Longing for a Cowboy Christmas

by Leigh Greenwood

  “I’ll get you a ring,” he said.

  “I don’t need a ring.” She stroked his cheek. “Just you.”

  The priest cleared his throat. “Well, now, my young friends, in the absence of music or guests to cheer you on your way, I have an idea. Follow me.”

  He led the way up the aisle and out into the courtyard to the bell tower. “It’s a doubly blessed day,” he said, handing Colin the rope pull and then placing Evie’s hands on it as well. “Let the bells ring out,” he said and stepped back to give them room to pull the rope together.

  At one point, Colin let go so that the rope pulled Evie into the air, and she laughed as he caught her and pulled her safely back to her feet. While in the air, she saw doors open along the street and people coming out from their houses as they headed for the church, called by the bell.

  When several had gathered, Father Whitestone led Colin and Evie forward and announced, “My friends, on this holy day we have just celebrated the wedding of Doctor Evelyn Prescott to Mr. Colin Foster. Please join me in prayer as together we bless this holy union and wish them much happiness.”

  Everyone gathered closer, forming a circle around Evie and Colin. They held hands and bowed their heads as Father Whitestone placed his hands on Colin and Evie’s bowed heads.

  “Holy Father, spirit of life and love, we ask all blessings upon Colin and Evelyn as they begin their life together. Bless them with patience in times of trial and tension; with kindness as they nurture and care for one another in times of joy or sorrow; and bless them with humor and the joy of appreciating all that will come their way. Finally let love be their guide—love they share with each other and with all they meet in their life’s journey. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then everyone started to cheer. They broke the circle and stepped forward to congratulate Colin and hug Evie. A few picked up a handful of the dry powdery snow and tossed it at them in the absence of rice or confetti. Before they knew what was happening, they were being ushered back inside the church, while the women hurried back to their houses to get whatever they could to make a proper wedding meal. The owner of the Paradise Saloon brought three bottles of elderberry wine he claimed to have been holding for just such an occasion, and everyone raised a glass in a toast to the happy couple.

  Evie had never felt more like a part of this community. For the first time since she’d taken over Doc’s practice, she felt she could make a real difference for the families of Sagebrush. Oh, it would take time, but she was nothing if not patient.

  As the meal and toasts gradually came to an end, Colin and Evie moved to the door, ready to offer their thanks and say their good nights. The sun was setting, and the sky was clear enough to expose the promise of a full moon. Someone pulled out a harmonica and played a carol, and others sang along.

  They continued to stand gathered in the church courtyard, singing favorite carols until only the moon and the candles inside the church gave them light. Evie clung to Colin’s arm, loving the sound of his voice raised in song. But then she realized he was trying to suppress a coughing spell.

  “Good night, all,” she said as she gently tugged his arm and started to cross the street to her office and living quarters. “The night air, you know. Thank you so much.”

  Colin came willingly, and that told her he was exhausted and needed to rest. All he could manage as he covered his coughing was a hand raised in appreciation.

  Once inside, Evie dropped any pretense that everything was fine. “Come on,” she urged as she led him to the bedroom, her arm around his waist supporting him. “Sit,” she instructed when they reached the bed. She threw off her coat and shawl and bent to remove his boots.

  “Evie?”

  “Take your jacket off,” she said, “and get under the covers. You’re shivering.”

  “Not unless you get in here with me,” he managed through coughs.

  “Stop talking.” She tossed his boots aside and helped him out of his coat. “Lie down.” She covered him. “I’ll be right back.”

  In the kitchen she put the kettle on to heat, then went to her office for the last precious dose of aspirin. She was stirring the medicine into water when she returned to the bedroom.

  “Some wedding night, huh?” Colin joked.

  “Take this,” she said, holding the spoon of medicine to his lips. “Swallow. Good.”

  “Did I ever know you were this bossy?” He lay back against the pillows.

  “If you didn’t, you weren’t paying attention.” She fussed with the covers, pulling them up to his chin.

  He caught her hand. “Stop playing doctor, Evie, and just be my wife.”

  She hesitated, then set aside the glass and spoon and crawled under the covers next to him.

  “You’re overdressed,” he whispered.

  “So are you,” she replied.

  He chuckled. “Seems like all along we’ve gotten things backward, Evie. In a perfect world…”

  “In a perfect world, you would never have gotten so sick, and then you would never have shown up outside my office door and we wouldn’t be here at all. If that’s getting everything backward, then count me in.”

  She snuggled closer to him, resting her face in the curve of his shoulder.

  He kissed her temple. “Do you have any idea how many nights I dreamed of you being here next to me like this?”

  “I’m here, Colin, and not going anywhere.”

  He pulled her close so that she was curled in to him, and moments later she heard his even breathing. Once she was certain he was sleeping soundly, she slipped out of bed and removed her dress. When he woke, she hoped maybe the medicine would have taken effect and the wedding night they had both dreamed of would finally become a reality. She closed her eyes and slept.

