A Texas Soldier's Christmas

by Cathy Gillen Thacker

He charged into the tent, then froze.

  The woman not only was awake, but held the infant to her breast.

  * * *

  SHE WAS BEYOND GROGGY.

  Her eyes didn’t want to open, but a primal instinct told her that if only for a short while, she had to tend to her son. After assuring herself of his safety, she could sleep, but he came first. Would always come first.

  His cries ripped at her heart.

  Though she barely had strength to draw her next breath, she somehow knew he was hungry. She fumbled with her jogging suit’s zipper, and then raised the hems of her T-shirt and sports bra. Breast bared, she guided her baby to his first meal. Luck was with her when he greedily latched on.

  Relief brought tears.

  Eyes closed, she finally found the energy to wonder where she was. And why. How come she couldn’t remember anything other than the most basic of all urges to stay alive?

  She licked her lips, desperate for water, when the tent flap that had been fluttering in the storm’s wind opened farther.

  A giant of a man stepped in.

  She screamed.

  He kept coming.

  He wore a black cowboy hat and boots and a long duster-style coat of the sort she’d only seen in old Westerns. Could he be a hallucination?

  He held up his hands. “I’m here to help.”

  Could she believe him? She didn’t know, and clutched her newborn closer. What was wrong with her? Why was her mind blank?

  “Woman, you gave me a helluva scare. What landed you all the way out here? How’d you get that nasty bump to your head?”

  So many questions. She had answers for none. “I—I don’t know.”

  Brow furrowed, he knelt alongside her. “What do you mean you don’t know? What’s your name? Where’s your baby’s father? What kind of man lets the mother of his child go camping in this weather?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Fighting back tears, she shook her head. “D-do you have water?”

  “Of course. Be right back.”

  Sleet fell so hard on the flimsy tent that it was collecting on the sides, causing the nylon to bow. Moments later, when the cowboy stooped to enter, he punched at both sagging sides before unscrewing the lid on a gallon jug of water. He handed it to her, but then understanding dawned on his whisker-stubbled face when her arms proved too weak to leave her baby.

  He got down next to her, holding the jug to her lips. In the process, the backs of his fingers touched her chin. For an instant, they warmed her cold skin. The sudden heat made her shiver.

  She then grew hyperaware of the man’s size.

  And the vulnerable position she and her newborn son were in.

  How had she landed herself in this predicament? Nothing made sense. The man raised valid questions. Where was her baby’s father? Why did her mind feel numb?

  She drank deeply of the cowboy’s gift.

  The water might as well have been liquid ambrosia sliding down her throat. Never had anything tasted so good.

  Eyes closed, she drank until feeling as if she couldn’t hold any more. The whole while, the man patiently knelt beside her, holding the heavy jug.

  “Can’t recall ever seeing a woman drink that much,” he said. “Guessing you were dehydrated?”

  “I’m sure.” She shivered.

  Her baby unlatched and cried, kneading tiny fists against her right breast. Maternal instinct had her shifting him to her other side. When he drew milk, a hormonal flood raised a knot in her throat and had her eyes tearing.

  What could have landed her in this situation? Why did her head feel like a blank sheet of paper?

  “Since it’s not getting any warmer,” he said, “once you finish with—” the man gestured to her nursing baby “—you know, give me a holler and I’ll bring you a rag and pot of hot water. We need to get you both cleaned up, then cut the baby’s cord.”

  “You know how?”

  “Had some EMT training. Not much, but you’ve already tackled the worst. As soon as this weather clears and you feel able, we’ll get you to a hospital.”

  She nodded. Something about his take-charge demeanor, the gentle yet confident note in his voice, eased her worry. She wasn’t sure what she’d done to deserve it, but by what could only be the grace of God, she and her baby were in capable hands.

  * * *

  “HOW ARE YOU DOING?” Gideon stroked Jelly Bean’s cheek.

  For the past hour, he’d prepared pot after pot of melted sleet that he’d then delivered to the mystery woman—along with a T-shirt for her to use as a rag. While waiting for the latest batch to boil, Gideon tended to the horse.

  “Bet you never thought we’d encounter a newborn and her momma, huh?”

  The horse snorted, then stilled, closing her eyes while appreciating his affection.

