A Victorian Christmas

by Catherine Palmer

  Ignoring the bait, she dropped the rag into the pot of water. “A breeder, are you? Then why don’t you tell me what a bitting rig does?”

  “It teaches a horse to flex at the poll . . . that’s the top of his head just back of his ears.”

  “I know where the poll is.” She leaned closer. “What’s a hackamore?”

  “A bitless bridle.”

  “Mecate?”

  “A hackamore lead rope. You aren’t going to trip me up, Miss Filly. I’ve been breaking horses since I was a colt myself.” He studied her face, the elegant tilt to her nose, the fine paleness of her skin. “How do you know so much about horses?”

  She shrugged. “Old Longbones, I’ve washed him,” she called over her shoulder. “He’s all yours.”

  “You fed him, too?”

  “She’s been talking too much to feed me,” Hyatt said. “Chatty little creature you’ve got on your hands, sir. Would you be the one who taught her about horses?”

  “No.” The Indian took Filly’s place on the stool. Hyatt tried to hide his grin as she strode toward the door to dump the wash water. For some reason, he was enjoying their give-and-take immensely.

  “Filly’s father taught her to ride,” the Indian said. “He was a good man.”

  “Was?”

  “He has been dead almost a year. Filly covers her sorrow with much talk and busyness. But her pain is great. Her father was the joy of her life.”

  Hyatt let his focus follow the young woman as she returned to the stove to pour more hot water into the bowl. Though Filly was clearly his opposite in education and social standing, he felt her sadness as though it were his own. His father’s death had been a hard blow, and one he would not easily set aside. He had loved, admired, and learned so much from the man. Respect for his father had driven Hyatt from California on this ill-fated journey. He knew the elegant Fara Canaday awaited him in Silver City, and having come this far, he would complete his dreaded mission. But he already regretted the moment he would leave the presence of the fiery Miss Filly.

  “The nopal will bring you healing,” Old Longbones said as he laid the fleshy disk of split cactus stem on Hyatt’s wound. “We Apaches have used the prickly pear for many years. It is good medicine.”

  “And you’re a good man to take such care of a stranger.”

  “Filly’s father once cared for me when I lay near death. His love brought more than healing to my body. It was healing to my empty heart. Perhaps here you will find such healing.”

  “I thank you, sir, but I don’t believe my heart is empty.”

  The old man grunted. “Something drove you into the mountains with a bullet hole through your arm. Were you not following your heart?”

  Hyatt pondered the Indian’s question. “Not long ago, my father died,” he answered in a low voice. “Before his death, he asked me to travel here. He wanted me to find someone.”

  “Was that someone God?”

  Hyatt shook his head. Years ago, he had surrendered his life to Christ, and since then he had tried to walk the straight and narrow. He was honest and truthful and fair. Though he didn’t associate with the outcasts of society, he gave charity to the poor and brought tithes to his church to be used in ministering to the needy.

  “I found God a long time ago,” Hyatt said.

  “Then your heart is not empty. And you have opened it to love all people.”

  “Well, I . . . I do my best.”

  “And you have found the love of a godly woman to be your wife?”

  “No, I can’t say as I have. To tell you the truth, I don’t particularly want to get married—”

  “Empty.” The old man laid his hand on Hyatt’s chest. “Our love of God is shown through our love for all people. And a wife? ‘Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord.’”

  “Preaching again, Longbones?” Filly bent over and softly kissed the Indian’s leathery cheek. “You’ll have to forgive him, Mr. Hyatt. I’m afraid my friend can’t hold in the joy of his salvation the way most of us do.”

  “It doesn’t bother me,” Hyatt said. In fact, the Indian’s words made more sense than anything he’d heard in a long time. If a man loved God—really loved Him—maybe that man ought to reach out beyond what was comfortable.

  Hyatt surveyed his Spartan surroundings. He had been brought up in the lap of luxury. His father’s gold fortunes had built brick mansions and bought gilt-framed mirrors, goose-down bedding, and fireplace mantels that soared to fifteen-foot ceilings. Did that wealth make Hyatt any greater in God’s eyes than the old Indian and the young woman who lived in this humble cabin?

