The Cowboy from Christmas Past

by The Cowboy from Christmas Past (lit)

  He had no idea how he'd ended up with a baby and a woman in his house in the space of twenty-four hours or so. He who had been a loner for a year, an outcast, was suddenly a family man of sorts.

  It was a lot to take in.

  "What's for dinner?" Auburn asked, and he started, not expecting her to address him. She'd kept a huffy lock on her lips around him, which somehow aggravated Dillinger, since he knew she was doing it on purpose.

  "I could try to shoot a rabbit or a duck, although in this snowstorm, I think all game will be hard to find. There's a storeroom in the attic with cured meat, and some preserves I bought in town belowstairs."

  "Sounds like dinner at the Four Seasons," Auburn said with a sigh. "What about formula for Rose?"

  "I milk the cows twice a day," Dillinger said, "and she drinks milk just fine."

  "Does dinner fall under my job description or yours?" Auburn asked, and he looked at her.

  "You just take care of Rose, and I'll tend to the fire and the meals. This storm should blow over in a week."

  "A week!"

  He turned to look at her, surprised she didn't know. "You said you'd seen snow. Sometimes bad weather comes in and stays. Happens every winter."

  "Yes, but…okay." She sighed again. "When do you start getting ready for Christmas? Or do you?"

  He didn't. Polly had taken such joy in preparing for the holiday that he hadn't had the stomach for it now that she was gone. "You can make a meat pie, if you wish, to celebrate the season."

  Auburn sat in the rocker, contentedly rocking Rose, who was much more content now that the adults were calm. "I don't know how to make a meat pie."

  "You don't?"

  "Don't make it sound like my education has been neglected," she told him. "I can make a heckuva chocolate pie with Jell-O pudding."

  "Jell-O?"

  "Oh, never mind." She shook her head. "I so wish I had my Louis Vuitton bag. Or something of my own. It feels so strange not to even have the hairbrush I like. I bought it at a salon in Beverly Hills. There was a hairdresser there who was extremely popular. His name was Jose, and you can't believe how marvelous—"

  She caught the expression of disbelief Dillinger knew was written on his face, closed her eyes and rocked the baby without saying anything else. Such tales she told! Surely she knew he didn't believe any of her yarns. But maybe she was like Scheherazade, with a thousand wild tales to tell. He liked to be read to; he loved stories. Maybe he should encourage her storytelling. It was what gypsies did best, after all.

  "Go on," he said, making himself sound interested.

  She looked at him suspiciously. "Why?"

  "I enjoy stories."

  "You have a pretty good one to tell yourself."

  He glowered. "What does that mean?"

  "You know, the reformed gunslinger bit. The magic earrings. The baby on the porch. You won't remember this, but you can fly through the air. All in all, you're not the most boring guy I ever met."

  He wished he hadn't asked. She was gifted in fibs and outlandish nonsense, and clearly planned not to miss an opportunity to try to convince him he'd gone snow mad. It happened to some people and even he was a little tense during the long months of winter. But that was only since Polly had died.

  He just dreaded being lonely.

  "I'm going to chop some wood and milk the cows," he said.

  "Fine," she replied in a tone that implied good riddance.

  Ungrateful termagant. He knew one more lie she'd told: he had never, ever kissed that surly woman.

  He'd considered whether he had, once she'd mentioned it, simply because it was so implausible. She had full, bow-shaped lips that might be good to kiss, if a man liked quarrelsome females. He did not. Luckily, the one-second image he'd had of kissing those lips wouldn't reappear in his head; he didn't know her, and the thought would never cross his mind.

  Again, anyway.

  * * *

  AFTER TWO HOURS, when he could tell that she had no plan to talk to him after the unpleasant way he was treating her, the big lug finally decided to break the silence.

  "I'll hold the baby now," he said, "if you want to cook the meal."

  "Can't refuse that offer." Auburn rose, curious to see what was "belowstairs" and what was in the attic. It wasn't going to be like dining at Delmonico's or even fast food, but surely he had some decent provisions put back.

  The belowstairs pantry was a wonderland, given she'd expected to find a few cobwebs and maybe some pickled pig's feet. He'd stocked up on glass jars of items he'd bought in town, which were all nicely labeled. She grabbed a jar of pickled asparagus and some applesauce, put it in the kitchen, and headed up to the attic by way of a small ladder. Okay, it wasn't shopping at the grocery, with everything in nice small chunks and wrapped in cellophane, but there was enough meat up here to last Dillinger through the winter. There was even some smoked salmon. She grabbed that and went back down the ladder, closing the loft after herself.

  "This won't be terrible," she told him. "Now all we need is some beer."

  "Ale?" He frowned. "Women do not drink."

  "This one does. Where's the stash? I didn't see that in the attic."

  He shook his head. "It's outside the back door in the barrel."

