A Victorian Christmas

by Catherine Palmer

  Fara averted her eyes. She had been brought up reading the Bible while nestled in her papa’s lap. Many times his gentle voice had spoken that command: “Love your enemies.” She had always believed it—in the abstract. It had come to mean tolerating her nosy neighbors or inviting the owner of the competing brickworks to her Fourth of July picnic. But to really put herself out for someone else? someone who might harm her?

  “Old Longbones,” she said softly, “I hear your wise words. But if this Hyatt fellow were to hurt you—”

  “He told you his name was Hyatt?” The Apache set the skillet away from the fire and picked up his leather coat. “I am surprised a wanted desperado would tell you his true name.”

  “He didn’t, but—”

  “Then how can you be sure? Come on, Filly. We will examine this wounded man of yours.”

  Before Fara could press her argument further, Old Longbones had placed a pot of hot oatmeal into her arms. He shrugged on his coat, grabbed the steaming skillet of eggs and venison, and headed out the door. “Maybe some warm food in his stomach will revive our desperado,” he called over his shoulder.

  Hugging the oatmeal, Fara stumbled behind Old Longbones through the foot-deep snow. Almost blinded by swirling flakes, she could barely make out the Apache, who was scuttling along as spryly as any teenager. It did her heart good to see her friend so animated. From the time Fara and her father had moved down to Silver City, Old Longbones seemed to wither before their eyes. When Jacob Canaday died, the Indian’s mourning had been as intense as Fara’s.

  “Where are the horses the desperado rustled?” Old Longbones asked as he stepped onto the porch of the old cabin and stomped the snow off his moccasins. “Did he bring them into the mountains? Do they have shelter?”

  “He was on foot. He told me his horse had snapped a leg.”

  “That is bad.” Old Longbones winced as he pushed open the door and called out, “Are you still alive, desperado?”

  Fara swallowed before stepping inside. Memories of the stranger’s blue eyes had disturbed her all night. In spite of his ramblings, she had sensed his strength—a strength that fascinated her. Few of the men who courted her spent their time out of doors. They loved ledgers and lists and money—Fara’s money. But Hyatt seemed different. Intriguingly different.

  Telling herself not to be silly, she slipped into the small room. The man lay on the floor, unmoving. At the sight of his still form, her heart constricted in fear. She set down the oatmeal and fell to her knees.

  “Sir? Are you all right?”

  She laid a hand on his hot forehead, and his blue eyes slid open. “Angel,” he said. “You came back.”

  She glanced at Old Longbones. “He’s delirious.”

  “Maybe . . . maybe not.” The Indian frowned and crouched beside her. “You are still with us, White Eyes, but maybe not for long. Do you feel pain?”

  “My arm,” the man grunted.

  “Will you let me look at it?”

  Hyatt nodded, and Old Longbones directed Fara to stoke the fire in the stove. Thankful to escape, she hurried across the room. Why did the sight of the stranger’s bright eyes double the tempo of her pulse? Why had the thought of his death suddenly terrified her? He was a gunslinger—the worst sort of human being. One whiff of her gold and silver fortunes would elicit his most despicable traits. Greed. Selfishness. Ruthlessness. Treachery.

  “Filly,” Old Longbones called, “I will need your help now.”

  She shut her eyes. So much for lying around the ranch house reading books and relaxing by the fire. She was going to have to participate. She was going to have to reach beyond herself and touch this man’s life. Letting out a deep breath, she lifted up a prayer. Father God, I confess I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be around this disturbing man. Give me strength.

  “We need to move our friend onto the bed,” the Apache said as Fara approached. “Then we will have to work some strong medicine. What is your name, White Eyes? Where are you from?”

  Fara stiffened. Don’t let him be the Phoenix gunslinger, Lord. If he’s anybody else, I can do this. But don’t let him be Hyatt.

  “My name’s Hyatt.”

  Old Longbones glanced at Fara. She shook her head. “Let me take him down to Pinos Altos,” she whispered. “The sheriff can handle him.”

