Cowboy Christmas

by Carol Finch, Elizabeth Lane

  By the time Clay arrived in town it was midday and the wind had turned biting cold. He stopped first at the feed store and laid down the little cash he had for a bundle of hay and a few sacks of grain and oats. He was a stranger here. The weasel-faced man behind the counter waited on him without asking his business.

  “I’m looking for Buck McAllister,” Clay said. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  The clerk shot a stream of tobacco into a brass spittoon at the foot of the counter. “Passed out drunk somewhere, most likely. If not, he’ll be in one of the saloons tryin’ to get that way. You kin of his?”

  “Do I look like it?” Leaving the question to hang, Clay went out to the loading dock. He laid the feed bags in the bed of the wagon and covered them with quilts against the weather. Then, leaving the rig behind the store, he set out on foot to look for his brother.

  Wind whipped his coat as he walked along the frozen street. A fine hail, stinging cold, spattered his cheeks as the memory of that awful night in Abilene rushed over him. It seemed he’d come full circle, searching the run-down bars and gambling houses for his brother. When he caught up with the young fool, Clay swore, he would collect his due for all the misery Buck’s careless ways had caused.

  With each step, anger rose in Clay’s throat. By the time he walked into the first saloon, he was seething.

  Lit by the glow of a potbellied stove, the place looked crude and dingy. Men with unshaven beards and bloodshot eyes slumped on a side bench or played cards at the single plank table. The bar itself was a rough cut board laid on sawhorses. Jugs and dirty glasses lined the shelf behind it.

  The bartender glanced up as Clay approached. “Buck comes in here regular like,” he said in response to Clay’s question. “Sometimes I give him a glass for sweepin’ up. But he ain’t been in today, or yesterday neither, come to think of it. Is the lad in some kind of trouble?”

  Clay muttered a noncommittal reply, thanked the man and walked out into the cold. In the other two saloons the answers were the same. Everyone seemed to know Buck. But no one had seen him within the past two days. On a hunch, Clay checked the jail. He found the door unlocked, the marshal’s desk vacant and the cells empty.

  Hands thrust into pockets, Clay narrowed his eyes against the wind. Maybe Buck was hiding somewhere. Or maybe he’d heard his brother was home and left town. But that explanation didn’t make sense. There was no way Buck could have known Clay was looking for him.

  Something here wasn’t right.

  An empty wagon creaked past, the driver hunched over the reins. Two skinny dogs nosed for morsels in a pile of rubbish. What was he doing in this godforsaken town? Clay asked himself. It was Christmas Eve. He belonged at home with his wife and son.

  He would pick up his rig, check the livery stable and maybe ask at a few of the cabins. If there was no sign of Buck, he would head back to the ranch. With luck he might be there in time to tuck Toby into bed.

  And then what? Even after last night things were still rocky with Elise. Likely as not, he’d return home to find himself banished to the bunkhouse again.

  For all he knew, she could still have doubts about his reason for being in that Abilene brothel. Then, too, there was the loss of their baby. Did she blame his absence, or did she blame herself for what had happened? Either way, the tragedy would lie between them for the rest of their lives.

  Clay sighed as he turned back toward the feed store, where he’d left the wagon. If he could have one Christmas wish, it would be to wipe the slate clean, to erase the mistakes of the past and be at peace with himself and his loved ones. But that would be asking for a miracle. And not even God could undo what had already happened.

  Climbing into the wagon, he headed for the far end of town. Like the rest of Ridgeview City, the livery stable was a tumble-down structure. Wind whistled through the plank walls. The sagging roof looked as if it might collapse under the weight of the next snowfall. The proprietor, big-bellied, and smoking a blackened pipe, came outside as Clay pulled into the yard. “Nasty day to be on the road, ain’t it?” he muttered.

  Clay answered with a nod. “I was told I might find Buck McAllister here,” he said.

  The man glanced back toward the rear of the stable. “Try the stall on the far end. Last time I checked, he was sleepin’ off a bender. Snorin’ like a hog, he was. If you can get the lazy bum to open his eyes, tell him he’s got a day’s work to do.” He stalked back into the warmth of his office, leaving Clay alone.

