Let It Be Christmas

by Hebby Roman

  “Yes, when you talked about your mother that day in Del Rio, I knew. No matter what happened between us, if I had a girl, I wanted to name her for your mother.”

  He climbed into the bed beside her and handed the baby to Lindsay. “My mother’s name was Elizabeth.”

  “Then we’ll christen her Elizabeth Houghton.”

  He kissed her again. “I want a real marriage, Lindsay, and more children… that is, if you’re not afraid to give birth again.”

  She smiled. “Doc Rodgers said breech births happen, but seldom do they happen twice to the same woman.”

  He exhaled. “I’m glad.” And then he got down on his knees beside the bed and took her hand. “Will you, Lindsay Houghton, marry me?”

  She tried to twist her mother’s wedding band on her still swollen finger. “But we’re already married.”

  “I need to buy you a wedding band, but I didn’t know how things would turn out.”

  “I understand and really there’s no need.” She stroked his strong jaw, stubbled with his beard. “I like wearing my mother’s band. It means a lot to me, handed down from my mother.”

  He gulped and nodded. “If that’s what you want, I understand. But we didn’t marry in a church, and I know how important that is to you. We’ll be married by a priest, if you want.”

  Thinking about God blessing their marriage, she had to know, had to confess her superstition to this man who wanted to be her real husband. “Bart, what day is it? I’ve lost track.”

  He frowned. “That’s your answer to my proposal?”

  She pulled on his arm and he rose, sitting beside her on the bed again. She buried her head in his shoulder. “I’m religious, but I’m Irish, too, and like my mother, I’m prone to superstitions.” She sighed. “I’m not proud of it.”

  He patted her back. “That’s not so bad. We’re all a little superstitious.”

  “But you didn’t answer my question, what day is it?”

  He considered for a moment. “It’s Christmas Day.”

  She lifted her head and smiled. “Then God has forgiven my sin. I prayed and prayed, to let my child be born on Christmas Day, and I would know I was forgiven.”

  “Lindsay, you’re a good person, a giving person. Don’t you know that? And if my father taught me one thing—it was God forgives us, no matter what, if we repent in our hearts.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  She hugged him. “Oh, Bart, I love you so.”

  “And I love you, too” He brushed her lips with his. “You’re my life and my angel. And Elizabeth is our daughter. I want to start a new life with you, grow old together and have grandchildren.”

  “Oh, that would be heaven on earth.”

  Minnie yipped and jumped onto the bed, snuggling herself between Lindsay, Bart, and the baby.

  Bart chuckled and patted Minnie. “Now, we’re all here and a family!” He bent his head to kiss her again. “Merry Christmas, my angel.”

  * * *

  Thank you for reading Let It Be Christmas by Amazon Best-selling author Hebby Roman! Your opinion would be appreciated if you could please post a review at Amazon. If you’d like to read more of Hebby’s books or post other reviews, you can find them on her Amazon Author Page and at her website.

  A West Texas Christmas Trilogy Book 3

  A Mistletoe Christmas

  Prologue

  Langtry, Texas February, 1896

  “The fight sure was a let down,” Chadbourne MacKillian mumbled, his words slurred by numerous shots of whiskey, chased by several bottles of beer.

  “You can say that again,” Bartholomew Houghton agreed. He took a sip of beer and elbowed a boisterous drunk who was pushing him. The Jersey Lily was mobbed, crowded from its floorboards to its rafters.

  “Even if the fight was a bust, Judge Bean is making a mint off it,” Bart said.

  Chad nodded, his head lolling from side-to-side. Slowly, his head fell forward onto the bar. A snore escaped his lips.

  Bart chuckled. Chad had warned him that he wanted to get drunk tonight. And he’d accomplished that goal.

  The same drunk bumped into Bart, and he pushed him away again. This time, he used both hands, warning him, “Hey, watch it.”

  Bart checked the level of beer in his bottle. Half a bottle left—it was only his second beer. He didn't share his new-found friend’s enthusiasm for staying up all night and getting drunk after the prize fight.

