Enchanted Christmas

by Craig, Emma

  “I reckon.”

  “Over here’s the wash house.” Mac gestured to a small shack of a building. “There’s a pump in there, and Mrs. Richardson keeps it supplied with soap and towels. She changes ‘em every week, too, so we manage to stay pretty clean here. You know women.” He laughed a jovial laugh.

  No. Noah didn’t know women. Not any longer. The only women he’d ever known were dead. Even Julia was dead now, and so was the baby she’d been trying to give birth to. Not that Noah cared about that. Hell, it hadn’t been his kid. She hadn’t bothered to wait for him. Not that there was much to wait for by the time he got back from the war. He gave himself a shake, irritated that he’d allowed bitter memories to crowd into his head. He thrust them out again, feeling vicious.

  He said, “Yeah.”

  Mac led him to the back of the yard where a row of stables stood, protected by corrugated tin roofing material. The stables looked like stout, sturdy soldiers, standing side by side at attention. “Now, here we have a grand stable for your horse, lad. There’s curry equipment, a grain bin, and a water trough, so the poor beast can recuperate from ridin’ you out here. I’ll bring ye some oats if you’re low on horse fodder.”

  Noah frowned, and wondered if Mac expected him to apologize for putting his horse to the use God—if there was a God, which Noah doubted—had intended for horses. The old fellow was smiling as if he found life a grand joke, so Noah didn’t snap back at him. Noah considered life a joke too, but he didn’t find it an amusing one.

  “Looks fine,” he muttered. “I’ll take the oats. Thanks.”

  “Aye. I’m sure old Fargo will be right as rain in no time at all.”

  Noah tried to recall when he’d told Mac his horse’s name, then gave it up. The old fellow just seemed to know things; things Noah’d doubtless forgotten he’d mentioned. Hell, he was unused to talking to people. His silent thoughts and his spoken words were probably getting all mixed up since he was accustomed to the one and out of practice at the other. Besides, he really was crazy; he’d known it for some time now, although the knowledge no longer had the power to hurt him.

  He grunted to show Mac he’d heard him.

  “You can sleep in this stable next to your horse if you’re of a mind to, Mr. Partridge. We don’t have any other visitors at the moment. They mostly come in the spring and fall, you know, when they drive the cattle to Fort Sumner or up north. Don’t get us too many strangers this close to Christmas.” His merry blue eyes took on a confiding sparkle. “Folks like to be with their families at Christmas time, don’tcha know.”

  Yeah. Noah knew. His guts felt like somebody’d‚ tied a knot in them. He grunted again, not trusting himself with words.

  “Now it hasn’t been awfully cold lately, but I expect it’ll begin to frost any day now. If you get too cold out here, you just knock on the door of my house.” Mac gestured to another tidy building, situated right next to his store. “Ye can bed down on the floor of the parlor in front of the fireplace, if it starts to freeze these nights.”

  Because he figured he should, Noah said, “Thanks.” In truth, he looked forward to the cold. It suited his temperament.

  “And if ye get tired of fixin’ your own grub, I always have a pot of stew bubblin’ on the stove.” He winked again. “My own receipt, and it’s tasty stuff. Ye can get yourself a bowl of my famous stew, a slab of my famous cornbread, and a cup of coffee or a glass of beer for a nickel.”

  Noah nodded. He wondered how Mac’s stew had come to be famous. Hell, there couldn’t be enough people living out here to make anything famous. Which was encouraging.

  “Of course, Mrs. Richardson cooks for little Maddie and me, and I’m sure one more mouth to feed wouldn’t be a burden on her. She and Maddie would welcome the company, too, I reckon. It’s mighty lonely out here, especially for a lady with a little girl to care for.”

  Yeah. Sure. Noah would perish fifty ways from Sunday before he’d be taking meals with Mrs. Richardson and her daughter. The mere thought made him tense up like a spring.

  “And if ye ever get a mind for the company of another feller your age, and maybe a drink or two, there’s the Pecos Saloon across the way.”

  Noah didn’t bother looking where Mac pointed. If there was one thing he couldn’t imagine a use for, it was company. Whiskey he could buy and use on his own if he ever got snake-bit. Otherwise, he didn’t care for whiskey any more than he cared for the company of his fellow man.

