A Cowboy's Christmas Carol

by Brenda Harlen

  He didn’t blink. He wasn’t even surprised, really. A little unnerved, perhaps, but even more intrigued by her confession. “She talks to you?”

  “When she feels like it.”

  “Since when?” he asked curiously.

  “Since...” She paused, as if trying to remember. “I’m not exactly sure when it started—or when I started to believe that the voice I was hearing belonged to Alice.”

  “The first day I was here—that was Alice crying, wasn’t it?”

  Daphne hesitated for just a second before nodding. “She’s been even more active—and interactive—lately,” she confided. “A class of second graders was here on a field trip a couple weeks ago, and one of the little girls not only heard Alice crying, she...saw her.”

  A chill snaked down his spine. “How do you know she saw her?”

  “She referred to her as ‘the pretty lady.’”

  “Does that describe Alice Milton?” he wondered.

  She nodded again. “She was beautiful. There are pictures in the newspaper clippings.”

  “Did anyone else on the trip see or hear anything?”

  Now she shook her head. “Only me. Though I couldn’t see her.”

  He lifted another spoonful of chili to his mouth.

  “I thought you’d be more freaked out by all of this,” she said.

  “I was freaked out the first time I heard her crying,” he admitted. “And then... I don’t know when it happened, but my curiosity started to outweigh my discomfort. And after I read the fire marshal’s report, I decided to track him down.”

  “Did you have any success?” she asked.

  “His name is Stan Jacobs. He lives in Helena now.”

  “He’s still alive?”

  He nodded. “And he still remembers the fire.”

  “After sixty years?” She sounded surprised.

  “I think he felt too guilty to ever forget,” Evan said. “Because he manipulated some of the details in his report, at the request of Henry Milton, to cover up Russell’s death. To ensure that no one would know he was with Alice the night of the fire. Because Henry didn’t want his daughter’s name to be sullied by her association with a stable hand.”

  Daphne’s eyes filled with moisture. “He didn’t believe that she loved Russell. Or maybe he didn’t want to believe it, because he hoped she would marry the son of the neighboring landowner, leading to a merger of the two properties.”

  “Did Alice tell you that, too?”

  She nodded. “And when her father found out that she was involved with Russell, he demanded that she terminate the relationship. But Alice refused, and Henry responded by threatening to cut her out of the will, insisting that he’d rather see the ranch burn than let her and her stable hand run it into the ground.”

  “A rather portentous threat,” Evan noted. “And maybe that’s the real reason Henry took his life—not because of grief but guilt.”

  Daphne brushed an errant tear off her cheek. “So what happened to Russell’s remains?”

  “Henry told the marshal to dump the body in a hole somewhere. But Mr. Jacobs refused to do that to the man’s family. Instead, he delivered it to Russell’s parents and encouraged them to make arrangements for a private burial.”

  Her brow furrowed. “But they must have had questions about where and how their son died.”

  “Of course, but the fire marshal told them that there was evidence suggesting that Russell started the fire and that Henry Milton was making noises about pressing charges, but that he might be persuaded to let the matter go if they stayed quiet about the fact that their son died at Whispering Willows.”

  “So they did?”

  He nodded. “Apparently.”

  “But...why would the fire marshal let himself get tangled up in Henry Milton’s web of lies?” she wondered.

  “I’d guess there were ten thousand reasons.”

  “He was bribed,” she realized.

  Growing up in a wealthy family, she’d no doubt learned that people with money didn’t have to play by the same rules as everyone else.

  Evan nodded again.

  “I’m surprised he’d admit it to you.”

  “He’s eighty-eight years old and in failing health,” he said. “I think he was relieved to finally be able to tell someone the truth.”

  “What are we supposed to do now?” Daphne asked.

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing. I think Alice is crying because she wants Russell buried with her, as he should have been all those years ago.”

  “And how are we supposed to make that happen?” she asked dubiously. “I can’t imagine Russell Kincaid’s living relatives will consent to digging up his grave so that he can be reunited with the woman he planned to marry when they likely knew nothing of his plans or even that he was in a relationship with Alice sixty years ago.”

  Evan shrugged. “It can’t hurt to ask.”

  * * *

  The next morning, after a night of thorough and passionate lovemaking, Evan was happy to help Daphne with her morning chores again. Probably because chores for him meant sitting on a bale of hay, holding the bottle of formula for the baby goat that stood in front of him, rapidly emptying it.

  “The way she’s growing, she probably won’t be needing a bottle for very much longer,” Evan noted.

  “You’re right,” Daphne confirmed. “She’s already drinking water from Agatha’s bowl and starting to nibble on hay.”

  “Speaking of nibbling,” he said. “My mom suggested that I might want to invite you to have Christmas dinner with us.”

  She paused in the act of tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear, puzzled by his casual delivery of what was, to her mind, a significant piece of information. “Is that an invitation or a recap of your conversation?” she asked, trying to match his tone and not get her hopes up.

