Hang Your Heart on Christmas: A Clean & Inspirational Western Historical Romance (The Brides of Evergreen Book 1)

by Heather Blanton

  “The one at the train station was the first in a while, but I still feel so ... threatened. I was afraid I would be waiting on you at the school and I didn’t want to be alone. Something that never bothered me before ...” she trailed off, sad over the loss of the spirited, confident woman she used to be. Oh, yes, she was a bookworm, but she’d been a happy one. Alone but not lonely; quiet but not timid. She took off her glasses and cleaned them with her skirt, merely for something to do.

  “Doctor Phillips’s prognosis is very good for you, Amy.” Gray tufts of hair, loosened from her bun, swirled around her forehead. Smiling, she tried tucking a hair back in place, as her faded green eyes, keen with compassion, met Amy’s. “He said you’re quite resilient.”

  Amy couldn’t help but return the smile, though hers felt weak and shaky.

  “You will heal from this, dear. I can’t think of a better town for rejuvenation.”

  Amy hoped so. “The children, I think, may help me more than anything. I feel so ... at peace with them. Their joy and their innocence, it’s like they’re healing me.”

  She expected a doubtful expression from Susan. Instead, the woman’s smile widened, lifting her chubby cheeks. “Well, they are a blessing from the Lord,” she winked at Amy “Reckon that means they’re medicine, too.”

  They rode on in silence for a moment before Susan broached another subject. “The mayor was surprised to hear you’d arrived early, and wanted to host a dinner for you tonight. Henry persuaded him to postpone it for a bit. I hope that was a wise decision.”

  “Oh, you have no idea how wise.” The mere mention of a dinner with strangers, all staring at her, asking questions about things back in Ohio, made Amy want to crawl under a rock. “I’d prefer to put that off for as long as possible.”

  “I can understand. Also, the town normally hosts a party to celebrate the new teacher. I hope we didn’t overstep our bounds, but we suggested they combine that with the harvest festival. Henry believes in a month you’ll be so comfortable in Evergreen, you’ll be singing and dancing like nothing—” she stopped mid-sentence.

  Amy heard the unfinished thought. “Like nothing ever happened? I hope you’re right. I’d like to be myself again, and quit jumping at shadows.”

  Susan reached over and took Amy’s hand. “You will. God will heal you … in His time and His way, but He will heal you.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dent threw his saddlebags onto the cot in cell number one and turned to the empty sheriff’s office. In Evergreen.

  Might as well be Timbuktu.

  He rested his hands on his hips and scolded himself for being surly. He knew better. Ben would have given him a hard time over this attitude. Ben would have told him to take this like a man.

  Ben.

  Dent trudged over to the desk and sat down. The pile of wanted posters, sitting as he’d left them a few days ago, struck him as pointless. Ben was gone. Pa had been dead for almost eight years now. Nothing Dent could do now would bring either one of them back.

  Scared by the thought, he sat up and started rifling through the posters. He’d spent too long on this road. He wasn’t going to abandon it now. He’d finish this and deal with what came next ... later.

  The front door squeaked and he looked up to see Doc’s annoyingly cheerful face. The man grinned at him. “Saw you ride by. Thought I’d stop in and say hi.”

  Dent waved him in without any enthusiasm. Not only had Doc gotten Dent stuck in this town, he would be bringing the details about Ben’s funeral arrangements. He was growing less and less fond of the good doctor’s company.

  Doc sat down and crossed one leg over the other. “Things go well in Cheyenne?”

  “Depends. The hanging went fine. I’m suspended.” Doc’s brows lifted in surprise. Dent frowned. “I guess you don’t know anything about that? Or that I’ve been appointed interim sheriff in Evergreen, while Judge Lynch investigates Ben’s shooting?”

  Doc admired his fingernails for a moment. “Well, Judge Lynch and I exchanged a few telegrams back and forth.” He looked up. “I won’t deny it. I merely made a recommendation. His choice to follow through.”

  Dent fingered a Wanted poster for “Prickly” Bill Smott. Outlaws and their nicknames. “I’m to do this job without pay, but I can keep my other duties. Guess I won’t starve while I wait to find out if I get my badge back or not.”

