“You must be about frozen,” he said to Sally as he drove toward the general store.
“Actually, I’m quite comfortable,” she replied. She wore a fur hat with flaps that came down over her ears. A scarf was wound around her throat, leather gloves were on her hands, and the bulky fleece-lined coat she wore completely concealed the supple lines of her figure.
Despite all that, Smoke thought she was beautiful. He would always think she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“I still say Pearlie or Cal could have brought the buckboard in for those supplies you wanted.”
“They have work to do,” Sally said.
“And I don’t?” Smoke asked with a snort. “I own the dang spread, after all. Well, we do.”
“I’m glad you corrected yourself.” Her voice was tart, but the smile she gave him took any sting out of it. “Anyway, I don’t know exactly what I want. I have to think about it while I’m shopping to actually figure everything out. I need the makings for Christmas dinner, and even though we have decorations, we can always use more.”
“I’m sure whatever you decide will be perfect.”
“You’re just saying that because you don’t want to go shopping with me.”
“No, I just have complete confidence in you,” Smoke said with a smile.
Sally laughed and shook her head. She was still smiling when Smoke brought the buggy to a halt in front of Goldstein’s Mercantile, where she would shop before visiting Foster and Matthews Grocery. He took the lap robe off of them, folded it, and placed it behind the seat. Then he jumped lithely to the ground and turned back to help her climb down from the vehicle.
Once Sally was on the ground, Smoke moved to tie the horse’s reins to the hitchrack in front of the store. The horse was well trained and wouldn’t bolt except in extreme conditions, but again, there was never any point in being careless.
“I’m going to say hello to Louis,” Smoke told Sally, “but I should be back by the time you’re finished at the grocery store. If I’m not, send somebody to find me.”
Everyone in Big Rock knew Smoke Jensen. Although he would never get a swelled head about such a thing, he was the most famous citizen of the valley where the town and the Sugarloaf Ranch were located.
His fame extended well beyond those environs, too. Up in Idaho, for example, people still talked in awe about how he had killed more than two dozen gun-wolves in a bloody war against the men responsible for the deaths of his father, his first wife, and his unborn child.
There were plenty of other places where folks still remembered the man known variously as Kirby Jensen (his real name); Buck West, the wanted outlaw; and Smoke Jensen (the name most knew him by). For a short period of time after he and Sally had founded the Sugarloaf and settled down there, he had attempted to live anonymously, in the hope that he could put his reputation as maybe the fastest gun in the West behind him for good.
That hadn’t worked, of course. Few men could deny their true nature for very long, and Smoke’s nature was to battle against evil wherever he found it. So he hadn’t tried to keep who he was a secret any longer, but he had made a determined effort to live his life as a peaceful, happily married rancher.
Sometimes that had worked. Sometimes it hadn’t. And despite his best intentions, the legend of Smoke Jensen had grown.
The town itself was part of that legend. It had been founded as a result of Smoke’s clash with a power-hungry man determined to rule this part of the state by blood and gun smoke and any other means necessary. But that man had long since gone under, Smoke was still here, and Big Rock was thriving.
So it was no surprise that folks nodded and smiled at him as he left Sally at the store and walked along the street. Men shook his hand and slapped him on the back. Smoke had a grin and a friendly word for all of them.
At first glance, especially in the sheepskin coat he wore, he didn’t seem that impressive a figure. He was just a man in the prime of life, with a face a little too rugged to be considered classically handsome, and ash blond hair under a brown Stetson.
A second look, though, revealed how wide his shoulders were, and when you watched him move, you could see the leashed power and easy grace of the man. He was like one of the big cats that could be found in the high mountains. He never seemed to rush, but he could be blindingly fast and deadly when he needed to be.
Today he was just bound for Longmont’s, a combination saloon, restaurant, and gambling house run by his old friend Louis Longmont, where he intended to have a cup of coffee and invite Louis to come out to the Sugarloaf for Christmas the next week.
