A Texas Kind of Christmas

by Jodi Thomas

  The wind kicked up so much dust, he couldn’t make out the figures bent against it. The gusts made it impossible to speak, unless you were looking for a mouthful of gravel, so he didn’t hear the accent of the Irish girl in the colorful shawl as she walked right by him.

  As he headed across the street, he eyed a badge, visible even in the dust storm. A private detective had to be wary around lawmen. They didn’t always welcome his kind on a new frontier.

  He’d need to tread carefully.

  Chapter 7

  Birdie and Charlotte gathered their skirts against the wind and headed across the street. Birdie couldn’t believe Charlotte would brave this awful weather to look at dresses that were sure to fail her standards. She heard footsteps bounding up beside her.

  Sheriff Holden was suddenly walking alongside them.

  “I hear we might be getting some snow for Christmas,” Sheriff Holden yelled over the wind.

  “How do you know?” Charlotte asked, falling right in step with him.

  Birdie was surprised that Charlotte seemed so familiar with the sheriff. It was as if they were old friends.

  “Old Man Langdon said his elbow was starting to ache,” Sheriff Holden said. “His elbow is never wrong.”

  They had arrived at the general store. Sheriff Holden opened the door and smiled.

  “Ladies,” he said.

  Birdie waited for Charlotte to go first, which she did. Birdie noticed that the sheriff guided her gently through the door, lightly touching the small of her back. Birdie noticed that Charlotte seemed pleased with the attention. Birdie followed Charlotte and noted that Sheriff Holden didn’t extend the same intimate gesture to her.

  What’s going on here? Birdie wondered.

  The sheriff didn’t follow them into the store. Mrs. Snow was just signing some paperwork handed to her by the stagecoach driver. Two puppies, one solid black and the other black-and-white, lay on an old blanket next to the stove.

  “These pups were born in the barn over at the St. Nicholas,” Mrs. Snow was telling the stagecoach driver. “I told Mrs. Cockrell I’d help find a home for a few of them. Any need of a ferocious dog on the coach, Wilbur?”

  “Sure,” Wilbur said. “And when these little guys grow up, if one of them turns out to be ferocious, you let me know.”

  Wilbur tipped his hat to Birdie and Charlotte as he left the store. Birdie realized that she had been so exhausted on her own stagecoach ride from Galveston, she couldn’t remember if he had been her stagecoach driver or not.

  She’d come to view Dallas as a haven more quickly than she ever could have imagined.

  Charlotte was right—several new dresses lay on the countertop. Birdie noticed that Mrs. Snow’s smile disappeared as soon as she saw Charlotte.

  “You might as well turn right around, Miss Charlotte,” Mrs. Snow said. “These dresses won’t be of any interest to you.”

  “That’s an interesting sales technique,” Charlotte said, pulling a dress from the counter. “What if you’re wrong?”

  Mrs. Snow sighed and started to stock the shelves with the canned goods from Galveston. Charlotte picked up a two-piece dove-gray dress with black embroidery around the tightly fitted sleeves and full skirt.

  “What do you think of this?” Charlotte asked Birdie.

  Birdie studied the dress. It had a high collar and jet buttons. Lovely, but certainly not anything Charlotte would wear.

  “It’s very nice,” Birdie said cautiously.

  “I know the embroidery isn’t up to your standards, but do you think it would do in a pinch?”

  Birdie felt her heart race. Did Charlotte think Birdie might not get her dress done in time?

  “It’s a lovely dress,” Birdie tried again, “but I think you’ll be happier if we finish the dress we’re working on. When I get the beading on, it’s going to—”

  “Oh, it’s not for me,” Charlotte trilled. “It’s for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes. For the . . . what’s that other dance called?”

  “The Jingle Bobs and Belles Ball,” Birdie said. “But I can’t accept this, Miss Charlotte, it wouldn’t be right.”

  “Why wouldn’t it?”

  “Because I . . .” Birdie hadn’t accepted charity to this point in her life and she didn’t want to start now. But she didn’t want to sound ungrateful for the gesture. She was very touched by Charlotte’s generosity.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Mrs. Snow interjected, surprising both Birdie and Charlotte. “It really is a lovely dress. What if Miss Charlotte buys the dress for herself and lends it to you for the dance? How is that?”

