by Jodi Thomas
Many thanks to Elizabeth Trout, and the invaluable staff at Kensington who work diligently to see the projects come to fruition—you make everything possible.
A heartfelt thank-you to the readers. My goal is to write stories that will take your mind away for a few hours. Your reviews, comments, and emails are genuinely valued.
Also, to the special people in my life who tolerate me, encourage me, and give me their unending support—thank you. I love you more than you can imagine.
Chapter 1
Slumped over in the saddle, Clint Mitchum jerked awake when his horse stumbled. Born from years of experience on the trail, Clint whipped out his pistol, leaned low over his horse’s neck, making himself a smaller target until he gained his wits. He listened for any threatening sounds lurking in the darkness. Seconds passed, but hearing nothing amiss, he holstered his pistol and stroked his horse’s neck. “Everything okay, Reb?”
Reb turned his head to the side, giving Clint the look and snorted.
As tired as he was, Clint still managed a chuckle. The evil eye was Reb’s way of letting him know he was the smart one in this group of three. “You’re right, we’ve ridden too long.” It was one thing for him to push himself past exhaustion, but he needed to take care of his horses. Reb and Champ had given all they had on this journey and they deserved a nice, long rest.
Wasting no time, Clint made a deft maneuver from the trail, and within minutes he found a suitable place to make camp. After he cared for his horses, he built a fire to ward off the nippy night air. Deciding to forgo dinner, he settled for a cup of coffee he had warming over the fire. Once he tossed his bedroll near the fire, he settled back against his saddle, lit a cigar and pulled the worn piece of paper from his shirt pocket. He’d already read the letter so many times since he’d received it at the post office in Santa Fe that he could almost recite it word for word, but he felt a need to read it again. With eyes burning from lack of sleep, he held the letter to the flickering firelight and read the fine script.
October 1, 1867
La Grange, Texas
My Dearest Son,
It is with the heaviest heart that I write to tell you that your two brothers, and now your father, succumbed to yellow fever. Dr. Sims did his best, but even he couldn’t prevent me from contracting this dreaded disease. Sadly, I am too weak to pen this missive, but my lovely neighbor, Amelia, is seeing to this one last chore for me. Though she lost her parents to the fever, she has not abandoned me in my time of need. Son, I fear I may not have many days as this fever runs its course, no matter how much I have tried to cling to life just to see your face one last time. It has been my most fervent prayer to have one more Christmas together before my time here came to an end.
Dr. Sims told me 20 percent of our neighbors have died since the fever came to our town in August. Many of those not afflicted have fled their homes out of fear. It’s been weeks since we’ve received mail, and most businesses have closed with the exception of Stanton’s mercantile. The situation here is dire indeed.
I’ve worried Amelia has stayed too long caring for me. She has promised me she will leave with the Nelson family once she can do no more for me. Mr. Nelson gave me his word that he would wait for her. It breaks my heart that we have lost so many children, and the ones left behind have little to look forward to this Christmas season. What should be a time of joy and thanksgiving is now filled with dread and sadness.
I am uncertain if this letter will reach your hands, but your last letter said you were headed to Santa Fe, and I pray you made it there. There is much I wanted to say to you, Son. Just know how much I have missed you and how much I love you. We understood your difficulties since the war, but I know you are in the palm of God’s hand, and He will see you through. Remember we cannot judge ourselves harshly by the trials of war, nor should you carry the horrors with you the rest of your days. Time is fleeting and life quickly passes you by, so you must appreciate each day. I hope you will return home and train horses one day. I am certain you will learn to love the ranch again, and caring for God’s creatures will renew your soul and help you to find your purpose. Find someone to love and share your life, and give thanks for every breath.
Have faith, my beloved son, and always believe in the magic of Christmas.
