Just in Time for Christmas Read online

  She nodded, but did not look up. “It’s all right, Mr. McMurray. I always do a little sewing or reading in the evening.”

  “Worthy endeavors,” he said, noting the colorful piece of quilt she held in her hands. “As a blacksmith, I’ve turned a few stitches myself. Saddles, saddlebags, that sort of thing.”

  She raised her eyes to his then, and once more, McMurray found himself captivated by their brilliance. He mused that, if it were at all possible, a man could lose himself in their translucence.

  The thought irritated him. Beauty was deceptive—yes, tempting but deceptive, and no doubt, this woman had to be aware of her beauty. Had to be aware of how she made a man feel. Isn’t that how a woman wielded her power, after all—even as she feigned blithe innocence and grace?

  He moved to the stairway brusquely. “Well, then, good night, Mrs. Wagner. And—uh—thank you for supper.”

  He heard her soft reply as he started up the stairs, “Good night, Mr. McMurray.”

  ****

  McMurray saddled his horse and rode the half-mile to town. He had not waited for Mrs. Wagner to serve breakfast. He wanted to avoid her this morning, particularly after spending a long restless night dreaming about her.

  He kicked the mare into a trot. Better to get his mind on finding solace in his blacksmithing. There he could work ’til the sweat rolled off his neck and down his back. There he could work without thinking, without remembering…

  Besides, he thought, feeling the bitter taste of dust on his tongue, he was done with women. Done with their manipulations and extravagant ways. Hadn’t he…hell, yes! He had tried everything—everything—to keep Mabel happy.

  In the end, she’d taken him for everything and left him with nothing.

  ****

  Della woke up, not the least bit rested.

  She made her way to the kitchen, wishing now she’d told the arrogant Mr. McMurray right from the start that her house was filled to overflowing with boarders. Even after four days, it was clear he was not the sort to be gracious beyond a curt thank you or yes, ma’am. In truth, she was confused more than anything since the man seemed to find her very presence irritating.

  She pulled on her apron and made her way out the back door to the chicken house. With the flurry of activity the day before, she’d neglected to collect the eggs or even lock the poor girls up.

  Immediately, she saw her finest hen sprawled on the ground. “Liza Ann,” she cried as she raced over and picked up the dead bird. “You poor, poor girl.” Clearly, the chicken had been mauled—not eaten, but mauled and left to die. It couldn’t have been a fox or coyote; they’d have carried the bird away. It had to be a dog! But there were few dogs in town.

  “Damn it,” she said out loud. “Damn it to hell!” It was probably Leroy Baines’s mangy, mongrel dog. He was famous for causing trouble. Just like Leroy Baines.

  No doubt, the animal was as neglected as Leroy’s grandson Carson.

  Furious now, she picked up the once beautifully black and white-laced Dominiker by one leg and marched up the road. Past the mercantile she marched. Past the rough plank building that served as the sheriff and assessor’s office and finally, past the saloon. Two men standing outside the saloon laughed as she stomped past.

  “Hey, Mizz Wagner,” cried the first. “That chicken for supper?”

  She turned and glared. It was Damien Schneider. “What are you doing standing around? I hear that your young wife is in the family way and not doing so well. Have you called the doctor yet?”

  Damien mumbled something unintelligible then slinked back into the saloon.

  Frowning, Della continued on her way, the chicken swinging clumsily in her hand. She didn’t stop until she’d reached the outskirts of town. There she turned up the hill and doggedly climbed, gritting her teeth as she anticipated the encounter with Leroy.

  As she reached the top, however, she came face to face with Carson. Running after the very mangy dog Della suspected of killing her hen, he stopped when he saw her and took a slow deep breath.

  Her heart was still pounding after her climb and she felt winded, too winded to give the boy a piece of her mind. Besides, her argument was not with him. Not at all. He, too, was a victim of his grandfather’s terrible neglect.

  Carson dropped his head even as he dropped the stick he’d been holding. “Hallo, Mizz Wagner,” he said. “I know I missed school today—”

  She tried to smile. “Hello, Carson. I’m not here about school, although you shouldn’t miss even a single day. No, I’m looking for your grandfather.”