  “I still don’t think . . .” Birdie murmured.

  “What a good idea! You and I are about the same size, I think,” Charlotte said, holding the dress up to Birdie.

  Birdie couldn’t resist. She touched the beautiful fabric. She would love to wear the dress.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Snow,” Charlotte said. “Wrap it up. Please.”

  Mrs. Snow carefully wrapped the dress and handed it to Birdie. It was surprisingly heavy.

  “Send the bill to my father,” Charlotte said as she opened the door.

  “I will do that right away, Miss Charlotte.” Mrs. Snow beamed. She turned to Birdie and added, in a whisper, “Not a bad sales technique after all.”

  * * *

  Dangerous Jack stood in the shadows and studied the man who got off the stagecoach. Was he someone to worry about? He watched the man pull his hat down over his ears and his jacket closed against the wind as he headed over to the hotel.

  Probably just another rich guest coming into town for that ball, Jack thought.

  Jack memorized the man’s clothes, since he couldn’t see his features. The man might be an easy mark if he showed up at the saloon. Jack hadn’t started any big-stakes games, worried about drawing too much attention to himself, but he’d done all right for himself with pickpocketing.

  Enough money to keep himself warm, fed, and full of whiskey.

  Which was enough for now.

  Birdie and the very chatty woman with whom Birdie was keeping company headed back into the St. Nicholas. Jack stayed where he was. He would have to play his cards very close to the vest. Dallas was too small a town to get lost in, but it did have a lawman.

  Jack waited until the stagecoach pulled away. He would have to go back into the store to make sure there was no new WANTED poster on the wall. He doubted the fleabag coach from Galveston would be delivering one, but you couldn’t be too careful. He’d stayed one step ahead of the law all these years, it wouldn’t do to let down his guard now. Many of the Texans he’d met seemed to be as suspicious of the law as he was, but the sheriff in this town seemed pretty humorless when it came to people breaking the law. He’d have to watch that one.

  And that captain in the army.

  He seemed like he could be trouble.

  Jack plastered on his most charming smile and headed to the back door of the hotel. He wished it were summer and he could pick some wildflowers for the woman he was romancing. That old cow Mrs. Firestone would definitely fall for a fistful of flowers. But his charm never failed—even when he was empty-handed.

  * * *

  Birdie’s cheeks still burned from the cold as she and Charlotte settled down to try Cook’s offerings. Charlotte had unwrapped the dress from Mrs. Snow’s and hung it outside the chifforobe. Birdie could hardly take her eyes off it.

  “I guess the tea is probably cold,” Charlotte said, frowning into the teapot.

  “I’ll run down and ask Cook for some hot water,” Birdie said.

  “We can live without it,” Charlotte said.

  “It’s no trouble,” Birdie said.

  A crisp knock on the door startled them both. Birdie opened it to find Miss Quigley standing in the hallway with a teapot.

  “I suspect you might need a hot pot of tea,” Miss Quigley said, sweeping into the room. “After a day of shopping.”

  Birdie’s ch
eeked burned. Was this an admonishment? She could never tell with Miss Quigley. The only thing she knew for sure was that the woman always seemed to show up at the perfect time.

  Miss Quigley put the teapot on the tray.

  “Is this new?” Miss Quigley asked, going over to the dove-gray dress on the hanger.

  Birdie was shocked—and impressed—that Miss Quigley never stayed “in her place.” She treated everyone as an equal and expected to be treated as such.

  “Yes,” Charlotte said. “We . . . I just bought it. Do you like it?”

  Miss Quigley looked the dress up and down.

  “May I?” Miss Quigley asked, but was already flipping the dress inside out to see the seams.

  “What do you think?” Charlotte asked.

  Birdie smiled. She could tell Charlotte wanted Miss Quigley’s approval.

  “Birdie’s handiwork is far superior,” Miss Quigley said. “But it will do in a pinch.”

  “That’s exactly what I said,” Charlotte marveled, as Miss Quigley left the room.

  “Thank you for the tea,” Birdie called after her.

