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

by Caroline Lee

  She wasn’t here. She’d been sweeping, then interrupted, and—he glanced up—her coat was gone. The blue scarf dangling lonely on a hook told him she’d been in a hurry to leave, but at least she’d taken her gloves.

  Glad he hadn’t removed his own coat just yet, Draven yanked the front door open, ignoring the way the careful pile of dust and dirt blew across the room once more.

  Maybe she’d just gone to visit one of the ladies at the cathouse. Maybe she hadn’t taken her scarf because she knew it was a short trip. Maybe she was safe and sound, sipping tea and giggling with one of the brides.

  Then why did his uneasy feeling get worse when he stepped outside? Everything looked fine and peaceful, but he was Noelle’s sheriff. He’d spent two years reading this town’s moods and gaining a sixth sense for trouble.

  Something bad was about to happen.

  Draven’s right hand dropped to his gun as his head whipped back and forth, looking for whatever it was that had his instincts on fire.

  There!

  A woman’s glove, lying on top of the slush!

  He hurried over to snatch it up, trying to convince himself one of the recent brides had dropped—

  No. No, he recognized it as Pearl’s glove. One glove, fallen in the middle of the road?

  He dropped to one knee beside the glove’s resting spot and traced his bare fingertips over the snow. It had been trampled by many feet since the Christmas Eve snowfall, but Draven had tracked animals long before he’d hunted bounties, and he knew what to look for.

  There! That was a woman’s footprint, one that matched the boots he’d seen placed neatly at the base of his bed. And…there, another print.

  Draven’s hands fluttered over the slush, marking direction and stride. She was moving erratically, had planted both her feet, only to jump ahead.

  A cold suspicion began to form, and he expanded his search, dreading what he would find.

  Sure enough, there was another set of prints that matched her movements. A man’s prints. It was possible they were unrelated; until Draven found one on top of the other, he wouldn’t be able to know if they were made simultaneously or not. But a gut feeling told him this was the reason for Pearl’s erratic pace.

  Someone was pulling her along.

  And, as his hand tightened comfortingly around his revolver’s grip, Draven knew who it was.

  Stiles.

  His gut clenched. This morning he'd been nervous, wondering how she would react to his plan. Now though? Now he was afraid. Not of Stiles, but of what he might do to Pearl.

  Pearl, who had so quickly become the center of Draven's world. Who didn't even know he loved her. Yes, it was fear that had wormed its way icily through his chest and into his stomach. Fear that now made him stop--kneeling, eyes closed, in the dirty Noelle street—and pray.

  Mama, I know you can hear me. You know Jesus and me don’t have a lot to say to one another, but if you could put a word in for me, I sure would appreciate it. Mama, Jesus, whoever...let me find her before it's too late.

  And then, figuring he needed to put his trust in his own abilities, he took off. He followed her footsteps through town, his hand on his gun, and his eyes keen for any unusual movement. He peered into the spaces between the buildings, he glared at the few drunks staggering home from Madame Bonheur’s temporary cathouse.

  Should he stop to ask if they'd seen her? Would they recognized Stiles?

  Hell. He didn't want to take the time. Her trail was clear, as were the man's footsteps pulling her along.

  It wasn't until he reached the outskirts of town and saw her other glove, that he began to run.

  And when he heard the shot, then rounded the corner in time to see Pearl fall into the snowdrift, he learned how to fly.

  Stiles hadn't even realized he was there before Draven barreled into him. He was going too fast to bother with his guns, and the element of surprise was on his side. He lowered his shoulder, stretched out his arms, and drove himself into the taller man's side.

  He felt several ribs crack under his assault, and he wanted to grin with satisfaction, but was too terrified of what Stiles had done to Pearl. They went down in a tangle of limbs, and Draven began pummeling the so-called railroad representative.

  He shot her! He'd hurt Pearl! He'd hurt Pearl! He'd hurt Pearl!

  The refrain pounded through Draven’s head in time with his fists' assaults. He saw red, first behind his eyes and then in front as blood bloomed from the other man's face, chest, throat.

