A Cowboy Christmas

by Janette Kenny

  He let that comment slide by him. “Let me see the etched one.”

  She obliged and he deemed the ring to be of good quality as well as attractive. But his gaze kept flicking back to the gold band set with diamonds. True love. Was such a thing possible?

  “I’ll take this one,” he said, handing the etched band to her to package up.

  “Will there be anything else?” she asked.

  He picked up the one set with diamonds and turned it this way and that, noting that the light seemed to spark fire in the tiny stones. Dare he go after what he really wanted?

  He handed it back to the shopkeeper. “I’ll take this one too.”

  “Very well, sir,” she said. “Would you like them placed in separate boxes?”

  “Yes’m,” he said as he fished out his money.

  He tucked the boxes in his vest pocket and left, knowing word would spread through town that he’d bought two wedding rings. He just hoped to hell he made one woman happy.

  A fine snow began falling as he made his way toward Mallory’s Roost. He pushed inside the saloon, where a cloud of smoke hung from the ceiling and the stench of liquor drifted on the stale air.

  Five cowboys sat at one table swapping lies, swilling rotgut and playing poker. Two of Mallory’s gals hovered nearby, tempting the men to continue playing and buying booze.

  Reid ignored the lot of them and headed to the bar. He braced a boot on the rail and braced his forearms on the bar top.

  “Whiskey, and not the watered-down brew,” Reid said.

  Mallory muttered a curse but fetched a bottle from under the bar and sat it in front of Reid. “Heard you’ll be a married man tomorrow.”

  “Figured word had spread.” Reid poured a glass and tossed it back. “What else is being said about me?”

  Mallory snorted. “That the sheriff in Laramie took a bribe to set you free and pin the murder on Ezra Kincaid.”

  That explained the odd look old Dan at the depot gave him, and the reserved one from the shopkeeper. Hell, he was surprised the truth hadn’t gotten out before now.

  “Who can I thank for enlightening folks?” Reid asked.

  “Frank Arlen,” Mallory said. “He was in here the other night, three sheets to the wind and swapping tall tales with a couple of cowpokes.”

  “That sounds like Arlen. Full of lies and bullshit.” But this time he told the truth.

  Mallory nodded. “He was grousing about how he’d worked briefly for the Crown Seven, and that you’d fired him.”

  “Yep, and I don’t regret it.” Arlen was the laziest man on the spread, and caused nothing but trouble among the men.

  “Aye, he seems to relish brewing trouble,” Mallory said. “He thought it amusing that Kincaid had stolen your stallion, and went on to say it nearly happened two years ago as well.”

  “The local papers told all back then,” he said, though he’d not seen one of them. “All except the part about Erston paying the sheriff to turn a blind eye. I supposedly escaped, and then a witness came forward and pointed a damning finger at Kincaid, and exonerated me.”

  Even so, some folks suspected Reid was guilty.

  Mallory snorted. “Arlen claims to have witnessed it.”

  That brought him up short. “If that’s true, then why didn’t he say something to me when he hired on?”

  “Maybe he thought to use what he knew later on,” Mallory said. “Arlen bet he’d bring Kincaid in and collect the reward.”

  Damn! Arlen wouldn’t care if Kincaid was dead or alive either.

  The door opened, shooting an arrow of bright light and bitter cold into the saloon. Mallory muttered a curse and walked off.

  Reid poured another drink and glanced at the newcomer, mindful of the last time he was here and Ellie Jo walked in.

  A black hat pulled low over his brow shaded the man’s face, but he recognized the man just the same. Marshal Tavish.

  “I’m obliged you came to town,” Tavish said. “Saves me the trouble of riding out to your spread.”

  Reid sipped his whiskey and held the burn in his mouth before sending it to his gut. “You got something to say, then say it.”

  Tavish braced his arms on the bar and caught Reid’s gaze with his own. “You’ve got quite the reputation. What I can’t decide is if you’re innocent or guilty.”

  That was the same question Reid had wrestled with for two long years. When he had roused from his stupor the day after the shooting, he was plagued with the nightmare of a woman lying dead in the street, and the damning accusation that he’d killed her.