  Carson shrugged. “Ain’t seen him. He’s been gone for—I dunno—days.”

  She frowned. “You mean he’s not been here at all? For how many days? Is there anyone about?”

  Carson shook his head.

  Della slid a hand under the boy’s chin. “Why didn’t you tell Miss Niblack or me that you were here, all alone?”

  Carson kicked at the dirt with his toes.

  Della took in his appearance. No shoes, torn overalls, dirty hair, dirty everything. “Well, that’s it, then. You’re coming with me.”

  A look of panic crossed Carson’s thin face. “I’m sorry Mizz Wagner. I knowed those chickens were your pets. I didn’t mean to hurt one. I mean, I was tryin’ to get a few eggs is all, but ole Buddy here, he just tore after it and I couldn’t stop him. I’m sorry, Mizz Wagner.”

  It was then that Della understood what he was saying. She looked down at the pathetic creature still hanging from her fingers. For a hungry boy like Carson, raiding her chicken house had been the act of desperation.

  She sighed. “And why didn’t just come to the door and ask?”

  Carson looked up at her, confusion clearly reflected in his eyes.

  “Did you think I’d not give you something to eat?”

  Again, Carson said nothing.

  His silence was like a fierce slap. Instinctively, she dropped the chicken and pulled him to her, wrapping her hands around his shoulders. “Oh, Carson. Don’t you know that I would never refuse you something to eat?”

  The child remained stiff in her embrace and, sensing his discomfort, Della released him. She took a deep breath. “You are coming home with me, do you hear?”

  Carson shook his head. “Grandpa will be comin’. And Buddy has nobody but me.”

  Della looked over at the dog that had somehow managed to get hold of the dead chicken and drag it to a spot not far from where she stood. Fighting her ire, she realized that the dog was all that Carson had, and he, like Carson, was only scrambling to get something to eat.

  Della smiled. “Then I suppose Buddy will be coming home as well.”

  Carson’s eyes brightened.

  “Now, no dilly-dallying. I’ve got chores to do and you can help. Yes?”

  Carson nodded. “Yes, Mizz Wagner.”

  ****

  McMurray shook hands with Elias Neel, saloonkeeper and the town’s unofficial mayor. He also owned a number of buildings along Main Street, many of them now abandoned.

  “Sadly, Sampson’s best tools are gone,” Elias said after McMurray explained that he’d like to lease the building. “But I believe there’s still an anvil.”

  “With an anvil I can make what I need.”

  “Very good,” said Elias. “If you want, check it out and let me know if you’re seriously interested. Then, we’ll talk money.”

  McMurray nodded and took his leave, anxious to rummage through what remained of Sampson’s shop. It was small, dark, with little more than a fire pit that served as a forge and the anvil that had been nailed to an old stump. Some old horseshoes, a small hammer and handful of rusted nails and bits of iron were scattered across the dirt floor.

  As he left the rough timbered structure, his mind reeled with plans for the new shop. He didn’t have much cash, but it’d be enough to start over.

  Besides, what else could he do? Everything else he’d built over the last ten years was gone—wasted—lost. All he owned now
was his resolve.

  That was the one thing Mabel had not managed to steal.

  All the more reason it was time to stop and settle down since running from his past had not brought him any peace of mind.

  As he headed back to Neel’s office to sign the lease, his attention was diverted by the sudden appearance of Mrs. Wagner and a raggedly-dressed boy. She did not see him, which gave him ample opportunity to study her from a safe distance. She held the child’s hand tenderly as she glided down Main Street, a dog trailing dutifully after her.

  She was not wearing a bonnet and her hair had already fallen out of its tight bun. And she was wearing a stained and well-worn apron, not one that most women would dare to wear outside of their home. He wondered what could have possessed her to come to town looking so unkempt?

  Even still, he found the image of her, half-frazzled and without guile, absolutely enchanting.

  But was this wayward boy her son? He appeared disheveled and distraught, as if he’d been running at full speed.