  Another one of Mac’s chuckles brought Noah’s thoughts back to his companion. “Aye, there’s whiskey over there, and one or two pretty girls, too. The Pecos Saloon is where the cowboys go to have a drink after they’ve bought their supplies from me and before they go back to the ranches where they work. Poor souls. It’s a solitary life out there on the plains.”

  This time Noah looked—in the direction of the plains. His tension lessened a bit. “Yeah.” That’s exactly what he’d hoped for. He craved solitude like other men craved money, whiskey, and women.

  Mac went on, his voice friendly, as if he were in the presence of somebody who cared. “Got several ranchers in the area, though. There’s the Blackworth spread, and a couple of lads recently come here from Texas—Cody O’Fannin and his cousin Arnold. Chisum, of course, has the biggest spread hereabouts and runs the most cattle.”

  Noah had heard of Chisum. “Sounds like a lot of people,” he murmured. He hoped to flinders all the good cattle land wasn’t gone already. Hell, the territory had barely opened up; it couldn’t be settled already, could it? Damned humanity always horned in where nobody wanted it to. Sometimes Noah wished he’d been born a cougar or a coyote himself. Out here, where there was nothing for hundreds of miles but—nothing.

  Mac’s laugh rang out, hearty and loud. “A lot of people? Bless your soul, Mr. Partridge, there’s land enough for thousands out here, and not a one of ‘em would ever bump into another one unless he was of a mind to.”

  Thousands. Cripes. Noah hoped not. He tried to smile at the old man, but couldn’t get his mouth to perform the unfamiliar exercise. “Know of any unsettled parcels of land hereabouts that I might buy or settle on, Mr. McMurdo?”

  “Call me Mac, laddie. Everybody does.”

  Although he didn’t want to get on nickname terms with anyone, Noah conceded the point. “Mac.” It was easier than arguing.

  The old man chuckled. It must be Noah’s imagination that made this chuckle sound particularly canny, as if Alexander McMurdo knew Noah through and through—had known him for years, in fact—and therefore, knew exactly what it cost Noah to unbend enough to call anyone by a pet name. He examined the old man keenly, but couldn’t detect anything familiar in his face or manner. He was sure they’d never met before. He shook his head again, chalking this latest fancy of his up to exhaustion—or his soldier’s heart. And what a fancy name for lunacy that was.

  “Aye,” Mac continued. “I reckon I can take you out and show you all sorts of properties that might appeal to ye, laddie. Best give yourself and your horse a day to rest up, and we can set out the day after tomorrow.”

  That sounded all right with Noah. Although he wasn’t keen on having the chatty old man for company as he looked at land, his aims could be achieved with greater facility if he had a guide to show him around. He nodded. Since Mac wasn’t looking at him and couldn’t see his nod, he was forced to say, “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

  “Glad to help, Mr. Partridge. It will be my pleasure.”

  He sounded like he meant it, too. Noah didn’t understand, so he didn’t respond.

  “Ye can build a fire here.” Mac gestured to a small, soot-blackened, sheltered fire pit that had been dug in front of the stable Noah’d be sleeping in. It had been lined with rocks, and boasted a corrugated tin shield on three sides and above it, and a serviceable iron spit upon which a man could roast meat or hang a pot. “But don’t forget ye’re not obliged to take your meals out here by yourself.”

  By himself was exactly the way No
ah wanted it. He only nodded again. This wagon yard of Mr. McMurdo’s was a right nice place; just in Noah’s line. It sounded like Mac could help him find a place to settle too. In the meantime, he could camp out in this little stall in Mac’s wagon yard and still have the solitude he craved. He hoped that little kid wouldn’t turn out to be a nuisance.

  “Need any help getting yourself settled, lad?”

  Noah’s imagination—an item that hadn’t been called upon to work much in recent years—made Noah believe he heard compassion in the old man’s voice. He shot him a sharp, quick glance. “No.” That sounded too curt a response to a civil question, so he added, “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Noah was positive Mac was taking stock of him. The old fellow, pipe clamped between his teeth, a grin on his face, looked him up and down as if he were inspecting a side of beef. It made Noah uncomfortable. Damn it, what was the matter with this old man, anyway? He looked away and pretended to study his sleeping stall again. There wasn’t much to study. At least the straw looked clean.

