Caroline Lee's Christmas Collection: Six sweet historical western romances

by Caroline Lee

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Rose watched as her mother swept from the room, her once-red hair carefully powdered in a style so out of date it wasn’t funny. Mama believed that her own hair—red, just like her daughter’s—was the mark of the devil, and far inferior to her husband’s pale-blonde mane. She was determined to ensure that Reginald White’s daughters married blonde men, to sire blonde grandsons for the deceased plantation owner. It was terribly old-fashioned, and a little out of touch with reality, but then…so was Mama.

  Lucinda White was obsessed with propriety, and making an acceptable match for her daughter. Of course, she had very clear opinions on what constituted the “perfect match”, and so far no man in Everland met those requirements. But Mama was content to wait, sure the right man would come along. A man worthy of Reginald White’s only legitimate offspring.

  And if she was honest with herself, Rose wanted to get married, too. At this point, it was just about the only thing she could imagine that would get her out of this house, away from Mama and away from Mama’s Ladies’ Club and Everland. Oh, the ladies in the club were nice enough, but Rose had never become friends with any of them. Had never been allowed to become friends with any of them, thanks to Mama’s high-handed dictates. Rose was to be proper and decorous at all times, and not associate with anyone who wasn’t up to Mama’s strict standards. Which was, of course, nearly everyone. Rose and Snow—who also wasn’t up to Mama’s standards—had to make do with each other as friends, and that was that.

  Of course, being “proper and decorous” was alright, if they wanted to starve. But the two White girls had been going behind Mama’s back for years, in an attempt to keep their home. Snow had her sewing, and Rose kept the hogs out in the barn, which Mama refused to acknowledge as necessary.

  And of course, Rose wrote.

  With another sigh, Rose finished tidying up the papers on the desk, and pulled the pencil from the journal. Even though Mama was gone, there was no use trying to pick up the thread of the story. Rose’s inspiration—and her desire to write—had been squashed by her mother. It wasn’t uncommon.

  Instead, she tucked the journal away between the household ledgers, sure that she’d be able to continue her story about the train robbers again as soon as Mama was resting and inspiration struck again, and went to find Snow in the kitchen.

  After passing along Mama’s requests, and a warning that Snow was once again in Lucinda’s good graces for however short an amount of time, Rose left her older sister putting together a tray. Their jackets were all hanging in the foyer—sure enough, Mama’s cloak was dripping all over the floor, so Rose shoved a rug under it and hoped that it hadn’t damaged the wooden floor—and she pulled down her green one. With her mother occupied upstairs, now was as good a time as any to toss the hogs the dinner slops.

  The sun was setting when she tramped across the snow to the barn. Their cottage stood on the outskirts of town, where Papa had been determined to build a plantation, like he had back home. But he’d died shortly after having the first small barn constructed, and now his widow and daughters used it to house the pigs they raised and sold for meat.

  It wasn’t how Rose had pictured her life going, oh no. She wanted to travel, to see the country… and to write about it. Her publisher back in Chicago told her that she had a “unique voice” when it came to her short stories, but the meager income wasn’t going to pay enough to get her away from these hogs. She had journals full of her attempts at adventure novels, and Snow said they were pretty good. All she needed was to see a little more of the world, and they’d be good enough for publication. As it was, writing scenes about train robberies and gallant lawmen kissing rescued damsels was hard when she barely remembered her only train ride, and had never even met a gallant lawman in a big white hat, much less kissed one.

  The snow seemed to glow in the last of the light, and Rose smiled. It had been her mother’s cruel joke to call her half-sister “Snow”, when her skin was so dark, but it fit the older girl. Perfectly icy and pristine when she needed to protect what was underneath.

  Here, so far from the house, the blanket of white was unmarred. Rose was the only one who ever ventured out to the barn, and since it was behind the house, opposite town, there was no reason for it to be anything but perfect. She stopped a moment, the bucket of slops heavy in her arms, and just admired the white-dusted firs.

