Woodland Christmas

by Murray, Tamela Hancock

  Seth fidgeted and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. Reckon I shoulda told you what happened when you got here. I—”

  “No. You were right to wait. I’m glad I was at the Circle B with you and Violet when I learned.” Gratitude filled Bridget’s heart as tears filled her eyes. “Violet told me how you stayed with them—Van and Sally—until Andrew could get help.” She brushed a tear from her cheek. “She said you sat with them for over two hours, keeping away … animals.” Her voice snagged on the last word.

  Seth’s Adam’s apple moved with a swallow. “It was the decent thing to do. Anybody would have—”

  “I don’t think so. I think it took someone very special to do that.” In light of what Violet had told her, Bridget’s opinion of Seth Krueger had risen greatly since their first meeting in

  Pinewood yesterday afternoon. His disparaging words about the Indians notwithstanding, she was beginning to understand why the Bartons held their ranch foreman in such high regard.

  He gave her a sad smile that sent her heart tumbling. “I wish I could have done more.” He shrugged. “If me and Mr. B. had come along a few minutes earlier …”

  She touched his arm. “You did all you could. More than most. And the lovely crosses you made to mark their gravesite—you didn’t have to do that.”

  His face turned red, and he cleared his throat again, his gaze sliding to the toes of his dusty boots, perched against the wagon’s angled footboard. There was something very sweet and touching about his embarrassment at her praise.

  Looking up, he bobbed his head. “House is up yonder.”

  Bridget followed his gaze, and a broken-down farmhouse soon came into view.

  As Seth pulled the buckboard to a stop, Bridget’s spirit wilted. Weathered gray boards covered the two-story building. An eave creaked as it swung precariously in the breeze. If the house had ever had a coat of paint, the relentless Texas sun and wind had long since worn it away.

  “Hasn’t anyone even tried to fix it up?” she asked.

  “Violet said the Taylors planned to before …” Allowing the unfinished thought to dangle, he wound the reins around the wagon brake and jumped to the ground.

  He helped Bridget down then climbed back onto the wagon.

  “You’re not coming in with me?” Surprised and hurt, she looked up at Seth, who looked everywhere but at her face.

  He dragged off his stained gray hat and studied the sweat-band lining its bowl for a moment before slapping the hat back on his head. “Naw. I’d rather stay out here. Maybe catch forty winks.” The muscles worked in his jaw.

  Bridget’s stomach twisted in a nervous knot. Irritation buzzed inside her like the flies tormenting the pair of horses hitched to the wagon. Even a cowboy unschooled in social graces should know enough to not leave a woman alone.

  She grasped the dark leather reins sagging against the nearest horse’s rump. “You promised to escort me. You can’t just leave me alone in an unfamiliar place.”

  He blushed but still didn’t meet her eyes. “Old Ming Li won’t hurt ya,” he said gruffly. He jerked his head toward the ramshackle house. “I’ve got no business in there.”

  From his derisive comments yesterday, Bridget took Seth to mean he’d rather not go near Indians.

  “Have a nice nap!” She couldn’t keep the sharp edge from her voice. How was it that a man who’d otherwise shown himself to be kind and caring could, at the same time, hold orphan children in disdain simply because they were Indians?

  Heaving a sigh, Bridget headed for the house. Seth Krueger was an enigma.

  She felt ridiculous shoving open the rusty-hinged gate. A couple of feet away, a great gap in the broken-down picket fence offered easy entrance to the yard strewn with pine needles. Her pounding heart drowned out the sound of her knuckles rapping against the weathered wood of the door.

  The door opened to reveal a Chinese woman who smiled and bowed. The knot in Bridget’s stomach loosened a bit.

  “I am Bridget O’Keefe, the new teacher.”

  “Ah, yes, Missy Teacher. Come in, come in. I Ming Li.” Ming Li’s upper torso bobbed her invitation as she backed into the foyer.

  The smell of stewed chicken and indiscernible spices welcomed Bridget into the house.

  “Missus Violet say you come. Missus Sally, too, and Mr. Van. So sorry. So sorry.” The smile vanished as she shook her head.