  * * *

  Colin thought he must be dreaming. Evie was lying close to him the way she always had when they lay together by the creek or in the loft. Only now the warmth they shared came from the piles of bedcovers and not the sun. Outside it was dark. A log that was reduced mostly to ash crackled and shifted in the fireplace. He eased free of Evie’s embrace and sat on the side of the bed. In the firelight he saw her green dress draped over a bedpost and looked back at her. She was wearing only her undergarments, and that made him smile.

  He stood and lowered his suspenders, then pulled his shirt over his head and removed his trousers. He hung both on the bedpost opposite the one where she’d hung her dress. He paused, taking in the sight of something shared—this bed. For the first time not a field of grass and wildflowers or a hayloft, but a real bed. They were married. From this day forward, they would share whatever the day might bring.

  From her office, he heard the clock chime ten times and realized it was still Christmas Day. There was still time to seal their vows. He shut his eyes and imagined them as one and felt the stirring of desire.

  “Colin?”

  Her voice was foggy with sleep. She rose up on one elbow and looked at him, a slight frown marring her lovely face in the ebbing light of the fire.

  “Just putting another log on the fire,” he said as he made his way unsteadily to the woodpile next to the hearth. He was so damned weak. For a minute he wondered if he’d even be able to perform his part in the consummation of their marriage.

  “Let me…” She was out of bed and next to him, barefoot and wearing only her chemise and pantaloons.

  “I can…”

  “We’ll do it together,” she said softly, taking the log he held and kneeling to place it on the fire before reaching out for another. She dusted off her hands, then stood. “Come back to bed,” she said, holding out her hand in invitation.

  He stepped closer and cradled her face in his hands. “My wife,” he whispered, and then he kissed her—a long, tender kiss absent the rushed, frantic
passion they had found so necessary in the past, lest they be caught. Finally, they had time—all the time in the world.

  He finished undressing. She watched, chewing her lower lip. “Maybe it’s too…” He undid the ribbons and buttons that held her undergarments in place.

  She pressed her body to his, then pulled her lips free and smiled. “Well,” she said, “seems like maybe you’re feeling better—stronger. Perhaps a little light exertion would not be…”

  “Shut up, Doc,” he said as he half carried, half dragged her back to the bed.

  She giggled as she fell backward and he fell on top of her. He knew the sound of that laughter—it came from the girl he’d fallen in love with five years earlier. And as if there had not been years of loneliness and regret between them, they rediscovered all the hidden places each knew would bring pleasure to the other. And when he entered her and at long last they were one again, he let out a ragged sigh of pure relief and pleasure.

  Slowly he moved within her, watching her expression as her features softened and her eyes drifted shut. She rose to meet each thrust, clinging to his shoulders as she urged him deeper. When he exploded within her and cried out, she held him until his breathing calmed, then gently pushed him away so that he was lying next to her.

  “Rest,” she whispered, kissing his ear.

  But that wasn’t the way he and Evie did things. Once in a while they shared the miracle of coming at the same time, but he knew she hadn’t yet gotten there. So he rolled to face her and began stroking her inner thighs.

  “You have a short memory, Mrs. Foster,” he whispered and grinned as he felt her tense beneath his probing fingers. “I guess we’re a little out of practice. Let’s see if I can fix that.”

  “Colin, really I… You…”

  She gasped, telling him she was so close, and when she arched and cried out, her fingers digging into his shoulder, he wrapped her in the warmth of his embrace—his love.

  “Merry Christmas, Evie,” he whispered and feathered kisses along her face as he added, “My wife. My one true love.”

  About the Author

  Award-winning author Anna Schmidt resides in Wisconsin. She delights in creating stories where her characters must wrestle with the challenges of their times. Critics have consistently praised Schmidt for her ability to seamlessly integrate actual events with her fictional characters to produce strong tales of hope and love in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Visit her at booksbyanna.com.

  One

  Chester Springs, Wyoming Territory

  December 18, 1883

  Edmund Alistair George Linwood—known in America’s western territories as Gentleman George—tipped his chair onto its two back legs as he eyed the cards in his hand. They were pretty good cards, but that didn’t mean a whole lot when playing with this bunch. He lifted his gaze to study the other players.

  To his left was Hewett Durand, the town’s undertaker, who was rarely seen without a whiskey in hand after 10:00 a.m. Across the table sat Tad Perry, who owned the saloon they were sitting in as well as the tobacco shop next door. And lastly, to George’s right was Perry’s friend and hanger-on, Joe Turnbull.

  Cheats. All of them.

  As the game continued, George noted an occasional sleight of hand or wandering eye, but he kept his mouth shut and kept playing. He enjoyed the challenge of pitting his skill against unfair odds.

  “Well, I’ll be shit-damned.”

  George looked up to see Perry standing half out of his seat, craning his short neck to look out the smoky saloon window. The saloon owner was a man who possessed a healthy appetite for women and spirits, which gave him a florid complexion and made him a frequent visitor to the whorehouse. He was also one of those men who believed anything he wanted should be his and happened to have the kind of money that usually made it so.

  George followed the man’s avid gaze across the narrow main street of Chester Springs to a wagon that had just pulled to a stop. A slim figure dressed in various animal furs hopped gracefully down from the driver’s seat and went into the general store.

