A Texas Kind of Christmas

by Jodi Thomas

  As if he read her thoughts, Asher gave her a slow wink and touched the brim of his hat. Eugenie felt his acknowledgment flip in her belly.

  At that moment, the hotel manager Jones engaged Asher in conversation, and the two men walked to the far side of the carriage, out of her sight. The loss of Asher’s gaze left her feeling oddly bereft. She’d left England for Texas, hoping somehow that she might meet with a grand adventure. But thus far her trip had offered not even a good squall at sea. Even so, a fortnight’s travel with a handsome stranger—a Texas Ranger, no less—might give her a taste of the people and landscapes Kent described. Then, when the nights in her small English cottage drew out cold and lonely, she could reread Kent’s book, accompanied by her own memories.

  But was she brave enough to leap? The clock ticked away the minutes. She needed to decide.

  No one would fault her for remaining in Jefferson until she could find a new maid. Other than her mother, Dallas offered little of interest, having neither the culture of Jefferson nor the size of San Antonio, Galveston, or Houston. And once she arrived at the dusty township, she would find herself somewhat cut off, without a regular stagecoach or mail service. But though staying in Jefferson offered many amenities, she wasn’t certain she could endure another month of tedious conversation with strangers or Jones’s barely contained anxiety.

  As she weighed her choices, Jones appeared outside the open window. “Excuse me, miss.” He unhooked the shutters. “If you’d latch these shut, then close the window, it’d be much appreciated.” Behind Jones, merchants up and down the street were doing the same.

  As Jones closed the shutters, Eugenie caught one last glimpse of Asher, climbing effortlessly up the side of the carriage to settle behind his team.

  Eugenie followed Jones’s instructions, then, refusing to think, she gathered her things. Wrapping several tea cakes in a large piece of writing paper, she tucked them and her book into her reticule and hurried through the hotel lobby into the street.

  She arrived at the carriage as the clock struck the hour.

  The corners of Asher’s mouth twitched when he saw her, as if he was a man who had forgotten how to smile. He extended his hand. “Step on the axle, and I’ll help you up.”

  Jones, frowning, held open the carriage door instead, gesturing for her to ride inside the coach.

  One of the hotel shutters banged open, picked up by a change in the wind, and Eugenie looked down the street at Jefferson’s fine storefronts and elegant hotels, then at the two men. Here was her choice laid bare: Jones held out the path of propriety, while Asher tempted her with adventure.

  Asher waited for her decision, his face impassive, but his dark eyes invited her to trust him.

  Gathering up her skirts, she took Asher’s hand. His touch—even through their gloves—warmed her spine and pooled in her belly. She pulled herself up to sit beside him.

  Asher waited for Jones, clearly disapproving, to shut the carriage door. Then he pulled the coach deftly away from the boardwalk. “I see your mother was right.”

  “In what way?” Eugenie wasn’t certain she wished to know.

  “She said you might be stubborn as a mule, but you were no fool.” Asher led the team skillfully out of town, the streets now almost deserted.

  Chapter 2

  Stubborn as a mule. Was she surprised that Lilly would describe her in such unflattering terms? And to a stranger? Or was Asher another of Lilly’s devotees? Perhaps he was neither, and Lilly was as usual merely being indiscreet. It would be important to know which was the case. “We’ll have to see if my mother was right about you as well.”

  “Should I guess what she told you?” Asher seemed unconcerned.

  “That you can talk only of cattle and the weather.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s about right.”

  The corner of his mouth wanted to grin: she was certain of it.

  Eugenie alternated between watching Asher and the landscape. The weather had been unseasonably warm, the shopkeepers in Jefferson had told her. Though it was early December, the deciduous trees still held their fall colors against a backdrop of live oaks and evergreens. The road was cut wide enough for two wagons to pass side by side, yet still the woods felt ancient, with veils of gray moss hanging down, thick and eerie. She shuddered, wondering if the giant alligators she’d seen sunning themselves on the banks of the Red River or walking through the streets of Jefferson were also in the woods.