  Didn’t matter that he’d been aiming at the outlaw about to steal his horse. The bullet that took her life had come from his sidearm.

  Or had it?

  “Afraid I can’t help you,” Reid said.

  Tavish shifted and the brass foot rail trembled a bit, as if the marshal had jammed a boot on it too. “You’re not going to defend yourself?”

  “Nope. I was too drunk to remember what happened.”

  The marshal placed two bits on the bar and raised a finger. A moment later, a mug of frothy beer came sliding down the bar toward him.

  “I read up on it, and it seemed mighty convenient that a witness came forth after you’d escaped from jail.” The marshal took a drink and eyed him. “I heard a substantial amount of money was donated to the local sheriff at that time.”

  His nape grew uncomfortably warm from anger and embarrassment. Obviously Erston had convinced Kirby the safest bet was to pay off the local law. But had the bastard bought a witness too?

  Reid wished to hell he knew.

  He faced the marshal but kept his emotions carefully banked. “You thinking of hauling me to jail?”

  “Nope. A witness swore Kincaid killed her.”

  He wasn’t convinced. “Reckon the man who brings in Ezra Kincaid will make a name for himself.”

  “Reckon we’ll see.” The marshal finished off his beer and pushed away from the bar. “Did you know who she was?”

  “Who?”

  “Lisa True, the woman you may or may not have killed.”

  He shook his head. “Never saw her before, and never heard nothing about her either.”

  The marshal drew in a slow, chest-expanding breath and stared at Reid with eyes that had gone black with some emotion he couldn’t read. “It’s a sad fact that the attention of that crime centered on Ezra Kincaid and you. Her name isn’t even mentioned on half the wanted posters I’ve come across.”

  There was no mistaking this time that Marshal Tavish had more than a passing interest in this murder. That fact put him in a mighty touchy situation.

  “Hell, you knew her,” Reid said.

  That’s why he was busting his ass to find Ezra Kincaid. That’s why he was keeping an eye on Reid as well.

  Tavish scowled at the wall, his expression as cold and hard as ice. “She was on her way to my sister’s wedding in Pine Bluff when she got waylaid.”

  Ah, hell! “What happened?”

  “Nobody knows. She missed her train, and the sheriff there assumed she’d gone to the livery to hire a buggy.” Grief clouded Tavish’s eyes, then vanished under that cool regard again. “The mortician said she’d been abused recently.”

  Reid set his back teeth, disgusted to think some man had raped her. “I sure as hell wouldn’t do that.”

  “I have trouble believing the old rustler would do such a thing either,” Tavish said.

  “That means there was likely a third man, and he got away with having his way with her.”

  Tavish gave a curt nod. “Just what I thought.”

  A new worry sank its teeth in him and wouldn’t let go. “What if the killer and the rapist are one and the same?”

  “Then he’d best hope I don’t find out he did it.” Tavish made to leave.

  “One more thing,” Reid said, and the marshal stopped beside him. “According to Mallory, Frank Arlen swears he’ll bring Kincaid in and collect the reward.”

  �
��You think he knows where he’s hiding?”

  He snorted. “Maybe. Arlen can look you in the eye and lie through his teeth. I’d guess him to be brave enough to shoot Kincaid in the back and haul his carcass in to the law.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  The marshal turned and walked out the door without another word. Not that there was more to say.

  Tavish had vowed to see justice served. But they both knew he had a snowball’s chance in hell of finding the lowlife who’d raped Lisa, and he knew the unknown would hound him all his days.

  Chapter 17

  Reid hadn’t even bothered to come home last night. That fact stuck in Ellie’s craw as she hurried around the kitchen, frantically trying to put together a wedding feast.

  Not that she expected a crowd.

  Not that the bride had showed any excitement over her special day or all the trouble that she and Hubert were going through.

  Well that wasn’t entirely true. Miss Morris hurried down the rear stairs and into the kitchen. One look was all it took to see the woman was beset with a case of nerves.

