A Christmas Cowboy to Keep

by Hebby Roman

  He looked at the letter to Santa once more. It hadn’t sealed very well so he carefully eased up the rest of the flap. What would happen to the letter anyway if he re-mailed it?

  Deer Santa,

  How ar you? I am fine. I no you ar getting reddy for Xmas next month and ar very bizy. Also you ar getting lots of rekwests for toys which must cost alot. I am sorree to add to yur list but I don’t want any toys. What I would like is to go home to New York. Mommy dident like it there but I did, and Anuty Cat, who is not reely my anut Mommy sez, sed we shud go to Wyo Ming becuz an imported uncel gave it to us. Plees help me go home.

  Yur frend, TIMOTHY MATHESON

  Tate strolled down the hall to his office, fell into the desk chair, and tossed the letters on top of a pile that awaited his attention. He rocked back in the chair, laughing to himself about both the letter and the get-up that woman had worn—obviously not a fashionista like Steph, that was certain. Not the sort of girl to make Steph jealous, that was also a given, but then why should he care about that? Outside the window, he could see his top hand Ben saddle up the young Grulla they had decided to train as a cutting horse, the sky off in the distance cast in a gunmetal grey to threaten more snow. In his mind’s eye he saw the woman once more, Carrie, in her ridiculous outfit, her nervousness or momentary embarrassment, her big green eyes, her cheeky smile when she called him, ‘Scrooge.’ Hmmm.

  He slipped Timothy’s letter back from the pile and skimmed it again. If he brought it into the Post Office, would they answer it? And how would they answer it? How do you tell a little boy who wants to go “back to New York” or “go home” that his mother has made a decision that apparently she believes for the best. Well, maybe he could do a better job explaining all that than some over-stretched postal worker could, if the letter found its way there.

  Maybe not.

  But then again, maybe.

  * * *

  Carrie held her face up to the streams of hot water. She let her tensions go as she washed away her grime. She wished she could wash away the memory of her encounter with her neighbor rancher, Scrooge, Shrug, Screwy, whatever the heck his name was. She never expected that dropping off some letters could prove to be such an embarrassing experience, nor that she’d have a neighbor with a jawline chiseled out of Mount Rushmore stone and eyes like the Wyoming sky. Phew...hang on. Is that guy married or single? What did Grayson have in mind when he told me to go introduce myself? Anything? Surely not.

  She pulled her clothes on, grabbed a coffee, and settled down at the battered desk in what had been her uncle’s office. There were three manuscripts on her computer waiting to be edited, and she checked her work list and calendar to see which one to start, then opened it. Outside, the breeze kept the branches of a pine tapping at her window like some Morse code message. Carrie knew she should be learning about the ranch, showing Grayson and the two hands she cared about the place, but she was committed to this work now and had to meet deadlines—plus she felt she could count on the men. The lawyer had said Grayson had worked for her uncle for over twenty years, and she was sure that meant he was dependable.

  Twenty years? Neither man married? Uh...surely not?

  Now her mind started wandering back to Tate, to her uncle, to any place except work...and then suddenly she remembered Tim’s letter to Santa. Oh My Gosh! What the heck did I do with the letter to Santa? No, please tell me it wasn’t in the pile I gave to Scrooge!

  She scraped out her chair from the desk and stood, then sat, then stood again. Check the mail box, maybe I’ve left it there, that’s the first thing.

  Yanking a coat from her closet, she was halfway down her lane when she saw the mail van pull up and the postal worker reach into her box.

  “Wait! Wait!” she squawked, one arm in and one arm out of her coat. “Is there a letter for Santa there?”

  The pinched face of the letter carrier stared back at her from the window of the van, as if he were framed for a not too flattering portrait. “Santa?”

  “Yes, you know Santa. Big belly, white beard, red outfit?”

  “Ma’am,” he drawled. “I don’t look at the mail, I only deliver it. Or collect it from the boxes.”

  “Exactly. And my son wrote to Santa and I want to know if his letter is in your collection.”