  “It was meant to be an invitation,” he said. And to be clear, he followed up by asking, “Would you like to have Christmas dinner with me at my mom’s house?”

  More than anything, she thought. But his guarded tone made her suspect that he wasn’t as enthused about the prospect as she was, so she proceeded cautiously.

  “Are you inviting me because your mom told you to or because you want me there?”

  “Both,” he admitted. “But mostly because I want you there.”

  “So why does it sound like you have some reservations?” she wondered aloud.

  “Because I do,” he told her. “Because they’ll make a big deal out of the fact that I’ve brought you home to meet the family.”

  “I guess you don’t take women home very often?”

  “Almost never.”

  “Would you prefer if I said no, so that you could tell your mom you asked and I declined?”

  “No,” he said. “I’d like you to meet them—and for them to meet you. I just want you to know what you’re getting yourself into.”

  “In that case, my answer is yes,” she said, already looking forward to it.

  But then she remembered the thorny issue that inevitably arose when she ate at someone else’s table, and asked, “Do you think it would be okay if I brought my chestnut Wellington as a contribution to the meal?”

  “That would be great,” Evan said, “because the only thing that I can guarantee will be on the menu is turkey. And for dessert—Grandma Daisy’s pecan pie.”

  Daphne stilled. “I thought your grandmother’s name was Dorothea.”

  “That’s her given name, but she mostly goes by Daisy.”

  “Was she born in 1945?” she asked, recalling the social media post that had been circulating in recent weeks.

  His mouth thinned. “What is this about?”

  “You haven’t seen the ‘Desperately Seeking Daisy’ plea on Facebook or Twitter?”

/>   “I’ve seen it,” he said.

  His clipped tone might have been a warning for her to back off, but Daphne forged ahead. “Then it must have occurred to you that your Grandma Daisy might be the Daisy that the Abernathy family is looking for.”

  “Except that my grandmother wasn’t adopted,” he told her.

  “Oh,” she said, disappointed. Then, as another thought occurred to her, “Or maybe she just didn’t know that she was adopted.”

  He folded his arms in front of his chest. “Let it go, Daphne.”

  But she wasn’t dissuaded by his words or his defensive posture. “How can you say that? Aren’t you the least bit curious to know if your grandmother is the missing child?”

  “She’s hardly a child,” he pointed out. “And even if she was adopted, why would her birth family have waited so long to reach out?”

  “I can’t imagine,” she admitted.

  “Well, I can,” he retorted. “And it’s because they want something from this long-lost relative, wherever she may be.”

  “What kind of something?” she asked, curious about his thinking.

  “A kidney, liver or lung would be my guess.”

  “You really believe that?”

  He shrugged, but the tension in his body was a marked contradiction to the casual gesture. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. They’re shaking the family tree to see if a donor will fall out. And there’s no way I’m going to let my grandmother be used that way.”

  “Shouldn’t that be your grandmother’s decision?” she challenged.

  A muscle in his jaw flexed. “And it would be,” he said, “if there was any chance that she was this missing child, but there’s not.”

  “Have you mentioned the post to her?” Daphne’s tone was gentle even as she pressed for answers he obviously didn’t want to give.

  “There’s no reason to,” he insisted.

  “Or maybe you’re afraid to,” she suggested.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s the only explanation that makes sense to me,” she said. “You were intrigued by the mystery of Alice and Russell—how can you not be interested in a mystery that might involve your own family?”

  Instead of answering her question, he asked his own. “Did you ever do a family tree project in elementary school?”

  She nodded. “Of course. I’m sure it’s a mandatory part of the curriculum.”

  “I did, too,” he told her. “And Grandma Daisy gave me all the information about her parents and her grandparents. There was no hesitation or evasiveness and no gaps in the history.”

  “As she understood it,” Daphne allowed. “But surely you’ve considered that closed adoptions were the norm back then and that she might not realize her mother and father weren’t her biological parents.”

  “And if that’s true, I’m not going to be the one to destroy her illusions,” he said stubbornly.

  “You have to tell her about this,” she urged. “Even if it’s just a possibility, she has a right to know, to decide for herself if she wants to follow up.”

  “And you have to forgive me for not taking advice about family matters from a woman who’s estranged from most of hers.”

  Daphne sucked in a breath as the pointed barb struck its target. “Well.” She took a step back. “I guess that’s clear enough.”

  And true, too, she acknowledged.

  Her strained relationship with her father proved she was anything but an expert when it came to family interactions and dynamics. She hadn’t even been back to the Taylor Ranch since Thanksgiving, but at least they were talking again. Or maybe they weren’t, she considered, noting that she hadn’t heard a word from him since Jessica had visited Happy Hearts—and she’d been certain that he’d have more than a few words to say when his wife introduced him to Button.

  But for Evan to use his knowledge of that strained relationship as a weapon against her now, hurt more than she could bear.

  “Daphne...”

