by Kit Morgan
Recipe for Christmas
Christmas in Cutter’s Creek
Kit Morgan
Angel Creek Press
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
About the Author
Also by Kit Morgan
Copyright © 2016 by Kit Morgan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover art by Killian Group, Kit Morgan and Hot Damn Designs
Chapter 1
Cutter’s Creek, Montana Territory, December 1866
Eldon Judrow was a patient man, but a poor one. So when the War Between the States ended, he’d gone back to bounty hunting, his pre-war occupation. But his work was a cover – and supplied meager funds – for a higher priority: finding his missing brother Lucius.
He and Lucius hadn’t seen each other since they’d fought in the Battle of Chattanooga three years ago. He’d obtained several reports on his brother’s whereabouts, which had led him on some merry chases, as if Providence didn’t want him to succeed – or keep money in his pockets. So when a fellow down-on-his-luck former soldier suggested they go west in search of gold, he jumped at it. Even though there was risk of further destitution, he was willing to take the chance.
A year and three goodly gold strikes later, he was glad he had.
Eldon was unaccustomed to having money, but quickly learned one could do a lot of good with it if handled properly. This was handy when hunting information – especially when the United States government didn’t want to cough up any. The government was seeking bounty hunters to find war criminals, men they didn’t care about being brought back dead or alive, and good ones like Lucius and Eldon were rare. But they’d have nothing to do with the two brothers, both ex-Confederate soldiers.
He had found other sources, though, and they’d come through. Lucius had gotten married and settled in a town called Cutter’s Creek in Montana Territory, where he served as a lawman – a much quieter job than his previous one. Frontier towns tended to be less picky about a man’s background, so Lucius’ Rebel history meant little there. But had married life changed his little brother, or would he be the same ol’ Lucius?
A better question was, what would Lucius think of him? He had changed a lot – from his newly-trimmed hair and clean-shaven face (he’d sported a long bushy beard for years as a bounty hunter) to his choice of drink, mint tea instead of rotgut whisky. He even smelled nicer these days.
But the big change that got folks’ attention was the size of his bank account. Not only did they congratulate him on striking it rich, but they treated him differently, some grotesquely so. He half-expected some old acquaintances to fall begging at his feet, and others to rob him blind. How, he wondered, would Lucius act?
He entered the town and headed straight for the sheriff’s office, dismounted and tied his horse to a hitching post in front. He took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair and stepped onto the boardwalk. After a deep breath, he entered the small building.
The office was empty.
“Now don’t this just figure?” he muttered, hands on hips. “I travel all this way, little brother, and you’re not here.”
“Howdy,” a voice called from the other side of a half-open door.
Eldon walked over and gave the door a shove. Two cells occupied the back room, one of them empty. The other held a short, pudgy man with a few days’ growth of whiskers. “Hello. You wouldn’t happen to know where the sheriff’s got to?”
“Nope. ‘Fraid not.”
“Hmm. Know when he’ll be back?”
The man’s brow puckered in thought. “Uh, nope. He don’t tell me nothin’.”
Eldon studied him a moment. “What’re you in for?”
The man smiled. “Sheriff says disturbin’ the peace. I say it’s for havin’ a good time.”
Eldon smiled at that. “What about the deputy?”
“Lucius? He oughta be back any minute with my lunch.”
Eldon’s heart skipped a beat. “Fine. I’ll wait.”
“Here? Ya know ya ain’t supposed to be back here. Lucius is gonna bust a gut if he catches ya.”
“Good. Let him catch me.”
The prisoner eyed him suspiciously. “What’s yer name, mister?”
“Judrow. What’s yours?”
The man stared at him. “Albert Dunst.” He stared at him some more. “Slap me silly! Ya must be family. Ya even look like him!”
Eldon smiled again. “So I’ve been told. I’ll wait up front.”
He’d no sooner turned around when the door up front opened and in walked Lucius. “I got ya a ham sandwich, Albert and some apple pie. If we got time we can have a game of checkers …,” he stopped up short and almost dropped the plate in his hand. His jaw dropping like a brick.
“Hello little brother.”
Lucius’s jaw dropped even further. “Eldon?!” he squeaked.
“Lucius …”
Before he could say anything more, Lucius launched at him, almost knocking Eldon over in the process. A wail from Albert mixed with the sounds of the brothers talking at once filled the room
“Where have you been? How did you find me?” Lucius asked then stopped and looked down. The plate he’d been holding was now smashed between them, Albert’s sandwich and apple pie plastered to his vest. He took a step back. The plate hit the wood floor and shattered as the sandwich and pie stuck for a second before landing amongst the shards with a plop. Lucius glanced between the mess, Eldon, and his prisoner. “Sorry, Albert.”
“Not as sorry as I am,” Albert huffed, stepped back and sat on the cot behind him. He glanced at the two brothers, still frozen in place. “Ah go ahead and say your hello’s. But I want another sandwich when you’re done!”
Lucius laughed. “Sure.” He took another step back and studied Eldon. “Where did you come from?”
