A Texas Kind of Christmas

by Jodi Thomas

  Some nights they would sit wrapped in blankets by the dying fire, and she and Asher would trace the constellations, making up new ones to go with the old and giving them all stories. She’d wanted her trip to be an adventure, giving her memories to treasure during the solitary winter nights in her future English village. And somehow, without her saying it, Asher seemed to understand.

  By the end of the first week, the Texas landscape had changed dramatically. No longer the pine forests and swamps in the easternmost part of the state, the land in front of them was mostly flat, having been largely converted to farm and ranch land by the settlers. Too late to see the crops in the fields, she imagined what the fields would look like covered with the many wildflowers that Kent’s book and Asher had described. In other places, the grasses still stood so tall that they reached almost to the top of the carriage.

  During their journey, Ware was John’s constant companion, making it impossible to ask the boy if he wished her to help him read. Four days out of Dallas, however, John rode on ahead, saying he would meet up with them near Ware’s home. Even though they had only a few days left on the road, Eugenie believed a boy as clever and intelligent as Ware could learn to read quickly.

  After their siesta, she removed the box of books from the carriage and placed it on the ground, calling Ware to her side. Seeing the box, the boy’s face grew eager. Pleased with herself for broaching the subject, she removed Rollo Learning to Read from the box and held it out.

  Ware backed away. “Have you read that?” the boy asked, looking horrified.

  “I was hoping we might read it together.” She smiled encouragingly.

  “Isn’t there anything more interesting in the box?”

  She picked up the other children’s books and held them out.

  Ware leaned forward to examine the spines, then pulled back, shaking his head. “I’d rather not.”

  She felt stymied. “There’s some lovely pictures.” She opened the book, hoping to engage the boy in the pictures, then encourage him to read the text. But Ware kept his distance.

  Asher came up behind her and took the books from her hands. Returning them to the box, he removed the small packet tied with twine and held it out to Ware. “I was hoping to keep these for your Christmas gift, but there’s no harm in you having them now. You would have discovered them soon enough anyway.”

  Ware, pleased, clasped the packet to his chest.

  “You’ll like the poetry,” Asher said, squeezing the boy’s shoulder affectionately. “While we’re on the road, make sure to read in the carriage. Better to avoid trouble than to chase it.”

  Asher turned to her, his face amused. “Ware’s our prodigy: he learned to read at three, how to brand at five, and this year how to drive cattle at nine.”

  “Asher says when I’m older, I can go to Harvard College.” Ware had already unwrapped the books and was looking through them.

  “I thought you wanted to be a cowhand when you were older.” She was a little bewildered. She hadn’t imagined Ware as one of the possible recipients for the books.

  Ware shook his head as if she were dim. “I’m a cowhand now. When I’m older, I want to be a judge.”

  “A judge?”

  The boy’s face turned serious. “My people, like John’s, need someone to argue for them.”

  Looking through the pile of books, Ware smiled broadly when he saw Frederick Douglass’s book. “I want to meet Douglass someday. Asher’s promised to take me to hear him if he’s ever close by.”

  “I heard him speak in England when he was a fugitive slave, and I have never forgotten the power of his oratory. You would do well to hear him—if he is ever close by.”

  “Do you know any of the others?” Ware held them out, and Asher leaned in to listen.

  “I wept when I first read Brown’s imagination of what the lives of Jefferson’s slave daughters might have been like after his death.” She looked at Asher to see his response, but he only nodded encouragingly. “As for the Harper poetry, I find her stoic faith in the face of injustice more than admirable. Asher chose a fine selection for you.”

  Asher put his hand on her shoulder, and she felt the warmth of it down her spine.

  “When you finish those, perhaps I might suggest some others.”

  Ware nodded. The boy picked up his books and started to climb into the carriage, but he stopped, looking directly at Eugenie. “There’s a Christmas ball at the St. Nicholas. Asher should take you.” The boy pulled himself up into the carriage and nestled in with his books.

  “Did you teach him to read?” she asked with a sort of awe.

