Millie Criswell, Mary McBride, Liz Ireland

by A Western Family Christmas Christmas Eve; Season of Bounty; Cowboy Scrooge

  At five she was looking out the window, eager to see the gambler’s tall and graceful form coming toward her down the street. Maybe there was something to be said for gambling, she thought, feeling her heart race and her insides tie themselves into extravagant bows. Maybe he’d stay, but even if he didn’t, she vowed she’d never regret taking a chance for once in her life.

  At quarter after five, the lovely bows in her stomach tightened into knots and taking chances lost a good deal of its appeal. She glared at her fine new shelves, wishing she had the cash instead.

  Finally, at five thirty, when she was about to lock up—the store, her heart, everything—a man walked into the mercantile.

  “I’m sorry. We’re closed,” Matty told him.

  “Miz Favor?”

  “Yes. That’s right. Come back tomorrow.”

  “I brought you a message from Will Cade, ma’am.

  He says to tell you he’s sorry but he won’t be able to join you for dinner tonight.”

  “Where is he?” Matty demanded. “Has he finally left town? Or is he so deep in a streak of good luck at the Gilded Steer that he couldn’t be bothered to come tell me himself?”

  “No, ma’am.” The man shrugged. “Although he did have a pretty good streak earlier this afternoon. Then he went to…well, I don’t know if I should say, ma’am.”

  “Where?”

  “Well, he went to Mrs. Runyon’s. He said he was going to get himself a real fine bottle of wine. And that’s where he is.”

  “He’s at the sporting house.” Her voice was almost toneless while she wavered between howling with disappointment or shrieking with anger at the insult.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The man reached into the depths of his coat and came up with a dark green bottle, which he held out to Matty. “This is for you. Compliments of Will. He says go on and drink it if you want to. He says you can send him messages at Mrs. Runyon’s, if you like. He’ll be there two weeks.”

  “Two weeks? In a sporting house?”

  “Yep. Quarantine. Seems those poor girls have all come down with chicken pox. Shame, ain’t it? And right before Christmas, too.”

  Chapter Eight

  Will lifted the quarantine a day early so that Mrs. Runyon, along with poor Rosemary, Flo and Dsebein could attend the Christmas service at the First Methodist Church on the one day it was fairly certain that peace on earth and goodwill to men would extend to hapless working girls, and perhaps even to physicians who had long ago lost their way.

  The church was crowded so he sat in back with the madam and her whores, leaning into the aisle every once in a while to catch a glimpse of Matty up in the front row, sitting practically under the preacher’s nose while the man went on at length about forgiveness and salvation, two subjects Will had had plenty of time to consider these past two weeks.

  Maybe it wasn’t in him to forgive his brother…yet…but he’d decided to stop looking for him. If there was any salvation to be had, it would be here in Ellsworth, carving out a life with Matty once he’d convinced her that he wasn’t going to leave. If it took him the next fifty or sixty Christmases to accomplish that, then so be it.

  Maybe he wasn’t a good man, but by God he was a patient man, and he could wait as long as it took for all that stubborn loyalty of hers to shake loose from Charlie Favor and attach itself to him. She didn’t trust him yet, but one of these days she would.

  He was leaning out over the side of the pew, looking past the formidable bulk of Lottie Crane and contemplating the pretty wisps of red hair that peeked from Matty’s bonnet, when another latecomer let in a blast of cold air from the church’s double doors. Instead of settling unobtrusively in the back, however, the man sauntered down the center aisle all the way to the pulpit.

  “Pardon me, Preacher,” he said as he scraped his hat off to reveal long, greasy locks that looked vaguely familiar to Will. “This shouldn’t take long. I’m looking for somebody.”

  Then the man drew his pistol, cocking it as he spun around to face the congregation. “Nobody move,” Luther Killebrew said. “I’m looking for a no-good, cheating card shark by the name of Will Cade.”

  While Will debated the pros and cons of vanishing into thin air, the bounty hunter’s gaze moved from face to face until it lit on Matty’s. “How do, ma’am,” he said. “Remember me? You pulled a fast one on me a month ago, but I’ve got me a picture now.” He waved a piece of paper in her direction. “And the citizens of Leavenworth have upped the bounty considerably to a thousand bucks.”