  Christmas was only a few weeks away, and although it was frigid, this was Rose’s favorite time of year. Not because she had particularly fine memories of the holiday, but because the town always put on a grand festival, and everyone worked together, and Wyoming was just so beautiful.

  That’s when she noticed the disturbance in the snow, a trampled track leading from the opposite side of the barn. And the drops of red that followed it.

  Blood.

  Chapter 2

  The burning in his leg was excruciating. Barrett Faulkner had no idea how far he’d ridden since the ambush, but thank goodness the horse had been bright enough to find civilization. This barn had loomed out of the gathering dusk; he’d managed to fall out of the saddle into a snowbank, and lead the animal inside. Here, the smell of pigs seemed to make the air warmer, which was a blessing, and he’d sunk down onto a pile of logs in the near-darkness.

  As afternoons go, this wasn’t one of my better ones.

  The bullet had gone into his thigh a good distance above his knee, and gone out the other side. From the pain—it’d nearly made him black out when he was probing around—he figured it had nicked the bone. Luckily, it seemed to have missed the major artery, because he’d been upright for the last few hours and wasn’t dead yet. Nah, the bleeding seemed normal, so that was a small blessing. Now, all he had to worry about was infection, not being able to stem this bleeding, and the fact that he might never walk again.

  And he’d failed to stop Quigg and his boys from robbing that mail coach. All in all, not a banner day.

  Without light of some sort, he wasn’t going to have an easy time dealing with this gunshot wound, either. Well, this was a barn, right? There had to be some kind of tools or lantern or something that he could use. And just as soon as he rested for a bit, he’d find them. Probably. Maybe. Why was he so tired?

  There was a snuffling noise, and something nudged him in the side. It was a pig. He’d managed to prop himself against a pig sty of some sort, and now one of the animals—were all pigs this large?—was nosing at him. Probably trying to find food. Or eat him. Didn’t pigs eat flesh? He stifled a groan; why did he feel like his mind was so full of holes, when it was just his leg? Lack of blood, maybe…

  “Go on, leave me alone.” The pig just nudged him harder, so Bear shifted slightly, each movement sending shooting pains up his leg, and pushed at the pig’s snout. “I’ve got enough to worry about without you bothering me.” Sure as sunrise, that darn pig came right back, trying to nuzzle at him. Bear reached over and grabbed one of its ears, prepared to wrestle the animal away from him, when he heard her voice:

  “Hello?”

  He froze.

  Shoot. His instincts were really gone. Bear had heard the door open, he now realized, but hadn’t reacted. And now there was someone in the barn with him. A woman, which was worse.

  “Hello?”

  What’d she think? That he was just going to announce himself? Bear almost snorted, and tightened his hold on the pig. He’d been so close to stopping the gang that he been plaguing these parts, and a stupid move on his part had gotten him shot. The last thing he needed was word of his survival to get back to Quigg and the others. They’d come looking for him. No, he just needed to lie low until this leg wound healed, and report to his supervisors back in D.C. He didn’t need a nosy farmer—especially a woman—knowing his whereabouts.

  She didn’t take the hint, though. The light in the barn increased slightly when the outer door opened wider. It might’ve been dusk, but it was still brighter outside. Oh shoot, she was coming in.

  “Hel
lo? Listen, I saw your tracks.” She sounded scared. So why was she coming inside? “I can’t tell what you are, and yes, I realize that it’s probably silly to be yelling into a barn, on the off chance that you can understand me. I mean, if you’re a wounded wolf or something, you’re probably scared and vicious, aren’t you? But these are my hogs, and we need them to not be eaten.” He heard her put something down, and then rustling came from near one of the walls. “At least I haven’t heard too much squealing.” No, the pigs were grunting and shuffling, and even the one in his hold hadn’t seemed to mind Bear’s intrusion. “So I’ll just leave the door open, and hope that you run along, if it’s not too much trouble. I really don’t want to have to come after you with a pitchfork, Mister Wolf.”

  That’s when the light flared, as she put the match to the lamp, and turned to sweep the inside of the barn. She was petite, with big scared eyes and a bunch of red hair. Too pretty to be some farmer’s wife, Bear couldn’t help thinking. But right now, that wasn’t his problem.

