A Texas Christmas

by Thomas, Jodi Jodi Thomas

  And Tess would have failed to show the townspeople once and for all she was something more than the pampered banker’s daughter.

  Failed.

  She shriveled into a ball inside.

  She’d been desperate to prove herself. That’s why she’d volunteered to go after the bell and bring it home. She wanted to stop the jokes and gossip and innuendo.

  “I wouldn’t have been traveling in my advanced state except that my mother was very ill in Saints Roost,” Maryellen said, tears filling her eyes. “I should’ve been home before this. And now . . .”

  Tess patted Maryellen’s hand. “We’ll have you out of here and safely in your bed before you know it.”

  Sloan returned just then with a cup of water that he handed to Maryellen.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sullivan.” Maryellen took a deep drink.

  All of a sudden a commotion at the rear of the train drew her attention. Tess’s heart stopped and her breath got stuck in her chest. Mrs. Abner was leaning over Ira Powell.

  The secret was a secret no longer.

  “Get him off this train!” Mrs. Abner waved her hands, motioning toward the door. “He’s going to kill us all. I won’t have him exposing what he’s got to me or my charges.”

  Omie Powell wrung her hands, tears filling her eyes.

  “What’s going on here?” asked Roe Rollins.

  “I demand you put this man off this train at once.”

  This was exactly what Tess had feared. Anger rose. The old biddy wouldn’t blink an eye at throwing Ira out into the snow.

  “We’ll do no such thing. That’d be a death sentence. Even if you don’t mind that being on your conscience, Mrs. Abner, I’ll not have it on mine.” Rollins hooked his thumbs in his suspenders and squared his jaw.

  Mrs. Abner sucked in air and glowered. “It’s not like he’s liable to live long nohow. If we don’t protect ourselves, he’s gonna pass what he’s got on to me and the children.”

  Charles Flynn, the land agent on the way to Kasota Springs, stood and jerked his heavy shearling coat tighter around him. “Pass what on?”

  “It’s a deadly case of the fever, or I’ll miss my guess,” crowed Mrs. Abner.

  “Now, Mrs. Abner, you’re not a doctor. Goldarn it, you don’t know what’s making Mr. Powell sick. Go back to your seat and take care of those children and let us worry about this man.” Again, Rollins did his best to keep the peace.

  “I say we don’t take any chances. I’m adding my vote to Mrs. Abner’s here,” said Charles Flynn.

  Sloan held up his hands and raised his voice above the racket. “Now, calm down, everyone. No need to get your tailfeathers in a wad.”

  Mrs. Abner pointed her finger at Sloan. “Don’t you tell me to calm down. I have my rights, and I say we get rid of the problem before we all regret it.”

  Roe Rollins stood his ground. “Just wait a cotton-pickin’ minute. He ain’t going anywhere. This is my train, and I say who stays and who goes.”

  “You’re being unreasonable, ma’am,” growled Sloan.

  “Mark my words. If this man gives us scarlet fever, your goose is gonna be the one in the grease. I have—”

  “Connections,” Rollins supplied for her. “Yes, I know. You’ve told me forty’leven times since you boarded.”

  Tess thought the situation had been defused and was breathing easier when Charles Flynn reached inside his coat and whipped out a pistol. She gasped in alarm and clutched Sloan’s arm.

  “This forty-five says you get that man off this train right now.” Flynn’s threat was as icy and hard as the frozen ground outside.

  Glancing at Sloan, Tess saw a tic in the muscle of his jaw. Folks in town said he’d once been a lawman. They said he’d stood up to the Dooley Gang and single-handedly ended their reign of terror on the South Plains.

  But he wasn’t wearing a fire iron. How could he hope to handle Flynn?

  Sloan took a step toward the land agent. “What are you going to do, shoot us all? Better use your head. Want to swing for murder?”

  “I’m not going to sit here and catch scarlet fever, no matter what I have to do.”

  “And I’m not going to let you kill innocent people.”

  “How do you propose stopping me? I don’t see a weapon on you. I don’t see one on any of you.”