  “Come on, Old Longbones,” Filly was saying. “You’ve tormented this poor tumbleweed enough. Let’s go get ourselves some breakfast before we keel over.”

  “Wait—,” Hyatt called out. “You two don’t live here?”

  “There’s another house,” the Indian said. “Up the trail.”

  As they started again for the door, Hyatt felt a pang in his gut. The angel would leave. He’d be alone. Then his arm would heal, and he would go away. For good.

  “Miss Filly,” he said. “You forgot to wash my face.”

  She crossed her arms and tilted her head to one side. “There’s hot water on the stool, Mr. Hyatt. You’ll manage.”

  Hyatt swallowed, thinking hard. He wasn’t ready to let her go. Not just yet. He glanced at the Indian. The old man lifted a hand, touched his chin, and winked.

  Hyatt smiled. “But, Miss Filly,” he said, “I’m in terrible need of a shave.”

  Fara pulled her father’s watch from her skirt pocket and checked the time. Almost four. Why had she ever agreed to shave that renegade’s chin this afternoon? And why had she looked at her watch every fifteen minutes—all through breakfast, washing dishes, chopping firewood, fixing lunch, baking, and playing checkers? She didn’t want to shave Hyatt, that’s why. She was dreading the moment worse than a trip to Dr. Potter, the tooth extractor.

  “Time to go yet?” Old Longbones said.

  Fara jumped and jerked the watch from her pocket again. As the long chain dangled to her lap, she looked up sheepishly. “I just checked the time, didn’t I?”

  The Apache nodded as he jumped his king over three of her men. “You have not been paying attention, Filly. Usually, we fight to the death. But today . . .” He spread his hands over the stack of red checkers he had accumulated.

  “I’m going to shave his chin and get it over with,” she announced, scooting back from the table. “There’s nothing worse than a job you don’t want to do just hanging over your head. Better to tackle it.”

  “Take the bull by the horns,” Old Longbones said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Especially when the bull has a very strong chin and very blue eyes.”

  Fara clamped her mouth shut and stared at the Indian. Despite herself, she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. She didn’t find anything attractive in that horse rustler! That train robber! That would-be assassin! How could Old Longbones think otherwise?

  “Go on, Filly,” he said. “Maybe after you clean him up, he won’t disgust you so.”

  “I doubt that,” she said, lifting her chin. But the release she felt that it was finally time to go down to the cabin sent her striding across the room for her coat.“I’d better change the nopal,” she added. “And I’ll take him something to eat. Maybe he’d enjoy some of that bread I baked this afternoon. I wonder if he likes honey. The sugar would do him good, you know. I’ll take this jam, too, just in case he prefers it. Did you know he told me the answer to every question I asked him about breaking horses? For being such a villain, he does have some intelligence. I’ve got Papa’s best razor in this bag. You don’t suppose it would be wrong to use it on him, do you?”

  Old Longbones was smiling. “Did you put in the soap?”

  “Yes, I thought a thick lather would help. I’ve never shaved any man but Papa, and I—” She stopped in the
middle of the kitchen floor. “He wouldn’t use that razor against me, would he?”

  “If he tried, would you let him succeed, Filly?”

  She thought of Hyatt’s weakened condition and wounded arm. He wouldn’t be much of a match for her. In fact, she might make the shave something of a test. If Hyatt turned villain and tried to hurt her, she would know once and for all the blackness of his heart. But if he didn’t . . .

  “Don’t worry about me, Longbones,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

  Grabbing the basket she had filled with goods, Fara headed out the door. The two dogs bounded after her, eager to be outside in the snow. Evening was already creeping across the mountains, painting hollows blue and the hillocks pink. A set of double tracks across the trail told her a rabbit had come out of hiding to investigate the scenery. After a blizzard such as the one that had blanketed Pinos Altos, not much else was moving. In the nearby town, wagons would be bogged down, shutters drawn, and fires crackling. Families would sing and sew and tell stories—all waiting for the blessed coming of Christmas.