  He'd kill him. He would kill him.

  “Draven!”

  It wasn't until she repeated his name that Draven’s murderous thoughts turned to thoughts of disbelief, then joy.

  Pearl!

  She was alive! Calling him...

  Draven let Stiles’ head flop down into the snow, and breathing heavily, twisted on his knees to find her.

  She was sitting in a snowdrift, but had crawled towards him, one hand outstretched. She appeared unhurt, unbloodied. His eye frantically searched her body, looking for evidence that his prayers to his mother had been answered. That Pearl was truly safe, and whole, and still his.

  “Draven,” she implored him, one hand still stretched towards him, while the other cradled the side of her head. “Draven, don't kill him.”

  Surely she was joking? Surely she knew he had the right, the duty, to end this man's life as violently as possible?

  She tried to smile, but it was watery. “Please. You’re better than this,” she whispered.

  She was alive! She was whole! But it seemed she didn't know him that well after all. He knelt there, staring at her, trying to process. How many men had he killed? How many times had he used his fists on another man?

  He was not better than this.

  “Draven,” she whispered again, “The man I love wouldn't kill another in cold blood like this.”

  The man she loves…

  Could he be that man? Could he put aside his past, could he turn over a new leaf? Could he be the man she loved?

  Draven's eyes slowly widened. To hell with that! He was the man she loved. He was the man she wanted him to be, simply because she loved him. Somewhere in the last five days, he'd stopped thinking of his past and started thinking of his future. His future with Pearl. His future with his soul intact.

  He closed his eyes on an unspoken prayer. Mama, you tell that Jesus fella he and I are going to have a lot more to say to each other real soon.

  “Draven?”

  No longer was he the type of man who lived only by his guns and fists. He was the sheriff of Noelle, an upstanding, honorable position. He was a man with a future, one he could offer to share with a wife.

  And he knew just who to offer the position to.

  He opened his eyes and crawled towards her. Within moments, he’d gathered her in his arms. She was smiling faintly, but her eyes looked unfocused.

  Cradling her in one arm, he used his free hand to check her for wounds. “Are you alright, Pearl? Where did he hurt you?” If Stiles had harmed her in any way, Draven would forget his new vow to live a better life.

  “I'm fine,” she assured him. “He just bruised my arm a little when he escorted me out of town.”

  Draven's gut clenched, but her hand on his scarred cheek distracted him from thoughts of vengeance.

  “I'm so glad you came for me.”

  His throat thickened. “How could you doubt me?” he asked gruffly. “I'd go to the ends of the earth for you.”

  I love you.

  Maybe she'd heard his unspoken words, because her lips pulled upwards once more. “I was so afraid,” she confessed, tracing the outside of his ear with her fingers. “I wasn't sure you would—”

  He didn't want her to say it again. Didn't want to hear she doubted him. He captured her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “When he fired that gun, and I saw you fall, I think my heart stopped beating. I thought I'd lost you.”

  Her smile turned wry. “I'm embarrassed to adm
it that I was fainting even before he pulled the trigger.”

  “You…fainted?” He began to chuckle. It was low and raspy, and reminded him he hadn’t laughed much in the last twenty years. Hadn't had a reason to laugh.

  She pulled her hand free and smacked him on the chest. “Don't make fun of me! I'll have you know it hurt!” She reached for the back of her head. “That packed snow was quite hard.”

  His smile felt unnatural, contorting his face in unusual ways. But still, it was worth it. “I've never been so happy to hear about a bumped head in my life.”

  She stuck her tongue out, and in that moment, he knew exactly what he wanted from forever.

  “Marry me.”

  Slowly, her expression crumbled. The mirth that had replaced the panic in her eyes melted away to sorrow, and her fingers tightened on the fabric of his coat.

  He knew what she was about to say before she said it, even if he didn't understand why.

  “No.”

  He couldn't stop the argument that rose on his tongue. “Why not? You said that you love me.”

