Merry Wild West Christmas
Wanda Ann Thomas
Copyright © 2019 by Wanda Ann Thomas
Published by Wanda Ann Thomas. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
One
December 1892
The newest young resident of the sleepy western town of Aurora, Wyoming stepped back from the centerpiece of the family’s collection of advent calendar boxes of all shapes and sizes. Josephine Hopkins folded her hands lest she give into the temptation to rearrange them. Again.
She pivoted toward the door separating the dining room and kitchen. “I knew this drafty old place would feel like home once we set out the Christmas decorations.”
Yuletide season officially started with the addition to the buffet of the heirloom wooden advent calendar featuring a hand-painted Victorian village and twenty-four miniature red drawers with gold knobs waiting to be pulled open. The smell of sugar cookies wafted through the house.
Her cheek smudged with flour, Mutter set the rolling pin beside the flattened cookie dough and wiped her hands on the red and green checked apron protecting her matching balsam-green skirt. “You did, my sweet girl.”
Mutter’s immigrant grandparents had given up their native language for English, but the ghost of their German accent remained alive in Gerta Hopkins’s voice.
Josephine glanced at the portrait above the mantel of her twin brother Jasper seated in a sleigh-like chair on wheels. Papa had built the Boardwalk Wheelchair, as it was called, after seeing a newspaper picture of this new rage among rich tourists in Atlantic City. Mutter had knitted the blue and brown striped blanket covering Jasper’s lap.
His lively brown eyes and dark wavy hair came from Mutter’s side, whereas Jo’s strawberry blond hair and blue eyes favored Papa’s English ancestors. “What do you think, Jasp?”
Love and loss warred in Mutter’s eyes whenever anyone spoke of her ‘brave boy.’ This would be their third Christmas without Jasper, gone at the tender age of fifteen. “Santa’s workshop was his favorite,” Mutter said.
Packing straw clung to an elf seated on a stack of toy blocks. Jo carefully brushed away the debris and opened a candy-cane striped door marked with a silver-painted 1.
“Jasper, Mutter’s special chocolate toffee.” She slipped the year-old bittersweet treat into her mouth. Keeping the promise to her brother to never lose her wonder and joy in Christmas was not always easy, especially on special days like Christmas Unpacking Day—an official Hopkins family holiday.
Papa’s gray puffball of a cat jumped down from the straight-back dining table chair, and, wearing his perpetual frown, disappeared into the sitting room.
“His Royal Highness is tired of our company.” Mutter and Pip had agreed long ago to tolerate the other over their shared love of William Hopkins.
Jo examined the crate holding Papa’s collection of nutcrackers, then glanced at the door that connected to Hopkins Stables. “What could be keeping Papa?”
Mutter exchanged the rolling pin for a star-shaped cookie cutter. “Working too hard, I’m sure. He promised the task of running a livery stable would be easier on his back and knees than the twelve-hour days at the Melrose Lamp factory.”
The hoot of a locomotive whistle followed by the rattle of plates in the cupboards announced the arrival of the one-o’clock train.
Mutter’s shoulders briefly hunched, then she punched out a row of dough stars. “Who puts a horse stable next to a train station?”
The family had known next to nothing about Wyoming or Hopkins Stables before Papa inherited the home and attached business from his bachelor uncle William, for whom he was named. The clean, well-maintained two-story white clapboard house and barn met Mutter’s high standards, but ten weeks after moving to the sleepy town, she still hunched her shoulders each time the train shook the house.
Jo pulled the lace curtain aside and watched the train chug to a stop. Clouds of steam billowed from beneath the yellow engine. In contrast, the windows of the rear passenger car were frosted, and patches of snow clung to the metal roof. Two men wearing cowboy hats and carrying saddles over their shoulders waited on the train platform. “More cowboys are deserting town.” The locals had advised them that Aurora’s population dwindled by half during the long winters but rebounded with the coming of spring and the cattle-branding season.