  He simply couldn’t put the puzzle together, but curiosity aroused, he followed at a distance. He watched as Mrs. Wagner escorted the child into her house then turned and ordered the dog to remain outside. “Buddy, lay down here,” she said and pointed to the front step. “I’ll bring you some food directly, but no more chickens. Do you hear me? Not a single one.”

  The dog lay down as if he understood, his shaggy tail thumping against the plank step.

  Then, she disappeared into the house.

  Renewed curiosity kept McMurray from heading back to Sampson’s shop, even to retrieve his horse. He stood, transfixed, staring at Mrs. Wagner’s neat and well-framed white house shuttered now against the bright sunlight.

  He didn’t hear Mrs. Kerrigan’s approach.

  “You are waiting for—” she asked.

  He turned and scanned the soft folds of the elderly widow’s cherub-like face. It reminded him of his grandmother’s face, although she had died when he was almost too young to remember. He did remember that her embraces smelled of rose water and they’d been warm and deep, as if he’d climbed up onto a large pillow filled with downy feathers.

  He cleared his mind. “I was just—well,” he said, “I noticed that Mrs. Wagner had escorted a boy, a rather ragged youngster, into her house. I didn’t know she had children,” he added.

  “She don’t,” returned Mrs. Kerrigan. “She lost all the babies she ever bore.”

  McMurray felt his heart skip a beat.

  “The last one she lost right after Jonathon got thrown from his horse. On Christmas Eve, it was. A terrible time for her. For ev’rybody who knows her.” Mrs. Kerrigan turned and pointed toward the steeple where she had directed his steps that first day. “They’re all buried down there by the church. Four babies. Four babies and a husband.”

  ****

  McMurray did not return home until late the next evening, well past the time supper was served.

  Unnerved by Mrs. Kerrigan’s declarations about Mrs. Wagner’s losses, and feeling that he needed some distance from her—if only to distance himself from his feelings—he left Miner’s Creek and headed out into the hills.

  He rode past the remains of mining claims and deserted shanties. The years of boom had passed, that much was certain, and men, still caught up in the desire to strike it rich, had left their sorry possessions behind.

  Though he had tried mining a time or two in the last five years, it didn’t settle. It was hard, thankless work. Somewhere between obsession and craziness, he’d decided, and it left most men desperate and destitute.

  He’d rather use his brain, and following his discharge after the war, he began breeding horses. It proved lucrative, but as the money came, so did the women.

  Then he met Mabel—

  After that—after he lost the ranch and the stock and all the capital he’d invested—he learned to ply his skill as a blacksmith, when he couldn’t take up work as a cowhand. But it was horses that interested him most; and someday, he hoped to build up another small herd. The mare he now rode would be the first of his herd.

  He rode on, deeper into the hills. Finally, reaching a shady spot where a stream cascaded over smooth, moss-covered rock, he dismounted. He patted his mare before running a hand down her flank. “Gotta take a break, girl,” he said. “It’s hotter than a fox in a firestorm out here.”

  Removing his hat, he stripped off his shirt then squatted beside the creek. The water was cool and refreshing as he splashed it over his chest and arms.

  Then he stretched out on a rocky outcropping and covered his face with his hat. The late October sun was actually too intense to endure at first, but as it moved across the sky, he finally closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  ****

  It was late the next day when McMurray returned to Miner’s Creek to settle up with Elias Neel. Once done, he headed back to Mrs. Wagner’s house at a slow walk.

  She was in the kitchen when he entered through the back door. Standing at the stove, her face was flushed from the heat. “Supper is always at seven o’clock, Mr. McMurray,” she said, stirring something that smelled rich and meaty. “And though it’s included in your board and room, a word as to your presence or absence would be deeply appreciated.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  She inclined her head before speaking. “I am, to be honest, rather curious, Mr. McMurray. I hope—”

  Impulsively, he took a step toward her. “I am sorry. It’s just—”

  She turned, her blue eyes narrowed and sharp.

  He hesitated. How did he explain himself to her when he, himself, did not understand what it was that drove him?

  How did he tell her that his history with beautiful women had been disastrous and had saddled him with this unrelenting bitterness? Or that he had stopped believing that a woman could be anything but conniving and deceitful?