  An ache filled her heart as Fara stepped onto the porch of the little cabin. She could almost hear her own laughter as she and Papa had roasted piñon nuts or strung popcorn around a tree or built a snowman in that very yard. A Christmas tree . . . Maybe she should bring Hyatt a small tree. Not that he deserved such charity, of course. But after all, this was the season of goodwill. She really ought to be kind, even though he was beneath her in status and probably beyond all hope of redemption.

  “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

  “Confound it,” she said aloud. Not another Sunday school memory verse! Hyatt was nothing like Fara’s idea of a charity case. It was one thing to donate money to clothe the poor or to plan a Christmas tea for the miners’ children. But to actually associate with a man of Hyatt’s reputation? to actually minister to him?

  “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

  Hyatt was no angel. Fara scoffed at the notion that God would send an angel in the form of a scruffy, unshaven, wounded gunslinger. Hardly. Angels were messengers sent from heaven to warn . . . or teach. What could Fara possibly learn from a desperado like Hyatt?

  She pushed open the door to find the man seated at the table by the stove. He more than filled Papa’s chair, his long legs stretching across the floor and his shoulders reaching higher than the slatted chair back.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Hyatt,” she said, motioning the dogs to wait outside. “How’s your arm?”

  He picked up a gold pocket watch and dangled it by the chain. “You’re late.”

  Bristling, she marched into the room and kicked the door shut behind her. So much for angels. “I beg your pardon, but I am not a minute late. Your timepiece must be fast.”

  “My father gave this watch to me before he died, and it’s never been a second off.”

  Fara set the basket on the table. She pulled out her father’s watch. “The correct time is four o’clock, sir,” she declared and snapped the lid.

  “Four-o-five.”

  “Four exactly.” She glared at him. But the harder she looked into his blue eyes, the more she began to wonder why he had been waiting for her so eagerly . . . and why both of them had been checking their watches to the last second . . . and how both had come to acquire a watch by a father’s death.

  “Your father died?” she asked.

  “This past October.” He slid his watch into his vest pocket. “He was more than a father to me. He was my closest friend.”

  “I’m sorry.” Fara lowered her focus, ruing her harshness. It was odd to think that a man like Hyatt would have tender feelings. “I lost Papa in the spring. Doesn’t seem much like Christmas, does it?”

  “I thought by getting away . . . by coming out here . . . I wouldn’t think about it so much. My mother died years ago, but the house was never quiet. Until now.”

  “I know just what you mean.” She sank down into a chair and began taking the bread, honey, and jam from the basket. “Papa used to sing all the time. He knew all sorts of silly songs from his mining days—some of them not so nice. He used to change the words so I wouldn’t be corrupted.”

  Hyatt smiled. “My father recited limericks.”

  “Oh, dear. Papa would never go that far with me around. He was very sensitive to the notion that he had charge of a girl. He felt he should have done better by me. I grew up wild, you know. Riding horses, hunting with Old Longbones, climbing trees, swimming in the river. To this day, I can hardly walk in a skirt.”

  “I noticed your buckskins.”

  She lifted her head, startled. “Mr. Hyatt! It’s not proper to look at a lady’s ankles. Don’t you know that?”

  His mouth twitched. “I beg your pardon. It looks like your father taught you manners after all.”

  “Some.” She had learned the rest at the Boston ladies’ school, but Hyatt didn’t need to know about that. After all, if he sensed he was in the presence of a woman who mingled in the highest circles of Silver City society, he might see an opportunity for gain. And then he’d be just like all the other men she’d ever met.

  But he wasn’t, was he? Fara stopped her slicing and studied Hyatt for a moment. Other men put on airs. They preened. They spoke false words of affection and admiration—the language of courting. But the desperado was just a regular fellow. Easy to talk to. Even interesting.

  “Ever read a book, Mr. Hyatt?” she asked, handing him a slice of bread spread with honey. It might be entertaining to talk to him about some of her ideas while she shaved him. “Surely you’ve read the Bible and The Pilgrim’s Progress.”

