Hank stood. “It’s going fine, boss. I picked up the code just like I never stopped. I suppose you came for a report.”
“No. It’s early yet, and if you had anything, you’d have brought it.” Stoker removed his gloves. “I need you to send a telegram to Joe Jameson right away. I have business to conclude with him before Christmas.”
Ice froze the blood in Hank’s veins. Dark foreboding rippled through him, and there was a foul taste in his mouth. He should have known this was all too good to be true.
After what felt like an eternity, he forced himself to focus and handed Stoker a tablet and pencil. “Write out what you want me to send, and I’ll get to it.”
Then he’d have to decide if it was time to saddle up and ride out.
Stoker scribbled out the message and drew on his gloves. “I’m real glad we found you. You’re sure a godsend, no doubt about it.” The big rancher’s gaze swept over Hank. “Christmas should be spent with family though. I’ll understand if you need to leave.”
“I have no family.”
“Then I’m glad you can join ours. The Legend and Lone Star families are one and the same. I throw a dance on Christmas Eve and you’ll be welcome.”
“Thank you, but I don’t much like crowds.”
“I know a few pretty ladies who’ll be very disappointed.” Stoker strode to the door and turned. “Maybe you’ll change your mind. My day will be made if all my sons get to be here. A man can’t ask for more than that.”
“I reckon not. I’ll keep burning up these wires until I find Luke.”
With a nod, Stoker stepped out into the snow. The fire crackled and popped as Hank focused on the message to Joe Jameson. The boss was telling Jameson to be there in four days or the deal was off. From the strong language used, it appeared Stoker didn’t think any more of the man he was doing business with than Hank did.
The owner of the Lone Star rose even higher in his estimation, but either way, Jameson was coming to the Lone Star. Hank had four days. Did he stay or run?
If he stayed, Jameson would only make trouble for him. The man had more money than God and more lies than the Devil, with a lack of a conscience to match. Jameson had destroyed Hank once.
A muscle worked in Hank’s jaw. This time the man would find out just how much Hank had learned about surviving. He’d aged far beyond his twenty-eight years.
He wondered if Jameson’s boy would come. If he was going to show, Hank might be tempted to stay. He’d like to see if Seth was still a spoiled braggart. But likely someone had silenced him by now.
A troubled breath left him as he sat down to send the telegram. Soon he immersed himself in work, and the bitter taste in his mouth left. He was on the hunt for Stoker’s son, Luke Weston. Hank still thought it odd that Luke didn’t go by Legend. Maybe he’d ask Houston—if he got to know him well enough.
That wouldn’t happen if he decided to leave before Jameson arrived.
Still undecided, Hank refocused and found comfort in the tapping sound. He was narrowing down Luke’s location. He only had a few more days, or it would be too late for Stoker’s son to arrive in time. It was important to give the man who’d offered him a second chance the Christmas he wanted.
When Hank was growing up and before he learned what a dark place the world could be, Christmas had been exciting. Hank could barely wait to see what he’d get—not that he couldn’t guess. His mother always knitted a scarf, gloves, or a warm cap. His father would make some toy by the light of the lantern after Hank went to sleep. He missed those times where the love of family wrapped around him like soft wool. But Christmas had ceased to exist for him.
There wasn’t any use in pretending it did.
A handful of ranch hands wandered in to send telegrams to family, making plans to spend the holidays together. Those left and more came. One tall cowboy sent a note to his sweetheart, saying he loved her. An older one, his face weathered by the sun and wind, told a woman named Alice that he couldn’t make it this year. A young homesick cowboy asked Hank to write out his message for him on account of never learning to read and write. It was to his mother, apologizing for not making it.
Hank watched them, wondering about their lives and what they dreamed about at night when they stumbled to their beds, dead tired after a long day. They weren’t much different from him—except they seemed content. Hank was still searching for a home and a place to belong.