  “No, Filly. God has given this man to us.” He placed a gnarled hand on the man’s brow. “Mr. Hyatt, we are going to take care of you. Me and this . . . this angel.”

  Fara rolled her eyes as Old Longbones bent over Hyatt. She had never been angelic in her life—and she wasn’t about to start now. There was nothing for it but to slip her arm around those big shoulders and begin to heave. Hyatt did his best to help, coming to his knees and staggering to his feet.

  Leaning heavily against Fara, he lurched toward the narrow bed beside the stove. As she grunted under his weight, she wondered how long it had been since she’d allowed any human to come this close. Even though the man smelled of his illness and his many days’ travel, he was warm and solid. His big hand tightened on her shoulder.

  “Angel,” he murmured.

  “My name is—” She stopped herself, realizing the penalty for revealing her true identity to such a man. “I’m Filly.”

  He looked into her eyes as she lowered him onto the bed. “Filly. That’s like . . . like a horse.”

  “Papa gave me the name. He said I was too feisty and high-spirited for my own good.” She drew the blankets up to his chest. “He thought about calling me Mule.”

  Hyatt’s face broke into a grin. “Stubborn, are you?”

  “Just don’t push me, Mr. Hyatt.”

  “Ready, Filly?” Old Longbones asked. With a pair of tongs, he carried a glowing ember from the stove. “You help me hold him still.”

  “Whoa there,” Hyatt said, elbowing up. “What are you planning to do with that coal?”

  “You have a gunshot wound in your arm, Mr. Hyatt,” Longbones explained. “The bullet went through, but the powder burned your skin, and the wound has become infected. I think some of the flesh may even be dead. You know the meaning of dead flesh? Gangrene. If you want to live, we must burn away the sickness in your arm. Then God will begin to heal it.”

  Hyatt clenched his jaw and nodded. “All right. Do your work.”

  Fara could hardly believe a low-down horse thief would submit so willingly to the ministrations of an Indian. But Hyatt drew his injured arm from under the covers and laid it across his chest. Not wanting to witness the terrible burning, Fara looked up into the desperado’s eyes. Help me, angel, they seemed to plead. She hesitated for a moment; then she took both his hands in hers.

  “I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, Mr. Hyatt,” she said softly. “But you need distracting.” She kept her focus on his and began to sing:

  “When peace like a river attendeth my way;

  when sorrows like sea billows roll;

  whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say—”

  “It is well,” Hyatt ground out as the red-hot ember seared his festering wound. “It is well with my soul.”

  Surprised the gunslinger knew the words, Fara continued to sing. “It is well.”

  “With my soul,” he forced the words.

  “It is well . . . with my soul. It is well, it is well with my soul.”

  The cabin filled with the stench of charred hair and scorched skin, but Hyatt barely winced. Instead, he gripped Fara’s hands with a force that stopped her blood and made her fingertips throb. Beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead and thick neck. The blue in his eyes grew brighter and hotter as he stared at her.

  “Angel,” he said in a choked voice.

  “I’m here,” she murmured. “I’m with you.”

  When she thought the burning could not go on any longer, Old Longbones rose. “Enough,” he said. “There will be a scar, Mr. Hyatt. Perhaps your hand will move stiffly in the years to come. But if God wills it, you will live. Now I will go
and search for nopal.”

  “Let me go,” Fara said. “You shouldn’t be out in the blizzard.”

  The Apache dismissed her with a wave of his brown hand. “I know where the nopal grows, Filly. I can find it even under the snow. You stay here and feed this man some breakfast.”

  “But, Longbones—”

  “And wash him, too. He stinks.”

  The Apache shut the door behind him, and Fara could hear him moving across the porch. Glancing at Hyatt, she saw he had finally shut his eyes and was resting again. But when she tried to detach her hands, he tightened his grip.

  “Don’t go, angel.”

  “I told you I’m no angel. I’m a headstrong, stubborn—”

  “You’re an angel.” His lids slid open, and his eyes found hers. “You ran off the wolves. You hauled me out of the snow. You took me into your cabin. You brought the old Indian to heal me. I owe you my life.”