  “I have a huge favor to ask of you,” Miss Morris said.

  Ellie crossed her fingers and hoped the lady didn’t request some extravagant dish for the wedding dinner. “What would that be?”

  “I would like for you to be my bridesmaid.”

  Oh, this was just too cruel. How could she stand there so close to Reid while he pledged his troth to Miss Morris?

  “I don’t know how I can do that, and have the wedding dinner ready afterward.”

  “Bother the dinner,” Miss Morris said. “Please, I desperately need a woman by my side.”

  For one brief moment she was tempted to tell Miss Morris that her husband-to-be was a philandering cad. But the hope she saw in the woman’s eyes dashed that thought.

  “Very well, but you’ll have to take me as I am,” she said, giving her gray skirt a shake. “Sans apron for the ceremony, of course.”

  “Of course.” Miss Morris beamed. “Thank you so much.”

  After giving Ellie’s hands an affectionate squeeze, the young woman turned and dashed up the stairs again.

  Ellie released the groan she’d held back earlier. This was going to be the most trying day of her life, but she hadn’t the heart to disappoint the bride.

  She simply felt that Miss Morris had been cheated out of enough traditions. There’d be no piano music to accompany her down the makeshift aisle Hubert had created in the parlor and that she’d festooned with greenery and ribbons.

  The bitter weather robbed Miss Morris of a fresh bouquet, and the silk and chenille one Ellie put together in the wee hours of the morning was a pitiful substitute.

  And last but not least, the tension pulsing in the house made it feel more like a wake than a wedding.

  She checked the tiny watch she had pinned to her bodice. Her eyes bugged.

  Her plum cake should’ve been removed from that testy hotbox ten minutes ago.

  She made a mad dash for the oven and removed the cake. Her shoulders slumped. The top was far too brown and the edges were crusty. She only hoped that a layer of white icing she whipped up would hold in what little moisture remained in the cake.

  As for her entrée, she decided on veal cutlets—or rather a version thereof, since she was substituting venison for veal. The accompanying vegetables were scalloped onions and a potato puff casserole.

  The latter had sounded easy to prepare, but her mixture was a sticky mass that would never pour into the deep dish as the recipe instructed. She was debating whether to add more milk or butter when someone pounded on the back door.

  She looked up, expecting Hubert to answer it. But when the knocking continued and the older man failed to make an appearance, she wiped her hands and hurried to the door.

  The last person she expected to see standing on the other side was Kenton Pearce. But there he was with a nervous smile pasted on his face. He held a small boy in his arms, and a stout older woman stood by his side.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m Kenton Pearce.”

  “I know who you are,” she said.

  He cleared his throat. “Of course. This is Mrs. Hatch and my son, Thomas. Mr. Barclay instructed us to use this door for obvious reasons.”

  Good heavens! Did Reid invite Pearce to his wedding?

  Apparently so, for the sheepherder was clearly dressed in his Sunday best. Well it wasn’t her place to voice her objections. Nor would she referee any shouting matches that were likely to ensue once Burl Erston saw the sheepherder had been invited to his ward’s wedding.

  She stepped back and waved them in. “You’ll have to excuse me while I see to dinner.”

  “May I be of assistance?” Mrs. Hatch asked.

  Ellie was sorely tempted to accept, but it was beyond polite to put a guest to work. “Thank you, but I can manage.” She hoped.

  She returned to her potato mixture and the dilemma of reducing it to a thinner consistency. She grabbed the butter and caught the older woman’s frown.

  Flustered, she set the butter down and reached for the bottle of milk. The old woman nodded.

  “I typically add crumbled bacon and a small fried onion to the mixture,” Mrs. Hatch said.

  She wasn’t about to ignore sound cooking advice. “I have some bacon already crumbled.” Left over from breakfast.

  She easily filched an onion from the ones she’d set to boil and cut it up to add to the mixture. To her amazement, it poured like thick cream into the deep dish.

  With that out of the way, she iced the plum cake in drifts of fluff while Mrs. Hatch prepared a gravy from the drippings. They finished at the same time, and shared a knowing smile.

