Merry Wild West Christmas

by Wanda Ann Thomas

  “Shall we shake on it?” She held out her hand.

  Her skin was velvet soft, but the hint of a blister was growing below her pinkie. Courage and spirit she had in spades. And wasn’t that mighty appealing? “We have ourselves a deal.”

  “How many Christmas trees have you cut down?”

  He blinked. “A few. Why?”

  “Just curious.” She pressed the hoe into his hand and sailed away, humming a tune.

  “‘O Christmas Tree.’”

  He could only laugh.

  Six

  Two days after striking the bargain to help trim the Hopkins home for Christmas, Ox made what must be his hundredth trip carrying wooden boxes and more boxes between the attic and the front parlor.

  Will Hopkins’s boring house had been transformed into a Christmas paradise.

  He carefully set the last crate on the blue-flowered couch. The little cow horn poking through the newspaper wrapping was clue enough the latest crate held another nativity set. “I don’t know where you will put this one.”

  Jo paused from humming “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” and looked up from the manger set she was arranging on a shelf. Her happiness shone brighter than dozens of brightly burning candles. “Don’t you worry. I saved the perfect spot.”

  A savory smell wafted from the kitchen. His stomach growled. “I never knew anyone who took such a fancy to Christmas.”

  “That’s because you never met Jasper.”

  “Jasper?”

  Her eyes clouding, she walked to the fireplace and pointed to the picture hanging above the mantel. “My twin brother.”

  Ox had avoided asking about the teenage boy staring out from the portrait with doomed eyes, for fear a sad story was involved. “You don’t look nothing alike.” He cringed at the oafish remark.

  But she laughed with true joy. “Jasp used to tease that Mutter and Papa found me in a turnip patch and just said we were twins.”

  The logs burning in the fireplace shifted and spewed a cascade of crackling yellow embers.

  She stroked the picture frame. “Yes, we’re talking about you, and I can hear you saying don’t get all sappy. But I’m going to shout from the rooftops that you were the best brother a girl could have.”

  Her courage made her more beautiful. Ox joined her. “You must miss him even more at this time of year.”

  She nodded solemnly. “I promised Jasper I would always celebrate Christmas for two.”

  The nutcrackers lined up like a small army of soldiers and the crate of colorful glass ornaments waiting to be hung on a Christmas tree and the dozens of cranberry-scented candles waiting to be lit like the Fourth of July fireworks no longer seemed frivolous and overdone. No, they reflected the love of a sister for a brother.

  Ox was at a loss as how to comfort her. “There’s still a couple of bare spots.”

  She hurried to one of the windows framing the front door. Arms stretched wide, she twirled in a circle. “One tree will go here.”

  Her excitement was infectious. Ox smiled. “One? How many Christmas trees do you plan to put up?”

  “Just two this year.” She danced to the window on the other side of the door and spun in a circle again with arms held wide. “They will have to be smaller than I like, but will have to do until the builders construct our new house.”

  The announcement confirmed his suspicions—the Hopkins were well-to-do. Her folks weren’t likely to welcome a dirt-poor rancher taking an interest in their daughter. And just because Jo was friendly didn't mean nothing.

  Shoot. Why the disappointment? His lot in life was to be a bachelor rancher. And that was that. “Where do you plan to build?”

  “As far away from the railroad tracks as we can go,” she said on a laugh. “Papa purchased a double lot at the edge of town.”

  Would they be selling Will’s place and the stable? “Two homes sound like a lot of work.”

  “Papa and Mutter keep hinting that I can live here with my husband.” She rolled her eyes. “Even though I’ve told them a thousand times I don’t want to marry.”

  His ears perked. A pretty gal like her an old maid? Impossible. “You can’t be serious?”

  A prairie dust storm kicked up in her eyes. “Says who?”

  “Tell that to the beaus who will swarm here, hoping to court you.” He’d gone and stepped in it, but he sure did admire her fiery spirit.

  Her nose wrinkled. “I will set them straight.”

  He had no doubt she would.