  “Only cattle and weather? Nothing more?” she asked.

  “That’s mostly what we got.”

  “And you find no other topics interesting?”

  He gave a slight shrug. “I suppose every thing has a little interest, if you look at it right.”

  “What about alligators? I heard it takes only minutes for one to drown a man.”

  “It’s a good thing, then, that we’re in a carriage.” His eyes never left the road. “You needn’t worry too much about gators: we’ll be out of their territory tomorrow, though we’ll keep an eye out until then. It would be a right shame to travel all the way from London only to settle in the inside of a gator’s belly.”

  He might have been teasing her, but Eugenie couldn’t quite tell.

  “If not alligators, what about snakes?” In England, one never pressed another person to converse with them. But if she were to spend a fortnight traveling with Asher, she wanted to know about his character and interests. If he was tempting her to smile, she wanted to know how to tempt him as well. “How are snakes interesting, if you look at them right, of course?”

  “Well, let’s see.” He thought for a moment. “Some say alligators have the power to control the rain, while others say a rattler staked belly-up breaks a drought.”

  “So, alligators and snakes are interesting because of their connection to the weather.”

  “Suppose so.” Asher signaled the team to move faster. “And if you see birds flying low to the ground or cattle lying down as they are over yonder, you know a storm is coming.”

  Cattle or weather. He had to be teasing her, but she refused to laugh. Instead, she watched his hands on the reins, long slender fingers in heavy leather gloves, guiding his horses with the slightest of motions. From his hands, her gaze traveled up strong arms to broad shoulders. What would he do if she put her hand on his? She pushed her thoughts away: men only found her attractive for her inheritance or her family’s influence. But both her inheritance and her family were far away.

  “How long will it take us, this trip to Dallas?” Eugenie tried to keep her voice light and easy. Jefferson had disappeared into the trees, and even its sounds were far behind them.

  “Depends on how far we get before that storm hits,” Asher said, nodding toward the horizon. “If all goes well, a fortnight, give or take a day or two.”

  “Is there something in that clear blue sky that’s supposed to give me pause?” Eugenie still saw nothing.

  “At the top of the next hill, you should have a good view of the horizon.” Asher kept the team at a steady pace, not so fast to wear them out quickly, but fast enough to show he wished to make good time.

  They lapsed into silence, and Eugenie studied the narrow road. The dirt was packed down and dry. But a rainstorm could easily make the road unpassable, whether it leveled trees or not. As far as she could see, before them and behind, no one else was on the road. In England, even the most remote roads had some traffic. She had never felt so isolated.

  “For cold or rain, you’ll find a blanket and a heavy canvas under the seat.” Asher’s voice interrupted Eugenie’s thoughts. “Though, if we don’t outrun the storm, we’ll both be waiting it out in the coach.”

  Eugenie looked to the sky, still a remote blue. Rather than question his expertise, she deferred. “Our perch here gives a lovely view of the land as it passes. I’ve grown tired of sea and water.”

  “Land’s something we have plenty of.” He paused. “In fact, some Texas ranches cover so much territory that it takes days
to ride from one end to the other.”

  “Perhaps you need a faster horse,” Eugenie quipped without thinking.

  Asher gave her a look that she couldn’t interpret, then turned his attention back to his team. His hands held the reins with a gentle ease, and Eugenie couldn’t help wondering how her hand might feel in his. To avoid such thoughts, she pulled her book out of her reticule, turning the pages somewhat aimlessly.

  Periodically his leg brushed up against hers, making him a hard man to ignore. The silence between them felt comfortable like the silence between old friends.

  Several miles out of town, they reached the rocky bed of a shallow stream. Asher surveyed the area, then whistled two tones in sharp, quick succession. Eugenie waited for a fat alligator to emerge from the shadows near the bank, but nothing happened.

  With a slight grimace, he whistled again. Before she could ask if they were meeting someone, Asher, half shaking his head, drove the carriage forward. They crossed the creek easily. Asher, silent, studied the area once more before moving on.