  “Thank you.” Bridget could not help staring. She guessed Ming Li’s age to be about forty. Strands of gray threaded through the shiny black braid down her back. Instead of a dress, she wore a charcoal gray tunic with voluminous sleeves over baggy pantaloons. Remarkably tiny feet were covered with white cotton socks and tucked into flat black slippers.

  According to Violet, the widowed Ming Li’s husband had been one of the Chinese immigrants who’d helped to build the railroad.

  “I call children.” The woman’s smile returned, pushing rosy cheeks up to slits twinkling with dark eyes.

  “Come! Come now!” Ming Li clapped her hands sharply twice. The sound echoed around the sparsely furnished room. Nothing happened. “Come, come, I say!”

  Gradually, little copper faces emerged from side rooms. Bridget lifted her gaze to the old creaking stairway where four more peered down through rickety spindles.

  When they had all gathered around Ming Li like chicks around a mother hen, Bridget counted eight. Most were not yet in their teens. A boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen years of age, looked to be the oldest; a girl about seven years of age, the youngest.

  “Missy Bridget, new teacher.”

  The children remained silent and somber-faced at Ming Li’s introduction.

  Bridget smiled. “I will be coming here soon to teach you English, arithmetic, and all about Jesus. Lots of wonderful stories from the Bible.” Her announcement was met with stony stares, and the knot in Bridget’s belly tightened. Though the children were undoubtedly grieving the loss of Sally and Van, Bridget hadn’t expected them to be so reticent.

  A girl who looked to be about ten emerged from behind Ming Li. Her pleasant copper face registered no fear, only curiosity. “They are afraid you will go to heaven like Mrs. Sally and Mr. Van.”

  Bridget’s heart crumbled. She should have thought. These poor children had known so much loss. First their parents, then Sally and Van. She could see why they were reluctant to welcome anyone else into their lives.

  Bridget looked into the girl’s intelligent dark eyes. “Someday I will go to heaven, but God willing, not for many, many years. So tell me, what is your name?”

  “Singing Bird, but my aunt called me Liebes Mädchen. She was my second mother when my mother and father died. Then the soldiers came and killed her and my grandfather and all the other grown people of our tribe.”

  Choking back tears, Bridget gave the girl a hug, overcome by the thought of how much grief this little one had experienced. She asked each child his or her name, then said her farewells, promising to return soon.

  A few minutes later, Bridget was still blinking back tears as she and Seth bumped along the dusty road. “Do you know how the children were orphaned?” Perhaps if Seth knew their story, he might be more sympathetic.

  He gave an indifferent shrug. “Some kind of a skirmish when the soldiers were roundin’ up renegade bands of Comanche back in seventy-seven.”

  His matter-of-fact tone infuriated Bridget. “Those children’s parents were murdered in front of them.”

  Seth turned steely blue eyes to hers, and the muscles worked in his jaw.

  “Miss O’Keefe, Indians were not the only ones killed that day.”

  “I know. Sally told me there was a gun battle between the soldiers and the Indians.” Bridget tempered her voice. Nothing would be accomplished by quarreling with the Bartons’ foreman. “I just meant it must have been horrendous for them—the children, I mean.”

  “You ask me, they should be up at Fort Sill with the rest of the savages. But Mrs. B., well, she got wind of it and was dea
d set against that.”

  “Thank the Lord!”

  At her pronouncement, a wry grin lifted Seth’s lips. When her heart fluttered—a now familiar response to the handsome ranch foreman’s smile—Bridget couldn’t decide if she was angrier with herself or with Seth.

  “Not sure what the Lord had to do with it. What got it done was Mr. B. ridin’ ramrod on the Chisholm years back with the Fort Sill commander.”

  “They’ve been in that drafty house for six years?” On this one point, Bridget had to agree with Seth. Accommodations at the fort might have been better.

  “No. Until last year, they lived in a little house in Pinewood with Ming Li. When the house was torn down to make way for a railroad spur, Mrs. B. moved ‘em to that abandoned farmhouse on Barton land.” He gave her a lopsided grin and Bridget’s heart turned another somersault. “That’s when Mrs. B. and her bunch of church women started lookin’ for someone like you and the Taylors to teach ‘em.”

  “You mean the Women’s Missionary Union.”

  “If you say so.” He snorted. “As if keepin’ ‘em wasn’t enough, now they’re determined to educate ‘em.”