  “Just because you don’t see one doesn’t mean it’s not there.” Sloan’s voice was deceptively soft. Tension gripped the passenger car, enveloping Tess. She wondered what Sloan meant. Did he have a hidden pistol?

  Sloan took another step closer to Flynn, who was beginning to sweat, probably thinking his demand wasn’t a good idea.

  And rightly so, for Sloan didn’t appear to be in the mood to back down.

  When it seemed she could cut the air with a knife, someone pounded on the door of the passenger car. Tess almost jumped out of her skin.

  But the distraction caused Flynn to lower his Colt. Sloan seized the opportunity. He lunged, tackling the land agent, bringing the man to the floor in the narrow aisle and grabbing the revolver. In the scuffle, the gun discharged, lodging in the back of a seat. The projectile barely missed the oldest orphan boy.

  Again, someone pounded on the door.

  Both the engineer and the conductor rushed to let the person in.

  With jangled nerves and weak knees, Tess hurried to check on her patient. This promised to be a day that would burn in her memory.

  Ira Powell’s condition appeared unchanged. Dear precious Omie was caressing his hand.

  “What was that noise?” Omie asked, her voice trembling.

  Tess didn’t know if the woman referred to the gunshot or the stranger intent on barging into their midst. “It was nothing to worry your head about. Just put all your thoughts on your husband getting well. Ira can feel your presence, you know. He’ll draw on your strength.”

  “I don’t feel very strong right now.”

  She put her arms around Omie and hugged her. “You’re stronger than you think. Can I get you anything?”

  “You don’t have to wait on me hand and foot.”

  “I certainly don’t mind. I don’t want you getting sick too.”

  “I’m fine. Honestly. I’ll just sit here and guard Ira. No telling what that spiteful Mrs. Abner will get in her head to do next.”

  Tess was grateful for a chance to see who’d been pounding on the door so insistently. Curiosity had gotten the best of her. Who was crazy enough to be out in the blizzard?

  She passed Sloan, who was finishing tying up Flynn. She was grateful to the stranger who’d appeared on the train steps out of the blue. She shuddered to think what might’ve happened without the distraction. Without a doubt, Charles Flynn would’ve killed Sloan. And maybe anyone else who’d stood in his way.

  As she neared the front of the car she could see Rollins and the conductor bending over a haggard-looking stranger lying on the floor. She could barely see the man’s features for the shaggy red beard that covered most of his face. Ice and snow coated his beard and the buffalo robe he wore. From where she stood she could feel the numbing coldness radiating from his body.

  Maryellen Langtry waddled forward as fast as she could in her condition, bringing a blanket. “We have to get him warmed up.”

  “C-coffee. I need some coffee if you can s-spare it.” The stranger rose to a sitting position, his blue lips showing through his beard.

  “Sorry, mister, we were just able to get a fire going in here. No way to cook except in the caboose.”

  “T-thought I was a g-goner out there,” the man said through chattering teeth.

  “You’re all right now. What’s your name?” asked Rollins.

  “Does it matter?”

  Chapter 3

  Sloan froze. The hair on the back of his neck rose, compliments of old instincts from his days as a U.S. Marshal.

  “Reckon a body’s name, or the lack thereof, only matters to you and God,” Rollins replied. “Regardless, you’re welcome to wh
at little we have.”

  Sloan didn’t trust a man who refused to give his name. The stranger was either running from the law or gunning for someone. Both were reasons to be wary.

  While he watched, the stranger tugged his hat lower on his forehead and drew the buffalo robe up around his ears.

  Giving the rope that bound Flynn a tug to check the tightness, Sloan dropped into a nearby seat where he could listen.

  “What are you doing out here in this weather, mister?” quizzed Rollins.

  “Minding my own business.” The man licked his cracked lips, staring at the floor. “Be nice if you could do the same.”

  Rollins spewed out a frustrated gust of air. “You’re a disagreeable old cuss. Mind at least telling us where you’re headed?”

  The stranger’s dark distrust was evident as he scanned the faces around him before he answered. “No place in particular, I reckon. I pretty much go where I want when I want. Been doing that since I was out of knee britches. You folks are sure a nosy bunch. If the weather wasn’t fit to freeze a man’s innards solid, I’d mosey on.”