  As they made their way out of the valley, the breeze turned from warm to cool. She breathed it in gratefully, until she noticed the line of gray-blue clouds low on the horizon. Asher flicked the reins, increasing the horses’ pace.

  The temperature dropped from refreshing to brisk in just a few minutes, leaving Eugenie’s fingers cold even through her gloves. She rubbed her arms, then pulled the blanket from beneath her seat.

  Tucking her hands under the blanket, she skipped to the part of Kent’s book that described the many ways Texans predicted the weather. Most centered on the behavior of animals or insects. Singing locusts foretold drought. She listened, but heard nothing. Large squirrel nests predicted cold. She studied the trees, but couldn’t determine if the nests were unusually sized for the region. Dancing coyotes signaled rain.

  “What does a coyote look like?”

  “Bigger than a fox, meaner than a dog.”

  The wind, bitterly cold, blew down from the north, pushing a thick mass of dark blue clouds closer.

  Asher pulled the wagon to a stop, positioning it as close as he could against the side of a steep hill.

  “Storm’s here.” He jumped down from the carriage seat and began to unhitch the horses. As if on cue, hail as small as the head of a pin fell like hard rain, though the sky was still clear blue above them.

  Asher reassured the horses with calm low tones. But when lightning struck in the distance, the team grew restive. The dark clouds drew closer, a heavy mass that seemed to turn as it approached.

  The hail, grown into tiny pebbles, thudded on the carriage. A long bolt divided the sky, and the horses tugged against their traces, making it hard for Asher to free them.

  “Get under the carriage,” Asher called out.

  Tucking her book under the seat, Eugenie flung herself to the ground. But instead of seeking cover, she made her way to the leader on her side.

  The horse, finding her unfamiliar, shied away, and she struggled against the laces. The hail grew larger, sometimes as big as cherries. Her hat kept the strikes from hitting her head or face. But with each hail strike, the horse struggled to be free.

  She forced herself to focus, to keep her fingers steady. Though the hail beat heavier on her head, back, and shoulders, she eventually loosened all the ties. The leader ran free. She moved to unhitch the wheeler from the shafts, hail falling heavy around them. She struggled against the traces, then pulled them loose.

  Her horse and Asher’s ran free at almost the same instant. Lightning struck so close that she could smell its smoke. It illuminated the horses, escaping into the trees.

  Suddenly Asher was at her side. He grabbed her arm. “Under the coach—now.”

  The hail had grown to the size of walnuts. She put her arms over her head to protect her face. It beat against her forearms, each hit hard and painful.

  This time she followed Asher’s direction. Throwing herself to the ground, she crawled under the carriage, Asher following.

  The hail thundered down on the coach. One piece, the size of a silver dollar, rolled beside her, and she weighed it in her hand. Under the protection of the carriage, she felt a rush of excitement and wonder—at last, an adventure! “I’ve never seen hail fall from a clear sky. Or hail this big.”

  Asher’s attention never left the dark clouds now looming near them. “If you stay in Texas, this won’t be the last time.”

  Stay in Texas. That wasn’t in her plan, though she kept the words to herself. No, this trip was a rescue: collect her mother, return her to England, nothing more.

  She tossed the hail out onto the road before them. There dozens punctuated the dirt and grass like pale wildflowers. Asher’s body, lying next to hers, was warm, and she wanted to move closer until the chill left her limbs, but she resisted. She watched him watch the storm, studying his face so focused on the approaching weather. His expression was grim, sober, his jaw tight. If Michelangelo or da Vinci had painted a Texas Ranger, Asher would have been the model. He seemed the very embodiment of the Texas people as she’d read in Kent’s Texas: rough, brave, decisive.

  How, she wondered, would his face transform if she reached out and touched his cheek, or if she let her fingers trace the line of his strong jaw? She turned the thought away. It was a fantasy born of excitement and the sense of freedom she’d felt since she’d landed on US soil.

