voice behind her. “Howdy, ma’am. You wouldn’t happen to have any of that famous sweet mint tea around, would you?” Micah removed his hat and raked his fingers through his unruly rusty waves.
Rosie glanced at the overturned barrel that sat between two lazy rocking chairs at the end of the porch. A tall pitcher of tea, two glasses, and a plate full of freshly baked spiced sugar cookies sat at the ready. She looked back at the tall man standing in the street, hat in hand. “As a matter of fact I do. Would you care to join me for some afternoon refreshments, Sheriff?”
“Don’t mind if I do, ma’am.” One stride of Micah’s long legs skipped the stairs entirely, and brought him face to face with Rosie. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close.
Rosie’s cheeks turned a soft shade of pink as she smacked him on the arm with a playful glint in her eye. “Not in public, Micah. Whatever are you thinking?” Shy giggles bubbled up from deep inside her.
“I’m thinking that a man has the right to kiss his wife on the front porch of his home.” He placed a quick kiss on her forehead and chuckled low in the back of his throat.
“You are incorrigible.” Rosie laughed outright. “Well, all right then, but not in front of the baby.”
“You win,” Micah said. He held his hat up next to their faces as a shield from little Joseph’s curious eyes and kissed her on the cheek.
Even this small display of affection was enough to set her stomach aflutter. She placed a hand on her cheek that still burned from his kiss. “Get on over there, and I’ll pour you something to drink,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.” Micah stopped short of the rocking chairs and stooped down next to Joseph’s snug little bed. Rosie watched as his strong hands wrapped around the baby and lifted him into the air.
He made sure to wrap the blanket around the baby and brought him to sit in the rocker with him. “Let’s come over here and sit a spell, son.” Her heart soared when she witnessed the tender love Micah had for their adopted child.
She followed them to the end of the porch and filled their glasses, a radiant smile lighting up her face. The floorboards creaked when she rocked back in her own chair, committing the scene beside her to memory as she clutched a glass of sweet tea to her chest.
Micah looked up and captured her gaze. He leaned forward and took one of her hands in his. “Rosie, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and rose from his seat. Little Joseph barely stirred when Micah placed him delicately in Rosie’s arms.
“I think it’s high time this came down, don’t you?” Micah strode over to the railing and grabbed the sign meant to attract weary travelers. Two long nails affixed it to the railing, but he easily worked it free.
He turned it around in his hands and read it aloud. “Miss Rosie’s Boardinghouse. It’s a real pretty sign, but it’s like you told me once, your daddy didn’t build this house for strangers. He built it for family.”
Rosie and little Joseph joined Micah at the railing. She traced the flowing letters with her index finger. “I only turned this house into a business to survive after I lost my father. I hated it, but I had to support myself somehow.”
Micah wrapped his warm hand around her slender fingers. He lifted them to his lips and kissed each of her knuckles in turn. “These hands have seen their last day of hard work
.” Tucking the sign under his arm, he placed his hand on the small of her back, leading her through the front door. “Miss Rosie’s Boardinghouse is officially closed for business.”
Once inside, Micah reached out and tickled little Joseph’s chunky legs. The baby squirmed and squealed with delight. Rosie’s heart sang as the laughter of a child— their child—filled the house her father had built all those years ago. Every secret desire of her heart had come to pass.
Micah waltzed over to the front window and pulled the curtains closed. With one swift motion, he was back at Rosie’s side. A rush of pink stained her cheeks under the heat of his gaze. He swept her into the circle of his arms. “We’re not in public anymore.”
Her head spun with giddiness at the realization that her house had just become a home.
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Loving a Toymaker: A Lone Star Christmas.
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Chapter 1
A soft breath of wind lifted Clara Hargrove’s thin wisps of blond hair off of her shoulders and suspended them in the air behind her. It had been a long morning, and the bun that had started high on the back of her head had long since slid down to the nape of her neck. She sat perched in the driver’s seat of an old weather-worn wagon that creaked down the trail.
Holding the reins in one hand, she rested the other on top of her protruding belly. Her stomach rolled with the movement of her unborn child. “Settle down in there, little one. It’s not time to come out yet.” She straightened her posture, leaning backward a tad, trying to catch a full breath of air.
Clara’s old sorrel plodded dutifully along under a clear November sky. Her once powerful haunches now moved with the stiff, deliberate steps that advanced age brings about. The plane of her back dipped a bit more than it had in her youth, while her sides were shadowed by the hint of protruding ribs. The horse had given some of the best years of her life working for the Hargrove family, and now she was delivering them safely to Sweet Creek, Texas.
Several little voices called out from behind Clara. She turned around to see what all of the excitement was about. One of the last remaining monarchs of the season had just landed on the side of the wagon, delighting each of the six young children she was hauling into town with her. Little blond heads swayed with the motion of the wagon as each pair of round eyes was trained on the silent insect sunning its wings. It had been a long ride, and any entertainment was welcome.
A pang of guilt stabbed at her heart when she took a closer look at her brood. Their threadbare clothes were faded, and consisted more of a patchwork of repairs than original garments. Dirty little toes poked out from beneath the tattered edges of an old quilt, a few of which had never known the inside of a shoe.
What bothered her the most were their faces. Her children weren’t starving, but they weren’t plump either. Where she longed to see round cheeks and dimpled hands, she saw slender faces and slim bodies all around. There was nothing she could do about their present situation, but that fact did nothing to soothe the endless guilt she felt at not being able to provide better for them.
Even now her mind drifted to the letter she’d received from the bank a few days before. All she could do was hope that there had been some sort of mistake, or she and her children would soon find themselves without a home. You sure picked about the worst time to go and die on me, Clive.