  A murmur riffled through the crowd as hats tilted and heads bent together. On Will’s left, Mrs. Runyon whispered, “Here, honey. Take this.” The madam slid a little nickel-plated derringer from her reticule and pushed it into his hand.

  Up by the pulpit, Luther Killebrew was grinning through his greasy beard and aiming his gun directly at Matty. “Now where’s that dog bit dandy?”

  Will stood up before Matty had a chance to answer.

  “I’m right here.” He dropped the little one-shot back in Mrs. Runyon’s lap. A few months ago he might have used it to hold the bounty hunter off, but now he was unwilling to risk any harm to the churchgoers. It was bad enough that his problems had spoiled their Christmas service. It was worse that his tribulations had sullied Matty’s life. By God, she’d been right not to trust him.

  “I won’t give you any trouble, Killebrew,” he said, holding out his wrists. “Just put the cuffs on and let’s go” The bounty hunter strode toward him. “I’m glad you’re a man who knows when he’s licked, Cade.”

  He clamped one metal circle around Will’s proffered wrist.

  Matty sat in the front pew, trying to get herself to move, but her whole body had gone numb. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t even think.

  She hadn’t even known that Will was here in the church until she’d heard his rich, warm voice telling Luther Killebrew that he was giving up without a fight. And now, after longing to see him for two interminable weeks, she couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak.

  Once she’d used her wits to rescue Will from the bounty hunter, but now—now when her whole life seemed to hang in the balance along with his—her brain simply wouldn’t function. She couldn’t even pray. And then, as if by instinct, she murmured, “Charlie, what’ll I do?”

  And then the oddest thing happened.

  “How much are those people paying you to bring Will in?” Mrs. Runyon’s voice rose above the general commotion. “How much? A thousand dollars?”

  “That’s right,” Luther Killebrew growled in reply.

  “We can do better than that,” the madam said. “I’ve got fifty dollars here. That’s a decent start. And it’s hardly enough for what Will did to help my girls while they were all so sick. What do you say, folks? I know you all don’t think so much of me, but are you going to just stand there and let this varmint take a good man like Will Cade away?”

  Whispers rippled through the congregation, and nobody seemed to know just what to do until Lottie Crane stood up directly behind Matty.

  “If it hadn’t been for Will, both my precious boys might have bled to death. I’ll pledge a hundred. Fifty for each of my boys.”

  Nearby, old Tom Sturgis, the stationmaster, stood. “He’s a good man, Will is. He got down off the train to help me when I was having a fit. Here’s a double eagle for the pot.”

  Up in his pulpit, the preacher cleared his throat. “Shall we pass the collection plate?”

  “I’ll pass it,” Ben Hagadorn piped up. “And I’ll put in a silver dresser set I never would’ve had if it hadn’t been for Will. My Sally’ll marry me anyway, won’t you, Sally, darlin’?”

  “Well, of course I will, you silly thing,” said Sally. “All you had to do was ask.”

  One by one, people stood to offer their fives or tens or twenties, accompanying each donation with a story about something Will had done for them and what a good man he was. Ben Hagadorn worked his way through the crowd and then brought the collect
ion plate up front. You could have heard a pin drop while the preacher counted it.

  “Four hundred and forty-five dollars,” he announced.

  “That’s not enough,” Luther Killebrew shouted. “Come on, Cade. Let’s go.”

  OK Charlie, what’ll do?

  “Just give me a minute to say goodbye to somebody,” Will said, searching over the heads and shoulders of the crowd for Matty.

  He’d watched her while young Ben passed the collection plate, and hadn’t been at all surprised that, true to her skinflint nature, she hadn’t reached into her handbag to come up with a contribution the way the others had. To say he was touched by their generosity didn’t even begin to describe his feelings. He was truly humbled. Their testimonials almost made him believe he was the man he once had been. He only wished that Matty believed it.

  ‘Has anyone seen Matty Favor?” he called out.

  “Matty? She left by the side door a couple of minutes ago,” somebody said.