  It was the sincere regret in his tone that made her pause, but when he didn’t say anything more, she reached for the lead to hook it on Billie’s collar. “I need to get her back to her pen. Agatha gets agitated if they’re separated for too long.”

  At the gate, she glanced over her shoulder.

  “You know the way out.”

  * * *

  Well, that hadn’t gone quite as he’d planned, Evan acknowledged as he drove away from Happy Hearts.

  A few weeks and already you’re pulling back. You always pull back when you start to get emotionally involved.

  He ignored the echo of his sister’s voice in his head, and the heaviness in his own heart.

  Perhaps he’d done so in the past, but this time, Daphne had told him to go.

  Of course, he’d pretty much dared her to tell him off. His remark about her family had been not just insensitive but cruel.

  Maybe even unforgivable.

  He could have ended the conversation in a lot of different ways, but he’d chosen to be an asshole.

  ’Tis the season, he thought wryly.

  But his reasons for lashing out were about more than just the time of year. They were about his own nagging suspicions that the social media post might, in fact, be about Grandma Daisy. They were also about the strange connection he suddenly seemed to have to Russell Kincaid—a man who’d been dead for sixty years. But mostly they were about his already strong and still growing feelings for Daphne Taylor and his uncertainty about whether those feelings were truly his own or somehow a product of Russell’s history with Alice.

  When his cell phone rang, he was grateful for the interruption—even when his sister’s name popped up on the screen.

  “Hey, Van,” he said, after instructing Siri to answer the call. “What’s up?”

  “I was talking to Jayne Kendricks, my friend from high school, this morning, and she mentioned that she’d done your Yuletide Tour last week and really enjoyed it.”

  “I’m glad to hear it—and I appreciate you letting me know,” he said, aware that any discussion that touched on the paranormal made his sister uncomfortable.

  “But that’s not the only reason I’m calling,” she told him.

  “You’re bringing the boyfriend home for Christmas after all?” he guessed.

  “No,” she said. “I told you that was casual—and likely to be over soon, anyway.”

  With the status of his own relationship up in the air, he decided to refrain from commenting on the imminent demise of hers. “So what’s the other reason?” he asked instead.

  “I wanted to talk to you about a social media post Jayne brought to my attention.”

  Evan scrubbed a hand wearily over his jaw.

  “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” his sister pressed.

  “I can guess,” he admitted. “But I don’t know why she’d think it would be of any interest to you.”

  “Maybe because our grandmother’s name is Daisy and she was born in 1945.”

  “No, her nickname is Daisy.”

  “So you don’t think Grandma Daisy could be the missing child they’re looking for?”

  “No.” His response was firm and unequivocal. “She would have told us if she was adopted.”

  “Maybe she was but doesn’t know,” his sister said.

  Which was exactly what Daphne had suggested.

  Had he been too quick to dismiss the possibility?

  Too harsh in shutting the conversation down?

  Aware that the answer to both of those questions might be “yes,” he dug in his heels nevertheless.

  “You want to tell Grandma Daisy about some random social media post and potentially undermine everything she’s always believed about her life and her family on the strength of a maybe?” he challenged.

&nbs
p; “Of course not,” Vanessa said. “She’d take the news much better if it came from you.”

  * * *

  Evan didn’t care how many people badgered him about it—he had no intention of talking to his grandmother about “Desperately Seeking Daisy.” He did, however, have another reason for stopping by his mother’s house—and it wasn’t just a reluctance to return to his empty apartment where he’d be alone with his thoughts and forced to acknowledge that he’d screwed up his relationship with Daphne.

  “Evan, this is a surprise,” his grandmother said, smiling when she opened the door. “And good timing—I just got back from bowling. Scored one-fifty-five today.”

  “That’s great,” he said, having no idea really if it was or wasn’t, but she sounded happy, so he assumed it was.

  He held up the tool belt that he habitually carried in the back of his SUV, for occasions such as this. “Last week you mentioned the dripping from your bathroom tap was driving you crazy, so I thought I’d come over and take a look at it.”

  “That’s so kind,” Daisy said. “But Sean already fixed it.”

  “Sean,” he echoed, as if the name was distasteful. “So that’s still going on?”

  “I don’t know what you think that is,” she said. “But yes, your mother is still dating Sean. And for your information, she’s happier than she’s been in a very long time.”

  “I’m happy she’s happy,” he said.

  “Then try to sound happy,” Grandma Daisy suggested. “You’re not the only one allowed to have a romance, you know.”

  “Romance shomance,” he muttered.

  “Uh-oh.” She peered at him more closely now, as if she could see the tension he carried in his shoulders. “Did you and Daphne have a disagreement?”

  “I guess that’s as good a word as any.”

  “Which suggests to me that you know you screwed up but realized it too late to unscrew it.”

  “I might have said something I shouldn’t have,” he acknowledged. “But she was butting into something that was none of her business.”

  “Perhaps because she was under the impression that the two of you were building a relationship and, therefore, anything that affects you might affect her, too.”