  The young man stared down at something at his feet, his bag she guessed.

  “The letters I collected are in the bag now. I can’t go looking through them all. But I don’t recollect taking anything out of your box, only leaving some things there for you.”

  Carrie slumped. She watched as the van pulled away, then turned and plucked the letters out of the box for the second time that day.

  Please tell me I didn’t give it to Scrooge. Now I have to go ask for it back? Maybe he already put it in his box for the Post Office to deal with? Yes! Post Office first! At least let them know to look out for it!

  Back at the house, she gathered up her car keys, pulled on some gloves and a pompom hat, and headed out.

  Cars sped by her, they passed her as if she were crawling when the two lane highway narrowed into one. A woman on a mission, she drove along when she spotted the flashing lights of the sheriff’s car in her rear-view mirror.

  He tooted her and passed, motioned for her to pull over. Can this day get any worse? Really?

  Sitting as calm and demure as she could, she rolled down her window when she saw the patrolman get out of his car with all the time in the world and saunter over to her. He removed a pair of dark glasses and bent into the window.

  “Guess I know where the expression a New York minute comes from now, huh?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Carrie tried to keep her voice in an even tone, certain there was no point in getting crotchety with the man.

  “You were doing fifty in a forty mile per hour zone. We don’t take kindly to speeding here in Wyoming. Maybe that’s okay in New York—”

  Carrie’s mouth hung open while she deeply regretted not having re-registered her car with its yellow Empire State plates. She felt the patrolman’s eyes on her, sizing her up. “People were passing me!”

  “Well now, I didn’t see anyone pass you. Registration and license please.”

  Still feeling as if she were catching flies, she fumbled in her bag for her license and started to search for the registration.

  “You’re a long way from home,” the patrolman said mildly.

  “No, no I’m not, in fact. I have a ranch here. The Lazy M? I’ve just moved in.”

  “Well....”

  At that moment, there was the honk of another car. Carrie could see, in her rearview mirror, a good-sized pickup pull in behind her.

  “Hey Grange!” ‘Scrooge’ stuck his head out his window but sent a winning smile in the direction of Carrie’s car.

  She watched as the officer strolled over to chat with her neighbor, bending down to his window for a confab. She could just pick up part of what they said.

  “Long time no see…how’s Katy doing and the new baby?...been working pretty hard....”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. Are you two going to shoot the bull all day?

  “Looks like you got my new neighbor...yeah, well, she’ll settle in...do me a favor.”

  Incensed at the time they were taking, Carrie got out of her car and stomped over, her pompom flapping down over one eye. “If you’re going to ticket me....” She flicked the apex of her hat out of her sight and held out the license, which the officer took with a sheepish smile on his face.

  “Carole Anne Matheson,” he read. “I’ll let you off with a warning this time. You take things a bit slower, Miss New York. We’d hate to see you get hurt.” With that, he handed the license back, tapped his hat, nodded to Tate, and headed back to the patrol car.

  Carrie stood watching him go, feeling Tate’s eyes on her. “I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

  “Well. A simple thank-you will do. Carole.” He looked rather s
mug but she realized her heart was jumping out of her chest at the sight of him in his Stetson, and those sapphire eyes that peered up at her.

  “Please don’t call me that. I hate it.”

  “Well, let’s make a deal: you don’t call me Scrooge, I don’t call you Carole. How’s that?”

  “Fine. I don’t suppose you found a letter to Santa in among the letters I brought over earlier today?”

  Tate pulled back in and faced the road. “I may have.”

  “Can I have it back? Pretty please?”

  Tate leaned back, a pensive look on his face. “Too late,” he said at last. “Post Office collected it.” He lifted a brow, and stared up at her.

  “Ah, well.”

  “I’m sure Santa will get it. And answer. What did you ask for?” He bit his lips as if he were trying to stop himself from laughing.

  “Very funny,” she replied. “My son wrote it and I have no idea what he asked for.”

  Tate tapped the wheel. “Well. I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

  “Ya. Thanks.” She started back to her car.