  For him, coming to Langtry was a business decision. A fight as big as this attracted a lot of professional gambling, not to mention the amateurs. And he’d made a tidy sum today, too. The secret pocket sewn into his coat was stuffed, and even though, he’d had it specifically made to safeguard his winnings, being jostled by the same drunk twice, put him on high alert.

  Newspapers from all over the States had written about the world championship title bout between Bob Fitzsimmons and Peter Maher. Declared illegal in both Texas and México, it had gotten lots of attention when the dime-novel hero, Judge Roy Bean, self-proclaimed “Law West of the Pecos,” had decided to hold the fight on an island in the middle of the Rio Grande—a no-man’s land, not subject to either country’s authority.

  Judge Bean, a shrewd businessman, had gone to a lot of trouble, hosting the fight, knowing it would be a gold mine for his saloon. He’d built a boxing ring and even a pontoon bridge to the island.

  Sporting enthusiasts from as far away as California and New York had thronged the tiny town, filling up the passenger train cars for days. Despite all the build-up, the actual fight, which was won by Fitzsimmons, had lasted less than two minutes.

  Langtry, a mere whistle-stop, perched on the edge of the Chihuahua Desert, was overrun by sporting men who had nowhere to go and nothing to do until the next day’s train, and all of them wanted to celebrate at the Judge’s famous salon, the Jersey Lily, whimsically named for the actress Lillie Langtry, who the Judge admired from afar.

  And the Judge had anticipated their needs, ordering an entire freight car of beer, along with countless cases of whiskey. His foresight had paid off, he was selling the beer for the unheard of price of a dollar a bottle and a shot whiskey was triple the going rate.

  Bart and Chad had arrived at sunrise on the island, taking up places ringside, to have the best vantage point. Strangers, they’d spent the day, getting to know each other, talking about ranching and gambling and Bart’s travels through the West. Chad had been fascinated with the “betting book” Bart had run, making a percentage off each bet placed.

  When the fight was over, they’d joined the mob at the Jersey Lily, and Chad had gulped down a lot of whisky in a short time. Bart gazed at his brand-new friend and decided, as soon as he finished his beer, he would take Chad home and put him to bed.

  In the meantime, Bart turned from the bar and allowed his gaze to linger over the wall-to-wall crowd. If ever a more scurrilous crew had descended upon a remote West Texas town, he would have liked to have seen it.

  He recognized at least five other professional gamblers. Pickpockets moved quickly through the crowds, divesting drunk or unsuspecting patrons of their wallets. Prostitutes had come from as far away as Galveston to cash in on the circus-like atmosphere. Some of them had foreseen the scarcity of accommodations and brought their own tents.

  Though the crowd was thickest in the Jersey Lily, it spilled over into the main street of Langtry—one big, jostling, drunken party.

  Cold water slapped the back of Bart’s neck. He cursed and spun around. Joseph, the Judge’s head barkeep, held an empty bucket and water pooled around Chad’s head. Joseph shook him.

  Chad lifted his head. Water dripped from his face, and the front of his shirt was soaked. He shook his head.

  Bart wiped at his wet coat and handed Chad his handkerchief. He stared at Joseph and said, “Who gave you the right to dump water on us?”

  Chad mopped his face with Bart’s handker
chief. “Yeah, why’d you do that? I was just taking a break.”

  “If you’re too drunk to stay awake, move out and let someone else in.” Joseph turned away, muttering to himself.

  Tapping Chad on the shoulder, Bart asked, “Don’t you think it’s time to go home? You said your buckboard’s at the livery. I’ll be glad to take you home and bring the buckboard back tomorrow. I’m staying at the Vinegaroon Hotel.”

  Chad squinted and held up one wobbly finger. “Just one more drink, and then I’ll go quietly. I admit, I’m not much of a drinking man, but this might be my last chance at freedom.” He grimaced. “I got engaged at Christmas. Once I’m hitched, good and proper, no more saloons for me.”

  “All right.” Bart slapped Chad on the back. “One more for the road. After that, I’ll take you home.”

  Chad lifted his arm and waved down the barkeep. “Joseph, one more round.”

  Joseph uncapped two bottles of beer and poured a shot of whiskey for Chad.

