A Texas Christmas

by Thomas, Jodi Jodi Thomas

  His gut got a little tight at his own thoughts as he confessed to himself that he had an ulterior motive to agree to help. Thoughts of the toll of church bells resurrected fond childhood memories when his whole family attended Christmas Eve candlelight services.

  The sounding of bells was about the only thing in life that could bring a smile to Randall’s face. He hadn’t found a reason to smile, really smile, for three years.

  Rand could do without the rest of the festivities. His heart was still hurting, and it seemed nobody around noticed. Over the last few years, it’d become easier to stay out of the limelight because he felt less exposed.

  Rand topped off his supper with a cup of coffee, which he hurriedly drank. Knowing he’d spent more time eating than he should have, he paid his bill and headed for the door. Since all three of the wildflowers were staring, he tipped his hat at them as he passed.

  Outside the hotel’s dining room, he had to wind his big frame through the crowd of people who had filled the front lobby with all of the hullabaloo taking place they called a bazaar—whatever in the hell that meant.

  Tables were in every crook and cranny of the room, each covered with knitted thingamajigs, frilly doodads of all sorts, jars of jelly, and candies. He recognized some lace doilies and a quilt, only because his ma had made similar ones. But most of the items, he didn’t know what they were even used for. One thing for sure, he wouldn’t have any of them in his house if his life depended on it.

  If the number of townfolks milling around like cattle awaiting a thunderstorm was an indicator, the event must be a success. That was good because the children’s home needed all the money they could raise. He’d overheard the wildflower ladies talking about how the little cottage was busting at the seams with four orphans on the train with the new bell, and they could sure use every penny collected.

  On second thought, a piece of Aunt Dixie’s divinity sounded good. She wasn’t his aunt, but surely was an aunt to someone. He hadn’t had any candy since his mama died, so that’d be his one and only holiday treat. After all, Christmas Day was just another day in his life.

  He left a silver dollar on the table, stuck the candy in his pocket, and walked off leaving Emma Mitchell’s gasps hanging in the air. That was his one and only charitable donation for the year.

  Pulling his Stetson low over his eyes, Randall sauntered toward the livery stable, avoiding the town square where a festive Christmas tree of no more than six or seven feet stood. Rows of strung berries, gingerbread men, and popcorn circled its scrawny girth, probably much to the pleasure of any rodents in the area. Light snow swathed its branches.

  Even with his heavy sheepskin coat on, the wind whipped across Rand’s face and chilled him to the core. The snow that had begun with light flakes now earnestly peppered the ground and everything in between. He could barely make out the corrals by the railhead off to the north.

  Ever since Kasota Springs was established, they’d held dances, horse races, and box suppers twice a year—on the Fourth of July and Christmas, but unlike Independence Day, this year’s holiday event depended on the weather. He just wished someone would realize that the weather wasn’t likely to be fittin’ for the holiday activities and call the whole thing off.

  As soon as the bell arrived, Rand planned to finish the installation by Christmas Eve so he could spend the rest of the holiday alone wrapped in his own little world of solitude.

  He had one stop to make before he got to his shop, but he had to hurry. His helper, Timmy, needed to get home to his sick mother. He was just a lad, but he could do the work of a grown man, mucking the stalls and feeding the animals.

  Reaching the church, Rand continued up the hill to the cemetery where he sought out the marker for his mother. Kneeling, he pulled a couple of weeds that struggled against the wind.

  “Mama, I sure could use some advice.” He brushed away the snow from the stone. “I think I’m gettin’ about as grouchy as Pa was. Everyone says I’m just like him, except I don’t smile as much. Sometimes I wonder if they even remember why I didn’t have anything to smile about.

  “You know, Miz Dewey challenged me on my attitude.” He smiled inwardly. “If you’d been there, you would have set her straight, wouldn’t you?”