  For half a second, she was drawn into the music of his words. All her adult life, she had longed to hear a man speak to her with such sincerity, tenderness, warmth. And then she remembered Hyatt was a con man. A desperado. A gunslinger.

  “You sure are a smooth talker,” she said, pulling away. “But I ought to warn you that a silver tongue won’t get you far with me. I respect a man who speaks straight and tells the truth.”

  “I am telling the truth,” he said. “I’m grateful to you. You saved my life.”

  “And you twisted mine up in knots. It’s almost Christmas, and I’ve been looking forward to a few days of rest. Now you’re here, and Old Longbones is ordering me to give you breakfast.”

  “And a bath.”

  “Not a chance.” Flushing, she walked over to the stove. The very idea of touching him again flustered her. Maybe the Apache would take it upon himself to tend the wounded man. He needed something to do, and this would fill the bill nicely. But could she trust the gunslinger not to harm the old man?

  Fara filled a plate with eggs and venison. Then she ladled a large dollop of oatmeal into a bowl. She was as hungry as an empty post hole, but she didn’t like the idea of eating with Hyatt. It smacked of acceptance. She wanted him to understand that— as a good Christian—she would see to his welfare. But she would never consider him an equal. She would tolerate him, but she would never like him.

  “Here you go,” she said, holding out the plate.

  He eyed the steaming eggs. “They smell good.”

  “Better than you.”

  He smiled. “I think I can manage the eggs, but I won’t be able to cut the steak.”

  “All right, I’ll do it.” Fara sat on a rickety stool near the bed. “But just this once.”

  She sliced off a chunk of steak, speared it with the fork, and placed it in his mouth. He let out a deep breath and began to chew. “You know how long it’s been since I ate a hot meal?”

  “Since Phoenix, I reckon.”

  His brow narrowed. “How did you know I’d been in Phoenix?”

  Fara’s blood chilled. She mustn’t let Hyatt know she was aware of his crimes. It would put her—and Old Longbones—in grave danger. All the same, she wasn’t about to let him off the hook. He was a criminal, and he had committed a heinous crime. Never let it be said that Fara Canaday would let a villain get away easy.

  “You kept muttering about Phoenix,” she said. “Last night.”

  “What did I say?” He had stopped chewing. “Did I talk about the shooting?”

  “Nope.” She popped another bite of steak into his mouth. “So, who pegged you?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know. Can’t remember his name.”

  Sure, Fara thought. You’d only been tracking that poor Mr. Copperton for years. “Seems strange that a man you didn’t know would take it upon himself to shoot you.”

  Hyatt leaned back on his pillow, eyes shut and brow furrowed. “It happened so fast,” he said. “I turned on the staircase landing, and there he was. He . . . he was aiming to kill.”

  “Lucky for you he missed. Did you shoot back?” She waited, wondering if he would tell the truth.

  “I shot at him,” Hyatt said. “He hollered out he was hit. But his men came after me.”

  “So you ran?”

  The blue eyes snapped open. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Depends. I’m not walking in your shoes. Maybe you had some kind of a history with the fellow. Maybe you held something against him that needed settling. In a case like that, only a yellowbelly would run.”

  “A yellowbelly?” Hyatt’s eyes crackled with blue flame, and his good hand snaked out and grabbed her by the wrist. “I’m no coward. I never saw that man in my life. I was ambushed.”

  She leaned close and jabbed a forefinger into his chest. “You swapped lead with him, buckaroo. Then you took off like a scorpion had crawled down your neck. Doesn’t sound to me like you’ve got enough guts to hang on a fence. And you’re a sinner besides.”

  “Now listen here, lady.” He elbowed up until they were nose-to-nose. “I’ll have you know I’m a Christian man—”

  “Trying to get yourself out of trouble by taffying up the Lord?”

  “I’m as straight as a—”

  “You’re so crooked—”

  “I got the nopal.” Old Longbones stepped into the cabin carrying an armful of the flat, fleshy stems of the prickly pear cactus. At the sight of the man and woman, he stopped, his brown eyes darting back and forth. “Filly?”