  Mrs. Hopkins sailed into the room with a tray of food. “Papa would like some broth.” The sternness of her guttural, accented voice was counterbalanced by a warm smile.

  “My husband wants to thank his rescuing angel himself.” So saying, she handed the tray to him.

  Surprised, he had to juggle the wicker handles to keep the bowl and spoon from sliding off. “That sure smells delicious. But Doc wouldn’t want me to tire out your husband.”

  Mrs. Hopkins sighed. “Dr. Craig would need to sit on my William’s chest to make him take it easy.”

  A visit to assure Jo’s father his business wouldn’t suffer in his absence might be for the best. “My ma used to say men have less sense than a dog who refuses to come out of the rain.”

  She gave an approving nod. “Amen. Now. Go along before the broth goes cold.”

  Seven

  Ox followed Jo into a second-story bedroom, dominated by a polished walnut sleigh bed. The gray cat jumped to the floor in a flurry of fur and scurried for cover under the bed.

  William Hopkins was almost lost under the white puffy quilt. Ox smiled at the collection of Christmas-themed snow globes perched on the bedside table and dressers.

  “Is there a room you don’t decorate?” he asked in her ear.

  She glanced back, merriment curving her rosy lips. “Wait until I start on the stable.”

  He laughed so hard the broth sloshed in the bowl. “You wouldn’t.”

  “It’s not wise to challenge a lioness.” Mr. Hopkins struggled to push himself higher on the mound of pillows. From the nose up, his face was bruised red, blue, and purple.

  Ox had seen bad bruises before, but these were truly wince worthy. If the older gentleman’s run-in with the horse had been a boxing match, the first round ended in the ornery Mustang delivering a knock-out punch.

  Jo’s face crumpled, and she rushed to the bed. “Papa, just rest. I will spoon the broth to you.”

  Sweat dewing his balding dome, Mr. Hopkins’s thin shoulders sank back into the pillows. “Sugarplum, I need a word alone with Mr. Haven.”

  “Don’t send me away,” Jo said.

  “Talk of stable business will bore you, Sugarplum.”

  Ox smiled at the nickname.

  Jo’s frown was ferocious. “I am perfectly capable of managing the stable.”

  Ox pulled in his elbows in an attempt to look smaller. “Maybe I should leave so you can discuss this in private.”

  Mr. Hopkins patted his daughter’s hand. “I will rest easier if I know my absence won’t be a burden on you and Mutter.”

  Her shoulders fell. “How can I argue with that?”

  “Josephine,” Mrs. Hopkins called from the first floor. “I need your help in the kitchen.”

  “Coming, Mutter,” she answered, but she remained rooted in place. “Promise me you will sip some broth.”

  “I will have no say over you and Mutter fretting over me, will I, Sugarplum?” His tone was full of kindness.

  She placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. “You gave us a terrible fright, Papa.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  The love between father and daughter was beautiful as sunshine sparkling on a running river.

  Jo paused beside Ox on her way to the door. Her eyes clouded. “Promise not to stay overlong.”

  “You have my word.” He’d bet his ranch her worry extended beyond her father’s health, but he couldn’t guess as to the reason.

  The tantalizing smell of
baked bread seeped into the room as Jo exited.

  “Mr. Haven, I’m afraid I need to rely on your kindness for a bit longer,” Mr. Hopkins said, claiming his attention.

  Shoot, it was poor manners to stare after a gal with her father looking on. “I’m happy to help, sir.” Ox set the tray at the foot of the bed. He retrieved a folded white napkin and tucked it into Mr. Hopkins’s night-shirt. “Folks call me Ox.”

  “Please call me William.”

  Ox ladled up a spoonful of broth. He’d respected and liked Will Hopkins, and already found much to admire in the nephew. “You might want to take a small sip to be sure it’s not overly hot.”

  William waved away the spoon. “Forgive my forwardness, but I need to say something before Josephine returns. And I can see why my Gerta called you an angel, not that I pictured the heavenly host being so gigantic.” William winced in pain as he chuckled at his own joke.