  Somewhere deep inside, Rand always thought he had every right to be as grumpy as he wanted to be. Although he’d just had his thirty-fifth birthday, he couldn’t help himself if he had an attitude of an old man. How dare the loudmouthed, frumpy Miz Dewey question his outlook on life. It was his and he had the right to do with it what he might. After all, he’d never had an easy life, and never had a home for any length of time until he got to Kasota Springs, a short two and a half years ago.

  “You know, Mama, I vaguely remember Pa and Grandfather working until way after dark up in New York when they were building the Erie Canal. I can’t believe they talked me into joining them on the Waco bridge job. I didn’t think I had what it took, but they never lost faith in me . . . neither did you.” He brushed snow off his full beard. “One of the happiest days of his life was when it was finished and we could move lock, stock, and barrel out of Waco, so we could all heal. I remember you telling me that we’d always live in Texas, but as far away from Waco as possible. Never thought the Texas Panhandle would be where we’d put down stakes.”

  What Rand had never told her, although he figured she knew, was exactly how much he really resented the Waco suspension bridge, because it had taken the soul from his father after his leg was mangled in a freak accident. That’s when the drinking, gambling, and taking up with loose women began. His father had slid down a slippery slope, far away from his family. As much as Rand knew he needed to forgive his father, he hadn’t been able to do so. To forgive was to forget, and he couldn’t forget . . . not yet.

  Rand had been away from the livery too long already, since he’d left earlier in the day to pick up extra supplies, just in case the winter snows showed up with vengeance in mind.

  After hurrying back to the livery, he shucked his wet coat and Stetson and hung them on a nail inside the door. He stood by the raised brick hearth where a soft-coal fire fought for life and warmed his hands, as well as his backside. Melted snow dripped from the tips of his mustache down onto his beard.

  “Mr. Humphrey.” Timmy’s voice broke with huskiness somewhere between grass and hay. “I’ve done all the chores. Horses are fed and I’ve checked and the carriage reserved for Ms. Dewey is dry, if she needs it. But Jughead won’t come in.”

  “That old mule is a cantankerous ol’ rascal, but as faithful a friend as any man could ever want.” Rand wiped away the moisture from his beard with his handkerchief. “I want you to get yourself home and don’t want to see you again until the day after Christmas unless I come for you. You hear?”

  “Yes sir, I hear you. And I’ll bring your milk later.”

  “Bring extra in case the storm gets us, if you’ve got it.”

  The lad nodded. “Guess Miss Margaret over at the mercantile got sick, ’cause there ain’t nobody around today.”

  “Heard that.” Rand pulled out a brand-spankin’-new double eagle from his pocket and tossed it to the lad. “Buy yourself something you’ve been wanting when they open. Maybe those boots you’ve been lookin’ at.”

  Timmy grabbed his coat and pocketed the coin. “Thanks, Mr. Humphrey, but I gotta pass on the boots. It’s Christmas and I might’ve never been able to get Mama a present without you being so kindhearted.” He neared the door and suddenly turned back to Rand. Lowering his eyes, his voice broke, as he said, “I’m not sure she’ll make it to see another Christmas.”

  Rand took a deep breath and shielded himself from caring. “Timmy, thank your mama for the chicken and dumplin’s she sent over and . . .” He took a second breath. “And Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas to you too, Mr. Humphrey, and don’t forget Jughead.” The lad shot out the door like Rand had kicked him out by the toe of his boots.

  Now that
Rand had all of the seasonal pleasantries out of the way, he could focus on his own priorities. After he got caught up on making a few household items that he’d promised to have ready for customers after the holiday, he figured on spending the rest of the holiday just the way he wanted it.

  Alone with nothing but his animals and his memories.

  His plan was simple. Work during the day with nobody to bother him. Take care of the horses. Eat what he wanted when he wanted and spend the evenings sitting by the fire, smoking his pipe and reading in the big room adjacent to the blacksmith’s shop.

  Tonight would be the start of the smoking and the reading. But first, he had to find his ol’ tattered copy of Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities, and he was pretty sure it was still hidden away in his mother’s Saratoga trunk upstairs. He had a hankering to see what kind of vengeance the remorseless Madame Defarge had been heaping on folks, but hadn’t had time to find the book.