  “Come on, Cade.” Luther Killebrew grasped Will’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  The bounty hunter spun him around, and there was

  Matty standing in the church door, pink roses on her cheeks and her cash box in her hands.

  “There’s six hundred eighty dollars and fifty cents in here, Mr. Killebrew.” She shook the metal box, and Will almost thought he was hearing sleigh bells instead of the clattering of coins. “If I’ve got my math right,” she said, “that means we’re offering you over eleven hundred dollars to get on the next train out of town—alone—and never come back to Ellsworth again.”

  “Well…” Luther Killebrew scratched his jaw.

  “It’s a good deal,” Matty told him, putting the cash box in his hands. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’d take it if I were you. And quick, too. Before somebody decides it would be a lot cheaper to put an ounce of lead into your heart.”

  “You’ve got a point, little lady.” He stowed the box under his arm while he unlocked Will’s handcuffs. “Merry Christmas, Cade. Guess I’ll just have to tell the fine folks of Leavenworth that the bad hombre they’re looking for is dead.”

  It was snowing again as Will drew Matty’s arm through his outside the church. With all the cheers and hurrahs and “for he’s a jolly good fellow” they’d hardly had a chance to speak.

  “You’re a gambler, after all, Matty Favor,” he said softly, matching his steps to hers.

  “I guess I am, at that.” She laughed. “Come home and have Christmas dinner with me, Will.”

  “I’d like that, Matty. And next Christmas, too. And the ones after that, if you’ll have me.”

  She smiled and hugged his arm affectionately, but

  Will wasn’t sure if she recognized it as a proposal of marriage. Later, he thought, he’d get down on his knees and ask her properly.

  They’d only walked a few feet farther when she stopped to look up at him. There was a challenge in her eyes, but there was the glow of love, too. “You’re staying, then?”

  Will wanted to laugh. “I’m trying.”

  “Are you asking me to marry you, Will?”

  “Yes, Matty, I am.” Taking her face between his hands, he bent to kiss each corner of her pretty mouth. “Take all the time you need to answer, darlin’. Do you need to consult with anybody first?”

  He’d asked that in jest, but Will found he was holding his breath as he waited for her reply. Then, when she said she did have to consult with somebody, he felt his heart sink inside his chest and his happy countenance turn upside down.

  “Oh, Will! What’s wrong?”

  “Charlie,” he said. “I thought…I hoped…”

  “I’m not consulting with Charlie. Anyway, he’s not talking to me anymore. I haven’t heard a peep in weeks.”

  “Well, if you’re not consulting with Charlie, then who…?”

  “The preacher.” Matty grasped his hand and pulled him back toward the church.

  COWBOY SCROOGE

  Liz Ireland

  LIZ IRELAND

  is the author of both contemporary and historical romances. She became fascinated by the pioneers who settled on the prairie by reading such great women writers as Laura Ingalls Wilder and Willa Cather. A native of Texas and a recent immigrant to the wilds of Portland, Oregon, Liz lives with her husband, two cats and two dogs.

  Chapter One

  Texas, December 1885

  By the time the train began its slow, noisy entrance into Otis, Texas, Ivy Ryan had absolutely and completely changed her mind about marrying a total stranger.

  “And I’m not going to feel guilty about it, either,” she said resolutely to herself.

  Sure, back when she was moldering in the Boston women’s jail, desperate for any scrap of newspaper she could lay her hands on to read, Josiah Murphy’s advertisement for a wife had seemed heaven-sent, the answer to all her problems. Marry a self-described handsome businessman? In a state where no one, least of all her husband to be, knew she was a jailbird? Oh, yes—a dandy idea!

  Now it seemed more like madness. Her change of heart had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that she didn’t love Josiah. Love was a fairy tale. The one time Ivy had kidded herself that she was in love, her handsome prince, Zack Hamilton, had turned out to be a pickpocket whose exploits landed her in jail. But when she’d accepted Josiah’s proposal, not to mention the train fare west, she hadn’t anticipated how isolated the world out here would be. How foreign. Details she hadn’t worried about from two thousand miles away scared the daylights out of her now—Indians…rattlesnakes…a husband she’d never clapped eyes on.