“Maybe you’d better fetch your prisoner another sandwich, then I’ll tell you. But first I want to here about this wife of yours.”
Lucius smiled. “Ya heard about that, eh?” He then looked him up and down, even reached out and touched the sleeve of Eldon’s jacket. “That’s a right fine coat ya got there brother. Life must be treatin’ ya good.”
“Yes, I’ve done all right. Now about that sandwich? I wouldn’t mind one myself.”
“Of course, follow me. The café’s just down the street.” He turned, brushing crumbs from his shirt and vest. Eldon followed. They’d worry about the mess when they got back.
“And don’t forget the pie!” Albert called after them.
“Mother! My necklace is missing! I’ve been robbed!”
Amara Bridger sat hunched over the mending. “I doubt that, Olivia. You’ve probably just misplaced it.”
Olivia’s green eyes flashed and she stomped her foot like a child. “I did not misplace it! It’s been stolen!”
Her mother, used to her daughter’s rants, continued to focus on the mending. She had only herself to blame. Olivia was twelve years old when the Bridgers had their second child, a son. Thinking they’d only have one, they’d spoiled
Olivia rotten – and rotten she’d become. “Who will you blame this time? Your brother wouldn’t want your necklace.”
“Of course he wouldn’t,” Olivia snapped, tucking a lock of red hair behind her ear. “It was that shrew.”
Mrs. Bridger sighed wearily. “Agatha doesn’t wear jewelry.”
“She doesn’t own jewelry,” Olivia pointed out. “That’s why she took it.”
“Look through your things once more before you blame Agatha again. Last week it was your shoes, the week before that your hairpins. All of which you found right where you’d left them. I think your memory’s slipping.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my memory. That little shrew takes things, then puts them back again. She’s addled, Mother – I don’t know why we keep her.”
“Because if we didn’t, you would be doing all the work,” Mrs. Bridger pointed out. “Agatha has been a great help since we took her in, and I like having her around.”
Olivia pouted. “Well, then I suppose I’ll have to put up with her. At least I don’t have to cook or do laundry or dishes or mending anymore.” She looked at the socks on her mother’s lap. “Why are you mending those anyway? Why not give them to the Shrew?”
“Will you stop calling her that?” her mother lamented.
“What’s wrong with it? It’s short for Shrewsbury. I think it’s a fine nickname – for a servant.” Olivia turned to leave the room.
“Agatha is a beneficiary of our Christian charity. She’s hardly a servant.”
Olivia turned back and laughed. “She’s a servant and I like her that way – and so do you!” She left the parlor and headed down the short hall to her room.
The house they rented wasn’t so small they were on top of each other, but not big enough for Olivia to have her own room. She had to share it with Agatha, a girl they’d picked up along the road like a stray dog. The Bridgers, looking for a place to settle, had stayed in Oregon for a time before heading eastward. If they didn’t like Montana Territory, they’d head south again. So far, the town of Cutter’s Creek suited them.
Olivia did like to brag that they had a servant, but Agatha, while a good cook, was slow in the head. What was Olivia to do? Only last week she’d complained to kindly Mrs. Petroff at the mercantile, but all she got was a blank stare. Maybe no one in Cutter’s Creek owned … er, had a servant. But Olivia did, which made her feel quite superior. Why shouldn’t she have one? She deserved it in her spinsterhood. At twenty-five she wasn’t exactly blooming. If she couldn’t have a husband, she’d do with a slave instead.
Speaking of which … “Agatha! Are you done ironing my petticoats yet?”
Agatha, a raven-haired dark-eyed wretch whom her mother liked to call “Aggie,” looked up from her work and nodded. “This is the last one.”
“Good. When you’re done with that you can iron my dresses. All my dresses.”
Agatha’s face went white. “All of them? That will take hours!”
“So. You’re not going anywhere, are you?”
Aggie closed her eyes for a moment. Olivia thought she’d have a fight on her hands. But it wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle. Every time Aggie put up a fuss over her workload, she simply pointed out she’d be nothing without the Bridgers, and should be grateful they let her stay with them at all.
Aggie opened her eyes. “I’ll start right away.”
“Sensible girl. I’m sure Mother will want hers ironed as well.”
Aggie didn’t say a word. Olivia noted Aggie’s downcast face and smiled at a job well done. Once again she’d squashed the girl’s spirit. She was younger than Olivia – she couldn’t remember her exact age, but she had plenty of work left in her. Olivia wouldn’t have to do anything so long as Aggie was around, and she planned to keep it that way.
Olivia walked to the clothes cupboard, pulled out as many dresses as she could manage and tossed them on the bed next to her. She wanted to laugh but feared her mother might hear. Of course, Mrs. Bridger usually treated the girl no better than Olivia did. Defending her occasionally probably made her feel less guilty about the mistreatment heaped on her. Not so Olivia. “Get back to work, Shrew.”
Aggie’s eyes flashed.
Olivia narrowed hers and gritted her teeth. “No work, no food.”