Louis stood at the bar in Longmont’s, talking to the only bartender who was on duty. No customers were bellied up to the hardwood, drinking, but a number of the cloth-covered tables were occupied by diners enjoying a belated breakfast from the kitchen.
“Good morning, Smoke,” the dapper, dark-haired gambler and gunman greeted his old friend. “What brings you to Big Rock this morning?”
“Sally needed some things from the store,” Smoke said.
“Ah, the best reason of all, making sure your beautiful wife is happy.”
“I notice that you’re not married,” Smoke pointed out.
“Well . . . what’s best for one man may not be for another.” Louis changed the subject. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, but I’d take a cup of hot coffee. I could use a little warming up after the buggy ride into town.”
The temperature was comfortable inside Longmont’s, with fires burning in two potbellied stoves tucked into opposite corners, not to mention the heat that filtered out into the main room from the ovens in the kitchen. Despite that, Smoke was still a little chilled inside, but he knew the coffee would take care of that.
“I’ll get it, boss,” the bartender offered.
“Thanks, Wiley,” Louis said. To Smoke, he went on, “Shall we sit down?”
“I’ve been sitting on the ride in. Feels good to stand for a while.” Smoke paused. “You have any plans for celebrating Christmas?”
“I assume I’ll be here. People who don’t have families need somewhere to go on Christmas, so they won’t be alone.”
“Well, you have a family . . . Sally and me, and Pearlie and Cal and all the other folks on the Sugarloaf. You have folks working for you who can keep the place going just fine, so why don’t you ride out and spend Christmas Day with us?”
“Why, Smoke, I’m touched,” Louis said. “I wouldn’t want to intrude—”
“I just told you, we consider you a member of the family.”
Louis smiled and said, “In that case, I’d be glad to—”
The bartender, who was carrying the cup of coffee from the kitchen door to the bar, stopped short as he looked out the front window. He said, “What in blazes?”
That caught the attention of Smoke and Louis, who followed the bartender’s gaze and saw several fancy carriages and a number of riders moving past in the street outside.
“Is it a parade?” Louis murmured.
“More like a caravan of some sort,” Smoke said. He stepped over to the bartender and took the cup from the man, nodding his thanks, then said to Louis, “Let’s go take a look.”
He strode to the door and opened it, letting cold air gust in for a moment. He stepped out onto the boardwalk, and Louis followed quickly, closing the door behind him.
Because of the chilly day, steam curled thickly from the coffee as Smoke lifted the cup to his lips and sipped from it. The hot liquid was strong and bracing. He had unbuttoned his coat when he went into Longmont’s, and he didn’t bother fastening it again just yet.
Louis stuck his hands in his trouser pockets to keep them warm and said, “They appear to be strangers to Big Rock.”
“I’ve never seen ’em before, that’s for sure,” Smoke said.
Four good-sized black carriages decorated with silver and brass trim were passing Longmont’s. Each carriage was pulled by a team of four fine black
horses. Their harnesses were also adorned with silver fittings. The drivers were Mexican and wore flat-crowned hats instead of the tall sombreros common below the border. As Smoke and Louis watched, the last carriage in line pulled out of the procession and stopped in front of Goldstein’s Mercantile, where Smoke had left Sally a short time earlier.
Smoke made a quick count and determined that twenty men on horseback accompanied the carriages. They were about evenly divided between Mexicans and Americans, but they all had a couple of things in common.
They were heavily armed, and their weapons and their hard-planed faces marked them as hired gunmen, a breed with which Smoke was all too familiar.
“To quote my bartender,” Louis muttered as he stood beside Smoke on the boardwalk, “what in blazes?”
Several of the riders cast flinty glances toward the two men on the boardwalk as they rode past. Not looking for trouble, exactly, but checking to see if any signs of it were brewing. Smoke returned the looks steadily.
“Looks like they’re headed for the sheriff’s office,” he commented.