Carl the porter stepped off the train lugging the mail satchel. A smile brightened the dark face beneath white hair as he waved at Jo. She eagerly reciprocated.
“After you go to the post office, please find Papa and tell him to come have some warm cookies and tea,” Mutter called from the kitchen.
Jo toed aside one of the many unopened decoration boxes cluttering the dining room and hurried to the coat tree. She thrust her arms into her fur-trimmed red jacket and claimed a small paper sack and a postcard from the deacon’s bench. “I promise not to be gone long.”
“Take your muff,” Mutter admonished.
“You worry too much.”
“It’s my duty to fuss over you.”
“And it is my duty to allow you to fuss over me,” Jo replied with a smile of affection over the oft repeated call and response.
“That’s my good girl. I hope there is a postcard in the mail pouch today.”
The wall over Jo’s bed was covered with a growing collection of postcards hand-painted by Aunt Elsa and featuring whimsical watercolor illustrations of cherub-cheeked children. Jo had labored painstakingly to perfect the calligraphy on the return card clutched in her hand, but her color-pencil ‘season’s greetings’ paled in comparison.
“Aunt Elsa promised more news about her Nellie’s engagement to the undertaker.” Jo tucked the postcard into one pocket and the paper sack into the other, then flexed her tingling fingers.
“I am sure he is a pleasant fellow despite his unfortunate profession,” she heard Mutter say.
A sweat breaking out on her forehead, Jo stared at her fingers as she had countless times since the first instance had occurred about a month earlier. No, no, no. Not yet. Mutter and Papa can’t go through that pain again so soon. But no amount of willpower would ease the needle-like sensation. If anything, the bouts of numbness were coming more frequently and lasting longer.
“Josephine, did you hear me?” Mutter stood framed in the kitchen doorway, her brow creased in concern.
Jo shoved the offending hand into the muffler and pulled the front door open. “What?” she asked, making her voice as cheery as sleigh bells.
“I was reminding you about the peppermint sticks.”
Jo patted the pocket holding the paper sack. “Thank you, I remembered. I have to hurry, or I’ll miss Carl.”
“That’s Mr. Simpson to you.”
Jo hadn’t enough time to explain again that the porter insisted on her calling him Carl.
She slipped outside and welcomed the embrace of the winter chill and the bright blue skies. Mutter and Papa were proud as could be to see the family name painted in large blue letters—HOPKINS STABLES—crowning the sturdy barn, but they were less pleased to find their new home and business within calling distance of a pair of saloons.
The nonstop wind rattled the shutters of the two-story Wagon Wheel Hotel & Saloon across the way and carried the sounds of lively piano music from the neighboring Rawhide Saloon. No cowboys loitered on the porch to stare at her. Thank goodness!
Aurora’s false-front buildings and rutted thoroughfare were charming as could be, especially Bailey’s Emporium with its window disp
lay of tree ornaments and tins of chocolate. She was excited to celebrate her first Wild West Christmas.
Carl exited the aptly named Last Chance Trading Post that housed the post office. The rundown establishment would challenge even her deft hand at transforming a place into a Christmas wonderland.
She walked faster and waved a greeting.
Carl’s round face lit with a smile. He was a father of nine and grandfather to twenty-seven and counting. “A good afternoon to you, Miss Josephine. How are you this fine day?”
The crisp air captured the warm puffs of her breath as she held out the paper sack. “Happy Christmas Unpacking Day. I hope you like peppermint sticks.”
“I do, I do.” He peeked inside the bag and winked. “Thank you much. My sweet babies will be extra happy to see their grandpappy when I share these.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t pack enough for your family.”
“Don’t you worry none. My Flora will make sure the babies all get some.”
“I promise to make Christmas cookies for everyone.”
He carefully tucked the bag into his pocket. “That’s very generous, but—”
“Doing for others makes me happy.” She smiled brightly, but her heart twitched faster than the whiskers on a panicked mouse at the thought of not having a reason to bake mountains of cookies. Busy hands were a remedy against missing her old home and life. “Mutter and I always baked cookies for half of Cincinnati. Or so Papa said.”