  And if Sloan wouldn’t have to wrestle with his conscience, he’d boot Red Beard out the door and help him on his journey.

  Though the man’s shaking had slowed, he had to exert all his strength to get to his feet. He collapsed into the nearest seat, clutching the buffalo robe tightly around him.

  The conductor watched Red Beard with narrowed eyes. “You got a horse outside that needs looking after, mister?”

  Red Beard shook his head. “Broke his leg in a snowdrift a good ways back. Had to put him out of his misery.”

  So the stranger had a gun. Sloan took note of that tidbit and filed it away.

  “Why is that man tied up?” Red Beard pointed to Flynn.

  Rollins opened his mouth to reply when Mrs. Abner jumped in with both feet. “He was trying to save us from certain death, he was. We have a passenger sick with scarlet fever. Flynn and I were trying to put him off the train, which would’ve been the best for everyone.”

  “The fever, huh?” Red Beard’s eyes widened a bit.

  “Now, Mrs. Abner, we don’t know that for sure. Ain’t none of us here got doctor next to our name.” Rollins clenched his hands, casting a look around, probably for something to hit that wouldn’t land him in a heap of trouble. Sloan sympathized. He’d about had it himself with the old battle-ax and the close-mouthed stranger.

  Tess looked up from where she stood with an arm around Maryellen Langtry. She met Sloan’s gaze. He didn’t know if the worry filling her pale amber eyes was the talk of scarlet fever or the fact that the stranger’s sudden appearance would severely limit their food supply. He doubted what he’d brought would stretch far enough. The pinched faces of the children brought a lump to his throat. They slowly chewed the jerky. The poor things were starving.

  Sloan made up his mind that he’d find some excuse to not be around when it came time to divvy up the food.

  Tess stepped away from Maryellen and came toward him.

  “May I have a word with you, Sullivan?” Her low drawl reminded him of a warm, sultry night under a full moon.

  He nodded and rose, following her toward the rear of the train where Ira Powell lay still and pale.

  When they were out of earshot of the others, she leaned close. “We need to move Mr. Powell to the caboose. He’s not safe here. I don’t trust Mrs. Abner, Flynn, or that stranger.”

  That made two of them.

  He fought the headiness of the subtle scent of honeysuckle in her hair. “I agree. Besides, we really need to isolate Powell as much as possible. I’ll clear it with Rollins.”

  “We couldn’t move him before because we didn’t have enough wood for both the stove here and the one in the caboose. Now we do.” Tess’s eyes glistened like stars.

  “Rollins also mentioned that the stove serves as a cookstove for the train crew.”

  “Wonderful! We can make some coffee. I know that’d be welcome. And I can make some hot tea for Maryellen.”

  “I brought some things to make a stew if someone’s willing to cook it.” Sloan had the sudden urge to brush her cheek with a finger. But he resisted. He couldn’t let her Southern charm weave past his defenses.

  Her face lit up. “I’d love to make a pot of stew.”

  “There’s a milk cow in the livestock car. I’ll milk her. The children need nourishment.”

  Sloan gave thanks that he wouldn’t have to carry Powell out into the blizzard. He was grateful for the way the cars were lined up. The baggage and livestock cars were immediately after the engine and coal car. Next came the passenger car, and the caboose lay beyond it. With doors opening at each end of the cars, a person could walk the entire length of the train without having to brave the weather except for brief moments on the metal platforms between.

  Sloan shifted the weight off his sore leg. “I’ll get a fire going in the caboose. Then I’ll come back for Powell.”

  “After we get him moved, I’ve got to try to get his fever down.”

  “I’ll help any way I can.”

  Tess chewed on her bottom lip as if undecided about what she was fixing to ask of him. “Would it be too much to ask if you could go to the baggage car and find my trunk? I have some clothing in there that I can tear up to make cloth for compresses. And I’ll need more snow to melt.”

  Sloan nodded and turned to get some wood to make a fire in the caboose. When he headed down the aisle, Mrs. Abner was sitting next to Red Beard. The two of them had their heads together. Whatever they were talking about didn’t bode well.