  Or, that suddenly, for the first time in years, he sensed—hoped—that maybe—just maybe—things could be different for him. That she had kindled in him the desire—no, the willingness—to perhaps try love again.

  He froze. How could he even consider the notion after—what—five days?

  The silence became almost unbearable as he struggled to find the words that would communicate what lay just beneath the surface of his mind.

  Disgusted, she turned back to the stove. “Mr. Whitehouse and Miss Niblack will be wanting their supper. If you’re so inclined, you’re welcome to join us. Of course.”

  ****

  As on the first evening, Mr. Whitehouse was dressed in a starched shirt and dress coat and his hair was freshly groomed. Miss Niblack was dressed in a rather coquettish gown that dipped slightly. It was a far cry from the prim dresses she’d worn to supper McMurray had seen her in previously.

  The woman was obviously trying to make an impression on poor, unsuspecting Mr. Whitehouse. Did the man know what he was in for, he mused?

  “Hello, Mr. McMurray,” Mr. Whitehouse said. “We missed you last evening.”

  “Good evening,” returned McMurray, and nodding to Miss Niblack, he added, “It appears to be a very good evening.”

  Miss Niblack blushed and lowered her gaze.

  Mrs. Wagner carried in a kettle of steaming stew, and behind her came the boy McMurray had seen her leading through town. The child carefully placed a plate of cornbread on the table in front of Miss Niblack.

  “Thank you, Carson,” said Miss Niblack. “It is good to see you earning your keep.” She lowered her voice. “It’s never good to accept charity.”

  Mr. Whitehouse agreed vehemently. “Life is hard, boy, and the sooner you accept that, the better off you are.”

  McMurray frowned. Both Miss Niblack and Mr. Whitehouse appeared deaf to the sound of their own voices, he thought.

  He looked over at Mrs. Wagner; pivoting, with dish in hand, a dark frown marred her beautiful features.

  Then, he glanced across at the young, freshly washed face, now flushed with humili
ation. Dressed in a man’s cut-down trousers and shirt, the poor child looked pathetic.

  Just then Mrs. Wagner cleared her throat. “Carson is my guest, Mr. Whitehouse. And though he falls under your care while at school, Miss Niblack, here he does not, and you will both treat him with the respect I afford any guest.”

  Miss Niblack immediately colored under Mrs. Wagner’s direct gaze, while Mr. Whitehouse shrugged, then reached up and wiped the ends of his thin moustache.

  McMurray privately congratulated Mrs. Wagner even as he watched her and Carson exit the room. This was, indeed, a woman he wanted to know better.

  ****

  McMurray found Mrs. Wagner in the kitchen shortly after Miss Niblack, Mr. Whitehouse, and Carson had all gone upstairs. With her shirtsleeves rolled up past her elbows and her hair tied up haphazardly, she looked like a hired washerwoman. She glanced at him over her shoulder, but quickly turned back to the large tub she was using to wash dishes.

  “Impressive,” he said, “monumentally impressive.” He leaned against the open doorway, a rolled cigarette in his hands.

  “Mr. McMurray,” came her terse greeting.

  “Please, I only mean to say that I was impressed by your words and your self control,” he said. “I wanted to punch Mr. Whitehouse in the nose—or, at least, pull on the ends of his much less impressive moustache.”

  Mrs. Wagner chuckled then and turned, her smile illuminating her face and, most particularly, her blue eyes.

  He smiled.

  Mrs. Wagner’s tone softened. “Carson lives with his grandfather, who’s nothing more than a scoundrel and a drunk. Leaves him alone for days with little more than a bit of hardtack and old beans. I wasn’t about to walk away.”

  McMurray shrugged. “He’s fortunate to have someone like you in his life. He’s a handsome young boy.”

  “He is more than just handsome,” she returned. “He is courageous. I admire how determined he is to tackle life.”

  Her words struck him with their intensity. “Yes, I can see that,” he said. He wondered if she recognized her own courage and bold determination, which obviously drove her to tackle life with equal grit?