  Chad lifted the shot glass, preparing to down the whiskey in one gulp.

  Bart grabbed his arm. “Sip it slowly. It’ll last longer.”

  Chad nodded and took a tiny sip of the amber liquid. “Yep, I don’t know why I proposed, except it was Christmas, and I’ve known Vi Lea forever. She has a big ranch on the Devil’s River.” He paused and took another sip. “Well, her folks have a nice spread, but she’s their only living child.”

  “Sounds like you’re not sure about your engagement. Or maybe you proposed for the wrong reason?”

  Chad blinked at him owlishly. “Truer words were never spoken.” He shook his head. “Need to grow the ranch, get bigger to compete, now the tariff is lifted.”

  Bart stood up straight and paid closer attention. “What tariff?”

  “The tariff on wool. Now we sheep ranchers have to compete with Australian and South American wool.” Chad hung his head. “Not to mention the new freight rates. Highway robbery, I’m telling you, that’s what it is.”

  Now the rancher had his full attention. He leaned in closer to Chad and asked, “Aren’t there other ways to grow your ranch, other than getting married?” He took a swig of beer and gazed at Chad.

  Chad ran his hand through his hair. “Well, sure, there are other ways. Thought about taking on a partner, but all the ranchers around are hard pressed. Most of us haven’t made any money on the last two shearing’s. No one has any capital to invest, though, there’s plenty of land to be had cheap.” He chased the whiskey with a swallow of beer. “I’ve asked around.”

  Bart pursed his lips and considered. He’d saved his money for years, and lately, he’d grown tired of drifting around. The western United States was filling up. He’d been looking for a suitable business opportunity, but so far, hadn’t found any to his liking.

  He couldn’t see himself as a shopkeeper, but being a rancher and working outside, appealed to him. And besides, he liked West Texas. Liked its big empty spaces and never-ending horizon.

  “I’d like to see your ranch. I might be interested in a partnership.” He patted his hidden pocket. “There’s more where this came from. I’ve got a nice nest egg put away.”

  Chad turned to him. “Really? But I saw how easy you made book today. Ranching is hard, dirty work. Why would you—?”

  The remainder of his words was drowned by the sound of gunfire from outside the saloon. Bart put one hand on his Colt and fished some silver dollars from his vest pocket, throwing the money onto the bar.

  Grabbing Chad’s elbow, he said, “Let’s get out of here. It’s getting late and now the drunks are spewing lead into this mob.”

  “Wouldn’t it be safer to stay put?” Chad hung back and downed the last of his whiskey in one gulp.

  “Nowhere is safe if someone is crazy drunk and shooting. I don’t want to be bottled up in here. Let’s get outside and see what’s going on.”

  “All right, all right, I'm coming. But I hope we don’t get hit by a stray bullet.”

  Leaving the saloon proved more difficult than Bart had imagined. Everyone seemed to be of the same mind—wanting to get out and see what the shooting was about.

  The mob surged forward, shoving and forming a huge jostling bottleneck at the door to the Jersey Lily. After a spirited struggle, Bart and Chad cleared the front door and gained the deep porch of the saloon.

  Galloping up and down the main street was a man on horseback, firing his six-shooter into the air. Light spilled from the Jersey Lily, pinpointing the man’s face for a split second. And Bart knew his face—the man was Phineas Boyd.

  What in the Sam Hill was he doing in Langtry? The Boyd brothers hailed from Tucson, one of Bart’s favorite stomping grounds.

  The Judge, brandishing his shotgun, pushed through the mob and said, “Get your guns and follow me. That bastard needs to be dealt with. Shooting up the town.”

  A throng of men followed the Judge off the porch into the dark night. And then Bart felt the cold stab of metal at the base of his skull. “Don’t make no fuss, Bart.” The man patted his coat. “I know you got your hidey-hole somewhere, and I want my money back.”

  Bart swallowed and kept his voice low and calm. “It’s not your money, Boyd, I won it, fair and square.” He wasn’t certain which of the three brothers had snuck up behind him, but Phineas had obviously been a diversion.