  But at least Flynn was still tied up. Rollins was seeing to that, thank goodness.

  The weight of Flynn’s forty-five in Sloan’s coat pocket felt reassuring in an odd way. He’d hung up his guns five years ago and swore he’d never touch another one. And he hadn’t. Not since that horrible day in Panther Bluff, Texas.

  A day that haunted his every waking minute and occupied his dreams at night.

  He’d done the unthinkable.

  And he could never undo those tragic events.

  Hog-tying the painful memories, he dug a hole, pushed them in, and buried them. Rehashing things couldn’t change the past.

  Sloan turned to the business of loading his arms with firewood and made his way through the passenger car to the caboose. The cold potbellied stove was a welcome sight. Once he had a fire going, he got a pail, filled it with snow, and set it to melt inside the little train car.

  Then he picked up the brakeman’s lantern, touched a match to the wick, retraced his steps to the opposite end of the passenger car, and opened the door into the baggage car. He tried to ignore his throbbing leg. When they got Powell moved, he’d get off it, he promised himself.

  Sloan would’ve had no trouble finding Tess’s trunk even if it hadn’t had her name etched in gold on top. It was handsome and made of the finest wood, by far the most well-constructed piece of baggage he’d ever seen.

  He unlatched and lifted the lid, and promptly took a step back. Gossamer undergarments edged with rows of lace and ribbon lay neatly folded on top.

  Sloan scratched his head.

  He’d have to remove them to get to the clothing underneath. But what to lay them on to keep dirt and cobwebs off them?

  Scanning the car, his gaze lit upon a length of canvas hanging from the wall. Carefully spreading it out on the floor, he lifted out a stack of unmentionables. It could’ve been an armful of dynamite with the slow painstaking movements. He’d about made it to the canvas when one lacy chemise on top slid off and landed in a heap on the floor.

  Botheration!

  Laying the fine clothing down, he looked at the offending piece, took off his hat, and scratched his head.

  Well, pick it up, you fool.

  But it might as well have been a coiled diamondback rattler.

  He’d been more calm when he’d faced down the Dooley Gang. Then he’d only had to worry about flying bullets and getting filled
with holes. This was a whole different matter.

  Going through a woman’s things was too personal.

  Too . . . intimate.

  Too . . . stressful.

  Sloan wiped beads of sweat from his brow. He bent and picked the chemise up with a forefinger and thumb. Holding it up, light from the lantern shone through it. A vivid image of Tess wearing it crowded out everything else in his mind.

  Heat rose and spread through his body in waves.

  The garment was almost as sheer as a pane of glass. Every curve, every hill and valley would show through.

  All that soft, supple skin.

  He closed his eyes against the vision and forced air into his lungs before adding the undergarment to the pile he’d just removed. He’d just try to keep his eyes closed. But that wouldn’t work either. He wouldn’t be able to tell what he was picking up.

  One of his problems was that these pieces of clothing didn’t belong to just any woman. They belonged to Tess. Someone he’d entertained thoughts of more often than not, despite that her station in life was far above his. He’d never gotten up enough courage to say more than three words to her.

  Before today she’d seemed aloof and unreachable.

  And besides, all his mooning around would serve no purpose. From as far back as he could remember his mother had drilled one important rule into him. Stay within his class if he wanted to avoid a broken heart. Rich folks were too far above the Sullivans. His father had worked his fingers to the bone and ended up in a grave before he was forty. Tess was a banker’s daughter, for Pete’s sake. She had high expectations. She’d never settle for someone like him.

  Especially after what had happened in Panther Bluff.

  Taking a calming breath to stop his hand from trembling, he reached into the trunk. Whatever it was felt soft and warm and not sheer or delicate in the least. He looked and found himself holding a pair of ladies’ flannel underdrawers.

  He dropped them like a hot potato. Good Lord!

  Why had he let her rope him into this?

  But the soft flannel would make good compresses.

  He picked the underdrawers back up and set them aside. Carefully transferring the lacy, ribbony stack of undergarments back into the trunk, he said a thankful prayer that the task was over.