  The whole building seemed to relax as the wind suddenly died down. Charlotte went to the window.

  “There’s our sheriff patrolling the streets,” Charlotte said with undisguised admiration.

  Birdie picked up the mauve gown and studied it. The Grand Ball was only a couple of days away and there was still a lot of work to be done. If Charlotte wanted the dress finished, Birdie would have to be firm with her. There would be no finding excuses to go out every time the sheriff walked down the street.

  Chapter 8

  “Good morning and happy Christmas Eve,” Cook trilled as she wheeled a tray into the sewing room. “Here’s the breakfast you ordered, Miss Quigley.”

  Birdie and Miss Quigley looked up from their tasks. Miss Quigley was changing the buttons on a guest’s formal tailcoat, while Birdie was finishing the trim on Charlotte’s gown.

  “Oh, isn’t this a treat!” Miss Quigley said as Cook presented a full Irish breakfast. Birdie watched Miss Quigley lift the silver lids off plates piled high with bacon, sausage, baked beans, eggs, and some potato hash. There was also Irish soda bread, butter, marmalade, and a pot of steaming tea on the cart. “Cook, you’ve outdone yourself.”

  “We’re lucky to have so much food in the place,” Cook said. “The kitchen is bursting with preparations for the Grand Ball . . . and I’ve made a dish for Birdie to take across town to the Jingle Bobs and Belles Ball.”

  Birdie felt a lump of homesickness well up in her throat. Her mother always made an opulent Irish breakfast every Christmas Eve. The smell of so many familiar dishes was bittersweet. But, as Miss Quigley said herself, what a treat! Birdie would never have dreamed that she would be eating all her favorite foods on Christmas Eve morning. There was no way for Miss Quigley to know about her mother’s tradition. This had to be a coincidence!

  Coincidence or not, Birdie was ready to sample everything on the tray. She put the gown well out of reach of the delicacies and gave Cook an impromptu hug.

  “Happy Christmas Eve to you too, Cook,” Birdie said. “This is a wonderful way to start the holiday.”

  “Eat up,” Cook said. “I suspect you’ve both been hard at work since dawn, so you must be hungry.”

  Birdie had been concentrating on the trim and realized suddenly that she was very hungry. She waited for Miss Quigley to sample everything on the tray—in very delicate proportions, Birdie noticed—before heaping her own plate high.

  “Careful, Missy,” Cook said. “Don’t forget you have a dance tonight. You don’t want to be busting your corset.”

  Birdie blushed, but Cook laughed.

  “I’m only teasing you,” Cook said. “It’s good to see you’ve put some meat on your bones since you got here.”

  Birdie smiled. How could she resist an Irish breakfast? She buttered a slice of the Irish soda bread and took a big bite. While it certainly wasn’t nearly as good as her mother made at home, sinking her teeth into Christmas memories warmed her to her soul.

  “Have you had a chance to look outside?” Cook asked.

  Both women shook their heads, too involved in food and memories of home to answer.

  “It snowed last night,” Cook said. “Looks like we’re going to have a white Christmas.”

  “Do you think they’ll still have the dances?” Birdie asked.

  “Oh, you haven’t been in Texas very long,” Cook said. “A little snow isn’t going to stop them.”

  * * *

  Detective Hilbrand warmed his hands over the stove in the saloon. It had taken him a while to get used to the fact that, in the West, saloons functioned as hotels as well as bars and were open all day and all night. The sporting women who worked at the bar finally decided he meant it when he said he wasn’t interested in having a drink or sharing a bed with them. He rented a small, private room, which he knew was a ridiculous luxury, but if he didn’t want to share a bed with one of the women working there, he certainly couldn’t bring himself to share it with two or more drunken cowboys. But the room had no heat, so he found himself in the saloon trying to thaw.

  He was running out of money fast and if this hunch didn’t play out, he’d have to pack it in.

  After he finally felt warm enough to go back to his room and go over the facts he’d gathered since arriving, he locked the door and sat at a small table by the window. Dawn’s first light flickered into the room. While it illuminated the room, the sun brought no real warmth from the snowstorm that had blown through during the night.