  After all, if she had misrepresented herself to Josiah Murphy, he’d probably done the same. Handsome, he’d said? Businessman? In a godforsaken place like this? He was probably a toothless old geezer living in a shack! Why else couldn’t he find another woman within two thousand miles to marry him?

  So that was that. She’d changed her mind. Josiah Murphy would have to lump it and find himself another bride. Also, because she didn’t have a penny to her name, he would have to pony up more money for train fare to get her back to somewhere civilized. Somewhere big. Populated. Snake less.

  When the train finally lumbered to an earsplitting stop in front of a lean to that served as Otis’s depot, Ivy stepped off and gripped her carpetbag uneasily. “What the…?”

  A crowd had gathered. In fact, it would appear that the town’s entire population—all twenty of them— had turned out to meet the train. Was a train’s arrival all these poor souls had for entertainment? Weather-beaten faces stared at her in anticipation, as if they expected her to break into a song and dance.

  “Ivy Ryan?”

  A squat, ruddy-faced man broke through the crowd and bustled up to her, smiling tentatively. Good heavens, it was worse than she’d feared! He had teeth, all right—brown ones—but he barely reached her height, and when he removed his hat he revealed a head as bald as an egg. She felt no qualms whatsoever about jilting him now. But she had to be nice to him, at least till she got her mittens around that train fare she needed.

  She gritted her teeth and held out her hand. “Mr. Murphy?”

  “Uh…no.” The man’s smile faded. “My name is Nulty. Mayor Douglas Nulty.”

  “Oh.” Ivy bit her lip. She hoped she wasn’t going to have to stand around jawing with this chowder head forever. For one thing, it was high noon and the sun was beating down on her back. The wind was a little chilly, but she was dressed for winter in Boston—not whatever this was. You’d never guess Christmas was just a little over three weeks away.

  The train pulled away, rumbling and screeching, making Ivy nervous. Would there be another train through here soon? It didn’t matter which way it was going; she was going to be on it. She wanted to start a new life, but one glance around this dust trap was all it took for her to know she didn’t want to begin it here. She stood on tiptoe to try to see over the heads of the crowd. Where the heck was Josiah?

  The mayor bl
ocked her view and stammered nervously, “I’m afraid I have some rather bad news for you, Miss Ryan. You see, your husband…that is, your intended, is…” The man wiped his brow with a yellowed handkerchief, then kept on going and wiped his whole bald head.

  Drunk Ivy finished silently. How typical! Her own father had always gotten drunk on his wedding days. Josiah was probably passed out on the nearest bar stool. Irritation coursed through her as she tapped her foot impatiently. “Yeah?”

  “Well he’s…” Nulty gulped. “Dead.”

  Surprise bolted through her. “Dead!”

  The mayor nodded gravely. ‘ ‘Killed. There was an argument involving money…and liquor, I’m afraid…and…”

  Ivy watched the man’s lips moving, but she couldn’t say she actually heard what he was saying. Josiah Murphy was dead! For a moment, her legs went rubbery with relief—if he was dead, he certainly couldn’t pressure her to marry him—but just as quickly, panic overcame over her.

  Merciful saints! Josiah was dead…and she was stuck. In Otis, Texas. Without a cent!

  Her whole body felt numb, and she barely noticed as the mayor, still droning on, shoved something at her. “After his untimely demise, we found this ring in Josiah’s pocket,” he stumbled on. “We, the people of Otis, thought you should have it as a token of remembrance.”

  The band that had been placed into her limp hand sparkled in the sunlight, resurrecting her spirits and her wits. Goodness’ sakes, it even had a diamond chip in it! She felt almost dizzy as she rocked from despair back to hope. The ring might not hock for much, but it was something. Enough to get her out of Otis, at least. Tears of relief welled in her eyes, and she gushed with gratitude. “You don’t know what this means to me!”

  “You have our deepest sympathies, my dear.”

  Ivy wiped her tears away and tried to remember…the mayor said Josiah had been killed over a money matter. If he could bring an entire town out to meet his would-be widow, maybe Josiah did have money. She’d never known strangers to show such kindness to someone unless that someone had money.