  “Dent, speaking of next steps,” Doc slid forward to the edge of the chair. “Ben’s funeral is tomorrow. Eleven o’clock.” Dent let a soft sigh escape. “He wanted to be buried on the ranch,” Doc continued. “Afterward, I thought Susan and I could maybe help you go through some of his personal belongings.”

  Dent had used Ben’s guestroom less and less these last few years, but, as he recalled, the place was pretty spartan. Didn’t seem like there’d be much there to go through, but he shrugged. “Sure. Thank you.”

  Doc nodded, leaned back again in the chair, and crossed his ankles. “One other thing. The mayor isn’t too happy with you taking up residence in Evergreen, even if you are just temporary.”

  “What’s his problem with me?” Dent didn’t recall having ever met the mayor.

  “He’s afraid trouble will follow you.” Doc waved his hand, as if dismissing the concern. “And he thinks you’re too young for the responsibilities that come with the position. I say don’t put any stock in what he says. He’s always sniffing around for something to worry over. But he’s insisting on coming to the house as soon as possible to meet Miss Tate … and he wants you there as well.”

  Dent drummed his fingers on Prickly Bill’s picture. What responsibilities? Keep the peace, arrest miscreants. He could do that in his sleep, especially in Evergreen. “A monkey could sheriff this town.” He flinched. “No reflection on Ben. It’s just … I’ve chased down some pretty mean hombres. Evergreen should be a cakewalk.”

  A funny, almost mischievous, expression passed over Doc’s face and he stood. “Then I reckon you’ll die of boredom. But not before dinner with the mayor. I’ll let you know when it’s scheduled.”

  Dent sat in the front row of the little church and barely paid any attention to the hushed whispers. The sight of the casket threw him for a loop. Ben and Pa had been U.S. Marshals together for nigh unto sixteen years. They had been as close as any brothers and Ben was in almost every childhood memory Dent could dredge up.

  Ben’s wife, along with their son, had stepped out of the picture long ago. Consequently, Ben had spent most Christmases with the Hernandezes. And Easters. And birthdays. He never stayed long, though, as he lived for the hunt. He wouldn’t allow Dent to call him ‘uncle’, but the request from a young boy of only six had put a smile on the lawman’s face.

  And now that man—a good man who had been like a father to Dent, was dead. He squeezed his eyes shut against the painful rush of guilt. If he’d only been a blink-of-an-eye faster than Needles ...

  Someone, most likely Doc, squeezed his shoulder. The squeak in the pews told Dent the mourners were standing, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t stand. He wanted to kneel at Ben’s casket and beg his forgiveness.

  A delicate whiff of perfume, something sweet and light, like the scent of a rose maybe, wafted across his soul. Calmed him. Miss Tate flipped open a hymnal. She glanced down, smiled at him with cool compassion, and hesitantly offered to share her book.

  Although he had no intention of singing, Dent slowly rose to his feet and leaned in enough to at least see the words.

  It is Well with My Soul ...

  Only it wasn’t, and likely never would be again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  From the back seat of the surrey, Dent stared past Susan’s and Henry’s shoulders at the wagon in front of them, the wagon with Ben’s pine coffin in it, leading a somber procession out to the ranch. Every time that pine box shifted, grief stabbed him soul-deep and he had to grit his teeth against the knot in his throat.

  The ride out to Ben�
��s for the burial was a dismal, lonely expedition, even with Henry and Susan, but, amazingly, Miss Tate’s presence beside him and the gentle aroma of flowers brought him a little peace. Antsy, he shifted in the back seat and rolled a tense shoulder. Honestly, he wished the woman had stayed in town. He dreaded Ben’s burial more than he could say, and didn’t want to share the experience with a stranger. He felt too ... vulnerable. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he didn’t want her to see him that way.

  Stealing a glance at her now, he was unexpectedly amused to see her pretty face aglow with wonder over the towering, snow-capped Lander Mountains. “I take it the landscape is a little different in Ohio?”

  “You could say that.”

  He nodded, but Ben’s coffin drew him back and sobered him. The desire for talk, small or otherwise, left him. What he wouldn’t give to be past all this.