I love you,
Mother
P.S. Mr. Mitchum, please come home, your mother needs you desperately. Amelia
Clint removed his hat and tossed it on his saddle horn. He leaned back, clutched the letter to his chest and closed his eyes. Thankfully, he’d been in Santa Fe when the letter arrived at the post office three weeks from the date it was written. Even though his mother said they weren’t receiving mail, he’d immediately sent a telegram, encouraging her to hold on until he arrived. He needed to see her again. He had to see her again. It was important to tell her how sorry he was that he hadn’t been there for her when she needed him most. The postscript written by his mother’s friend, Amelia, heightened his sense of urgency. Though it was only one sentence, he felt the panic in those few words. What had he been thinking to stay away so long? Before he’d received his mother’s letter, he’d been planning to return home for Christmas this year and stay to run the ranch for his father. Now it was too late. What a cruel twist of fate.
Tears threatened as he thought about the precious time he’d wasted, all because he couldn’t come to terms with the past. The last time he’d shed tears was the day his childhood friend was shot dead as he rode beside him during the war. Clint was a sharpshooter in the war, always proficient at his duties—until that fateful day. He’d failed to see a man ready to waylay him and his fellow sharpshooters. His best friend died in his arms. Like so many men who returned from the war, Clint couldn’t understand why he’d survived when so many were killed. What was the purpose of neighbor killing neighbor? When the answers didn’t come, Clint buried his feelings so deep that nothing, and no one, touched his heart. Until tonight. Tonight he cried. He cried for the loss of his family, his friends and for the loss of precious time. Time is fleeting. His mother’s words were haunting.
* * *
Hours later, Clint was still wide awake, with his many regrets playing over and over in his mind, when he heard his horses restlessly moving about in the makeshift corral. He knew their habits as well as his own, and they were signaling something was not as it should be. Listening intently, he heard horses slowly approaching. Two horses. He heard a man’s voice in the stillness, which told him the riders weren’t trying to surprise him. Still, he was a cautious man. Moving to a sitting position, he silently pulled his Colt from the holster and held it by his side.
“Hello to camp,” came a deep voice from the brush.
“Come ahead.”
A man leading two horses came into view. As the man drew closer, Clint saw two children sitting atop one horse.
“We saw your fire,” the man told him.
Clint holstered his pistol, stood and raked his gaze over the newcomers. Judging by their disheveled appearance, he figured they’d been traveling for a few days.
“You got any food?” one child asked.
“Hush, Son, that’s not polite,” the man reprimanded.
The hopeful sound in the boy’s voice forced Clint to direct his attention to the children. He was surprised to see the two boys were exact replicas of each other, with thick red hair and freckled faces. “I think I can find something for you to eat.”
The man lifted the boys from the horse. “That’s not necessary; we’d be happy sharing your fire and company.”
Clint recognized the telltale sound of a tired man . . . tired of worry . . . tired of shouldering burdens alone . . . just plain tired of existing. He’d been there. “I was just thinking about rustling up some grub for myself. No trouble.” He pointed to his horses nearby in his makeshift corral. “Let’s get your horses settled first.”
“I’m Whitt Newcombe.” He pointed to the boys who were staring at Clint’s large black ho
rse. “These are my boys, Bo and Boone.”
Clint extended his hand. “Clint Mitchum.” He glanced down at the boys. “Nice to make your acquaintance, boys.”
One boy looked up at Clint and said, “You got a big horse.”
Clint chuckled. “Yep, he’s a big one.”
“What’s their names?”
“The black is Reb, and that buckskin is Champ.”
The same boy pointed to their horses. “That one is Sugar, and the gray is Britches.”
Clint smiled at the names they’d given their horses. “Those are fine names.” He noticed they didn’t have much in the way of provisions, but their horses were well-tended. He opened his sack of grain and offered it to the boys. “Give Sugar and Britches some of this grain.”
After the horses were settled, they walked back to the fire, where Clint pulled out some food for a meal. Once he’d tossed fresh coffee beans in the pot along with more water, he opened the cans of beans and emptied them in a pan. In another pan, he warmed the bacon and biscuits he had for dinner the prior night.