It was true. The first carriage pulled up in front of the stone and log building that housed Sheriff Monte Carson’s office as well as Big Rock’s jail. The driver hopped down from the box and hurried to open the door on the side of the carriage next to the boardwalk.
A man in a thick fur coat and flat-crowned black hat stepped out of the vehicle. Just as his right foot touched the ground, the team lurched forward a step for some reason. That made the carriage jerk, and the man getting out of it lost his balance and almost fell. He would have if the driver hadn’t reacted quickly and caught hold of his arm to steady him.
Despite that bit of assistance, the man in the fur coat yanked his arm free and pushed the driver back a step. The driver had a braided leather quirt dangling from its strap around his left wrist. The man in the fur coat ripped it away from him, strode forward, and started slashing at the horses in the team. One of the riders who had dismounted caught hold of the leaders’ harness so the team wouldn’t bolt as the man in the fur coat continued striking them with the quirt. Clouds of steam from the animals’ hot breath filled the air around them as they whinnied in pain.
“Oh, no,” Louis said softly as he looked over at Smoke.
“If you don’t mind, Louis,” Smoke said tightly as he thrust the cup toward his friend, “hold my coffee for a minute.”
CHAPTER 2
“I believe I’ll take some of the red lace and the green lace, as well, Mr. Goldstein,” Sally told the mercantile’s proprietor. “I’ll need about twenty feet of each. I can use it to trim that white linen I’m buying and make the new tablecloth for the dining room look even more festive.”
“I’m sure it’ll be beautiful, Mrs. Jensen,” Goldstein said.
While he was cutting off the lengths that Sally wanted, the store’s double front doors opened and several people entered. Sally felt the chilly wind sweep past her, even though she was standing at the counter in the rear of the store. Curious, she looked over her shoulder to see who had come in.
Two women had entered the store, one leading the way confidently, the other following in a more subservient manner. A pair of men trailed them inside, but they, too, hung back, as if they were just following orders. One of them closed the doors.
The years Sally had spent with Smoke had taught her to check for threats whenever anything unusual or unexpected happened. She didn’t recognize any of these four people, so she took a closer look, starting with the two men, because if there was going to be any trouble, likely it would come from them.
All Sally had to do was glance at them to recognize their type. She knew the lean, hard faces; the apparently casual stances, which actually masked a readiness to explode into action; the way they wore their guns so the weapons would be easy to draw. She had encountered too many hardcases not to know them when she saw them.
Both men were American, but the women were Spanish or Mexican. The one in the lead was young, probably in her mid-twenties, with clear, slightly olive-tinted skin and hair as black as midnight tightly coiled on her head. Her heart-shaped face was very pretty. Dark eyes flashed under finely plucked and shaped brows.
She wore a black quilted coat, which was partially open to reveal an expensive dark red traveling outfit. Black boots polished to a high gleam stuck out from under the long skirt. Rings glittered on her fingers, and a pearl brooch was at her throat.
There was a fine line between flashy and elegant, thought Sally, but this young woman managed to land on the elegant side of that line.
Her companion was much older and stouter, in a dark dress, coat, and shawl. The older woman’s appearance and manner told Sally that she was the younger one’s servant.
“Hello,” the young woman greeted Sally and Goldstein as she came up to the counter. “Please don’t let me interrupt what you’re doing.” Her English was flawless, but her voice had a faint accent to it.
“I’ll be right with you, señorita,” Goldstein said.
“Señora,” she corrected him. “I am Doña Mariana Angelina Aguilar.”
Goldstein nodded and said, “Of course.”
Sally introduced herself to the newcomer, extending a gloved hand and saying, “I’m Sally Jensen. Welcome to Big Rock, Señora Aguilar. Are you just passing through?”
The young woman took Sally’s hand. “No, I believe my husband, Don Juan Sebastian Aguilar, plans to remain here in the vicinity. He has a ranch and property nearby.”
Sally couldn’t help but frown at that statement. She said, “He does? I’m afraid I don’t recall the name . . .”
“His claim is newly established.”