  Clay’s mouth had gone dry. He’d spent most of the long drive planning what he would say to Buck; but now that the moment had come, his mind could not piece together two coherent words.

  The first two stalls contained horses. The next two were empty, their floors swept and scattered with clean straw. From the last stall came the rasp of labored breathing.

  “Buck?” Clay rounded the corner to see a tangle of dirty, ragged quilts on the straw. They covered a long body, far too thin to belong to the vigorous young man Clay remembered.

  “Buck?” Clay pulled back the quilt to see a hollow-cheeked face, crowned by a tangle of dark hair. The body stirred. Bloodshot eyes flickered open. Chapped lips worked to form words.

  “Clay…? ‘That you? ‘Must be dreaming…”

  “No, you’re not dreaming, boy. It’s me.” Clay reached down and touched the dry, flushed forehead. The heat startled him.

  His brother was burning up with fever.

  Chapter Five

  “Wait! Clay sprinted to the wagon and found the canteen he’d brought along. Resting Buck’s head against his knee, he twisted out the stopper and drizzled the water between his brother’s cracked lips.

  “Whiskey…” Buck coughed, a harsh, racking sound.

  “No, damn it, no whiskey! Drink this!” Clay tipped the canteen. Buck choked down a little of the water, but not enough to help much. Clay had spent time assisting in the prison infirmary, and he knew pneumonia when he saw it. Buck’s body would be dehydrated from the fever, but his lungs were filling up with fluid. In his weakened condition, he could easily die.

  Propping Buck against the wall to ease his breathing, Clay raced for the livery stable office. Heat from the glowing stove surrounded him like a blanket as he opened the door. “My brother’s sick! He needs a doctor!” he gasped.

  The proprietor glanced up from tamping his pipe. “No doctor in these parts. No undertaker, neither. We ain’t got no choice but to tend to our own. And if that fool’s your brother, he’s your problem, not mine.”

  A pot of coffee bubbled on the stove. It wasn’t medicine but at least it might revive Buck a little. Clay swore under his breath as he filled an earthenware mug with hot, black coffee. The man let him take it but showed no inclination to move from his chair.

  Clay returned to find Buck shivering in the straw, his body racked by chills. Cooling the coffee with a little water, he roused his brother, cradled his head and forced sip after sip between chattering teeth. What Buck really needed was willow bark tea for the fever and steaming to ease his lungs. Back at the ranch he could be treated. But what chance did he have in this hellhole of a town?

  The coffee seemed to revive Buck a little. He was struggling to speak. “Clay…about that money…”

  “Don’t worry about it. Not now,” Clay growled.

  “No…got to tell you now. Might not last much longer.” He cleared the phlegm from his throat. “Lost it in a poker game. Bastard cheated, took it all…beat me up when I tried to get it back…damn near kicked me to death. Never been right after that…”

  “Don’t try to talk. Save your strength.” Clay fought back a surge of tears. He didn’t want to think about what had happened. He didn’t want to feel what he was feeling. Right now nothing mattered except saving his brother.

  “And Elise…” Buck gasped out the words. “Lord, I couldn’t face her. Wasn’t man enough to tell her what I’d done. Hated myself for it. Been drunk ever since.”

  He didn’t know the
half of it, Clay thought. Being young and foolish might excuse some things. But given the consequences, Buck’s mistakes were damned near beyond forgiving.

  All the same, Clay knew what he had to do.

  Rising, he strode out to the wagon and rearranged the feed sacks to make a protected hollow. He cushioned the space with hay and lined it with one of the quilts. Buck might not survive the long ride back to the ranch. But leaving him here was out of the question.

  Only as Clay bent over his brother again did he realize they weren’t alone. A small brown puppy squirmed out from under the straw, stretched, shook and wagged its tail. The pup couldn’t have been more than seven or eight weeks old.

  “Found him in an alley,” Buck said. “Good dog. Doesn’t eat much. Take him with you. He might be nice for your boy.”

  “Hang onto him for now.” Clay settled the little dog in Buck’s lap. Then, reaching underneath his brother’s legs and shoulders, he lifted him in his arms. Buck’s thin, dehydrated body felt almost weightless.