  An hour later, Dent tossed a farewell shovel of dirt on his friend’s grave, and he and Doc laid their tools in the back of the wagon. He nodded at the pastor, giving him permission to finish the burial.

  “Dent, my door is always open,” Pastor Wills clutched his hand and smiled. “Any time you want to talk, come on by. I promise I’ll try to go light on the fire and brimstone.”

  Dent couldn’t muster even a chuckle, but shook the pastor’s hand. “You sure you don’t want some help?” He motioned to the grave.

  “No, son, you go on. I’ll do this.”

  Dent and Doc, followed by Susan and Miss Tate, strode somberly down the hill through dry September grass to Ben’s house. Taking a breath, he surveyed his friend’s home ... now his.

  A simple, one-level log cabin, a wide porch protected it on two sides. Dent grinned at the pipes and jars of tobacco that covered a table next to a rocking chair. He suspected Ben had spent most of his free time out here, enjoying the view and admiring his land.

  “If it’s all right, Dent,” Susan touched his elbow, “Miss Tate and I will gather up Ben’s clothes. You can’t fit them, and the benevolence committee at church could certainly use them.”

  “That’s fine.” Dent raised his hat, ran his hands through his hair, and dropped the Stetson back in place. “Reckon I’ll go through his papers.”

  “I’ll put your horse up, Dent, and bring in your saddlebags.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Dent mumbled. He was lost in thought. How many years since he’d been here? The place hadn’t changed much; just a little more weather-beaten was all. His first few years as a U.S. Marshal, he’d come by to see Ben pretty regularly. Somewhere along the line, the visits happened less and less frequently. He probably hadn’t slept in Ben’s extra room in, what, three years?

  “Five.”

  Susan startled him, and he blinked.

  “Five years since you’ve been here.”

  That long?

  Slogging through mud would have been easier than trekking through Ben’s simple, clean, almost sterile, home. A few Indian rugs hung on the walls, a Winchester rested above the fireplace, a regulator clock ticked forlornly in the kitchen. Ben had not been a collector of personal items or dust-catchers. A gun rack adorned the wall next to the door and that was about it.

  A gloomy weight settled on Dent, but he forged ahead with the task. He let himself into Ben’s guest bedroom, Doc following. The room was simple, austere. No curtains hung from the single window, and a worn wool blanket with an Indian design covered the bed. A desk—neat, orderly, barely used—was pushed into the corner. Once upon a time, this had been Dent’s place to flop any time, day or night, covered in trail dust or blood.

  “He moved his desk in here. Said he wanted to get some use out of the room,” Doc explained from behind him. “He spent most nights at the jail, though, ‘specially after you quit dropping by.”

  Wincing, Dent settled at the desk, pulled out the center drawer. “Am I searchin’ for anything in particular?” He rifled through an assortment of pencils, keys to the jail, and a bag of licorice candy.

  Doc sat down on the bed. “You want to find things like tax documents, deeds, bills of sale. Things like that.”

  “All right,” he sighed, resigned. “All right then.”

  Dent read the signature at the bottom of the deed then laid the document down. After two hours of digging through personal letters, tax receipts, and legal papers, one thing was abundantly clear to him. “He owns the ranch. Here’s the deed. He paid off the mortgage two years ago.”

  Doc, still sitting on Ben’s bed, laid down the documents he’d been perusing and nodded. “And the property taxes appear to be up to date. He left you sitting pretty.” He rifled through a stack of papers to his left and pulled one out. “And this one says he had five hundred and forty two dollars in the bank. That’s yours too.”

  Dent leaned back and rubbed his neck. A ranch, two geldings, and $542 were all Ben had in the world, and now those earthly possessions were his. Didn’t seem fitting. He wasn’t deserving of even the most meager inheritance. He shifted in the chair, and his boot kicked something that sounded tinny and hollow.

  Curious, he peered down and saw the end of a metal box barely poking out from beneath the desk. It would have been hidden, safely tucked away, if he hadn’t bumped it. And that made him more curious. He pulled the box from its hiding place and set it on the desk. An old, gray, tin cartridge box was all.

  “What you got there?” Doc asked, setting aside his papers and coming to the desk.