  “His parents did, but John and I supply the books. That’s why I wrap them up differently: to keep them separate from those for the circulating library. But he does let us circulate his books through the community when he finishes with them.”

  Asher wrapped his arms around her shoulders, turning her body against his chest. Eugenie let herself melt a little into his embrace. Somehow he surprised her at every turn, and she was quickly growing too fond of him for her heart’s good.

  “As for the St. Nicholas ball . . .” He paused, clearly searching for words.

  “There’s no need,” she said, hurrying to stop him, embarrassed that Ware had shamed him into offering to escort her. “I haven’t an invitation, and besides, I’m sure my time will be full managing Lilly’s return to England.” As she said the words, though, she felt the lie in them. Now that she knew there was to be a ball, she wanted to go with Asher.

  Asher nuzzled her head. “You may not have an invitation, but I do. And if you’d be willin’, I’d be pleased to escort you to the St. Nicholas ball. As your mother told you, it’s the event of the season.”

  “Do you even know how to dance?”

  “Of course. You do this.” He lifted her feet from the ground and swirled her in a circle over and over, until they were both laughing. Then he kissed her, a head-spinning kiss that led to another and another, until Ware called out from the carriage, “That’s not a dance.” And they stepped apart.

  “Well”—she caught her breath—“I suppose with dancing skills like those, I couldn’t refuse, but I haven’t anything appropriate to wear.”

  “Neither do I. We’ll make a perfect couple.”

  And he kissed her again.

  Chapter 4

  On the tenth day, Eugenie woke to the sounds of Asher hitching the horses. Ware was still asleep in the well of the carriage. She slipped out past him, picking up Kent’s Texas as she climbed out of the carriage.

  The early dawn was filled with animals, rabbits hopping from the side of the road back to the safety of the tall grass. She could name the birds now, easily recognizing the difference between them and their British cousins, just as she could look on the horizon and see that the day was going to be beautiful.

  Asher had already climbed up to the seat, and, seeing her, he held out his hand. They sat together in a companionable silence, watching the Texas sunrise light the sky with oranges, purples, and pinks. Then when the sky had turned a perfect cornflower blue, Eugenie opened Kent’s book.

  Asher interrupted her. “Tell me about this fella’s book you admire so much.”

  She paused, choosing her words to do Kent justice. “He’s a masterful writer. He’s obviously well educated, but he writes so clearly that he doesn’t appear pedantic or heavy-handed. He is careful to provide accurate scientific descriptions of Texas flora and fauna, but he accompanies those descriptions with a palpable sense of wonder at the yet-unspoiled land. He describes both the tragedies and triumphs of life on the plains, but he balances that dark and that light in a vision both honest and hopeful.”

  “Is that all?”

  She shook her head, smiling. “Somehow he speaks directly to my heart with the voice of an old friend. And I know that if he were my friend, his subtle wit and kind heart would make it easier to bear the bad times and to rejoice in the good. But more than that: he imagines a future Texas, whe
re all its peoples have learned to live together peacefully and respectfully. And every time I read it, my heart soars.”

  “That’s a tall order for any one book.” He thought for a moment. “But the real question is this: does he talk about the weather?” He smiled at her, the broad teasing smile she’d grown to love.

  “Of course he does; he’s a Texian.” She turned the pages of the book until she found something Asher might like. “Let me see.

  “‘Most say Texas has four seasons: drought, flood, blizzard, and twister. Sometimes a man can experience all four in a single day. Near Fort Chadbourne on what is called the Llano Estacado, or the Staked Plains, those in the west add a fifth season: dust. Carried on a blistering hot wind, the dust rains pink and brown out of a cloud so dense that it can suffocate both man and animal. As one newspaper put it, the dust “comes in at the window, at the door, over the furniture, over the floor; rolling and curling and whirling it flies, stopping your guzzle and closing your eyes.’ ”

  “Read me that again.”

