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Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover art by Gregg Gulbronson
Internal images from Shutterstock
The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows:
Father Christmas © 1995, 2011, 2017 by Leigh Greenwood
A Chick-a-Dee Christmas © 2017 by Rosanne Bittner
The Christmas Stranger © 2017 by Linda Broday
A Texas Ranger for Christmas © 2017 by Margaret Brownley
A Christmas Baby © 2017 by Anna Schmidt
A Christmas Reunion © 2017 by Amy Sandas
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Leigh Greenwood’s Father Christmas was originally published in 1995 in the United States by Leisure Books, an imprint of Dorchester Books.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Father Christmas
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
About the Author
A Chick-a-Dee Christmas
Foreword
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
From the Author
About the Author
The Christmas Stranger
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
About the Author
A Texas Ranger for Christmas
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
About the Author
A Christmas Baby
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
About the Author
A Christmas Reunion
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
About the Author
Back Cover
Father Christmas
Leigh Greenwood
For Brandon, who never got to celebrate Christmas
One
“I’ve got to be a fool to come here. I should be headed for California, where nobody would ever find me.”
Joe Ryan glanced over at his dog, Samson. The big, yellow, short-haired mongrel was sniffing among some rocks, a growl in his throat, the hair on his back standing up.
“Stop looking for coyotes and listen to me.”
The dog looked up but almost immediately turned back to the tangle of boulders and desert broom.
“You keep poking your nose into every pile of rocks you pass, and you’re going to find a wolf one of these days.
“Maybe you can talk to him,” Joe said to his horse, General Burnside. “He never listens to me.”
Joe rode through the Arizona desert with care. He kept away from the flat valley floor, where a man could be seen for miles. Rather than stop for water at the cottonwood-lined San Pedro River, he looked for springs and seeps. He had shaken the posse before he left Colorado, but the law would soon figure out where he was. He planned to be gone by then.
“I can’t imagine why Pete wanted a ranch in this country,” Joe said aloud. “Even a coyote would have a hard time making a living.”
He had fallen into the habit of talking to his dog and horse just to hear the sound of a human voice. He’d seen few people since he broke out of a Colorado jail a month earlier.
Sometime after midday, Joe pulled up just short of the crest of a small ridge. He paused to light a cigarette and let his gaze wander over every part of the landscape. When he was satisfied that there was no movement, he started forward. Using the cover of juniper thickets, scattered mesquite, and greasewood, he crossed the ridge and rode into a basin.
Pete Wilson’s ranch lay below.
Joe studied the land closely as he rode in. It was good land. It would be hot in summer, but there was plenty of food for cattle. A small creek passed close to the house. He was surprised Pete had had enough sense to choose such a good spot. His former partner hadn’t struck him as a far-sighted man. Impatient and bad-tempered was a better description. But then, a shrewish wife could ruin any man. And from what Pete had said, Mary Wilson was a thoroughgoing harridan.
Well, it didn’t matter to Joe. He meant to find the gold, clear his name, and be on his way. It wasn’t cold for December, but he was looking forward to the warm breezes of California.
“Come on, Samson. Let’s get it over with.”
Pressing his heels into the flanks of his lanky, mouse-gray gelding, Joe started toward the ranch.
* * *
Mary Wilson struggled to sit up. The room spun violently before her eyes. She closed them and concentrated hard. She had to get up. She was too weak to stay here any longer.
“Get the horse,” she said to the blond child who watched her with anxious eyes. “Don’t try to saddle him. Just put a halter on him and bring him to the porch.”
“He won’t come to me,” Sarah Wilson said.
“Offer him some oats. I’ll be outside in a moment.”
The child left reluctantly. Mary didn’t like forcing Sarah to fetch the animal, but she had no choice. She wasn’t even sure she was strong enough to make the twenty-two-mile trip into town. She didn’t know how she could be so weak without being ill. She had felt fine until two days ago. Then her strength had just vanished. Taking a firm grip on the bedpost, she pulled herself to her feet. The room spun more rapidly than ever. Gasping from the effort, Mary refused to let go of the bedpost. She would stand up. She would make it to town. She had thought she had more time. The ba
by wasn’t due for another month.