“Mama,” a little voice called out, over the others.
“What is it, Jackson?”
“When is Pa coming home?” The seven-year-old boy asked the question with heartbreaking, wide-eyed innocence.
Clara massaged her temple with weary fingers before putting on a tired smile. “We’ve already talked about this, son. Pa isn’t coming home this time.”
“But I think he is,” the boy insisted. “He always goes away for a long time, but then he comes back.”
“Not this time, sweet pea.” She turned around in her seat and faced forward before the children had a chance to see the tears pooling in her eyes. They weren’t tears for her husband. What little love she’d managed to find in her heart for him had died several years ago. He had killed it with the bottle, and his rough ways after indulging in it. Her tears were for her children.
She knew Clive for what he was—a man more interested in slaking his thirst for hard liquor than in providing for his own. A man who would disappear for weeks on end, leaving her to work her magic on a nearly empty larder to feed hungry bellies. But to the children he was Pa, and because of that, they would always want him. Always miss him.
This was the man she’d married—the man her father had preferred. If she was honest with herself, he was the man she had chosen. She had sided with her head instead of her heart when it came to matrimony.
She knew love once, but he was a poor boy, no older than herself. Clive had land and a home. He has the means to provide for you. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind. Love never put a roof over anyone’s head. Grief for what might have been tore at her heart when she thought of the young man she’d walked away from nine years ago.
“I still think we should hurry home just in case he comes back while we’re out.”
Jackson’s voice brought Clara back to the present. She motioned for him to come close to her. He half-stumbled, half-crawled over his siblings and stood up near his mother. She reached back and wrapped her arm around his waist. “Jackson,” she said, “Pa is dead. He can’t come home.”
“But some things don’t stay dead. You said the old tree was dead, but it didn’t stay dead. It got new leaves in spring.”
The hope she saw shining in his eyes made her heart ache. She placed a tender kiss on his cheek and hugged him close as she struggled with how to explain death to a child. “Pa isn’t like that tree. He’s like the chicken coop. That coop fell down and got broken. It didn’t get back up.” The knot in her throat screamed for relief from the unexpressed emotion it stifled. “Pa fell down and got broken. He can’t get back up. Do you understand?”
Jackson’s round green eyes looked to the sky as he chewed the inside of his cheek. “I think so.” Warmth flooded Clara’s heart when she felt his little arms wrap around her. He leaned up and whispered in her ear. “But I still think we should hurry home—just in case.”
A single tear escaped her eye and trickled down her cheek. She swiped at it just as the wagon crested a final rise. Never had she been more grateful to be nearing the end of a journey.
Sweet Creek, Texas lay before them. Whatever fate awaited her at the bank would be preferable to more of these difficult conversations that had become all too common since her husband's passing.
Wood dust hung in the air of the workshop, filling the atmosphere with the lingering scent of freshly cut lumber. Hans Christoph stood back, chisel in hand, and surveyed his work. A small horse with a tooled, wavy mane stared back at him.
He ran a broad, calloused hand over his creation, seeing it just as much with his fingertips as with his green eyes. Grabbing a smaller chisel, he placed it to the wood and tapped lightly with his mallet.
Hans loved the whole process of creating something beautiful from a shapeless hunk of wood, but adding the finishing touches to his projects was his favorite part. Excitement swirled in his stomach as wood chips fell from his work, leaving behind the intricate details he’d envisioned. A child-sized horse was coming to life before him.
The curly mop that rested on top of his head bounced with every move his chisel made. Loose, brown curls fell into his eyes when he leaned in close to his project. He swept them out of his face and into place with the back of his wrist.
Absently biting his bottom lip, he set about smoothing the mane that cascaded down the side of the wooden animal’s neck. His thick forearms bulged with the tension that this precision work caused. He pulled a short-bladed knife from his belt and dug
a stubborn chip out of the curved channel he had just created.
Hans set his tool on the work bench in front of him and stepped back to brush away the wood chips caught in his arm hair. He took the horse in his hands and turned it over, inspecting the legs. All that was needed were the rungs and a little more finish work, and the toy would be completed. This rocking horse is going to make some child very happy this Christmas.
A wistful sigh escaped his lips. If only life made as much sense as his workshop. Here things went the way they were supposed to go. As long as he chose the right tool, he could build anything he set his heart on—not so in real life.
He had set his heart on something, or rather someone a long time ago. But she’d chosen another man, and he’d been unable to build the life he wanted ever since. Instead, he’d hidden his heart away and buried himself in his work, honing his craft until his skills rivaled those of his grandfather.
He rested his hand on the smooth curve of the saddle, looking more through his creation than at it. Despite the satisfaction he felt at nearing the completion of his masterpiece, the toy in front of him served to highlight how incomplete he really was. What I wouldn’t give to have a child of my own to give this to.
He couldn’t help feeling incredibly behind in life. How many years had he wasted being alone?
Family was important to him. He was a fifth-generation craftsman, a trade that had been passed from father to son for all of those years. Knowledge of wood, craft, and a sense of family legacy had been imparted to him by his father and grandfather since he was a young boy.
He couldn’t allow himself to be the last in his family line. But if he didn’t want that to happen, he was going to have to do something about it. It was time. Time to make a change.
He slid his Swiss pocket watch out and glanced at the delicate hands marching around the face. His jaw dropped when he saw the time. If it wasn’t for the fact that the watch kept impeccable time, he’d have never believed it. Even so, he still peeked out the window to double-check. The sun was definitely past noon—he was late.