  Not for the first time she wondered who she might be in this rough land. Could she allow herself to forget that in England she was the ward of a duke, the granddaughter of an earl, and the daughter of a count? At times, all those hundreds of years of obligation threatened to stifle the very life from her, but here, she imagined she could breathe free.

  The hail stopped, but the clouds loomed more threateningly. The land had grown silent, as if all the wildlife had disappeared. No sounds, not of insects, nor of birds. It was eerie and unnatural.

  “If you are a praying woman, you might wish to make your peace.” Asher’s voice sounded tight, constrained, even in some way apologetic. “If that cloud doesn’t turn, we’ll be meeting St. Peter for supper.”

  “Which one?” She studied the clouds: blue, black, and purple, with portions a sickly green. She hadn’t considered that her adventure might prove fatal.

  “The twister.” He pointed at the dark heart of the storm. There, the black, blue, and gray formed a swirling mass, with the cloud reaching toward the earth in a cylindrical mass.

  He put his arm around her, pulling her farther under the carriage. She knew he was merely protecting her from the weather, but she let herself melt into his touch. If they were to die, why not allow Asher’s comforting closeness?

  “We need to move. We aren’t safe here. The twister could crush the coach and us in the bargain.”

  She looked around, forest behind them, a vast plain before them.

  “Where?” She waited for his direction. She didn’t have time to feel anxious. Every cell of her body felt tensed, ready to run. Her heart beat fast, but time seemed to move slowly.

  “There.” He pointed to a narrow ditch running along the cleft of the hill.

  “There?” she repeated, but he was already crawling out from under the coach. She tried to follow, but her boots tangled in her skirts. She kicked against the fabric, but couldn’t get free. Her panic rose as the light of day faded into the dark of the oncoming storm.

  “I . . .” She barely spoke the word before Asher pulled her from under the coach, setting her on her feet with strong, gentle hands. He took a heavy quilt from inside the carriage, before hurrying her away from the coach. His arm remained around her shoulders to ensure she had her balance.

  “We need to get below the level of the road.”

  She expected him to lay out the quilt for them to lie on. But instead, he sat down in the ditch, pulling her down to sit beside him. The storm’s pulsing pressure hurt her ears.

  Moving quickly, he tucked one quilt end under their lower legs. “It�
�s not much, but it might give us a little buffer.” Then he lay down, drawing her down with him, her back nestled against his chest, his arms enfolding her.

  She’d read about Texas storms in Kent’s book. But his prose had been so lyrical, his descriptions so thrilling, that she’d imagined the storms more like an exciting painting than a murderous explosion. Her rush of excitement faded as the noise of the storm drew nearer, leaving cold dread in its place.

  Asher pulled the quilt over their heads, tucking it under their shoulders and pressing the material into the ground beneath them. If the situation hadn’t been so terrifying, she might have found it pleasant, her body cradled into his.

  Then the storm was upon them, a rush of pulsing, screaming, sucking wind. Tree roots cracked as they were torn from the earth. The wind tugged at the quilt, pulling it from under their legs, and then it was gone. Asher flung his body over hers to take the brunt of the storm.

  In a single instant, she relived all her joys and sorrows, her regrets and her desires, and found her life lacking. Sadly, one didn’t measure the quality of a life by the cups of tea poured for visitors and guests. Though she’d wanted to be daring, she had resisted, not wishing to follow in her mother’s footsteps. And nothing in her life had ever called upon her to be brave. If she were to die . . . she would never know if she’d had those characteristics within her.

  What else of life would she have missed?

  But it was too late for anything but prayer, and that one the most simple of all. Our Father....

  Then the storm was gone.

  They lay unmoving, waiting.

  She tensed the muscles of her body in succession, feet to arms, to see if she was in one piece. He was so close she could feel his breath warm on her neck.

  She opened her eyes, and Asher was studying her face. His eyes were a dark green, deep as a cavern, rich as a fine ore . . . and as inscrutable. If he were a smiling man, his would be the sort of face that made giddy debutantes swoon and giggle.

  His hand rested on her shoulder, as if he would press her farther into the dirt if the danger had not passed.