  “Damned if this doesn’t beat anything I’ve ever seen.” Gideon kept his voice a low murmur for only the horse to hear. Over the past months, he’d learned Jelly Bean calmed whenever he was speaking. Maybe her former young owner had been a chatterbox? Regardless, since he rarely had anyone around his place besides his nearest neighbor, Mrs. Gentry, it was good to have someone to talk to—even if that someone was a horse.

  He continued stroking, combing her mane.

  Did the mystery woman need help with her long hair?

  The crown of her head was matted. Leaves and small twigs had caught in the longer sections.

  “I’d have offered to brush it for her,” he said to the horse, “but that might be overstepping, you know? Although I’d be at a loss to come up with a more bizarre situation. Hope you’re up for a long, slow ride back to the cabin.”

  Gideon figured once the weather improved, he’d get the woman and her baby settled on Jelly Bean. He had misgivings about entrusting the skittish mare with such precious cargo, but there was no other choice. Upon reaching his place—or, if he got a signal in the high mountain meadow—he’d call for help. “Until then,” he said to the horse, “we’re on our own.”

  He removed Jelly Bean’s saddle and blanket, then brushed her down. Fed her a few handfuls of feed, then picked his way over the treacherous ground back to the fire.

  Now that the woman and baby were as clean as could be expected, he could no longer put off cutting the infant’s cord.

  After slicing three inches of nylon from each of his bootlaces, he chucked both pieces into the pot, along with his best bowie knife. This was hardly a sterile environment, but he’d do his best to ward off infection.

  Smoke from the fire rolled out from under its shelter, filling the temporary camp with a sweet-smelling normalcy that couldn’t be further from the truth.

  In all his time with the Navy SEALs, he’d never encountered anyone with amnesia. It was unsettling.

  While the water came to a rolling boil, minutes ticked by.

  He pretended to know what he was doing, but now that he’d tossed cordage and his knife into the pot, how did he get it all out while maintaining sterility?

  The only logical conclusion was to let the water somewhat cool, pour some out to wash his hands, then pluck out the cord and knife. If he didn’t touch the blade, the procedure should be no big deal.

  He put the heavy cast-iron lid on the pot to keep sleet from getting in, then used his coat sleeve for a hot mitt to heft the pot from the fire.

  Gideon trudged back to the tent, and since he couldn’t exactly knock on a tent wall, he stood outside, clearing his throat. “You decent?”

  “Almost.”

  He glanced beyond the tent’s flap and caught flashes. Her creamy-skinned collarbone. Long dark hair swinging like a curtain over her cheeks before she swept it behind her ears. Her breasts’ pale underbellies.

  She glanced up.

  F
or a heartbeat, her piercing clover-green stare locked with his. Feeling part rescuer, part voyeur, he lowered his own gaze.

  Sleet fell harder. Thunder rolled.

  “You okay for me to cut the cord?” Gideon tugged his hat brim lower against the sleet’s assault.

  “Please. Come in.” Her voice barely rose above nature’s racket. She’d cleaned herself and her baby, but the tent floor was still a mess. “I guess now’s as good a time as any since my son is sleepy from his meal.”

  “Yeah.” My son. Gideon hadn’t even thought to ask. In another world, he’d longed for a son. Now he knew better. His time in the Navy had left him reactionary. Trapped in a crisis loop. He fixed impossible situations. A long time ago, broken people. Now, horses. Still a good thing, right? But according to his ex, his capacity to genuinely care? To give a shit? He’d left that ability in Iraq along with his—No.

  Not going there today.

  He stepped into the tent, then poured hot water over one hand, then the other, letting the runoff flow onto the already-wet floor.

  “This should only take a sec.” He tried conveying a sense of calm that was a bald-faced lie considering the pounding of his heart.

  Lightning cracked. Thunder boomed.

  Sleet fell hard enough to make the tent’s ceiling appear as if it were writhing.

  “This can’t be good,” the woman mumbled.

  “Nope.” Gideon set down the pot to check on their sole means of transportation. Careful not to touch his freshly rinsed hands, he used his elbow to nudge the tent flap back to check on Jelly Bean.

  “What are you looking for?” the woman asked.

  “A horse. Or, in other words, our ride out of here.”

  “Is he okay?” She gingerly sat up.

  “Kind of hard to tell.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s gone...”

  Copyright © 2017 by Laura Marie Altom

  ISBN-13: 9781488013379

  A Texas Soldier’s Christmas

  Copyright © 2017 by Cathy Gillen Thacker

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