  Ox pulled up a chair, so the frail man wouldn’t have to strain his neck. “I’m all ears.” With his curiosity bubbling faster than a coffee kettle forgotten on a hot stove, he didn’t want to take the chance of missing a single word.

  “Your offer to assist with the stable until I recover is a blessing and relief…more so than you’ll ever know.”

  “I don’t need praise for doing what any honorable man would do.”

  “I’m afraid I need to bother you for another favor. For Josephine's sake.”

  Ox’s gut twisted in anticipation of William warning him away from getting romantic notions toward his daughter. “Jo already agreed to allow me to do the heavy work in the stables. Now that I’ve fulfilled my promise to carry down all the Christmas boxes from the attic, I will restrict my visits to just the stable.”

  “Now you are in trouble.” But William’s tone couldn’t be friendlier. “If our Sugarplum asks you to go on a Christmas tree cutting outing, run the other way.”

  “I think it’s too late.” Ox smiled recalling Jo humming “O Christmas Tree” after asking him if he had experience cutting down Christmas trees.

  A soft knock sounded on the door. “Papa, I have a plate of cookies for you and Ox.”

  William gripped his blanket. “The blow to my head and chest has left me weak as a new-born kitten. Tell Josephine to give us a few more moments.”

  Ox went to the door and opened it a crack. The scent of vanilla would forever remind him of Christmas-loving Jo. “Your father is still working his way to his point.”

  She bit her lip and glanced between him and the sick bed. “I’m afraid he’s overdoing it.”

  Ox wasn’t fooled. Her worry wasn’t just for her father’s well-being. “I promise to leave him to his rest lickety-split.”

  “But I have cookies.”

  Her forlorn expression almost weakened his resolve. “I’ll be down in a minute.” He clicked the door closed and waited until he heard the light steps of her retreat. Then returned to William’s side. “I gather patience is not your daughter’s strength.”

  “For good reason.” The man appeared more broken than ever. “After the holidays, my wife and I plan to take Jo to New York City. We are hoping you will agree to run the stable in our absence. We will pay you a generous salary and give you the run of our house.”

  Ox couldn’t make heads nor tails of the request. “Traveling during the winter is a hardship. Are you sure the trip can’t wait until spring?”

  William’s bruised eyes filled with tears. “Our Josephine is a lioness, and as brave as can be, but we fear she is beginning to suffer from the same condition that took our son. We’ve arranged for her to see the best physicians in the East.”

  Ox couldn’t reconcile the image of Jasper in the wheelchair with Jo. “But Jo is so full of life and energy.”

  “We have seen her flexing and massaging her hands. Her brother was twelve when we noticed the same symptoms.”

  Ox ached for the family. “Does Jo know your fears?”

  “We didn’t want to ruin her Christmas. What purpose would that serve? Her joy will be our joy.” He sighed. “We will sit her down for a talk before the first of the year. In the meantime, we are making all the arrangements.”

  Ox hated secrecy, but it wasn’t his business. “I’m happy to help, only I won’t accept no pay.”

  “Mr. Haven, I insist.”

  “One of my brothers will watch over my place for free. So, I’ll just be doing the same for you.”

  Josephine knocked at the door again.

  Her father frowned. “I’m out of time to argue.”

  “It’s settled then.” Ox stuck out his hand to shake on it.

  William lifted a trembling hand. “I can see why Uncle Will always had such a high opinion of ranch men.”

  Ox didn’t know how he was going to look or speak to Jo without his tumbled emotions showing. He grasped her father’s hand. “What should I say about our talk?”

  “My wife and I thought of that and we have the perfect answer.”

  It would have to be a gem of a story to satisfy Jo. “This I got to hear.”

  Eight

  Jo halted her pacing beside the fireplace upon hearing the thud of Ox’s boots coming down the stairs. The plate of cookies forgotten on the sofa table, she rushed to meet him as he stepped off the bottom tread. “What was that all about? Can you give me a hint?”

  Ox rolled his wide shoulders and glanced toward the front door like a guilty schoolboy. “I can’t say, or it will ruin the surprise. Your father called it your special Christmas surprise.”