  She grabbed two mugs and went to fetch the "ale." It was bottled, she was surprised to see. Snatching up two bottles, she went inside and handed one to Dillinger, who accepted it with resignation.

  "I suppose I have nothing to hide," he said, "and no one to care, but I never thought I'd have house help that tipples."

  "If you want dinner, you'll leave me to drink mine in peace." It wasn't Corona with a lime, but it wasn't milk from old Bessie outside, either, so she opened it with pleasure. Then she turned her attention to figuring out Dillinger's kitchen, which was rudimentary to a woman who'd spent her life admiring copper pots and fancy stoves in gourmet kitchens. "Julia Child would have a fit," she murmured.

  Dillinger called, "Did you say something?"

  "No." Auburn decided to serve the asparagus and the applesauce cold. She cut some generous chunks of bread, laid the salmon on a white plate and slapped it all on the table. "Dinner is served."

  "That's it?"

  She shrugged. "Looks awesome to me."

  He wore an expression of disappointment.

  "I'll get better," she promised. "You said I have maybe a week of being stuck in this igloo to figure it out."

  "All right," he said grudgingly. "I can't imagine why your mother didn't teach you how to cook. All girls of marriageable age know how to prepare a proper meal. It's important on the range. Rose will know how to serve many dishes that will please her husband."

  "I'd take offense at that, but I'm too hungry." Auburn sat down at the table, said a fast grace, which seemed to surprise him, and dug in. Rose lay on a soft fur pallet a few feet away from the fireplace, where they could keep an eye on her and make sure she stayed warm.

  "What do you do around here for pleasure?" Auburn asked. "I'd go stark mad without a television or a radio to listen to."

  He frowned. "Don't know what that is, but as I said, I read a lot. I do some woodwork. I'll do a few house projects while the snow is high. It's a good time to do things I'm normally too busy on the ranch to get to."

  "But you have no family? No friends?" Auburn asked, biting into the dark brown bread. It wasn't San Francisco sourdough, but it wasn't bad, either.

  "No."

  "Do you not need human companionship?" Auburn thought no man could—or should—be an island, especially one who had to live in such outcast conditions.

  He drank his beer. Looked at her for a second, then said, "No."

  She shook her head. "Have any cards?"

  "Playing cards is—"

  "I'm sure it is. We're ten miles from civilization, and that would take a day by foot, probably."

  "Only a couple hours by buggy in the springtime," Dillinger said helpfully.

  "So I don't think anyone cares whe
ther we play cards, do you?"

  He put down his bread. "You're a very odd woman."

  "When you were in my century, I thought you were the oddest man I'd ever met."

  He seemed to consider that. "Back to your question about Christmas—"

  "We always had a turkey. I don't think I'm too much on meat pies," she said.

  He had no comment, so they ate in silence. It wasn't bad as far as food went, better than McDonald's or Lean Cuisine, and yet not Wolfgang Puck.

  "I'm going out for a while," Dillinger said, "before the light fades, which it will do early. Will you be all right with Rose?"

  "Of course," Auburn said, not exactly unhappy about a chance to snoop around his house without him watching her like a hawk. He probably had to check on his cattle—he'd mentioned he had some—or whatever else needed to be tended to on a ranch. "We'll be fine."

  "Good." He stood, put down his cloth napkin on the table. "Thank you for the meal. It was nice to have…to have."

  He'd been going to say have one prepared for me, but stopped himself. She wondered why. "You're welcome. Thank you for sharing your food. It was surprisingly good."

  He blinked. Then nodded, wrapped himself in his coat and a scarf and a well-worn western hat, grabbed his rifle and left. Auburn cleaned the kitchen, carefully going through the cabinets and drawers to see what utensils he had that she could use to better cook the next meal. She checked on Rose constantly, her ear tuned for the slightest noise, but the baby seemed happy for the moment.

  Auburn couldn't restrain herself another second.

  She crept over to the writing desk, hoping Dillinger didn't look through any of the windows and see her, because he'd never stop harping about her being a thief if he did. Polly's earring lay there; she wondered where the other earring was. She was dying to pick it up, but was afraid to—she'd been holding one of the earrings when she'd seen this house, and Dillinger. He hadn't always been a lonely man. Once upon a time he'd been a very happy husband.

  A framed charcoal drawing of a beautiful woman sat near the earring. With trepidation, Auburn picked it up, knowing she was looking at Polly. She'd seen her in the vision she'd had; this was a pretty true rendering.

  "You must have loved him so much," she told the drawing. Obviously Polly had or she wouldn't still be trying to help him. That was the only conclusion Auburn could come to—Polly knew how lonely her husband had to be. It made sense. There was a baby now in his life, and a woman…. "Although he treats me like house help," Auburn said, "so I don't know if that's what you had in mind or not. But I hate to tell you, girlfriend, I'm not going to be able to stay here. It's too different. I'm a city girl, born and bred. You'll need a replacement when I figure out how to get back home. Not that he doesn't have his really fine points, but if you were looking for someone for him to hang out with, I'm not your girl."