She attempted to take a step, but her swollen stomach unbalanced her. She used a chair to steady herself. No sooner had she regained her equilibrium than she heard Sarah scream. Fear gave Mary the strength she lacked. She stumbled across the room to the rifle she kept on the wall next to the door. She took it down and managed to open the door about a foot. Leaning against the doorjamb, she pushed herself forward until she could see into the ranch yard.
Sarah came flying up the steps. She almost knocked Mary down as she buried herself in Mary’s skirts. Mary’s gaze found and locked on the rider who had reached the corral. What she saw frightened her.
A stranger dressed in buckskin and denim, astride a huge gray horse and accompanied by a large dog, was riding into the yard. A big man with very broad shoulders, he wore a gun belt and carried a rifle. His hat was tilted too low to allow her to see much of his face, but his chin and cheeks were covered by several weeks’ growth of dark-blond beard. He rode right up to the porch.
Sarah tightened her grip on Mary’s skirts. Mary’s hold on the doorway began to give way. She leaned her shoulder against the wood to keep from falling.
The man came to a stop at the steps. He didn’t dismount, just pushed his hat back from his forehead and stared hard at Mary. Mary found herself looking into the coldest blue eyes she’d ever seen.
“This Pete Wilson’s place?” the man asked.
His voice was deep and rough. It didn’t sound threatening, but it sounded far away. The ringing in Mary’s ears distracted her. She felt her muscles begin to relax, and she tightened her grip on the rifle. “Yes,” Mary said.
“You his wife?”
“I’m his widow. What can I do for you?”
The man’s face seemed to go out of focus for a moment. Then it started to spin very slowly. One moment he was right side up, the next upside-down. Mary fought to still the revolving image, but it only moved faster.
Then she saw nothing at all.
* * *
Joe wasn’t surprised when Mary Wilson met him at the door with a rifle. He was surprised to see she was pregnant. He was even more surprised when she fainted. Damn! Now he’d have to take care of her. He knew absolutely nothing about the care and handling of extremely pregnant women.
Still, he was out of the saddle and up the front steps almost before her body had settled on the floor. He scooped up the unconscious woman. Despite her condition, she weighed very little. She looked white, totally drained of color. That wasn’t good.
He kicked open the door and entered the small stone cabin. Looking around, he saw a rope bed in the corner. He carried her to the bed and eased her down. She rolled onto her side. He put his hand on her forehead. She didn’t feel hot. If anything, she seemed too cool. She looked more exhausted than anything else. Thin in the face. Almost gaunt. Maybe the baby was taking everything she ate. She looked big enough to be carrying a colt.
He pulled the blanket over her. Pete had lied. She was a pretty woman. There was nothing harsh or shrewish about her face. He’d never seen any female who could look that pretty without painting herself and putting on a fancy dress. She reminded him of some kind of fragile bird—but one with the heart of an eagle—standing guard over her chick.
She lay there, helpless. He wanted to touch her again—her skin had felt so soft under his hand—but the sight of the child cowering in the corner behind the bed caused him to back away.
“Is she sick?” he asked.
The child just stared at him, her eyes wide with fear. She pressed close to Mary but well out of his reach.
“Speak up, girl. I’m not going to hurt you. I want to know if she’s sick or if she faints all the time.”
The child cringed and practically buried herself in the crack between the bed and the wall. He noticed that her eyes kept going toward the doorway. He turned. Samson had followed him inside and flopped down a few feet from the door.
“Outside,” Joe ordered, with a wave of his hand. “You’re scaring the kid.”
The dog whined in protest.
“Maybe later, but right now you’re not welcome. Out.”
With a protesting woof, the dog got up and ambled outside. He lay down directly in front of the open door, where Joe would have to step over him to get out.
Joe closed the door on Samson. “Nosy brute. I guess I spoiled him. I don’t suppose you have a name,” he said to the girl, “something I can call you?”
The child continued to stare.
“I didn’t think so. You got anything to eat around here? I’m hungry. I haven’t had a decent meal since I went to jail.”
Still no answer. Joe was confused about the child. Pete had talked about his wife a lot—that was how he’d conned Joe into teaming up with him—but he hadn’t said a word about a daughter. Was this kid Pete’s or Mary’s?
“What does your ma like to eat?”
No answer.
“How about you?”
It was clear that the child wasn’t going to say anything, so Joe decided to look around for himself. He found a little coffee, sugar, salt, some tea, beans, bacon, and flour. Some canned goods lined a shelf against the wall. He glanced back at Mary. She looked as if she needed something sustaining. “Do you have any milk?” Joe asked the child.