Sidalee had said this was a good place to start over. He’d like to think she was right…but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before he’d have to say goodbye.
Seven
Sidalee got Miss Mamie all settled and left her dozing by the fire, then rushed around to fix a nice, warm supper. Excitement hummed below her skin just thinking about Hank Destry sitting across the table from her. She wanted this to be perfect.
Tears stung her eyes as she remembered how tender he was with Miss Mamie. Not too many men would pretend to be the lonely old widow’s son. Yet he hadn’t batted an eyelash. Hank was cut from the same fine cloth as the Legend family. He wore honor and compassion like a second skin.
During the woman’s morning nap, she’d fetched Doc Jenkins. He’d frowned when he listened to Miss Mamie’s chest and told Sidalee to keep her warm and give her plenty of fluids. “She has pneumonia and is very weak. I’m glad you brought her from that line shack.”
“Me too, Doc.” She’d thanked him for coming.
Now with the shadows gathering, she made them a cup of tea and sat down with the homeless widow. “How are you feeling? Your cough doesn’t seem quite so frightening.”
“I owe everything to you, dear. Do you know where my sack of rocks went?”
Sidalee scowled. “Now, Miss Mamie, I hope we don’t have words, with Christmas upon us, but if you keep trying to pay me for following my heart, we will.”
Miss Mamie harrumphed. “Well, if this doesn’t beat all. I’ll bet my son wouldn’t talk to me like this.”
Sidalee rose and wrapped her arms around the woman. “I love you, don’t you know that?”
“I reckon I do.” She patted Sidalee’s hand.
They sat there sipping their tea and finding comfort in each other’s company. Not long after, a knock sounded at the door. She rushed to let Hank in. He stood there tall and broad-shouldered, with the low hat brim shading his unreadable eyes. Beau was at his side. The dog glanced up at her with a whine, and she smoothed his fur and crooned.
“I’m glad you came,” she said, smiling. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
He stepped inside, taking off his hat. “One thing you should know about me—I keep my word.” He sniffed and grinned. “What is that?”
“Fried rabbit. Jonas, the—”
“Blacksmith,” he finished.
“Very good. You remembered. Jonas went out hunting and brought a couple of rabbits by. I’d been wanting fried chicken but didn’t want to traipse out in this weather. Not with Miss Mamie here.”
He glanced around and lowered his voice. “I got a telegram from the sheriff in Benton Falls.” He quickly told her about the death of Miss Mamie’s son and the reason they left.
“Oh dear.” A stabbing ache filled Sidalee. “No wonder she’d rather live in a pretend world. Her husband’s death must’ve pushed her over the edge.”
“Is that you I hear in there, George?” Miss Mamie called in a frail voice.
Sidalee watched Hank still. It was apparent he was still getting used to his new role.
“Yes, Mother.” He moved on into the parlor. “It sure is.”
Sidalee swallowed the thickness in her throat and listened to Hank tell the woman about his day. She was sure he made up a good portion of it, but the fact he did spoke well for him. She dished up the fried rabbit and set the platter on the table along with the cream gravy and hot biscuits.
“It’s ready,” she called. Ha
nk came through the door with his arm bracing Miss Mamie. The way the old woman glanced up at him with such adoration in her eyes touched Sidalee. It didn’t matter that they bore no blood relation to each other. Their hearts had formed the only ties that mattered.
Beau padded to his dish filled with meat and wasted no time gobbling it up.
Sitting with Hank and Miss Mamie at the table, Sidalee didn’t think she’d ever been happier or felt more cared for. They talked about everything and nothing. She caught him looking at her strangely all during supper and wondered why.
“This is the best meal I’ve ever had,” Hank declared. “How about you, Mother?”