Aggie swallowed hard and picked up the iron. A plank placed on a chair in front of her served as an ironing board. Olivia smiled in triumph, spun on her heel and marched out.
Not until she left did Aggie let her tears fall.
Chapter 2
It took Aggie the rest of the day and part of the next to iron all the dresses Olivia had tossed at her. If that had been her only chore, she’d have finished in a few hours, but she also had the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry and whatever mending Mrs. Bridger had left undone.
Aggie knew her life was horrible. How she’d gone from being a rescued orphan to a lowly servant, she had no idea. The Bridger family had made her dependent on them for everything: food, clothing, shelter. Granted, without their help she wasn’t sure what would’ve become of her – perhaps starving, or working in a house of ill repute to survive.
At times, however, starving to death held a certain appeal. Especially on days like yesterday, when Olivia was in a particularly nasty mood. If the girl had a whip, Aggie had no doubt she’d use it on her with unrestrained glee.
Aggie had been fourteen when the Bridgers found her on the side of the road, still holding the broken hand shovel she’d used to dig her parents’ graves. They’d run out of food while her parents lay dying from influenza in the back of a cold wagon, having failed to catch up with their wagon train after stopping to have one of the wheels repaired. That was when her mother fell ill, and her father soon after. She knew the others were several days ahead, but even though she was falling ill herself, she thought she could still catch up. Until another wagon wheel busted, and that was that.
Things could have been worse, she reasoned. Though admittedly, not much.
“Is supper ready yet?” Jonathan Bridger asked as he entered the tiny kitchen. He was thirteen going on fourteen, barely half Olivia’s age and the only decent member of the family. He didn’t demand things the way his sister and mother did, nor constantly complain like his father. He even snuck her food when the Bridger women decided she “didn’t deserve to eat” that day. Thanksgiving, for instance, was a nightmare – but thanks to Jonathan, at least she got a dinner roll and a few turkey scraps.
“Almost,” she told him as she stirred the soup. “I’m about to take the biscuits out of the oven. You’d best tell the others.”
He shoved his reddish-brown hair out of his green eyes and watched her cook. Sometimes she’d catch him staring at her with compassion on his face, which he quickly hid when his mother or sister entered. He had that look now.
“Jonathan!” Olivia screeched from the parlor. “Tell Aggie to hurry it up!”
Jonathan sighed. “You heard her.”
“I think the whole town heard her.”
Jonathan snorted. “I think so too.”
Aggie set the ladle aside, took the biscuits out of the oven and set them on the worktable. “Do you need something, Jonathan?”
“Why do you stay?”
She froze at the question, her eyes darting to the parlor and back. “Because I have nowhere else to go. No money either.”
Jonathan’s eyes widened. “No money?”
Aggie waved at him to keep his voice down. “You know I don’t.”
He shook his head. “Olivia said Ma and Pa were paying you.”
Now her eyes went wide. “No. They don’t.”
He swallowed hard and looked away, ashamed. “I’m sorry, Aggie. I had no idea. I know my sister’s a shrew. I don’t know why she calls you one.”
“Because of my name – Shrewsbury.”
“You ought to leave while we’re wintering here. Find yourself a job or a husband.”
Her eyes misted with tears, then clouded in determi
nation. Good grief, why didn’t she? They’d be in Cutter’s Creek for months. Surely she could find respectable work somewhere! A husband, probably not, but work …
“Jonathan!”
He rolled his eyes and turned toward the parlor. “It’s ready!”
“About time!”
Jonathan turned back to Aggie. “Do it. You deserve better than … us.”
Aggie smiled. “Thank you. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”
“Hard to when folks tell you you’re nothing.”
Her eyes dropped to the floor. He was right. How had she let that happen? “I’ll start looking tomorrow.”
He smiled. “Good. I’ll miss you, Aggie, but you need to get away. From them.”
She nodded. Jonathan was right. If she didn’t leave, Olivia and her mother would grind her to dust.
“Gold?” Lucius exclaimed and quickly lowered his voice. He was on duty, which limited him to eating at the café. “I can’t believe it! Where did you make strikes like that?”
Eldon had just told his brother of his new-found wealth. Yesterday had been spent resting at the boarding house and listening to Lucius’ story of finding matrimony. “A place called Angels Camp. I didn’t think we’d find anything, but I guess the Lord was watching over us.”
“Us?”
“My partner Joseph Houston and me. We fought together in the war.”
Lucius nodded sadly. “Count yourselves lucky you both survived. A lot of men we knew didn’t.”
“I know. I thought you hadn’t. Other folks thought the same.”
“Those other people were sadly misinformed.” Lucius smiled. “I’m glad you didn’t believe them.”
“So am I.” Eldon reached across the table and gave Lucius’ hand a squeeze. “So tell me more about your wife.”
“Emma?” Lucia said with a raised eyebrow. “She’s a pistol, that’s for sure.”
“Can she handle you?”
“Shucks, all she has to do is bake something. I can barely handle her.”