  “Aye, laddie,” Mac said after a moment that seemed to crackle. “I expect ye’ll be fine one of these days, at any rate. I’ll leave ye to your horse and your own thoughts now. I’d surely like to know where ye expect to find a reed organ for Mrs. Richardson out here, though.”

  And, while Noah gawked after him, Mac walked away, leaving a trail of smoke rings and chuckles in his wake.

  Chapter Two

  The next day dawned as cold as ice, as silent as death, and as clear as crystal.

  Disoriented at first, Noah had to sit up and look around before he remembered where he was. Then he sank back down on his bedroll as a feeling of peace, as foreign to him as any exotic language, stole through him.

  He breathed deeply of the morning’s freshness before he rolled out of his bed, hurried on his clothes, and jammed his feet into his boots. He’d slept pretty well last night—couldn’t recall a single night vision, and he hadn’t heard any voices. No shrieks or moans or groans. Not a single plea for help that he couldn’t give. Maybe this place would be his cure. He doubted it.

  He picked up his kit and headed for the wash house. The clean, pure air seemed to call to him, though, and no sooner had he taken a step or two toward the wash house, than he discovered himself veering over to the wooden fence encircling the wagon yard. The fence only stood about five feet high, and Noah, being a shade over six feet himself, could see over it quite well. He was even able to fold his arms, rest them on the top rail, lift his face to the sun and shut his eyes for a minute.

  The sun’s pale autumn rays beat against his closed eyelids. Noah fancied that a few of them were leaking into his brain and burning the bad parts out. He even grinned a little at his whimsical thought before he opened his eyes again and gazed out into the plains. He knew he should be washing up and seeing to old Fargo, but he couldn’t seem to stop staring at that great, stark landscape.

  The plains weren’t flat, exactly. Noah saw where the land rose and dipped briefly, almost gently, here and there, but nothing dramatic happened on those rises. They looked as bleak as the rest of the countryside. One lone mountain rose off to the west, and three wispy clouds hung over it like puffs of smoke. He wondered if the mountain was an extinct volcano. It looked like one to him, although what he didn’t know about volcanoes could fill volumes. He liked the idea of something violent and once capable of immense destruction now looming over the countryside, its energy spent, a silent and passive observer of the world’s follies. It reminded him of himself.

  Lord, this place was empty. For as far as his vision stretched, Noah didn’t see a single other person. Mac’s wagon yard sat at the edge of what passed for the town. Rio Hondo. Noah gave a small snort. Pretentious of its settlers to call it a town. That was the way of man, though. Seemed impelled to give himself airs. Noah knew better. Men were weak—mere floundering, peacocking babies—compared to other forces.

  But, oh my, these plains were empty. Almost. As he watched, two deer, startled by something only they perceived, bounded off, catching his eye. He hadn’t known deer lived out here, and was pleased to have found out. At least he wouldn’t have to look far for food. Noah allowed himself a brief vision of himself on his own place somewhere out there in that gigantic nothingness.

  Surely he could afford enough land on these plains to start a small business. He didn’t want much. Only enough to support himself and Fargo. Maybe he’d get a dog. He didn’t hate dogs the way he hated people, although he hadn’t wanted the responsibility of one for a long time. But if he settled here, he wouldn’t mind having a dog. Dogs weren’t any trouble. And they were loyal. Noah could tolerate some loyalty at this point in his life.

  He’d plant some trees. Not enough to interfere with the view, but only a few to act as a wind break. He understood it snowed out here occasionally, and he already knew there would be some fierce winter winds to contend with. So a wind break would be all right. Maybe some poplar trees. They were hardy. Any tree’d have to be hardy to survive out here. Anything weak wouldn’t last a month.

  Noah was strong. He’d survived a lot worse than New Mexico Territory and any winter winds it could throw at him. He’d get along fine here. Fine.