  “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for your help,” Ellie said.

  “Pshaw! Think nothing of it.”

  The clearing of a masculine throat drew all their attention. “Mr. Barclay requests your presence at the wedding.”

  Ellie would rather go hide in her room, but she knew she couldn’t. She removed her soiled apron and gave her simple gray day dress a close scrutiny. Thankfully it was devoid of grease, flour and batter.

  They filed down the hall to the parlor. Mr. Pearce and Mrs. Hatch took chairs on the groom’s side.

  A look around showed that most of the Crown Seven cowboys were in attendance. All stayed on the groom’s side, kept their hats on and their guns strapped to their sides.

  Ellie stood at the back with her trembling hands clasped together, hesitant to take the walk down the aisle where the groom waited. My, but he was a devastatingly handsome man.

  Reid wore black trousers, a black shirt, black hat, and a black gun belt strapped low on his lean hips. The hard angles of his face were devoid of expression, and his broad shoulders were racked tighter than a coat stand.

  But when his gaze honed in on hers, she felt the burn of desire clear to her soul. Damn the man! How could he stand here at his wedding and flick her a look that promised untold pleasures could be found in his arms?

  Hubert stood beside her. “It is time to take your place, Miss Cade.”

  “All right.”

  Except it wasn’t all right to walk toward the preacher and Reid Barclay. It was sheer hell.

  Her knees knocked and her heart threatened to pound out of her chest. She’d dreamed of this moment herself, but she’d been the bride. She’d been head over heels in love with the groom.

  And her pa had been there to give her away.

  Simple traditions.

  But nothing about her life was simple anymore.

  Oh, she had no doubt Reid could satisfy her wildest dreams. But their opportunity had come and gone.

  Yes, she loved him. Yes, she wanted him. But she wouldn’t be a married man’s mistress.

  Remembering that put a bit of starch into her spine. It also helped if she didn’t make eye contact with the groom. Now if she just didn’t feel his gaze on her—

  Hubert looked into the
hall, then stared at Reid and nodded. Now what was that about?

  The bride stepped into the parlor, her hand resting lightly on her guardian’s. All the cowboys stood, but none removed their hats.

  Cheryl Morris sent a shaky smile at Reid. Ellie didn’t dare glance his way to see if love shone in his eyes. She just wasn’t that strong.

  Mr. Erston escorted Miss Morris toward the preacher and Reid faster than was seemly. But he came to an abrupt stop the moment he laid eyes on Mr. Pearce.

  “Bloody hell!” Erston said. “What’s he doing here?”

  “I invited him,” Reid said.

  Miss Morris flicked a longing look Mr. Pearce’s way, and Ellie wondered again if Reid Barclay was blind. But then fidelity didn’t mean anything to him.

  If it did, he wouldn’t have taken liberties with Ellie.

  “Who gives the bride away?” the wiry preacher asked in a commanding voice.

  “I do,” Erston said.

  He guided Miss Morris toward Reid and made a show of handing her into his care. With a smirk, he turned and took the lone chair stationed on the bride’s side.

  “Is there anyone present who objects to the joining of these two people?” the preacher asked.

  “I do,” Reid said.

  Erston shot to his feet.

  So did Kenton Pearce.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Erston asked.

  “Sit down, Erston,” Reid said.

  “Do not attempt to order me about,” Erston said. “Now get on with this wedding.”

  “Gladly.” Reid backed up. “Take your place, Kenton.”

  Before Ellie could blink, the sheepherder leapt forward to stand as the groom. This wasn’t happenstance. This had been carefully planned by Reid, Cheryl and Pearce.

  Why, she was so touched by his selflessness that tears stung her eyes. Lord knew she wasn’t one prone to such.

  “You can’t do this,” Erston thundered, on his feet again.

  “The hell I can’t.” And to prove it, Reid pulled his gun and leveled it on Erston. “Now sit down and shut up.”

  Erston defied him for all of thirty seconds before the whisper of guns drawn from leather forced him to sit. A cold premonition passed over her heart as she watched the Englishman.