  She froze when the light hit him, not at all hidden beside the pen, and he knew what he must look like. No wonder she took a step back, and then another. It must not be a nice surprise, to find a bleeding stranger—one who looks like an outlaw—in one’s barn.

  But the longer they stood like that, her frozen with the lantern raised, him gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg, Bear knew that he had to do something, say something, to get her to leave. To forget she had a wounded man hiding in her barn. “All things considered, ma’am, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go get that pitchfork.”

  All things considered, it really was miraculous that she didn’t scream and fall over. There was a man in her barn. Why was there a man in her barn? A man who was bleeding, judging from the blood trail she’d followed in. A man who currently appeared to be cuddling with her friendliest hog, judging from the way he had his arm around her. Rose lifted the lantern higher. And oh, look, he had a horse too, munching on the old hay in the corner, still saddled. He’d obviously just arrived, looking for someplace to hide. Because surely, if he’d been a moral man, seeking help, he would’ve ridden to the house?

  No, the only kind of man who dressed all in darkness and rode bleeding into strange barns was an outlaw, a bandit.

  Hmmm. ‘Dressed in darkness’ was a good line. She’d have to remember that for one of her stories. Rose could just see Murderous Mitch—the villain in her latest—described as ‘dressed in darkness’. Maybe she could take notes on this villain, because he obviously fit the part, despite his obvious fondness for harmless pigs. He was big, hairy, and dark, his face all but covered in a thick beard and his hair going out in all directions from under a black hat. A black hat! She’d have to remember that little detail to include. Villains wore dark hats, didn’t they? In her stories, the Sheriff always had a white hat, and that was important.

  “Ma’am?”

  Rose startled, aware that she’d been staring at him too long. “What?” Her voice was a little higher than normal, but she didn’t know if it was fear or surprise or excitement. Imagine! A bandit in her very own barn!

  “Well, nothing.” He had a nice voice. Warm, like the cocoa the ladies sometimes served at the Sunday socials. “But I’d just like some warning before you fetch that pitchfork, ma’am.”

  “It’s miss, I’ll have you know.” Whoops, maybe she shouldn’t have admitted that to an outlaw. And why did she care what he thought?

  But he only sighed. She watched his shoulders droop, and he released her hog. Surely a man who hugged animals like that couldn’t be all bad? Rose noticed for the first time that he was clutching his thigh. Is that where he was wounded? When he glanced down, she saw his wince. “Sorry, miss. And sorry for invading your barn. Me and the horse will be out of your hair soon enough.”

  Well, that just wouldn’t do, would it? Here he was, a real live bandit, in her barn, and she was going to make sure that she took every advantage of the situation. He might be dangerous, but she was sure that if she was in charge—with his gun, say—that she could ask him all the questions she wanted.

  Still holding the lantern in one hand, she crossed to the hog pen and upended the bucket of scraps into their trough. In response to dinner, the squealing reached record heights, and made Rose long for the warmer months when the animals could root around out in the open. Of course, they had quite a few more hogs then, before most were slaughtered.

  Staring at the hogs wasn’t helping. She needed to figure out a way to keep the man here, even if she had to steal his gun, so that she could learn from him. Imagine what he knew! Her mind began to skip about, thinking about train robberies and horse chases and gunfights at high noon. She’d bemoaned the fact that she had no way of learning about the things she wanted to write, and then God just dropped this fabulous Christmas present into her path. Oh, yes, she was going to keep the man here, until she’d learned all that she needed. And then she’d take herself into town and tell Sheriff Cutter everything.

  “Miss?” Was it her imagination, or did he sound a little anxious? Rose’s attention swung from the hogs rooting through the trough to the stranger sitting on her log pile.

  “What’s your name?” Perhaps it wasn’t the most artful conversation starter, but explaining to the bandit that she’d captured him wasn’t going to work either.