  Papa most certainly had spoken of her. No doubt requesting Ox continue the hard work of running the stable. Then again Papa and Mutter always went out of their way to make each Christmas unique. With Papa being injured, perhaps they needed extra help.

  She loved them for always putting her first above their own troubles, but she was also embarrassed. “You must think I’m a spoiled princess.”

  “No, ma’am.” His sorrowful eyes reminded her of a muddy creek. “Ma Viola would say you are the apple of your parents’ eyes.”

  Since Jasper’s death that was even more true. She had a good guess as to the direction of the private conversation. “Papa spoke to you about my brother? Did he explain our promise to Jasper to never lose the Christmas Spirit?”

  Ox stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared at the pointed toes of his cowboy boots. “Sort of.”

  “Papa’s accident makes this year different. Can’t you give me a hint of the secret? In case I need to dissuade Papa and Mutter from overdoing it. Papa should be resting, and Mutter will be extra busy caring for Papa.”

  “The favor was unusual but not difficult.” He kept glancing at the door.

  Her curiosity bloomed back to life. “It’s not fair to oblige you to make my Christmas merry.”

  His chin whipped up. “Maybe the secret will make my holiday brighter. Did you think of that?”

  Her fingers itched to stroke his tanned cheek. “How am I supposed to talk you out of conspiring with my parents now?”

  “I gotta go,” he said, looking distressed again.

  Why did her feelings get all mixed up in his presence? Was he suffering the same emotion?

  Someone knocked at the front door. She rushed and pulled it open, welcoming the excuse to regather her wits.

  Carl smiled and removed his porter’s cap. “Good day to you, Miss Josephine. I hope my stopping by isn’t an imposition.”

  How had the train rattled into town without her noticing?

  Ox grabbed his hat from the coat rack and squeezed past them. “Sorry to say howdy and run, but chores are waiting.”

  Carl’s eyes twinkled. “Is Ox courting you? Those Haven boys are good folks.”

  “Ox is a workman at our stable,” she said defensively.

  His smile only widened as he held out a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string. “My Flora will give me a good scolding if you didn’t get her gift of peanut butter fudge. You didn’t greet me like usual,
so I took the liberty of stopping by.”

  “How thoughtful of you and your wife,” she said accepting the gift. “And my favorite peanut butter too.”

  The train horn blew a long toot.

  Carl replaced his cap on his woolly white head. “My chariot is calling.”

  “Next time I will have cookies for you and your grandbabies.”

  He turned to leave, then paused and patted the empty mail bag slung across his coat. “That letter you been watching for should be in your mail slot by now.”

  Her pulse leaped. Dr. Peters’s return letter. Would she receive good news or bad?

  She yanked her coat on, waved good-bye to Carl, and hurried for Mr. Baker’s postal counter.

  Nine

  Logs glowed in the fireplace. A mug of hot cocoa curled in her hands, Jo kept a careful eye on Papa, who had ventured out of his room for the first time since his accident. His color was good, setting aside the ugly bruising, now turning yellowish. Mutter and Dr. Craig were monitoring a persistent cough that had the potential of turning into pneumonia.

  Mutter sat beside Papa on the couch, knitting a Christmas stocking. Pip purred louder and rolled up in a tighter ball on Papa’s lap.

  Jo sighed contentedly as the smooth chocolate warmed her belly.

  The arrival of Dr. Peters’s post two days earlier had lifted one weight from her shoulders. She’d reread the letter until she’d memorized the glorious words. Travel strain. Stress of moving. Lifting and packing. She had practically danced at the last sentence. The affliction you described is most likely the result of the hardship accompanying the move from Cincinnati to Aurora and will pass.

  She flexed her hands and grinned. No numbness. No weakness.

  Hallelujah!

  Tiredness—of course that was the cause. Just because Jasper’s health had failed, didn’t mean she was doomed to the same fate.

  “Sugarplum, what has you so deep in thought?” Papa asked, then coughed into a handkerchief.