  She straightened, clutching the plate of now-cold eggs. “You found the nopal.”

  “Yes. But I see you have already brought color to our patient’s cheeks. And a sparkle to his eyes.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Hyatt knew the woman didn’t trust him. He studied her busily heating water and fussing with the Indian. She wasn’t an angel, she informed the old man, and she didn’t take kindly to a stranger pinning such labels on her. Especially a stranger who had showed up in the middle of the night with a gunshot wound. The Indian didn’t pay her much heed, just went about his work on the prickly pear stems.

  Hyatt felt as though the devil himself had been gnawing on his arm. His wound burned with a pain so intense he could hardly concentrate. Yet for some reason, the woman’s distrust of him was a greater torment. He could understand her doubts about the character of a man with a bullet hole through his arm. But to call him—Aaron Hyatt, owner of one of the most profitable gold mines in California, builder of two mercantiles, a hotel, a grocery, and a church, and a good bronc buster to boot—a coward . . . and crooked?

  He might not have minded the insults if she’d been a creature of little brain and less beauty. But this woman—this Filly—was intriguing. On the one hand, she clearly was poor. She lived in a run-down cabin, and she dressed like the prospector’s daughter she probably was. That flannel skirt obviously had been on horseback more than once, and Hyatt had glimpsed the buckskin leggings at her ankles. The only friend she seemed to have was the Indian. Not that the old man was bad company, but he certainly wasn’t the high society type who consorted with Hyatt’s usual female acquaintances.

  On the other hand, Filly was a dazzler. Her thick gold hair gleamed in the early morning light, and those brown eyes of hers put Hyatt in mind of sweet blackstrap molasses. More than her fine figure and slender waist, her spunky spirit beckoned him. Had a woman ever stood up to him the way this Filly had, poking him in the chest, calling him names, putting him in his place? Not a one. This golden angel had him downright mesmerized.

  He came to a decision. While he was here in her cabin, he would do more than tend his arm and get back on his feet. He would convince this woman of his kind, generous, intelligent— and equally stubborn—nature. Maybe he’d even win a kiss for his trouble.

  “I won’t wash him!” Filly announced, setting her hands on her hips. “It’s not proper.”

  “Just wash his face and that arm, Filly,” the Indian said. “He can take care of the rest himself. You start with the arm, and then I can put on the
nopal.”

  Jaw clenched, she turned those big brown eyes on Hyatt.“I don’t suppose you’re well enough to wash your own arm, are you?”

  He held back a smile. “I’m feeling a mite poorly, Miss Filly,” he said. “I’d be much obliged if you could do it.”

  Pursing her lips, she heaved the bowl of steaming water over to the stool and knelt beside it. “Hold out your arm, Mr. Hyatt,” she said, dipping a clean rag into the water. “I doubt this will hurt any more than what Old Longbones did to you a few minutes ago.”

  As she pushed up his sleeve and began trickling warm water over his splotchy skin, Hyatt took a closer look at her face. Long dark lashes framed her eyes. A pair of perfect eyebrows arched beneath the fringe of soft golden bangs she wore. When she cradled his arm to dab the wound with clean water, a look of concern flashed across her brow.

  “Don’t cry out or jump now,” she said.

  “I reckon I’ve broken more bones than you ever knew a man had. You won’t hurt me, Miss Filly.”

  She looked at him, her brown eyes serious. “How’d you break those bones? Jumping off trains?”

  Hyatt scowled. Trains? What on earth made her think he’d want to jump off a train?

  “Horses,” he said.

  She nodded. “I guess keeping a remuda just ahead of the law could be dangerous work.”

  “What? Why, I never stole a horse in my life,” he exclaimed, propping himself up on his good elbow. “I may have pulled a few wild tricks in my younger days—and I came out the worse for my foolishness. But I’m a breeder now. And I enjoy breaking a high-strung stallion . . . or a filly.”