  He seemed to be struggling with some emotion. Was he trying not to bemoan his lack of education—or was this laughter dancing in his eyes?

  “I don’t mean to offend,” she said. “I realize there are those who have had little opportunity for education. I myself never went to a proper school. But I did learn the things I needed to get along.”

  He took a bite of the bread and chewed for a moment. “I can read,” he said. “‘I seek an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away.’”

  Fara caught her breath at the familiar words from John Bunyan’s allegory. “‘And it is laid up in heaven,’” she continued, “‘and safe there, to be bestowed, at the time appointed—’”

  “‘On them that diligently seek it,’” he joined her to finish the passage.

  She stared into his blue eyes. Who was this gunslinger who liked to break horses and could quote from The Pilgrim’s Progress? “I believe you must have been brought up well,” she said.

  “I was.”

  Then what went wrong? she ached to ask. What had led him into a life of crime? She shook her head. It would never do to know too much about a man like Hyatt. If she understood his past, she might come to feel a measure of sympathy for him. Then his sins might seem forgivable.

  “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

  “Confound it!” she snapped.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I am plagued, Mr. Hyatt.” She pushed away from the table. “Positively plagued. A man brought up well ought to behave well, don’t you think? He shouldn’t commit sins.”

  “I reckon everyone is a sinner in one fashion or another. Even you.”

  “I’m talking about big sins. Great ones.”

  “As I recall, Christian in The Pilgrim’s Progress was carrying on his shoulders a very great burden. Yet he was seeking that incorruptible inheritance laid up in heaven. When he came up to the cross, ‘his burden loosed from off his shoulders, and fell from off his back, and began to tumble—’”

  “‘And so continued to do, till it came to the mouth of the sepulchre, where it fell in, and I saw it no more,’” she finished. “Yes, I know the story, Mr. Hyatt.”

  “If Christ can forgive v
ery great sins, why shouldn’t we?”

  Fara stared at him. Was this man an angel sent to test her? Or was he a demon sent to tempt her with his blue eyes and clever words? Was he a desperado—a gunslinger—or was he just a man?

  “I brought a straightedge,” she said, laying the razor on the table. “And some soap. There’s hot water on the stove.”

  Hyatt reached out and laid his hand over hers. “Miss Filly,” he said, “I can barely bring this slice of honey bread to my mouth. Left to my own devices, I’ll have to grow a beard that reaches my knees before I’m able to use a razor. I would be much obliged if you were to do me the honor of giving me a shave.”

  Fara slipped her hand from beneath his. “Mr. Hyatt,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Prepare to become the best-shaven gentleman this side of the Gila River.”

  She set the razor, a towel, and a bowl of hot water on the table. Behind him, she began whipping the soap into a white lather. She watched his movements, anticipating the moment when he would reveal his true character. He would grab the razor, leap to his feet, hold the blade to her throat, and demand money, horses, a rifle. But he made no move toward the razor. Instead, he sat contentedly eating the bread and sipping coffee from a tin cup.

  “Did you bake this?” he asked. “I’ve never tasted better bread.”

  Fara felt as vanquished as if he had used the razor. Her image of the fierce desperado evaporating, she flushed and nodded as her pleasure at his compliment spread in a warm glow through her chest. She had been praised as a businesswoman. Honored for her charity work. Admired for her fine gowns and elegant hairdos. But her bread?

  “It’s the cinnamon,” she confided as she drew the towel over Hyatt’s shoulders and tied it behind his neck. “I use just a pinch. It brings out the flavor of the honey.”

  “Cinnamon, huh?”

  “It’s a spice. It comes from the bark of a tree.”

  He chuckled. “I know what cinnamon is, ma’am. I just never thought of putting it in bread.”

  She wished she could tell him about the goodies she loved to bake for her Christmas tea—the Mexican wedding cakes, the biscochitos, the piñon nut logs. This year she had left the baking to the cooks at Canaday Mansion. But maybe . . . maybe she would just whip up a few biscochitos. If he liked the taste of cinnamon, Hyatt would love those.