  It took only a minute or two to locate the trunk and lift the lid, releasing the smell of stale air and cedar. The book lay beneath a quilt that had been pieced and stitching started but never got finished.

  Over the last year, more than once the thought had occurred to him that he should donate the coverlet to the church’s women’s quilting group or whatever they called themselves, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. For some reason, he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else touching the piece of work.

  At his age, he had little doubt that there’d never be a woman under his roof that he’d trust enough to finish it, so the quilt would stay buried in the trunk . . . like many of his memories.

  Returning downstairs, he added logs to the fire before he settled in for the night in his comfortable chair near the hearth. He filled his favorite briar pipe and tamped the tobacco down. Taking a deep whiff, he enjoyed the pleasant, almost sweet scent. There was nothing better in life than good tobacco instead of the kind that smelled and tasted like yucca blended with cow chips and buffalo bones.

  Even with a roaring fire, a chill hovered overhead. The temperature had noticeably dropped since he returned from supper, a sure sign that the winds had shifted to the north and would bring horrendous snows unless it skirted around Kasota Springs.

  Heavy banging assaulted the door to the blacksmith’s shop.

  Rushing to get it opened as quick as possible, Randall came face-to-face with Edwinna Dewey, who stood outside with a fairly heavy layer of snow clinging to her hat and across the shoulders of her black coat. She seemed extraordinarily excited, more than usual, if that were possible. Her headpiece sat precariously on top of her head and her eyes bugged out with animation.

  Over her shoulder he could make out people scurrying around like fire ants on a mission. A terrible commotion was going on, but the heavy snow kept him from seeing exactly what was taking place.

  “Come quickly, Mr. Humphrey, we need your help.” Edwinna steadied her hat with her gloved hands and rushed off, leaving Rand standing in the doorway wondering if this was her way of setting a trap for him, making certain that he couldn’t enjoy a peaceful holiday alone.

  On the other hand, what could have happened that would require the attention of the town’s blacksmith?

  Chapter 2

  Rand threw on his coat and hat, not bothering with gloves, and hightailed it after Edwinna Dewey. The wind caused her umbrella to bobble along, proving little protection against the falling snow.

  Across from the square, a crowd gathered near Dr. Mitchell’s office. Most, including the wildflower ladies, stood on the sidewalk, craning their necks to see into the office.

  As they neared, thanks to his height, Rand could easily see that the room was filled to the brim with townfolks. He recognized many of the faces from the holiday bazaar at the Springs Hotel, so evidently something had happened involving that event.

  Edwinna elbowed and fussed her way through the crowd.

  Rand was far enough behind that he couldn’t hear her words clearly, but he was pretty sure many of them might not be suitable for ladies’ ears.

  “I’ve got him right here.” Edwinna waved her parasol in Rand’s face, as though she’d just caught Old St. Nick up to mischief. “He can tell you that his brother—”

  “Half brother,” Rand interjected.

  “Half brother . . . was nowhere around, because he’s driving my niece and the twins here from Carroll Creek.” Again, her umbrella darted dangerously near his face. “Tell them, Mr. Humphrey. Tell them that my niece had nothing to do with stealing the money from the bazaar.”

  “Nobody has accused anybody of anything,” warned Doc Mitchell.

  Rand wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, but apparently money for the children’s home had been stolen. With the impetuous woman’s open parasol flying from one shoulder to the other like a weapon, he was just about ready to confess to stealing the money himself, in order to save his eyesight. One wrong move and she’d blind him for sure.

  “Miz Dewey, I have no idea where your niece and her family are, and you told me that you hired my half brother”—Rand held his tongue and didn’t add a no-good scoundrel of a man. Rand continued—“to drive them here, but I can assure you I’ve seen none of them.”

  “That can’t be true,” said Emma.