  His grin evaporated, replaced by a puzzled look that wrinkled his brow. Alert, he squinted at a cloud of dust in the road ahead.

  Bridget followed his gaze and fear slithered down her spine. Out of the rolling dust emerged a mule-drawn wagon, its dirty canvas top billowing against the pale blue sky like a storm cloud.

  After the frightening encounter at the general store, Bridget had hoped to avoid the foul animal skinner. So as the wagon rumbled nearer, relief surged through her. The driver was not the repulsive One-Eyed Jake.

  Indeed, as the other wagon came up even with theirs, she saw that two pewter gray eyes shone from the man’s bewhiskered, grandfatherly face.

  He smiled. “Could you kind folks direct me to Mr. Andrew Barton’s ranch, the Circle B?”

  The pleasant scents of fresh-cut wood, tung oil, and varnish wafting from the wagon’s interior tickled Bridget’s nose.

  “That’s where we’re headed.” Seth rose a few inches off his seat and reached a hand out to the old gentleman. “I’m Seth Krueger, Circle B foreman.” He shot a glancing smile at Bridget. “And this is Miss Bridget O’Keefe, a friend of Mrs. Barton’s.”

  “Gabe Noell. Happy to make your acquaintance.” The man tipped his worn brown hat toward Bridget, then clasped Seth’s hand. His bare forearm beneath rolled-up sleeves looked remarkably firm and strong for a man of his apparent years.

  He eyed Seth and Bridget with what felt like a soul-penetrating gaze that warmed Bridget’s face. Did he think them sweethearts? The thought compelled her to clear up any such misconception.

  “I’m the new teacher at the Indian orphanage sponsored by the Women’s Missionary Union,” she blurted. “I’ve just met my students for the first time, and Mr. Krueger is escorting me back to the ranch.”

  “Ah.” Gabe’s bushy dark brows bristled up and he lifted his hat higher this time, giving her a good peek at his salt-and-pepper hair. “A most admirable occupation in the service of our Lord, miss.” Merry wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes with his widening smile. “As for myself, my trade is that of carpenter, wood-carver, and some say purveyor of sawdust sermons.” His gaze bounced between Bridget and Seth. “I met Mr. Barton in the Pinewood General Store the other day. Said he’d like me to come by, that he had a couple woodworking projects for me.”

  Seth tensed beside Bridget, and though his smile remained, it looked forced. “You’re welcome to follow us to the ranch, Mr. Noell. It’s only a couple miles northeast of here.”

  As they jostled toward the ranch with the wood-carver behind them, sadness gripped Bridget. Seth had acted congenial to the stranger until Gabe Noell spoke of his faith. The wood-carver had just confirmed Bridget’s niggling suspicion that Seth remained outside Christ’s fold—and was quite content to stay there.

  Chapter 3

  Teach me to ride.” At Bridget O’Keefe’s bright voice, Seth pushed away from the corral fence he was leaning against and swung around to face her. His heart gave its usual leap when he gazed at the diminutive teacher. The morning sun danced over her russet curls, turning them to burnished copper.

  “Is that an order?” He couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his lips.

  “No, it’s a request.”

  “Sounded like an order to me.” He forced his eyes back to the wild mustang colts bucking and prancing in the corral. If the rush of warmth he felt spreading over his face showed, he’d rather she didn’t see it.

  “If I could ride, you wouldn’t have to take me to the orphanage every day.”

  Confident he had his features under control, Seth turned to her again. “It ain’t safe for you to ride out there alone.”

  The obstinate lift of her chin indicated what she thought of his concern. “We’ve been traveling that road for a week now, and the only remarkable animal I’ve seen was that armor-plated little creature that scurried across the road in front of the wagon yesterday.” Her green eyes flashed over her cute turned-up nose, which was sprinkled with golden freckles.

  If Seth had ever seen anything more beautiful than Bridget O’Keefe, he couldn’t remember when. “Oh yes, the ferocious armadillo,” he managed in an almost normal-sounding voice. Try as he might, he could not rein his galloping heart to a walk. He had no interest in looking for reasons to spend less time with her.

  His gaze moseyed over her, drinking in her beauty. Her blouse, the color of a green apple, matched her eyes perfectly. Her sturdy-booted stance, along with her outfit—a brown riding skirt and a vest that hugged her curves—told him she wasn’t likely to take no for an answer.