  Everyone in town seemed distracted by the two dances that would be happening this evening. Surmising that Birdie would have to be working at the fancy hotel across the street, he’d tried to strike up a conversation with a few of the workers. But nobody had a minute for him.

  Until he found Mrs. Firestone.

  She was standing outside one of the servants’ entrances at the back of the hotel. At first, she’d tried to give him the brush, but he persisted, thrusting the sketch of Brigid Flanagan into her hands. She took a cursory glance.

  “No, never seen her,” Mrs. Firestone said.

  “Look again,” he found himself pleading.

  Mrs. Firestone’s mouth formed into a rigid, straight line and she looked again. He could see a glint come into her eyes.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Firestone said, covering up the top of the sketch so the woman’s hair was hidden. “She works here. I knew she was a bad egg!”

  Once he’d shown her a picture of Birdie, she’d given him all the time in the world. Now he knew Birdie was working at the hotel. He asked if Mrs. Firestone could manage to get him into the hotel, but she said that was impossible.

  “You can’t go disrupting the guests,” she said firmly. “Not before the ball. If it ever got back to Mrs. Cockrell that I—”

  “She’d never know,” Detective Hilbrand said, having already discovered that Mrs. Cockrell was the woman who owned the hotel. He really had no justification of making this promise, but he was ready to say anything.

  Mrs. Firestone stood in the doorway of the hotel, blocking his way.

  “I’ve gone out on a limb for another very nice man,” she’d said. “And I can’t push my luck.”

  The detective tried not to show his frustration. Birdie had given him the slip more times than he could count. He had to get into the hotel.

  “But I will tell you this,” Mrs. Firestone said. “I know for a fact that your girl will be attending the Jingle Bobs and Belles Ball tonight across town. And she’ll be wearing a gray dress that she could ill afford and a beautiful hand-me-down shawl. Just go to the dance. You don’t need an invitation for that one.”

  Mrs. Firestone swore she would keep his presence in town a secret and from her apparent glee in telling him everything he wanted to know about Birdie, he believed her. As she started to close the door, he debated showing her another sketch he had with him but, to use her own words, he did
not want to push his luck.

  He would just have to wait until tonight to make his move.

  * * *

  Birdie put the last stitch in Miss Charlotte’s dress and held it up in front of the mirror. It was the most stunning gown Birdie had ever seen, if she did say so herself. Working late every night, Birdie had even managed to stitch some delicate embroidery around the bottom of the dress.

  She’d been working on the final touches of the gown two evenings ago when she looked up to see Miss Quigley studying the dress.

  “That gown could use some interest around the hem,” Miss Quigley had said. “Some dark purple embroidery. And something to catch the light, I think. A few gold strands.”

  “That would be lovely,” Birdie said, imagining the design she would use. “But I haven’t seen any embroidery floss like that in our supplies.”

  “So true,” Miss Quigley said, pulling out the large box Birdie had seen her open with the key around her neck.

  She opened the box once more, laying the pistol on the table and rummaging inside. She smiled as she pulled out the perfect shade of embroidery floss. The gold strands caught the candlelight as she handed it over to Birdie.

  “It will be a lot of work,” Miss Quigley said, returning the pistol and locking the box. “But I think it will be worth it.”

  Birdie worked until her fingers cramped, but she finished. She envisioned the embroidery floss catching the candlelight as Miss Charlotte swirled around the dance floor.

  Birdie sighed. Miss Charlotte was going to be the most beautiful woman at the ball. Every man was going to fall in love with her.

  And that included Captain Newcastle.

  Birdie tried to ignore the ache in her heart.

  Miss Quigley had said she’d be gone most of the morning catering to guests who all seemed to need last-minute adjustments to gowns, trousers, and shirts. Birdie had offered to help, but the guests were all demanding the head seamstress attend to their needs.

  Miss Quigley’s approval had become more important to Birdie by the day. Especially on Christmas Eve, when Birdie was missing her family so fiercely, it was lovely to have someone who appeared to be watching over her. Birdie wanted to show her the finished dress. But she knew Charlotte would be waiting anxiously for the gown to be delivered and she couldn’t put it off any longer.