  He winced, knowing he sounded like a whiny child.

  Her beautiful light blue eyes dropped from his face. Why? Was he so hard to look in the eye anymore?

  “It's because I love you so much that I can't marry you.”

  That didn't make any sense. Draven opened his mouth, preparing to argue all the reasons they made a good pair, but she changed the subject.

  “His name's not really Stiles, you know.”

  Draven blinked. “What?”

  Knowing she’d successfully distracted him, Pearl raised her gaze once more. “Anthony Stiles is the man from the Denver and Pacific Railroad. But that's not him.” She nodded over Draven’s shoulder. “His real name is Abernathy, and he has been after Maybelle for some time. In fact, he's the reason she came to Noelle to marry Horatio in the first place. Abernathy wanted her to marry him, but it appears they never actually met.”

  Abernathy... Abernathy...

  That name sounded…

  “Hell.”

  “What?”

  “I know him. Or I know of him, rather.” Draven thought of those piles of wanted posters he had stacked up in his office. Had it really only been the night before last he'd been staring at them? “That mustache is new, but he's wanted in Nebraska, I think. Looks like he pulled another successful con.”

  One corner of her mouth tugged upwards, although the sadness was still there in her eyes. “Well, to be fair, we pulled a fairly successful con on him too.” Pearl patted his chest, as if smoothing out any wrinkles her grip might have caused his jacket. “And his con wasn't successful. The sheriff of Noelle arrested him.”

  “Arrested him, hmm?”

  Their conversation about marriage and forever wasn't over, but Draven was willing to wait until they were settled and warm before bringing it up again.

  He pulled her to her feet and held her for much longer than was necessary. He told himself it was because he wanted to make sure she was steady, unhurt. That it had nothing to do with the terror he'd felt when he thought he'd lost her, or how hard it was going to be to let her go, even for a moment.

  He didn't want to let her go. He never wanted to let her go.

  Draven took a deep breath. “You going to be alright?” He wasn't sure if he was asking her or himself.

  But she smiled up at him and patted him once more. “I'll be fine, Sheriff. But I wouldn't mind walking beside you...if that won't bother you too much.”

  Bother him? Hell, he’d insist on it.

  With a grunt, Draven picked up Abernathy and threw him over one shoulder. Then, with his free hand, he pulled Pearl up against his side.

  Where she belonged.

  Forever.

  Chapter 10

  Pearl was happier for his presence beside her than she wanted to admit. Her knees were still wobbly, and while she hadn't wanted to ask him to stroll through town holding her hand or anything, she had been thrilled to feel Draven’s arm around her. Like he didn't mind being associated with her. Like maybe, just perhaps, he didn't think who she was—who she used to be, at least—was all that terrible.

  In her time here in Noelle, Pearl had dealt with some bad situations, but not once had she ever been so certain she was going to die as she had been when Stiles—Abernathy pointed that gun at her. That was the only explanation for why she’d fainted. But then, to wake up in the cold snow with her head throbbing, and hearing a man's grunts and curses...? She’d been thoroughly confused, and not a little terrified.

  But it had been Draven. Her relief at discovering he'd come after her was mitigated by the realization he was trying to kill Abernathy with his bare hands. She'd acted without thinking it through, but couldn’t regret stopping her love from murder. The rest of the world might know Draven as an intimidating bounty hunter, but she knew he was an honorable man. A man who could be gentle.

  And he'd proven her right when he stopped his assault on Abernathy. That criminal, who even now rested unconscious over Draven’s shoulder. They made an uncommon trio—the whore, the sheriff, and the unconscious man—and garnered more than a few stares on their trip through town. Bitterly, Pearl couldn't help but wonder where all these bystanders had been when Abernathy was dragging her out of Noelle.

  Draven still hadn't said anything to her by the time they reached his office, but he hadn't loosened his hold on her either. Pearl didn't mind; he made her feel safe in a way she'd never felt before, not even when she'd had a home and a family.