Clint saw the boys eyeing the food. “It’s not fancy, but we’ll make do.”
“We’re thankful. It’s more than we’ve had recently,” Whitt replied.
“Where are you headed?” Clint asked.
“To a spot on the Llano River, a place called Honey Creek. We’re going to try our hand at panning for gold. A lot of folks from La Grange are headed there, hoping to change their luck. Did you hear about the yellow fever hitting our town and towns to the south?”
Before Clint responded, one of the boys spoke up. “Our ma died of the fever.”
Clint eyed the boys, thinking they were about six or seven years of age. Too young to have lost their mother. Here he was, a full-grown man, and he couldn’t bear the thought of losing his ma. The sadness in their big brown eyes told Clint they had already experienced too much sorrow in their short lives. “I’m real sorry to hear that.”
“Just about everyone who hasn’t caught the fever has left town. Where are you headed?” Whitt asked.
“La Grange.”
Whitt looked at him with concern in his eyes. “You don’t want to go there, Clint. They say a peddler brought that disease to town. Too many folks are dying there.”
“I’ve heard, but my mother is there,” Clint answered soberly.
Whitt realized Clint had said his last name was Mitchum. “Your ma is Ingrid Mitchum?”
Clint nodded.
Whitt dropped his head. “I’m sorry. I heard she was real sick. But we left town before . . . well, I don’t rightly know how she fared.”
Trying to ignore the feeling that his heart was being squeezed inside his chest, Clint said, “A lady by the name of Amelia was caring for her.”
“It’s a blessing she had someone to look after her. After my wife died, we left town. I didn’t want to wait for my boys to get sick. I even heard Doc Sims was ill by the time we left. It’s so bad, they were burying folks in mass graves.” Whitt shook his head, as if he still couldn’t believe what he had witnessed. “It was a bustling town, but now the businesses have closed up. There was no way for us to survive. We had nothing left except for a couple of cows.”
“We don’t have much food. Pa shot a rabbit and we ate that yesterday,” one of the boys added.
Clint didn’t know if it was Bo or Boone talking. “Times are hard.” Looking at their small faces, Clint thought they shouldn’t even know what that phrase meant. Another worthless expression when an adult could offer no explanation for what they couldn’t control. He didn’t like that helpless feeling—he never did.
“We really appreciate sharing your meal,” Whitt said. “I’m a pretty good shot, but you have to see game to shoot it.”
“I can give you some provisions that should last until you get to Honey Creek. I’ll be in La Grange in a few days, and I have more than I need.” Seeing the beans were steaming, Clint loaded the tin plates and passed them around.
“That’s good of you to offer your food, but I have nothing to pay you in return. I wish you would turn around and go with us. Your ma wouldn’t want you to go there knowing the risk.”
“I need to go, and the provisions are a gift. I want nothing in return.” Clint offered Whitt a cup of coffee.
“Thank you. Your ma and pa were fine people, as good as they come. I didn’t know them well . . . wish I did.”
Clint caught his reference in the past tense, but he didn’t comment.
“Have you seen other folks on this trail?” Whitt asked.
“Yeah, several families. I stopped long enough to talk to a few, and they were coming from La Grange.”
Whitt nodded. “I heard that the fever has ended in a few towns, people are returning and things are getting back to normal. I hope that happens in La Grange. We only lived there five years, but we considered it our home and we’d like to go back.” Whitt glanced at his boys. “I want them to be near their ma so they never forget her.”
“We’d never forget Ma,” Bo replied.
“Show Mr. Mitchum her likeness, Pa.” Boone looked up at Clint and said, “Our ma was real pretty.”
Clint smiled at him. “I bet she was.”
Pulling his watch from his pocket, Whitt snapped it open and held it out to Clint.
Clint stared at the yellowed image of a young, unsmiling woman with dark hair and average-looking features. She wasn’t a raving beauty, but Clint figured she must have been a wonderful mother to raise these two fine boys. “You sure were lucky to have such a good mother. I know you will never forget her.”