  The fevered eyes widened. “Wh—what in blazes are you doing?” he gasped.

  “The only thing I can do, little brother,” Clay replied. “I’m taking you home.”

  Elise stood on the porch, gazing toward the road. In the west, the sun lay like a burning coal above the barren hills. Thinning clouds glowed like embers, turning ashen with the slow end of day.

  The storm had passed, leaving a frosty sheen on the trees. The windless air was bitter cold. Elise shivered beneath her woolen shawl. It was time to go inside, get Toby into his nightclothes and tell him a Christmas bedtime story.

  Once more she peered down the drive, straining to see through the winter dusk. She held her breath, listening for the nicker of a horse or the faint jingle of harness brass. Maybe if she waited a little longer, Clay would be here to share his son’s Christmas Eve.

  But no, she’d given him enough time. If he’d met with some delay, he might not be coming back until tomorrow. If the worst had happened, he might not be coming back at all.

  Furious tears blurred her eyes. She wiped them away with her shawl. Why had she let Clay go off angry this morning? She should have pleaded, threatened, hung onto the wagon, whatever it took to stop him. Better yet, she should have waited to tell him about his brother. If anything had gone wrong, she would never forgive herself.

  “Mama?” Toby had opened the door behind her. “Is Papa coming? Can you see him?”

  “Not yet.” Elise followed him inside and closed the door. “Come on, let’s get you ready for bed. Then you can hear a story and hang up your stocking.”

  “I want Papa to tell me a story.” Toby was tired enough to be whiny. “Can’t I wait for him?”

  “No, it’s getting late.” Elise was tired, too, her nerves frayed with worry. She struggled to remain patient and cheerful. “I’ll wake you when your father gets home, so he can kiss you good-night.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.” How would it affect the boy if he woke up to a Christmas morning without his father? What would she say to him? “Hurry now,” she said, forcing a smile. “While you brush your teeth I’ll get your nightshirt. Then you can choose the stocking you want to hang.”

  Toby obeyed, dragging his feet. It wasn’t fair, Elise thought as she unfolded a fresh nightshirt. Tonight was Christmas Eve, a magical time for children. But her boy knew nothing of magic. His innocent eyes mirrored only her own fears.

  “I hear something!” Toby dashed past her to fling open the front door. “It’s Papa!” he shouted. “He’s here!”

  The nightshirt dropped from Elise’s hands. Heart in her throat, she hurried into the parlor. Icy winter air rushed in through the door that Toby had left open. Ignoring it, she flung herself outside, onto the porch.

  Instead of stopping at the corral to unhitch the horses, Clay had pulled the loaded wagon up to the house. Swinging down from the driver’s seat, he reached into the back and handed a wriggling bundle down to Toby. “Here’s a Christmas present for you, son,” he said. “Take him inside and get him warm.”

  For a moment Toby was speechless with surprise. Then he scampered back to the porch clasping the pup, who was plastering wet kisses on his face. For the first time, the magic of Christmas shone in his eyes. “Look, Mama! He already likes me! This is the best present I ever had!”

  Clay was still standing next to the wagon. Elise was about to thank him for Toby’s gift when she saw the look on his face. Something had happened.

  “Your dog must be hungry, Toby,” she said. “Why don’t you get him some bread and milk in the kitchen? And please close the door when you go inside.”

  Toby carried the pup into the house, pushing the door shut behind him. Elise was left to face her husband alone.

  “What is it?” She started down the steps, then paused. “Did you find your brother?”

  He exhaled, his shoulders sagging. “Come on down here,” he said.

  She followed him around to the back of the wagon, her apprehension growing. When he pulled the quilts aside, she saw a face—the face of a man she had every reason to hate. Bone-thin, filthy and unshaven, Buck was so still that for a moment Elise thought he might be dead. Then his eyelids fluttered open.

  I’m sorry, Elise. His lips formed the words but no sound emerged from his throat.

  “Pneumonia. It’s pretty bad.” Clay turned away from his brother to hide his words. “I know how you must feel. But I couldn’t leave him to die. I’m not asking you to nurse him. I can build a fire in the bunkhouse and tend him by myself, if that’s what you want.”