“My Flora does the same. Except her specialty is fudge.” His fond tone told the story of a lifelong love match. “Peanut butter, chocolate, raspberry, maple walnut, butterscotch, and on and on. I will bring you some samples next time.”
Her mouth watered. “Our neighbor in Cincinnati made the most delicious peanut butter fudge.”
The train whistle blew shrilly.
Carl tipped his porter’s cap. “I wish I had time to hear more on this Christmas Unpacking Day.”
“Next time,” she promised, waving good-bye. The attic full of boxes waiting for her would take a toll on her back and shoulders, but the pain would be worth it once the house was decked out. She sobered as she entered the trading post.
Ned Baker, the elderly proprietor, shook the handful of letters clutched in his fist. “Hold your horses, missy, until I’m done.” Then he went back to stuffing the envelopes into the grubby cubby holes behind the mail counter.
The family’s designated mail slot remained empty. She flexed her fingers and willed the numbness away. Please, please let there be a return letter from Dr. Peters with good news.
Mr. Baker deposited the last piece of mail, then doubled down on his frown. “Don’t go looking all sad because you didn’t get no posts.”
“Could you check the mail bag again? Please.”
“You young people think I’m daft as a bat because I’m old.” Upending the leather bag, he gave it a good shake. “Nothing there. Are you happy?”
Life was too short to waste on being unhappy, but lecturing Mr. Baker wasn’t the way to win him over. “Do you carry stationery?”
“Paper and ink are by the crockery, but don’t be expecting anything frilly or dainty.”
The dust-covered shelves held a vast variety of goods with no rhyme or reason to their placement. “I don’t have time to look today, but I hear you have some pretty fountain pens.”
“Maybe soon you’ll get the letter you’re all fired up about,” he replied in a mollified tone.
Was her distress that obvious? She sailed to the door. Unpacking the rest of the advent calendar collection would settle her nerves. “Good day, Mr. Baker. I’ll be back again soon.”
She exited the trading post, but his mumbling reply was lost as a curious sight greeted her.
A young cowboy ambled past, his enormous shoulders draped with a tan speckled calf. A bright red bow was tied around the calf’s neck. The fawn-eyed calf was a gift? But for who? Was it a birthday gift, or an early Christmas present? She simply had to know.
But Mutter was expecting her to rescue Papa from working too long in the stables.
She hurried to catch up to the cowboy.
A quick moment to satisfy her curiosity couldn’t hurt.
Two
Ox Haven rarely made the forty-mile journey to town during winter, but the attempts by his well-meaning family to cheer him up had only deepened his grief over the death of his horse. Partners for twelve years, Chief had been Ox’s birthday gift the year he turned six. His current horse was on loan from family until he found a new mount.
Nope. He wasn’t in the mood to be cheered up. But drowning his cares at the Rawhide Saloon was better than sitting alone in a gloomy one-room cabin.
The calf wrapped around his neck mooed. “Hang on little fellow, I hope to find the perfect place for you to bed down and heal.” The day-long journey from his remote cabin to Aurora was usually dull as dust, but matters had gotten a little too exciting yesterday when he’d come across the injured six-month-old stray surrounded by a half dozen snarling wolves.
He took the calf straight to Doc Craig. The former army horse surgeon turned town doctor sedated the calf and splinted a badly broken front leg. Ox had spent the night on a cot at Doc’s office watching over the little fellow.
“Hello there,” someone called.
The longhorn calf blocking his view, Ox turned around to see who the musical feminine voice belonged to. His eyes almost fell out of his head at the beautiful sight.
A dainty gal with waist-length strawberry blond hair and lively turquoise eyes waved a friendly greeting. “What a handsome bull.”
Every intelligent thought fled. “I reckon, ma’am.”
“Who is the lucky recipient?”