  “Hey, wait a minute.”

  Carrie pivoted back toward him.

  “You owe me one, don’t you?”

  “I owe you?”

  “As in dinner maybe? For getting you off that speeding ticket. I’ll collect you Saturday. Eight. How’s that?”

  The day was just beginning to look a whole lot better.

  * * *

  Tate found parking right by the Post Office, thankful for it being the end of October when the summer crowd had disappeared and the skiers not yet arrived. But he knew after that set had enjoyed Thanksgiving with their families, they’d be packing up and flying in, and the traffic would take up again.

  He sat in his pickup, the letter back to Tim Matheson from ‘Santa’ in his hand, and wondered whether he had done the right thing. It was not too late—he could just rip it up and turn around, go home, but the boy’s plea to go back to New York had really hit hard. He loved it here, this was his home, and he thought it would be the best place in the world to bring up a child. 4H. Future Farmers of America. Junior rodeo. Not that he hadn’t got up to some wild adventures in his youth. He certainly hadn’t been a goody-goody. His old truck’s dashboard had seen its share of tanned legs out by the Snake River turn-out, and he’d been run off ranches by doting fathers for spending too much time in the cab with their daughters.

  He swung out, strode up the steps of the boardwalk to the Post Office, and shoved open the door. Luckily, no one else was in at the moment so he continued up to one of the grilles and flapped the letter against it.

  “I’m standing right here. What can I do for you, son?” The elderly postal worker grimaced at Tate. His blue vest looked ill-fitting on his thin figure and Tate felt like suggesting the man have a shave, but would never be so rude.

  “I’m not quite sure where to start—”

  “The beginning is always a good place.”

  “Yeah. See, by mistake, I got a letter for Santa Claus written by the Matheson boy over at the Lazy M ranch on route twenty-two.”

  “Just hand it in and we’ll deal with it.” The old man started to lift the grille.

  “I’ve answered it.”

  The postal worker looked startled. “You’ve answered it?”

  “I’ve answered it.”

  The other man blew out a breath from puffed cheeks. “Well, hand it over and we’ll take your answer back to the Lazy M. Or, of course, you could drop it there yourself as I suspect you haven’t stamped it.”

  Tate smiled. “I have stamped it actually.”

  The older man gawked at him a long moment. “So what’s the problem exactly?”

  “It’s not a problem. It’s just, I wondered, if it’s possible, if he writes again could you make sure I get it?”

  “Well, heck, you want all the letters to Santa from hereabouts?”

  Tate’s jaw dropped. “Gosh, no thanks! Just the ones from the Matheson boy—if there are more. He may not write again, but if he does....”

  Another breath puffed out the man’s cheeks. “Well. I’ll have to talk to the mail carrier on your route and see if he can just snatch them out of the mailbox when the flag is up—assuming, of course, the boy leaves them there. If they’re mailed in town it’ll be too difficult. We can’t have our workers sorting mail and looking for one specific letter to Santa.”

  “What normally happens to the Santa letters?”

  “Oh. Depends. Generally, they get put in another envelope and sent back addressed to the parents if the parents haven’t included a response with the letter for us to send to the child. Sometimes we run Operation Santa where local citizens can inherit a letter, so to speak, and either grant the wish or at least answer it. Sometimes someone here will take it into their head to answer one, but I don’t know really. It’s all a tricky business with keeping children safe these days as well. You say you got that letter by mistake?”

  “Well, obviously! It was stuck in with a bunch of letters addressed to me delivered to the Lazy M box. Quite a mix-up.”

  The old man sighed. “That’s Harvey. He’s having a bad week all round. His favorite hunting dog passed on.”

  Tate gazed through the grille not knowing quite how to respond. “Well. I’m sorry to hear that.” He hesitated. “Is there a North Pole postmark? Kid might notice the local postmark and get smart about it.”

  “If you use a holiday stamp, we postmark ‘Happy Holidays’. That’ll have to do.” He glanced through the grille at the stamp on the envelope. “Last year’s Christmas stamp I see.”