Miss Mamie wiped her fingers on her napkin. She seemed lost in a memory. “Often when I was a girl, at the first snow, we’d go rabbit hunting with my father. Then mother would cook them and we all ate until we popped.” Her hand trembled as she wiped her eyes. “This makes me feel like I’m young again. What I wouldn’t give…”
“You two are spoiling me.” Sidalee patted Miss Mamie’s arm. “We can always go home to visit in our minds, and that’s a very good thing. Anyone want dessert? I made a pie out of canned peaches from the store.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hank was quick to hold out his plate.
After they finished, he helped her clean up. Then she helped Miss Mamie to bed and sat with Hank on the settee in the parlor in front of a cozy fire.
“Hank, you just added another star to your crown,” she declared.
His lopsided smile made her heart lurch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You could’ve easily straightened Miss Mamie out and hurt her very badly. It’s the mark of a real man to put someone’s need over his own,” she said softly.
He took her hand in both of his. “Don’t make me into something I’m not. I’m no different than you. I couldn’t stop staring at you over supper. I’ve never met anyone with such depth of compassion. I kept thinking about you lying next to me in that bed last night, keeping me warm, making sure I didn’t want for anything.”
Sidalee’s heart fluttered. He sat so close, the pleasing scent of him swirled around her as though it were a rope, binding them together. “I would’ve done the same for anyone else.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it.” He turned her hand over, studying it.
“Do you mind if I ask something?”
“Not at all.”
“Why do you have this habit of tapping on things?”
The crackling fire filled the silence. Finally, Hank said, “In prison I had this friend, Robert Gage, in the next cell with a thick wall separating us. We talked to each other by tapping out a code. One of my biggest regrets is that I never got a chance to meet him. Our talks helped both of us get through the hard times. That way of communicating was a huge part of my life for so long.”
“What happened to Robert? Is he still there?”
“He died.” Hank rose to tend the fire.
“I’m so sorry.” Now it made sense, but she wished she hadn’t asked.
Hank returned to the sofa. “I had a decision facing me, but an answer came just now. I know exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Anything you care to talk about?”
Sadness in his gaze spoke of torment and despair. “I’ve kept things to myself all my life, thinking it was the only way left for a man. Sometimes I don’t think I can bear the burden a second longer. You deserve honesty above all else, and if I make it to Christmas, that will be my gift to you. You’ll have a full accounting.”
What did he mean, if he made it to Christmas? He was so serious, and she knew he didn’t say it lightly.
“I’ll just ask one thing—is your life in danger?” She searched his face.
“I won’t lie. It could well be. But I won’t drag you into my mess.”
“I never worried for one second you would.” Hank was the kind of man who’d take a bullet so it wouldn’t strike anyone else. He drew circles on her palm and the sensitive skin of her wrist. She’d never felt a gentler touch and yearned to lay her hand on the side of his face and tell him she’d stand with him. She longed to trace the curve of his lips and brush a kiss onto them.
This man who had trouble opening up communicated best by touch. She took his hand and tapped on his palm. “This can be our secret language too, and maybe you won’t feel so lost. This way, you can honor Robert and never forget him in this new life as well as the old.”
Hank allowed a smile as he tapped a message on her hand. “That says I’ve never met anyone like you, Sidalee. Your compassion astounds me. Thank you for caring.”
“I see how much you grieve for the loss of your friend, and this will help ease that loss.” Tapping on a hand was little enough. She’d do anything to give Hank hope again.
“That brings me to a question,” he said. “Boss told me about a dance on Christmas Eve. Will you do me the honor of going with me?”
Thoughts of dancing with Hank filled her. “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather go with.”
Worry deepened the lines of his face. “Just one thing—I don’t know how to dance.”
“We’re in the same boat. I never learned. My brothers used to tell me I had the grace of a donkey.” She chuckled softly at the memory. “How about if we just stand there and sway? We can do that.”
She could do anything if it meant being next to him—even fake dancing.
Hank brushed her cheek with his fingers. “I like the sound of your laughter. You’re easy to be with.”
“So are you.” She paused, then added, “I know you consider being here only temporary, but I hope you’ll stay.”