She continued to stare.
“Look, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to fix something to eat, but I need a little help here. Your ma’s looking right run down. You want her to get better, don’t you?”
The child nodded, and Joe felt a little of the tension inside him relax. It wasn’t much progress, but it was a beginning.
“Do you have any milk?”
The child shook her head.
Hell, he thought, every ranch or farm kept a milk cow. What was she going to feed the baby if her milk ran dry? “How about eggs?” Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any chickens when he rode up. What kind of place was this, anyhow?
The child didn’t say anything, but she cautiously left her corner, approached the door, and opened it a crack. With a sharp intake of breath, she jumped back.
Joe crossed the room in a few strides. “Dammit, Samson, I told you to get out of here.” The dog got up and moved off the porch. “Go on. Find me a rabbit or something for supper.”
Samson disappeared behind the house. After peeping around the corner to make sure the dog wasn’t waiting to attack her, the kid headed toward a shed that seemed to serve as a barn and chicken coop. Joe figured he’d better stay outside just in case Samson came back. He stuck his head inside, but Mary hadn’t moved. When he turned back, the child was out of sight.
Hell! He was on the run from the law, and he had a pregnant woman and a child who wouldn’t talk on his hands. He hadn’t been around a respectable woman in years and didn’t know what to do with one.
The kid emerged from the shed, cast a worried look around for Samson, and ran across the yard toward the house. She slowed and came reluctantly up the steps. Looking up, she held out her hands. She had an egg in each.
If it hadn’t been for the long hair, Joe wouldn’t have been able to tell if she was a boy or a girl. She wore a red-checked flannel shirt and black pants. Her shoes looked more like boots several sizes too large. There was nothing feminine or appealing about the child.
“Put them on the table,” Joe said. “I’ve got to get a few things from my saddlebags.” He should unsaddle General Burnside and give him a good rubdown, but that would have to wait. He unstrapped his saddlebags. He had started back up the steps before he turned back for his rifle. He didn’t think there was anybody within twenty miles of this place, but he’d feel better if he had his rifle with him.
The kid had retreated to her position behind the bed. Joe placed his rifle against the wall and tossed his saddlebags on the table. For now he’d have to use his own supplies.
He had plenty of beef jerky. He didn’t know anything like it for building up a person who was weak.
“Water,” he called out to the child. “I need water.” When he heard nothing, he turned around. She was pointing to a bucket. He looked inside. It was half-full. It was also tepid.
“Fresh water.” Joe held out the bucket.
Reluctantly the child came forward, took the bucket, and headed outside again.
Joe hadn’t had time to pay attention to his surroundings. Only now did he notice the dozens of drawings covering the walls, all of them black ink on white paper. There were drawings of a town somewhere in the East, of the ranch and surrounding countryside, of the child, of Pete. Even of the stone cabin.
The winter scenes were the most incredible. Even in black and white, they had the power to evoke memories of winters back home in the foothills of North Carolina. The snow weighing heavily on pine boughs, icicles hanging from the roof of a wood-frame house, a woman leaning over the porch rail, barnyards made pristine by a blanket of snow.
Joe pushed the recollections aside. Not even a mantle of snow could turn his past into a happy memory.
He moved along the wall, studying each picture in detail, until he stumbled over a bunch of twigs. “What the hell!” he muttered. He had knocked over a bundle of hackberry branches tied together. A few red berries showed among the dense green foliage. Each branch ended in a sharp, strong thorn.
A muffled cry from the doorway caused him to turn. The kid dropped the bucket and threw herself at the bundle of twigs. The water spilled out and quickly disappeared down the cracks between the floorboards. Joe watched, unbelieving, as the kid set the bundle of twigs back in the corner.
“That’s Sarah’s Christmas tree,” Mary informed him in a weak, hesitant voice.
Joe hadn’t realized Mary was conscious. He drew close to the bed, scrutinizing her. She seemed okay, but he intended to make sure she stayed in bed.
“That’s a bunch of hackberry branches, for God’s sake,” he said, unable to understand why the kid continued to fuss over them, pulling and twisting the branches until she had arranged them to her satisfaction. “They ought to be tossed on the fire. She could kill herself on those thorns.”
“Sarah is determined to have a Christmas tree, and that’s the best she could do.”
Christmas in a Cowboy's Arms Page 1