  “I dunno.” Dent pried the lid off and held his breath for a moment when he saw the newspaper clipping. U.S. Marshals Gunned Down in Evergreen. Old wounds ached as he passed the yellowed newspaper clipping to Doc then reached in to see what else the box held. He pulled out a .44 brass shell, a bill of sale for a grade mare sold by Toby White to Tom Newcomb, names Dent didn’t recognize, and, finally, a folded, yellowed piece of paper. Dent opened it slowly.

  He held a Wanted poster for this Tom Newcomb, aka Tom Newsome, aka Tom Newly. A bounty of $1000 blazed atop the paper. The photo showed a surly, squint-eyed, dark-haired man with a deep scar across his throat.

  An idea simmering in Dent’s head, he read the bandit’s description. Age, 23, height five feet, ten inches. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Even features. Marks: a noticeable scar on his throat easily hidden with a bandanna. Also, scars on … both wrists from work on a chain gang ...

  His shock must have shown on his face.

  “Dent, what is it?”

  He shook his head and finished reading.

  No known companions. Newcomb is wanted for the murder of Union Pacific foreman, Horace Brewer. He may be linked to other murders as well. The order was signed by Judge John J. Lynch. March 1, 1882.

  Six years ago.

  Absently, he handed the poster to Doc, his mind spinning like a paper pinwheel. There was only one reason Ben would have that Wanted poster. He knew, or at least strongly suspected, this Newcomb fella had killed Pa. But why hide the poster? He ran his fingers over the lid. The dust coated his fingers.

  The box had sat there for who-knows-how-long. Had Ben given up? Stopped searching?

  “Son,” Doc folded the poster and placed it back in its casket. “Ben laid this aside.” Doc placed the items one by one back into the box. “You should, too. Let this go.”

  “Let it go?” Dent would sooner quit breathing. “Ben knew who killed Pa. I’ve got a name now, and a description. This is the best lead I’ve had. Why did Ben let it go? Why didn’t he ever tell me?”

  Doc clasped his hands and sat back down on the bed. “I don’t know, son. I only know that if Ben had it hidden, he meant for it to stay that way.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The sheriff’s burial was a small, solemn affair, attended only by the pastor, the Woodruffs, Sheriff Hernandez, and Amy. She was an intruder in the affair and knew it, but when the Woodruffs had asked her if she wanted to come, she couldn’t say no. Otherwise, what would she do with herself in town? Wander the streets of Evergreen alone? Cowe
r in her room? So, she’d chosen to intrude.

  At least she’d been of some assistance with sorting the meager supply of clothes the man had. She dropped the last box into the back of the wagon and grabbed the quilt draped on the side. She helped Susan spread the blanket and a fine picnic supper down near a small, gently bubbling creek.

  Enjoying the warmth of the late afternoon sun, Pastor Wills and the Woodruffs reminisced about Sheriff Hayes, recalling funny stories, interesting arrests, his good nature, and unequaled beef brisket. Sheriff Hernandez nodded, offered a few memories of his own, but in brief, short sentences. He struck Amy as less grief-stricken than distracted. She berated herself for the unkind thought. People grieved in different ways. She needed to check her judgmental attitude.

  “Do you remember that time, Dent,” Pastor picked up an ear of corn, “when you got in trouble for soaping old Mr. Vicker’s store?”

  The Woodruffs laughed and Sheriff Hernandez hung his head, grinning. “I do recall that.”

  “Your pa and Ben brought you to me and asked me to give you a fire-and-brimstone sermon about Hell and where your wicked ways would lead.”

  “I remember. I hid under my bed for a week.”

  The pastor chuckled and his face softened. “Yes, I put a little too much fire in the conversation, I suspect, just to placate your pa. He wanted you scared good.”

  “It worked ... for a while.”

  Awkward laughter faded to a more awkward silence.

  Susan rescued them. “Dent, do you remember the first time you rode out with your pa and Ben? When you came by the house? What you told me?”

  Sheriff Hernandez spun his fork in a heap of mashed potatoes and slipped further down Memory Lane, a bit unwillingly, Amy guessed by the dip in his brow.