  “I’m afraid email is the preferred method of communication these days.” Tate grimaced.

  “Either that or you don’t send many Christmas cards.” The old man eyeballed Tate. “Well, I can make sure this one gets the holiday postmark. If you do it again, try to get current Christmas stamps, will you?”

  “Thanks, much appreciated.”

  “Yeah. And I’m sorry about your mail. So look, you give me that Santa letter and I’ll try to get Harvey to concentrate on the job, and if he finds any more letters to Santa—from the Matheson boy only—I’ll have him drop them off at your place.” He took the letter from Tate and flipped it over. “Right next door.” His papery hand swept across his grizzled face. “Funny thing, that. Having Scrooge pretend to be Santa.”

  Chapter Three

  “That was the worst day of my life and I’m never going back to that school.” Tim Matheson swung his backpack onto the kitchen table and gave his mother a face that could stop a locomotive. “I hate you!” he added for good measure.

  “Well, I don’t hate you so tell me what happened. What made your day so awful?”

  “That sheet, that costume. The Halloween party was terrible. Everyone laughed at my costume, and no one understood why it was Christmas Past.”

  “Did the teacher explain?”

  “Yes. She said it was a very famous book and now she’s started to read it to us and everyone hates me because it’s so boring.”

  He stood with his hangdog expression that beseeched his mother, searching her face, wanting an answer as to how she could do this to him—or so she thought—her only son.

  Carrie patted him with what she hoped was appeasement.

  “Can I have my milk and cookies, please?”

  Carrie got out the milk, poured a glass, and gave her son several cookies on a plate as he screeched out a chair at the kitchen table and slid onto it. She sat down opposite him.

  “It seems that the teacher appreciated your costume.”

  “Who cares about the teacher?” Tim snarled reasonably. “Everyone hates me.” He rested his head in his hand as he nibbled a cookie with solemnity. “Why do we have to live here? It’s cold and yucky and nobody likes me.”

  “Tim, listen. This really is a beautiful place and one day you’ll see what a good life it is here. You’ll make friends. Reme
mber when you started school in New York—kindergarten—and how frightened you were? Yet, within a few weeks you were having a great time and had made a load of friends. Just give it time. You said you liked this boy Davy. Do you want to invite him over? Maybe he’d like to see the ranch.”

  “He lives on a ranch! He has a pony!”

  “Oh.” Carrie rested her own chin in her hand mirroring her son. “Well—”

  Grayson knuckled the back door and stuck his head in. “Sorry to interrupt. We got the cows down and a couple were caught in mud up by Craigie Creek. Think we might have foot rot. Wanna come out and see?”

  “Oh, can we?” Tim’s eyes were wide with excitement.

  Carrie leaned across to her son. “You want to see foot rot?”

  “Do I get to ride?”

  Carrie drooped.

  Grayson came in and glanced at the excited boy. “I can put him up in front of me if it’s all right with you. I’ll saddle Daisy for you, if you want.” He stood for a moment, as his grizzled face studied her and he waited for an answer. “Good idea for him to start learning.”

  “Okay.” Carrie pushed back from the table. “Let’s go.”

  As they rode out, Carrie was surprised at how gentle Grayson was with her son. He looked like he knew how to handle a young boy, as if he’d had a boy up there in front of him before.

  “You ever marry, Grayson? I don’t know much about you except that my uncle’s will said I had to keep you on and wouldn’t regret it.”

  “Nope. Never married. Guess I never met the right woman, or at least not one as would take me on.” He glanced across at her. “So your uncle made you keep me, huh?”

  “You worked for him for twenty years. I guess you’d know him better than I.”

  Grayson kept his eyes ahead. “I guess I knew him pretty well.” His head swiveled as if it were on a turnstile. “Oh, heck. You’re not thinking...you’re not thinking....” He roared out a laugh. “No, no, it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like that at all. Your uncle had a great love, a woman, but she was married and wouldn’t get a divorce.”

  “Really?! This is interesting. Who was she?”