This must be Miss Hopkins. The very gal every bachelor from here to Cheyenne was eager to court. “Me, I guess.”
“But what about the bow?”
“Bow?”
A smile as bright and happy as a field of sunflowers lit her face as she reached toward the calf. “The red one tied around the calf’s neck.”
“Oh, that bow.” His face heated hotter than a branding iron. How had the bull calf slipped his mind? She must think him a complete dolt. “You can’t hardly give away a longhorn since the beef market crashed. Doc Craig put a bow on him, with the reasoning no one says no to a Christmas present.”
“Now there is a wise man,” she said, stroking the calf’s nose. The animal licked her hand in return. Miss Hopkins laughed. “That tickles.”
A vision of kissing her rosebud mouth weakened his knees. “You wouldn’t happen to want a baby bull for Christmas? Or know someone who does?” His face burned hotter. Of all the stupid things to say.
“How unique and fun. My cousin Otto back in Cincinnati will be jealous.”
He blinked. Had he heard correct? “Ma’am, I don’t mean no disrespect, but a longhorn bull isn’t exactly a pet. He’ll get really large, really quick.” Now he probably went and insulted her.
But her dazzling smile stayed put and she petted the calf. “This nice gentleman is right,” she said to the baby. “I can’t keep you, but I can give you a good home for the winter.”
“Gentleman,” he sputtered. He was a rancher and a cowboy, and not some middle-aged Easterner. “Everyone calls me Ox.”
“Is Ox short for Oxford?”
“Nope. It’s just plain old Ox.”
“It’s a charming nickname.” Her curious tone promised more questions.
He glanced around, hoping to find someone coming to his rescue, but at the moment a ghost town would be livelier than Aurora. Conversation wasn’t his strong suit. And this talkative gal was pushing his limits. “It’s the only name I got. Ox Haven…that’s the short and sweet of it.” Could he sound like a bigger idiot?
She held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ox. I’m Josephine Hopkins, but I prefer to be called plain old Jo.”
He wiped his hand on his denim pants, cleaning it the best he could
before shaking hers. Her skin felt smooth as fresh-churned butter, and a hint of vanilla teased his nose. He swallowed heavily. “The pleasure is mine, ma’am.”
Her eyes darkened. Was she experiencing a similar attraction or was she repulsed?
She freed her hand. “Tell me more. How did your parents decide on Ox?”
The restless calf flailed its legs, then bawled.
“What’s wrong, little guy?” Jo said, her brow furrowing.
Ox lowered his burden to the ground, careful to keep pressure off the calf’s bandaged leg. “He had a close call with a pack of wolves.”
Jo crouched next to him and petted the bull’s nose. “Don’t you worry, I promise to take good care of you. You will have your own warm stable piled high with soft hay. And buckets of grain and fresh water.”
Hopkins Stables had always had a good reputation, but what did he know about the new owner except that he had a charming daughter? “I hate to burden you with a lame animal.”
“He won’t be a bother.” Her voice was indignant and her face pinched. “How would you like it if people avoided you because you were feeble or broken?”
“Whoa up.” Ox chose his next words as if handling a bottle of nitroglycerin. “I can see your heart is in this.”
Her arms remained crossed. “It is.”
“What do you say we go by the stable to see if this little guy approves?”
“Texas will adore it.”
“Texas?”
“That’s his name.” The bull rubbed his head against her arm. She smiled and scratched a tan ear. “You said he will grow to be as big as Texas.”
Ox chuckled. “And then some.” He carefully scooped up the calf. “Texas, let’s get you to your new home.”
Jo led the way to the stable. “A longhorn calf will be the best Christmas Unpacking Day gift ever.”
Ox glanced from the red bow to Jo’s red fur-trimmed jacket. He hardly gave any thought to holidays, but they seemed mighty important to her. “An early Merry Christmas to you, Miss Josephine.”
“Happy Christmas,” she said, her pretty blue eyes alight.
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