  “There’s plenty of dangers you couldn’t begin to imagine. An inexperienced rider has no business out there alone.”

  “I could ride one of those.” She nodded toward the mustang colts. “They are not very big.”

  Seth chuckled. “And I just might sprout wings and fly! They’re mustangs—wild horses. They haven’t been saddle-broke yet.”

  “Well, if you won’t teach me, I’m sure Tad will.” Giving a huff, she turned and stomped toward the Barton’s nephew, who was heading for the corral with a saddle slung over his shoulder. “You’ll teach me to ride, won’t you, Tad?”

  “Now, there’s a chore a man wouldn’t mind.” Tad grinned. Lifting his hat, he pushed dark curls from his forehead with the back of his hand. His bright blue eyes traveled lazily over Bridget.

  She flashed her pretty smile at Tad Riedel, and an uncomfortable feeling twisted in Seth’s gut. He strode toward the pair, his fists clenched. “No, he won’t.” He narrowed his eyes at the young cowboy barely out of his teens and as undisciplined as the mustangs in the corral. Seth couldn’t abide the thought of Tad lifting Bridget on and off a horse. He had no intention of allowing them to ride out of the paddock together.

  “You’ve got work here to do.” Seth glared at the boy, intent on making his meaning plain. “Start lead-breaking that black mustang.”

  “Right, boss.” A heavy sigh followed Tad’s reply. “Miss.” With a sad smile and a lingering look, Tad lifted his hat toward Bridget before complying with Seth’s order.

  Bridget spun toward Seth, eyes flashing and fists planted stubbornly on her hips. “If you won’t let Tad teach me, then I’ll just find someone else!”

  “Whoa, there. Don’t get yer Irish up. I never said I wouldn’t teach you.” Grinning, Seth laid his hand on her shoulder. He had to admire the spunk of this slip of a girl who had come halfway across the continent to teach orphan Comanche. “I just said you couldn’t ride the mustangs. I’ll find one you can ride.”

  He saddled a lady-broke mare and helped Bridget mount it. During the next hour as they rode over the land, Seth’s admiration for Bridget grew. Her fear soon turned to confidence, and he never found it necessary to repeat an instruction.

  Brains, courage, and beauty, all in one comely little package.
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  Bridget O’Keefe was more than a man had a right to dream of. Certainly more than he had a right to.

  She clicked her tongue and kicked the mare to a quicker pace. At her smile, Seth’s heart bolted like a colt at a rifle shot.

  “How am I doing?” A happy laugh warbled through her voice.

  “Like you were born to ride,” he said, unable to budge his gaze from her face as their horses cantered along side by side. A gust of wind blew a bright curl across her forehead. Giggling, she caught it with the crook of a finger. The heart-stopping beauty of the picture took Seth’s breath away.

  They crested a hill, and Seth reined his horse to a stop. Bridget’s horse stopped beside his.

  Her eyes widening with wonder, Bridget panned the acres of fescue and johnson grass below them edged by vast pine forests and dotted with several hundred head of cattle. “How far does Circle B land go?”

  “Further than the eye can see, includin’ five hundred acres of pine forest beyond this pasture.” He enjoyed watching her childlike astonishment as she took in the spreading vista. “The Bartons own two thousand acres. About a quarter of that in grazin’ land and the rest in loggin’ forests and land they share-crop off for corn and cotton farmin’. One day I plan to have a place as big—maybe bigger.”

  Seth realized with a jolt that he had never shared that dream with anyone. Yet something about this girl caused him to want to open his heart and display his dreams like treasures before her.

  “That’s what you were buying at the store the day I arrived.” She pointed toward a string of barbed wire sagging on the ground between two posts.

  At the sight, Seth’s anger flared. Dismounting in a leap, he strode to the fence and kicked at the downed wire in disgust.

  “What is it?” Before he could caution her not to, Bridget dismounted.

  “Poachers.” He ground the word through his clenched jaw. “They look for places like this away from the loggin’ sites to get access into the woods for game.” He cocked his head toward the longhorns grazing in the distance. “Trouble is, it usually don’t bother ‘em to do some rustlin’ on the way in and out. Even a few Caddo Injuns in the next county have been complainin’ about poachers.”