  He hesitated a moment, before answering. “Bear.” Bear? What kind of man was named Bear? He didn’t look like an Indian… But the name suited him. He wore a long black jacket, and was larger than any man she’d seen before. Yes, he looked like a bear alright.

  “I’m Rose White.” Maybe she shouldn’t have told him that either. Hmm. Well, she was new to this whole law-enforcement thing.

  “Miss White, I just needed a place to rest for a few hours. I’ll be out of here before morning, I swear.”

  But when she saw him wince again, she knew that he was lying. He wasn’t going anywhere, not with the amount of blood pooling around him. And in that moment, she lost her fear of him. Well, maybe she’d never been really afraid—just excited and curious—but with him hurt so badly, she knew that she had the upper hand. That injury meant that she could keep him here, and learn from him, even if she couldn’t overpower him.

  So she put down the bucket and marched over, all businesslike. “Don’t be stupid, Bear.” She fetched some of the moldy old blankets Papa had stacked in the barn years ago and forgotten, and laid them out near the log pile. “These might not smell the best, but they’re a sight more comfortable than cuddling with my hogs.” She heard him snort, and the sound made her lips turn up for some reason.

  When she straightened, she swiped her palms down the front of her coat, and took a deep breath to steady herself. “Please remove your guns.” It was hard to see his expression under that hat and all that beard, but she swallowed and repeated herself. “I want to help you, Mr. Bear, but I just can’t if you’ve got a gun and are four times my size.” It was God’s honest truth.

  Finally, he moved, slowly pulling his revolvers from his holsters—didn’t outlaws wear those fancy tooled-leather double holsters like that?—with two fingers. He didn’t drop her gaze while he tossed them lightly to the ground, or when he propped the rifle on the post beside him. When he nodded to let her know that he was unarmed, Rose breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving. She hadn’t believed that she could be so bold as to demand an outlaw disarm himself, but it had worked! Maybe she had more steel in her than she’d realized.

  …or maybe the man was just in enough pain that he’d give in to anything she asked.

  Feeling guilty, now, that she’d delayed his treatment, she crossed to him, her hand out. “Come on, I’ll help you over to lie down. We need to look at that wound of yours.”

  The way he stared at her made her mouth dry, and she had to swallow a few times. She’d never felt so…so looked at. His eyes were dark under his thick brows, and his lips—what she could see under that beard—were pulled down. Finally, his gaze dro
pped to her outstretched hand, and she breathed a little sigh of relief—why did his reaction matter?—when he accepted her assistance.

  But in the few steps it took to get him to the pitiful pallet she’d created, she realized how heavily he was leaning on her. And realized how her arm tingled, for some reason, where his gloved hands touched it. What was wrong with her? Certainly, he was an intriguing, compelling man—he’d shown up in her barn, for goodness sakes! But why would she be attracted to him? Surely she was holding her breath now for some other reason? Some reason that didn’t involve his surprisingly clean scent and the way she shivered when he called her “miss”.

  It was only a few steps from the log pile to the pallet, but it seemed to last much longer. Finally, he sunk down to the blankets with a groan, and she tightened her hold on the lantern. She had an outlaw in her barn, and she wasn’t about to let him get away.

  “Well, let’s see that wound of yours, Bear.”

  His sharp glance told her that she’d surprised him, and she set her jaw and tried to look firm. “Surely you didn’t think I was just going to let you walk—hobble—out of here, leaking blood?” No, she needed him here, to tell her all about being an outlaw. “There’s not a lot of medical supplies out here in the barn.” An understatement. “But by the time I get back with some from the house, I figure that you can have your pants off.”

  The man on the ground made a sort of choking noise. “What?”

  Rose felt her cheeks heat as she realized what she’d said, but was determined to push forward. She couldn’t let this man die, not when she planned to interview him…and then turn him over to the law. “I said that you need to take your pants off. That’s where the wound is, after all. No need to be squeamish, Mr. Bear. I’ll leave you alone to disrobe.”

  “…Alone to…?”

  “Disrobe.” Heavens, maybe he’d lost more blood than she knew. “To take your clothes off. Your pants, sir.”