  She put the picture back down, glanced out the window. Nervousness crept over her as she saw the darkening sky. Surely Dillinger wouldn't leave her here alone after dark. She was okay with a few daylight hours of solitude, but really she wasn't made for nighttime seclusion in these unknown surroundings.

  "He doesn't have enough beer for me to hold out in this fort for an entire winter," she softly told the sleeping Rose. "So if I can't figure out how to get home, we're going to have to convince him to start a home microbrewery."

  Suddenly a gunshot rang out, the echo reverberating from the surrounding forest. Auburn jumped to the window, tried to peer through the darkness. She couldn't see anything past the frost on the panes. "Oh, no, please, no," she murmured, panic spreading through her. He said he had no friends, said he was a reformed gunslinger. He had enemies. What if someone had shot him? What if he'd accidentally shot himself? What if he was out there somewhere, bleeding in the snow, freezing to death in the forest that surrounded the ranch except for the road he'd cleared to town?

  "What if I'm stuck in this century forever by myself with an abandoned baby?" she said with a gasp, feeling herself hyperventilate, wondering if Dillinger had a paper bag somewhere. Did they make paper bags in 1892? Should she shove her head between her knees or was that for a bloody nose?

  She heard footsteps and the sound of boots scraping on the porch. Surely that was Dillinger! Did she dare open the door? Were there bandits out here, or even hungry Indians, like she'd read about in books? Every Native American she'd ever met had been warm and friendly, but this was 1892; wasn't this the century of Jesse James and the Dalton Gang and anyone who wanted to settle a score with a gun?

  She grabbed a frying pan for protection and waited breathlessly at the door. It suddenly burst open and a dripping, bloody mess of feathers was thrust in her face.

  Auburn screamed.

  Dillinger looked at her over the bird's feet. "Here," he said gruffly, "this is for you."

  Auburn stared at the huge dead bird, realizing Dillinger was making some kind of peace offering. "Oh, you shouldn't have!" she exclaimed, her heart thundering. And I really mean that!

  "You won't want the frying pan for a turkey," he said in a patient tone. "We can roast it in the stove once you've plucked the feathers, and eat it for an early Christmas meal."

  "I—Pluck?" She put a hand over her jumping heart. She didn't even pluck her own eyebrows; the nice, efficient cosmetician at Elizabeth Arden Red Door Spa took care of waxing and plucking and all that jazz.

  He gestured with the bird, indicating she should take his trophy. "Oh, my," she said, feeling squeamish. "Dillinger, if you don't mind, uh—"

  "You don't know how to clean a turkey, do you?" He regarded her sorrowfully, disappointment clearly etched in his face.

  She shook her head, trying not to be sick at the smell of dead wild turkey.

  He sighed. "All right," he said. "You're more of a princess than help, but I suppose you're doing a pretty good job of taking care of Rose."

  "Thank you for the turkey," she said in her meekest voice, not wanting to hurt his feelings. Clearly, he'd tried to please her, but darn it, dead bird just wasn't a rose-topped box of Godiva.

  He nodded and disappeared with his prize. She could hear him crunching through the snow at the side of the house, heading toward the back, where he would now do heaven only knew what to that poor turkey. Rose awakened then, so Auburn went to get her and to figure out how to manage the double-ended banana-shaped glass bottle that served as the early precursor to Playtex plastic bottles.

  "Come on, goddess of time travelers, send me back home," Auburn murmured, relaxing at the comforting scent of baby as she held Rose and made the bottle.

  And that's when it hit her: a kiss had brought her here.

  A kiss might send her back.

  She had to figure out a way to get that cowboy to kiss her, although he'd sworn never to do it, swore he'd never done it in the first place.

  But maybe a man who brought a woman a wild turkey had kissing on his mind.

  Maybe.

  Chapter Ten

  After he finished cleaning the turkey and putting it away in the cold room, Dillinger went inside to find Auburn and Rose. They were on the fur rug together, staring up at the ceiling.

  Auburn sat up. "It's a lovely turkey," she told him.

  He shook his head at her squeamish expression. "You've never seen fresh game before, have you?"

  "No, I haven't."

  He sat down at the table, pulled out a knife and began whittling a block of wood.

  "Tell me again how I ended up in the future with you." He couldn't quite believe her crazy story, but it was becoming quite obvious to him that this woman who could neither cook nor fend for herself on a range, and who dressed in clothes he'd never even seen on a beggar, although she seemed quite well fed and happy, wasn't from anyplace he'd been. He was reasonably well traveled, having spent much time on cattle drives across the States, and also taking a few trips to England and to Scotland to look at hardy cattle.

  Auburn was like no one he'd ever met.