  She hurried into the office in front of Draven, holding the door to the cell open for him. He deposited the still-unconscious Abernathy on the bench that passed for a bed.

  “It's not comfortable or warm, but he'll live.”

  “Thanks to you,” she said, proud of the decision he’d made.

  But standing in the doorway to the cell, Draven turned and pierced her with a serious look. “No, Pearl, thanks to you. I was ready to kill him, tear him apart for what he’d done to you.” Draven pulled his hat off and slapped it against his thigh a few times in what looked to be agitation. “I was ready to beat the man to death, and you stopped me.”

  She blushed slightly, not sure if he was accusing her, or praising her. “You would have done the right thing without me,” she assured him. “You're a good man.”

  When he moved suddenly towards her, Pearl froze, wondering if this is how his prey had felt for all those years.

  Draven gathered her in his arms, and she went willingly.

  Against her hair, he whispered, “If I'm a good man, Pearl Shelby, it's only because you made me so.”

  His outrageous claim shook her to her core, and she struggled to breathe against his shoulder. How could he say something like that? To be so casual about something so serious?

  “I didn't do anything, Draven,” she reiterated in a shaking voice. “I'm nobody. I'm nothing. I'm just a whore.”

  Her voice caught on the last word, but she managed to stifle the sob which threatened to break free. For a moment, his arms tightened around her, and she wondered if she’d made him angry. But when he spoke, his voice was even.

  “You know, if anyone else had said that about my wife, I'd make him sorry he ever breathed. But since it's you saying it about yourself... I guess I can forgive you just this once. As long as you never say it again.”

  At that moment, Pearl hated him just a little bit, for making her repeat her denial. “I'm not your wife, Draven. Not really.” And she knew she never would be.

  “You could be. Marry me, Pearl.”

  It broke her heart to shake her head, to step out of his embrace, but she had to say it. One of them had to face the truth.

  “More than anything else, more than anything I've ever wanted, I want to say yes. But I can't, Draven, and if you would stop and think for a moment, you would realize how cruel it is of you to ask me again and again for something which will never be.”

  Her breath catching on a sob, Pearl tu
rned and ran through the door into his room.

  She pulled to a stop. This place, more than her room at the La Maison—even more than the small house she’d grown up in—felt like her home. Had she really only been here a few days? There was her dress hanging on a hook, her favorite before Birdie had made the beautiful amethyst creation Pearl now wore. There were the swags and pine boughs she worked so hard on to make Draven’s Christmas celebration feel more traditional. There, drying on the table, was the pie plate she used to make the apple pie he loved so much. It had only been a few days, certainly, but at some point, this place had become…

  Had become her home.

  Numbly, Pearl removed her coat and put her gloves—which Draven had recovered and returned to her—in the pockets, before she hung it up. What to do now? Now that they knew Stiles was really Abernathy—now that they didn't have to fool the railroad representative—she had no reason to stay. No reason not to go back to work, doing what she did best and had come to hate.

  No reason, except her love for Draven. She loved him and couldn't have him. Tears gathered in her eyes as she reached for the rag she'd designated for cleaning. Might as well finish what she started that morning. Maybe then she'd be able to face—

  What’s this?

  The folder with her artwork was sitting on the table, and she reached for it, confused. It hadn't been there this morning when she’d been looking for it, had it? No, surely not. The room wasn't so large she'd miss the kitchen table. Then how…?

  She opened the folder, and her breath caught. That wasn't one of her sketches, was it? Yes, she remembered those lines, that joy of capturing a small town at Christmas, but this was different slightly. The lines weren’t as crisp as she remembered and then, of course, there were the printed words underneath.

  Christmas in Noelle

  December, 1876

  The citizens of Noelle welcome their newest Neighbors with Best Wishes and Fond Hopes for a long future here in town.

  Pearl Shelby

  Pearl Shelby? This was her work, yes, but not her words. On the other hand, whoever had written it had perfectly captured her sentiment. She had been thinking about the new brides’ arrival in town and what it would mean for Noelle, as she'd sketched this on Christmas morning.