  Dr. Mitchell attempted to hold down his wife, and patient, who kept trying to stand. “Now, Emma, stay calm. Gettin’ upset isn’t good for your blood pressure.” He tugged at her arm. “I’m sure Mr. Humphrey would know if a young woman and two children had arrived at his livery.”

  “Well, I’m not so sure,” Emma shot back. “A man assaulted me in the alley and absconded with the bazaar money. He was tall and came up from behind me. I know it was Jim Crockett. I just know it.”

  “Now, Emma. It could have been someone else. Did you see his face?” Doc Mitchell asked. “You know Boss Adler and some of his gang was hangin’ around the mercantile last night. Nothing good ever comes out of them when they come to town. Could it be them?”

  “No! The man came up behind me,” she huffed. “But I know who it was. He smelled like tobacco and bay rum, and was tall, just like . . .”

  Someone in the crowd yelled, “Sheriff Raines has two of ’um in the hoosegow, and he went after Boss Adler. They were so liquored up he could hardly stand the smell of ’um.”

  Another male voice said, “All Raines is interested in is retiring, not capturing outlaws. Of course, except for some of the locals like the Thompson clan.”

  Emma Mitchell reared up and muttered, “If he doesn’t get himself killed first . . .” A concerto of voices rippled through the crowd, drowning out her words, but Rand eventually heard her wail, “With all the money gone, there will be no Christmas for the children at the orphanage.”

  “Darlin’, settle down.” Doc Mitchell placed his arm around his wife’s shoulder. “We’ll have Christmas for the young’uns one way or another.”

  Emma Mitchell settled her head on her husband’s shoulder and accepted his handkerchief, dabbing at her tears. “And it’s snowing.”

  Edwinna Dewey said to no particular person, “I knew I shouldn’t have hired a Humphrey.” She whirled in Rand’s direction. “I just know your brother—uh, half brother—let something happen to them and they’re in a cold snowy pasture.” She pulled her own hanky from her handbag and wiped away a tear then blew her nose, not so ladylike. “I know they’re freezing and hungry, and . . .” She jerked up her opened umbrella and wheeled it in Rand’s face. “And you’re going to go find them.”

  “If I thought they were in danger, I’d be the first to be out there lookin’ for them, but Miz Dewey—”

  The sound of horse hooves pounding the hard clay street beneath the snow cut off Rand’s words.

  Tall and distinguished, the testy foreman of the Jacks Bluff Ranch, Teg Tegeler, dismounted. Without any pleasantries except for a tip of his hat to the ladies, he said, “Came to give y’all fair warning there’s a storm a brewin’. And it ain’t nothin’ to sn
ub your nose at either. Some of our hands jest got back from movin’ cattle more south to try to avoid the worst of the storm, so wanted to warn you all.”

  Mrs. Redmond piped up and asked, “Do you think the train with the new bell on it will make it in before the worst of it hits?”

  “I reckon not, ma’am. Guessin’ from the way the railroad tracks cross over near the Sullivan Ranch, I suspect the train and the storm are on a collision course.” He secured his big dun stud to the hitching post. “Best thing you all can do now is plan to hunker down for a spell. If you don’t have extra supplies, better get ’um now, ’cause I think this might be the big one.”

  Tegeler excused himself, pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes, and headed in the direction of Slats and Fats Saloon, most likely to get himself some warm liquid reinforcement before he took care of whatever business brought him to town so late in the day. And Rand was bettin’ that the crusty cowboy’s beeswax might well be Bonnie Lynn, the saucy redhead maid over at the Springs Hotel.

  Suddenly, the loss of the money for the orphanage was overshadowed by the prediction of a winter storm; except, of course, to Mrs. Mitchell, who complained to her husband that she might have to take to her bed until Christmas Eve to get over her feeling poorly.

  Edwinna Dewey got drawn into a conversation with the wildflower women.

  With all the commotion, and a little luck, Rand could escape and get back to his warm chair, light his pipe, and begin to find out what Madame Defarge was up to before the coals in the hearth died out.