  “What’s so damn interesting?” Durand asked, his eyes glued to his cards.

  “That there was the daughter of old Mountain Man Jones.”

  George’s eye twitched at Perry’s disdainful yet covetous tone. The man was a toad.

  “So what,” Durand grumbled. “We’ve got a game to play here.”

  “I fold,” Perry declared as he swept his coat off the back of his chair and placed his hat on his balding head. “I’ve been waiting for that pretty half-breed to come to town. Now that her pa is gone, she’s all alone up on that mountain.” He gave the men at the table a lascivious grin. “She’s likely to be hankering for a little company.”

  “And you plan to give it to her,” Turnbull declared with a gleeful cackle.

  “Damn right,” Perry said as he headed out the door with Turnbull tight on his heels.

  “Well, shit.” Durand tossed his cards down and pushed to his feet. “I’m getting another drink.”

  George set his cards facedown on the table and watched out the window as the two men made their way across the main road through town. An uneasy feeling settled in his gut. Perry and Turnbull were menaces to the small town of Chester Springs. Wealthy, profligate, and in possession of dubious moral compasses, they took pleasure in throwing their weight around to get what they wanted regardless of how it affected anyone else.

  George knew better than to get involved. It was crucial he keep a low profile whenever he was in town.

  Still…he found himself scraping his chair back and rising to his feet. The sound of his boots on the wooden floor echoed as he strode to the saloon door. When he stepped out onto the boardwalk, the snow swirled in a gust that had him tucking his coat closer about his large frame.

  It was less than a week until Christmas, and despite the winter chill that cut through the air and the dark-gray skies overhead, plenty of townsfolk were out and about, completing their errands in preparation for the holiday. George paused to smile and nod politely as a couple of older ladies bustled past.

  There was no sign of Perry.

  Maybe the man had decided not to cause trouble after all.

  As George hesitated under the upper-floor balcony of the saloon, a bell rang above the door to the general store across the road. The fur-covered figure stepped out carrying a weighted load of supplies packed in a wooden crate and topped by brown-paper-wrapped parcels.

  The deep hood of her furs concealed her face, but it was likely Perry had been right in guessing her identity.

  The man known as Mountain Man Jones had lived on an isolated mountaintop not far from the valley where George had been making his home the last several years. Despite their proximity, George had never encountered Jones or his daughter, not in the mountains and not in town. The two were known for being extremely reclusive and only rarely left the mountains until it was time to sell their furs in the spring.

  The fur-clad woman secured the supplies in the back of the wagon before pulling a canvas tarp over everything and tying it down with some rope. With her focus on the task, she didn’t notice the two men stepping from the alley beside the mercantile. Turnbull hung back a bit while Perry came up behind her to wrap a thick arm around the woman’s upper body, pressing himself against her backside. George was too far away to hear what Perry was saying, but he figured it couldn’t be anything good.

  Muttering a stiff curse beneath his breath, he started across the road in long, easy strides, opening his coat to tuck the edges behind his two holstered Colts. He got to within a few steps of the assault when Perry let out a yelp of pain and stumbled back a step. The woman calmly but swiftly turned to face him, a wicked-looking hunting knife in her hand.

  Her hood had slipped back in the brief struggle, and a jolt of appreciation shot through George’s system a
s he caught sight of her face. Smooth, black hair was parted in the center with its length tucked into the back of her coat. Dark eyes flashed from a round face accented by straight black brows, strong cheekbones, and a wide, lush mouth.

  As was to be expected in a small town like Chester Springs, a mystery like the mountain man and his half-Shoshone daughter caused a lot of talk among folks. But George was pretty sure no one had ever mentioned how bloody beautiful the woman was.

  “You ever think to touch me again, you disgusting pig,” she declared in a firm and even tone, “I’ll gut you so fast your innards will be on the ground before you even feel the slice of my blade.”

  Perry’s eyes bulged, and his face went bright red in his fury. “You can’t talk to me like that, you filthy slut.” He made as if to lunge for her, but she countered with a lunge of her own that had Perry scrambling back a few steps as his feet slid on the frozen ground.

  “Insult me again.” The woman’s voice was lightly challenging, as if she almost wished he would.

  Turnbull, who had been giving his friend hoots of encouragement just moments ago, backed up until his retreat was stopped by the building behind him. The man was only brave when he had Perry’s influence holding him up.

  And Perry could barely hold himself up at the moment.

  George chuckled at Perry’s incredulous expression—not unlike a trout that had been pulled from a river and tossed straight onto the fire. The flush of temper coloring Perry’s face darkened to near purple as he charged the woman again.

  The man’s idiocy was astounding. He was obviously no match for his intended victim. It took less than a minute for her to deflect his attack and execute a retaliatory move. The woman wielded her knife with more speed and grace than George had ever seen.

  With a shout and a snarl, Perry stumbled back yet again, making a grab for his pants so they wouldn’t end up around his ankles. She’d sliced through his coat and his suspenders with a couple easy arcs of her blade.