  With Mac’s help, maybe he could find himself a parcel of land with a river running through it. Even though the land looked as if water hadn’t touched it for a hundred years or more, Noah knew, because he’d done his research well, that there were rivers all over the place, and underground streams from which a man could get plenty of water if he dug himself a well. So he’d find himself a river and some land, and build himself a soddy—he didn’t need a regular house—and squat there with his dog and his horse and his cows and his poplar trees until his time came to die.

  It was the first refreshing thought he’d had in days. He sucked in another breath of air so cold it nearly froze his lungs, and went to take care of his morning ablutions and Fargo.

  # # #

  Noah thanked his lucky stars that little Maddie Richardson didn’t seem to be a nosy child. Although she waved a cheery greeting, she didn’t pester him. He waved back and nodded and didn’t guess he had to smile.

  He noticed Grace Richardson, too, as he took stock of his supplies and made note of those he needed to buy at Mac’s store. She’d evidently come outside to do some chore or other, and gave him a brief smile and a wave as she returned to the porch. There she paused to fiddle with something Noah couldn’t see from where he sat.

  He nodded at her, looked down again, then found his gaze drifting up from his list and fastening on her. She was a slender woman, and her movements were fluid and lithe. For all the harshness of the air and the naked sun that even now, as winter approached, beat down on the plains like a fierce god out of an Indian myth, her complexion seemed clear and unwrinkled. He wondered how old she was. Probably no older than he, although she looked much younger. Of course she hadn’t gone through the things he’d gone through. Anybody looked younger than Noah Partridge did.

  Noah, who hadn’t a romantic bone in his body, decided her name suited her. Grace. She was definitely full of grace; not an awkward thing about her. Then he wondered where that thought had sprung from.

  Lord, he really was crazy. With an impatient shift of his shoulders, he wrenched his mind away from Grace Richardson, licked the end of his pencil, and went back to his list.

  Mac had been right about the well-stocked nature of the horse stalls and the usefulness of the fire pit in the wagon yard. Noah’d given Fargo a good brush-down then fed and watered him, using the oats Mac supplied and the water from the pump in the washroom. Fargo had appreciated both the brushing and the food.

  The washroom, too, was a luxury Noah hadn’t expected. Last night he’d given himself a good all-over bath, donned clothes that were clean, if not as fresh as they might be after having spent a couple hundred miles in his saddlebag, and felt almost human again afterwards.

  Almost.

  Noah had known for several ye
ars that his humanity had been all but starved out of him during the war. Any remaining spark had been doused when he finally made his way back home to Virginia. Or to what was left of his home. In what was left of Virginia.

  Angry that he’d let his mind wander, he shrugged irritably and stood up from the stump on which he’d been sitting. Hell, his mind hadn’t dwelled this much on old times for years now. What the devil was the matter with him?

  He was suffering from a lack of useful work to do, he reckoned, and aimed to remedy that problem right away. He took another good look at his list, tried to think of anything he’d missed, couldn’t come up with a thing, and walked over to McMurdo’s mercantile establishment.

  # # #

  Grace couldn’t stop thinking about that man, Noah Partridge, and she wished she could. The first time she’d looked into his eyes and seen the stark pain they held, she’d felt a strong compulsion to put her arms around him and rock him like she rocked Maddie when she stubbed her toe.

  Why, his eyes had looked as tormented as hers had right after Frank died, only colder. Much colder. She wondered if the poor man had lost his wife.

  She gave herself a shake and told herself to stop thinking about Noah Partridge. There were lots of wounded men wandering around out west these days—wounded both in body and in soul, if Grace was any judge. Poor things. She couldn’t take care of all of them. She couldn’t take care of any of them, actually. Besides, she had enough to do in tending to Maddie and keeping Frank’s dream alive.

  The front door of the store opened, and she looked up from sorting thread. Her chest gave an uncharacteristic spasm, and she told herself to calm down. Mr. Partridge might look a little frightening because of his air of remoteness and repressed violence, but Mac seemed to like him, and Grace would trust Mac with her daughter’s life. In fact, she did.

  With a small effort, she managed to smile in a friendly way. “Good morning, Mr. Partridge. Did you sleep all right out there in the cold?”