  If that’s what you want.

  He hadn’t asked her in so many words. But Elise knew that Clay needed her help. The bunkhouse was cold and drafty. The quilts were thin. The stove was too small to heat enough water, and Clay looked ready to drop.

  In the bunkhouse, with no one but Clay to tend him, Buck would be lucky to last the night.

  Elise gazed down at the man whose youthful mistakes had shattered her life. She looked into her husband’s eyes and saw the weariness, the desperate need. It was as if they stood at a crossroads, and the choice of which way to go had fallen on her.

  She lowered her gaze, probing the depths of her pain-scarred soul. She had suffered a terrible injustice. For three long years she had fed on that suffering. It had become part of her. It had hardened her heart.

  Now she was being asked to let it go.

  “Elise?”

  Clay’s voice roused her. She raised her head. “He’ll be better off in the house,” she said. “Let’s get him inside. I’ll heat some water while you get him out of those dirty clothes and put him in our bed.”

  There was no time for gratitude. They worked together now. Elise kept willow bark in the cupboard for fevers. While she brewed the tea and tucked Toby into bed with his new pup, Clay stripped off his brother’s filthy rags, helped him into a clean flannel nightshirt and eased him into the warmth of the bed. Then Elise brought a damp cloth to sponge his face and sat beside Buck while Clay went out to take care of the horses.

  Buck’s skin was burning, but his body shook with chills. His breath came in shallow gasps through chattering teeth. Now and then his eyes would blink open. They were gray like Clay’s eyes, but lighter and gentler. He was twenty-one years old, barely into manhood, and this Christmas Eve could be the last night of his life.

  She thought of the lonely little grave in the orchard, the lost money and the wasted years she and Clay had spent apart. Links in a chain of sorrow that the three of them had forged together. It’s over, a voice whispered in her mind. It’s in the past, and nothing can change it. Let it go.

  A stray tear welled in Elise’s eye and spilled down her cheek. She was so tired of being angry, so weary of reliving old hurts.

  “Are you all right?” Clay’s cool hand rested lightly on her shoulder.

  She tilted her head to rub against his arm. Her eyes looked up to meet his. “We need to forgive him, Clay,” she
whispered.

  “I know. I’m trying, love.” He bent down and kissed her hair. “For now, what we need is to save his life.”

  They set to work, using dampened sheets to rig a makeshift tent. Stripped to the waist, Clay hunched underneath, supporting his brother and holding pans of steaming water close enough for Buck to breathe the vapor. Elise trailed back and forth, carrying the cooled water to the stove, reheating it and passing it back to Clay in a cycle that seemed endless. Her eyes were shadowed with exhaustion. Her hair hung in steamy, wet tendrils around her face. Her tired feet dragged across the floor.

  Clay had never loved her more. She was his angel, his reason for living. He would do anything for the miracle that would bring the sunshine back to those beautiful blue eyes.

  We need to forgive him, Clay.

  Forgive him? Clay shook his head. Forgiving what Buck had done to him might be possible. But for what Buck had done to Elise? No, that was too much to ask.

  We need to forgive him.

  Elise’s voice echoed in Clay’s memory, repeating like a whispered chant. Something in his heart shattered like spring ice. And suddenly he understood what his wife, in her womanly wisdom, was trying to tell him.

  Only by forgiving Buck could they hope to forgive themselves.

  There was no other way.

  Clay gazed down at his brother’s ravaged face, the sunken eyes, the cracked lips, the stubbled cheeks. Buck was so young, little more than a boy. He deserved the chance to grow and learn and make something of his life. For that, he would need the support of a loving family.

  “Listen to me, brother.” Clay touched the fevered cheek. “I love you, and you’re going to make it. You’ve got a life to live, and we’ve got a ranch to rebuild. I’m going to need your help, hear?” He hesitated, gazing down at the unresponsive face. Fear tightened his throat. “Buck, can you hear me?”

  There was a beat of dreadful silence. Then the pale eyelids fluttered. Buck stirred and coughed, loosening the congestion in his lungs. “’Lo, Clay,” he muttered hoarsely. “Can I have that in writing?”