Clint thought Whitt was a few years older than himself, and while they’d lived different lives, he admired Whitt for settling down and having children. Actually, he envied Whitt, even though it was going to be tough for him raising two boys without his wife. There was a time Clint thought he would be married by now with a couple of children. That seemed like an eternity ago. Clint glanced at the boys and saw they were staring at him as they gulped their food. He winked at them. “Now, how do I tell the two of you apart?”
One of the boys pointed to himself. “I’m Bo. I have a cowlick on this side.” He pointed to the left side of his head. “Boone’s cowlick is on the other side.”
“We don’t care if you get us confused; everybody does,” Boone added. “Sometimes we even fool Pa.”
Clint chuckled. “I can see how that would be easy to do.” Clint listened to the boys chatter as they finished their meal. Answering all their questions took his mind off his own troubles. He enjoyed seeing smiles on their faces as he told them stories about rounding up wild horses and training them for the military.
“Pa’s good with horses,” Boone stated proudly. “He taught us how to take care of Sugar and Britches.”
“It’s important to take good care of your animals.” Clint gave Whitt a thoughtful look. He imagined Whitt had been through so much heartache that he couldn’t see a brighter future right now. But Clint knew how important it was for a man to keep his dreams. Thinking about what his mother had written in her letter—Working with God’s creatures is good for the soul. Clint thought he could share her wisdom by offering Whitt a ray of hope. “Maybe when the fever is gone from La Grange, you could come back and work with horses on your ranch.”
Whitt chewed his biscuit as he thought about Clint’s remark. “Maybe so.”
“It’s a decent living, and I never ran out of horses to train. Of course, it might be a nice change of pace to pan for gold. You never know, you might strike it big.”
The boys finally came to the end of their questions, settled down on their bedrolls and quickly fell asleep. Clint stoked the fire as Whitt covered the boys with blankets. “I’m sure they’re a handful, but they are fine boys.”
Whitt smiled wistfully at his boys. “They are good boys. They were crazy about their ma. She was a wonderful mother and wife. I don’t know what we are going to do without her.”
Clint felt a lump growing
in his throat listening to Whitt describe his loss. He didn’t imagine one would ever get over something like that, particularly when you had two little reminders with you every day.
* * *
By daybreak, Clint had already packed most of his provisions on Whitt’s horses. When Whitt and the boys awoke, Clint had a warm meal prepared for them. “We have fresh biscuits and bacon for breakfast this morning.”
Bo rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “It smells good.”
“It sure does,” Boone agreed.
Whitt helped himself to some coffee. “I don’t know how we can thank you for what you’ve done for us.”
After the boys finished their breakfast, Whitt cleaned the pans and tucked them in a pack. He thanked Clint again for the provisions. “If things aren’t better in La Grange, why don’t you come find us? We can pan until we see how things turn out at home.”
“I’ll see. But if the disease is over in La Grange, I’ll get word to you,” Clint promised as he lifted the boys onto the horse. He pulled Whitt aside so the boys couldn’t hear his next question. “Do you have plenty of ammunition? You never can be too careful on the road.”
Whitt nodded. “Yes, that’s one thing I have. I’m a good shot with a pistol and a rifle. And I’ve been teaching the boys to shoot.”
“Good. Take care, Whitt.”
The men shook hands, and Clint walked back to the boys to say goodbye.
“Mr. Mitchum, I wish you would come with us. What if no one is left in La Grange and you’re there all alone?” Bo asked.
Clint reached up and ruffled his hair. He found the young boy’s concern touching. “If that happens, I’ll find you.”
“Don’t forget we’ll be at Honey Creek. You’d be welcome,” Whitt reminded him.
Clint told them goodbye and they rode off in opposite directions. Looking back, Clint saw two tiny hands waving to him. He lifted his hat in farewell.