  “Like hell, you say.” The gun barrel jabbed his neck. “Step off this porch and into the alley. We’ll settle up there.”

  A chill tingled down Bart’s spine. The Boyd brothers, particularly Red, the eldest, were meaner than side-winders. But in Tucson, where Bart had friends, they would have never tried something like this. Langtry and the drunk crowd was the perfect place to confront him. And if knew the Boyd brothers, this one would have no qualms about killing him, once he found the money.

  If someone didn’t help fast—he was a dead man.

  Chad gasped and shook his head. Shoving through the chaotic crowd, along with the cool night air, had cleared most of the cobwebs from his head, though he’d probably have a nasty headache in the morning.

  He looked around for Bart, wondering if he’d lost his new-found friend. Then he saw him, standing on the far edge of the porch. A man with a gun was urging him forward. Chad blinked and shook his head again.

  What in hell was happening?

  Bart half-lifted his arms and said something to the man holding a gun on him.

  “Hey! You there! What are you doing?” Chad shouted over the crowd noise.

  The man with the gun shoved Bart and barked a command.

  Bart dropped his arms and stepped off the porch into the alley.

  “Hey! Stop right there or I’ll shoot.” Chad drew his Colt. “Let him go.”

  Bart stumbled down the alley and then he flung himself to one side, rolling over and over.

  Bart’s attacker cursed and shot at him.

  Chad aimed low and shot the man.

  The stranger screamed and dropped to the ground. “Son-of-a-bitch, I’m hit.”

  Bart stood, drew his Colt, and cocked it. He pointed it at the downed man.

  The wounded man grabbed his gun.

  “Drop your gun, or I’ll shoot you again,” Chad said.

  The man threw down his gun and whined, “I’m bleeding out.” He lifted his two empty hands and then dropped them, grabbing his thigh. “You’ve gotta help me.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Chad said. Keeping his Colt trained on the downed man, he slid a glance at Bart and asked, “You all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” He dusted off his coat and crossed the alley. Leaning down, he grabbed the wounded man’s hat, jerking it off his head.

  “Who is he, and what’s this about?” Chad asked.

  “His name is Festus Boyd. And I won a bunch of money off him and his brother, Phineas, in Tucson. They thought I was cheating them, but I don’t cheat.” He leaned down and seized Festus’ Colt. “Don’t need to chea
t. I know how to count cards and—”

  “You’re a lying, sneaking cheat, no matter what you say,” Festus moaned.

  “You, shut up!” Chad warned.

  Festus groaned and clutched his thigh, dark blood welling from the wound.

  Bart pulled off his bandana and offered it to Festus, saying, “Here, tie this around your leg.”

  Festus took the bandana and fumbled with it. Bart leaned down and helped him to tie off his leg above the gunshot wound.

  “What in the hell is ‘counting’ cards?” Chad asked.

  “It’s involved. I’ll explain later.”

  “Hmmph. You better. I can’t abide a cheat,” Chad said.

  “Don’t worry. And if you wire Del Rio, you’ll find Festus is on several wanted posters for assault, robbery, and—”

  “All right. I thought so.” Chad shook his head. “The way he sneaked up on you.”

  “Yeah, and his brother, Phineas, was the one shooting up the town. He was the diversion.”

  “Scum, then.” He holstered his gun. “What do we do now?”

  Bart scrubbed his chin with his hand. “Is there a doctor in Langtry?”

  “Nope, closest one is Del Rio.”

  Bart nodded. “Well, the Judge, if he’s back from chasing down Phineas, will know what to do. If not, Joseph, his right-hand man, should know.”

  “All right. You want to take one side of him, and I’ll take the other?” Chad asked. “We need to get him inside.”

  “Right.” Bart grabbed Festus’ left arm.

  Chad grabbed the other arm, and together, they hauled Festus up.

  Festus managed to balance himself on his right leg, groaning and dragging his wounded leg behind him.

  Chad stared at Bart across Festus’ bent head. “Seems like being a professional gambler is kind of dangerous. You’re welcome to take a look around my ranch.”

  “That’s right kind of you. I’ll do that.” Bart nodded and grinned. “And thanks for saving my life. I owe you.”