“We’ll see how the cards play out. It wouldn’t set well to disappoint a pretty lady.” His half smile made her heart do funny things. My, he was a handsome man.
He leaned toward her and she held her breath, hoping he was going to kiss her. Instead he bypassed her lips and pressed a light kiss on her cheek. Disappointment swept over her. It was nice though, real nice, and she’d take it.
This drifter she found in the snow had made her dream again. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late for her.
* * *
Hank spent the next three days scouring Texas for Stoker’s son. Finally, a telegram arrived from Luke. He was coming but might not arrive in time for Christmas, saying he’d do his best.
Stoker’s face lit up when Hank handed him the message. “He’ll be here if it’s humanly possible. Good work, Destry.” He opened his cigar box and offered one.
“Glad I could help.” Hank cut off the end of his cigar and lit it.
He turned to leave when Stoker stopped him. “Doc told me about an old woman that Sidalee had found staying out in an abandoned line shack. What do you know about her?”
Hank filled him in on the old woman’s plight, adding, “Miss Mamie has nowhere to go.”
“Doc said she has a bad heart and may not have long. I want to make her last days comfortable.”
“That’s one prideful woman, boss. And stubborn. But she thinks I’m her son, George—the baby she lost before his second year.”
“Perfect. You can persuade her to do most anything, if it comes to that.” The rancher looked deep in thought. “I’ll let you know after I think about this.”
With a nod, Hank returned to the office. He gathered up a handful of telegrams in preparation for delivering them to the ranch hands, but Joe Jameson was heavy on his mind. He still had a window of opportunity to ride out. But he liked it here, and for the first time in a very long while, he felt he belonged. To the ranch, to Miss Mamie…and maybe to Sidalee.
And he had the Christmas dance to look forward to. If he left, he’d really miss that, miss a chance to hold Sidalee close and sway to the music, miss the laughter that set her blue eyes twinkling like stars. And he’d miss stealing another kiss.
&n
bsp; Hank hesitated, then firmed his jaw. He wasn’t leaving. He’d draw a line in this north Texas sand and make a stand.
Joe Jameson had better get ready. Hank Destry wasn’t running. He’d face the man who’d framed him and risk everything. He had no money or power, but he would look Jameson in the eye one last time and tell him that he refused to be destroyed by him.
Some things freed a man’s soul, and his already felt lighter.
Low, heavy clouds made for frigid wind as he made his way outside. He pulled his collar up around his neck and saddled his blue roan. He’d named the horse Boots because of the black stockings on his legs. The animal needed the exercise and Hank could take care of two things at once. Light snow was falling by the time he delivered all the telegrams and turned for home.
A smile formed. Yes, he was home—for however long they let him stay.
Eight
Joe Jameson arrived about noon the next day. Hank spotted him from the office window and struggled to swallow the bitter memories that rose so thick and deep. His hand automatically caressed the Colt at his side.
Jameson walked with the same swagger, the same aloof bearing that demanded everyone’s attention. He’d bet everything he owned that Jameson wore the same smug expression.
With luck, Hank would find an excuse to run into the man. He would have his say before the day was out, one way or another. He turned from the window and went to the potbellied stove for coffee. The telegraph machine began to clatter.
It was a message for Stoker from his son Sam. His boss would want this right away.
This was the chance he’d waited for. Hank stilled his breath and pulled on his coat and gloves. Facing down Jameson wouldn’t accomplish anything except give Hank satisfaction. After all, the sorry piece of humanity had ties and money. But Hank would have peace in his soul. The dog padded to the door, and the minute Hank opened it, the collie dashed out. He made a beeline for one of the ranch dogs and promptly sniffed his hind end. Hank set his sights on Jameson and strolled toward his fate. A few minutes later, he entered headquarters and knocked on Stoker’s closed office door.
Christmas in a Cowboy's Arms Page 23