  Eugenie was thrilled; it was the first interest Asher had shown in Kent’s book. For some reason, she wanted him to like it as much as she did. She read the section again, letting the syllables roll pleasantly against one another.

  “Well, that damn . . .” He bit the sentence back, glancing at Eugenie.

  “That damn what?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking before he spoke. But his face showed signs of irritation. “It’s nothing that can be helped now.” He stared into the distance for a long time.

  Eugenie waited.

  “Tell me about the author, this Garrand Kent.” His voice was cold. “How do you know him?”

  “I know very little. My mother sent me the manuscript with directions to convey it to a particular publisher and to hire a lithographer to create a map of Texas for the front. I had my grandfather’s solicitor review the publisher’s contract to ensure that Kent’s interests were secure.” She paused, waiting for a response.

  “So you approved the publication.”

  “On behalf of the author, yes.” She felt bewildered. “It’s been a huge success; by the time I left England, it had sold through eight editions in as many months. The Monthly Review even praised the book as ‘the honest musings of a native son.’ ”

  “Well, at least they got that right.” He muttered under his breath, “The fool.”

  “Who is the fool? The Monthly Review or Garrand Kent?” She studied his face and watched the way his hands tensed on the reins. “Wait! You know him.” She leaned forward, eager. “Who is he? Where does he live? Would you introduce me to him? He can’t possibly be a fool. His book: it’s so, so exhilarating. His descriptions of the land—even when at its most challenging—make living here seem possible.”

  “He’s a no-good, no-account rancher with more land than sense, and little enough of that.” He brushed his hair back, his hand trembling with anger. “If his book encourages people to settle here, then he’s a fraud as well. I’ve told you: this isn’t an easy land. Take the La Réunion colonists: they struggled for years, but the land gave them only heartache.”

  He paused, pulling his frustration under control, and she waited.

  “When people read that damn book of yours, they won’t see that half the people who settle here starve to death. No, they’ll respond to that man’s underlying optimism. They will travel here, stake a claim, and then the land will fail them. Or they will run afoul of Natives or Cortinas, and they will die. No, you won’t like him at all.”

  “Whether I like him in person or not, the publisher wants another volume of his observations. I have the letter to deliver myself. And despite what you say, I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

  Asher was about to say something more, when Ware called out for them to stop. John had emerged from the tall grass as the carriage passed.

  “Well, this is as good a time for a rest as any.” Asher pulled the carriage to a stop and leapt down from the seat. “But you would have been better off reading Frederick Law Olmstead’s A Journey Through Texas. At least it’s clear what he hates.”

  He turned back to give Eugenie a helping hand down.

  “I did,” she answered, wanting to explain she’d found Olmstead’s descriptions mean-spirited and unkind.

  But Asher had already walked away. Instead of checking the horses immediately, he stalked off down the road. It was unlike him.

  She reread the section of Kent’s book silently. What could Asher have found offensive in such lovely prose? She shook her head, hoping to have a chance to ask him later.

  * * *

  After John had arrived, Eugenie returned to the carriage, letting the two brothers share the driving. John offered no explanation of where he had been, or why he’d gone. He had merely returned, and Ware once more became his constant companion.

  Late in the afternoon, they turned off the broad road onto one little better than a trail, and some two hours later Eugenie sighted a cabin in the distance.

  Ware, hanging on the side of the carriage, stuck his arm through the window and undid the latch on the door. Opening it, in a feat of real agility, he swung himself inside.

  “I’ve been wanting to try that. And this was my last chance.” The boy began to wrap up the stack of books he’d left on the backward-facing seat.

  “Why is it your last chance?” Eugenie asked.

  “Because I’m home. Look!” He pointed at the cabin now close enough for Eugenie to notice its construction. The cabin had four rooms, two on each side, separated by a covered breezeway, and the whole shared a single roof. Across the front, the roof extended out to shade a long porch. Asher pulled the carriage to a stop a polite distance from the cabin, and the men and Eugenie disembarked.

  A tall woman with ebony skin and wearing a linen head scarf watched from the porch, a rifle on her hip. When she recognized Asher and John, she set the rifle aside and stepped out to greet them.