Sally was more confused than before, but it was none of her business. She shrugged a little, smiled, and said, “Well, I hope you enjoy your new home. This is a wonderful area. The people are very friendly. The weather is nice most of the year—”
Doña Mariana shuddered. “It’s so cold here,” she declared. “Sometimes it is cold in Mexico, but not like this.”
“It is pretty chilly out there today,” Sally agreed.
Goldstein set the two coils of lace Sally wanted on the counter and asked, “Is there anything else I can get for you, Mrs. Jensen?”
“Let me think about it,” Sally said. “Why don’t you go ahead and see what Señora Aguilar needs?”
Goldstein nodded his agreement and turned toward Doña Mariana, but before he could say anything else, everyone in the store heard a sudden burst of loud, angry voices from outside, even with the doors closed.
* * *
The man in the fur coat was still venting his rage on the horses as Smoke approached. One of the riders noticed Smoke’s determined stride and nudged his mount over to get in Smoke’s way.
“Better move along, señor,” the rider said. “This does not concern you.”
Smoke barely glanced up at the man, noting his thin, drooping mustache, scarred chin, and cold-eyed gaze.
“I think it does,” Smoke said flatly as he angled to the side to go around the rider.
The man moved his horse again and put his hand on the butt of his gun. “I told you—”
“And I’m telling you,” Smoke said. “Make me pull my gun and I’ll kill you.”
The man cocked his head to the side, as if surprised, but he edged his horse back to give Smoke some room. However, as Smoke walked past, the man pulled his left foot free of the stirrup and drew back his lower leg, intent on kicking him in the back.
Smoke whirled. He’d expected the man to try something. The kick never had a chance of landing. Smoke caught hold of the man’s boot in midair and heaved upward. With a startled yell, the man waved his arms wildly, toppled off the horse’s other side, and crashed into the street.
Smoke turned around and started toward the carriage again.
The man holding the team had seen what happened. His watchful eyes followed Smoke. The man in the fur coat was still caught up in his frenzy of rage against t
he horses, but he seemed to be tiring. He wasn’t swinging the quirt as hard or as fast now.
But any vicious cruelty like that was too much for Smoke to tolerate. He stayed on his course.
A couple of the other riders acted like they were about to intercept him, but a gesture from the man holding the horses made them pause. He seemed to be telling them to let Smoke come ahead.
Or maybe he was just instructing them to let the first man handle the problem, because the man came around his horse and charged at Smoke from behind. His hat had fallen off when Smoke dumped him out of the saddle, and his black hair hung askew over his eyes. The morning sunlight flashed on the blade of the knife in his hand.
Again, the attack didn’t take Smoke by surprise. He heard the rush of footsteps closing in on him and ducked under the knife as the man slashed at him. Smoke straightened, and his right fist shot out to land squarely on the man’s jaw. The solid blow knocked the man back against his horse. He caught hold of the stirrup with his free hand to steady himself, then lunged at Smoke again.
“Carve him up, Pedro!” yelled one of the other riders. The rest of the men shouted encouragement, as well.
The man was fast, but Smoke’s superb reflexes allowed him to dodge as the knife flickered toward him again and again. Then, as Smoke leaned aside from a thrust aimed at his throat, he caught hold of the man’s wrist with his left hand. The muscles in Smoke’s shoulders bunched as he squeezed. Bones ground together in the man’s wrist as he cried out in pain and dropped the knife.
Smoke’s right fist came around in a hook that smashed his attacker to the ground. He could tell by the way the man lay there whimpering that all the fight had been knocked out of him this time.
When Smoke turned back toward the carriage, he saw that the man in the fur coat had stopped beating the horses. Instead, he glared at Smoke with a furious expression on his lean, hawklike face. A pencil-line mustache adorned his upper lip. Childhood illness had pockmarked his cheeks. He was in his forties, Smoke judged, and held himself as if he were an aristocrat—or at least considered himself one.
A Jensen Family Christmas Page 2