  “Well, that’s somethin’ fancy.” She gestured at the carriage.

  “Fancy but comfortable.” Asher quickly introduced the two women, Eugenie as Lilly’s daughter, and Eva as Ware’s mother. Eva looked Eugenie over head to toe.

  Eugenie bore Eva’s inspection with good grace. “You have a fine son, Mrs. Payne.”

  Eva’s face softened. “He is a good boy, in spite of the influence of that one there.” She pointed to Asher.

  “If anyone is the bad influence,” Asher objected, “it’s Rafe, filling Ware’s head with stories of the glories of the buffalo hunt.”

  “Rafe!” Eva called out, laughing, and a tall man sharing a family resemblance with his half brothers came out of the cabin. “You ain’t never hunted a buffalo, and don’t tell my son you have.”

  Rafe joined the group. He raised a single eyebrow when Asher introduced him as their brother. Carefully examining Eugenie, he extended his hand in greeting.

  Ware ran to his mother’s side, wrapping his arms around her waist. In that moment, he seemed wholly a child, rather than the small adult Eugenie had come to expect.

  “Ah, there’s my boy.” Ware’s mother leaned down, hugging her child to her side. “Did you have your adventure?”

  The boy nodded, strangely tongue-tied.

  “We are in Ware’s debt,” Eugenie said, holding out her hand.

  Eva, after the slightest hesitation, grasped Eugenie’s hand in hers.

  “Had he and John not found our horses, we would still be walking.”

  “He’s a good boy, if mischievous.” Eva gestured toward the doorway. “But come in; I’ve beans and cornbread to fill your stomach. And Ware can rest the horses.”

  The dining room, which also served as a pantry, held a bench and table with a covered pot in the middle. Eva spooned a healthy portion of beans onto their bowls, then passed around a plate of cornbread.

  Asher took a seat beside Eugenie, grinning as he ate. “Eva, you are the best cook this side of the Mississippi.”

&n
bsp; Eugenie bit into the bread, not knowing what to expect, but she found it chewy and a little sweet, crisp on the bottom where the oil had fried the bread.

  “What do you know of the Mississippi, Asher?” Eva teased. “You barely get outside the Texas border on a cattle drive before you run your way back inside the state again.”

  “In my younger days, I visited all the states and most of the territories. I simply prefer Texas,” Asher explained, breaking a piece of cornbread into his beans. “Ware, tell your mother about the stompede.” He gave Eugenie a sly wink.

  Eugenie raised an eyebrow in return. For all the stories they’d told her on the road, this was one she hadn’t heard yet.

  “Ah, Lawd, perhaps you shouldn’t.” Eva straightened her gingham dress.

  “We only had one stompede, Mama, and I knew to find a safe place to hide. So I climbed a tree, and I watched the horns of the cattle run below me.”

  “Good boy, Ware.” Eva smiled with relief.

  “But after a few minutes I heard a sound above me, and sitting there, watching me, was a panther.”

  His mother breathed in sharply in alarm. She began to study Ware as if she were counting his limbs.

  Eugenie was fascinated. “Ware, what did you do?”

  “If I’d stay’d in the tree, I could have been mauled or eaten. But if I jumped, I could have been gored by the horns of the cattle running beneath. So, I hung down, real careful-like, until my heels grazed the backs of the cattle as they passed.”

  The boy demonstrated, holding his arms up above his head. “Then I let myself drop, praying that I would hit a back and not a horn. And that’s how I landed. Then I just rode the running cattle, until I could slip off, safe and sound with nary a scratch.”

  Eva hugged her child into her side. “You didn’t.”

  Ware’s smile broadened wide.

  “He did,” Asher confirmed.

  Eva twisted her towel and swatted Asher, not entirely without heat. “You take my blessed child on a drive, and you can’t manage to keep him away from stomps and panthers.”

  “I kept him from getting snake bit.” Asher shrugged, not completely apologetically.