Longing for a Cowboy Christmas

by Leigh Greenwood

Holly waved her hand to gain his attention, but it took a nudge by Mrs. Stone with her cane before her grandfather stopped singing. “Whatcha do that fer?” he asked, rubbing his side.

  Mrs. Stone tossed a white-haired nod to the front of the barn, and Holly’s grandfather’s faded-gray eyes came to rest on her.

  “We’re singing ‘Joy to the World,’ Grandpapa,” Holly explained, her calm voice belying her frustration. If the group didn’t improve, her reputation as a teacher would be put in jeopardy. Since she was hoping to teach at the new school when it opened, that was a concern.

  Certainly, she would never again be asked to direct the school pageant.

  He lifted his hearing horn to his ear. “Aye? What did you say?”

  Holly repeated herself, this time louder. Even with his hearing apparatus, Grandpapa couldn’t hear worth a tinker’s dam. She spoke louder. “We’re singing ‘Joy to the World,’” she repeated. “You were singing ‘Deck the Halls.’”

  Grandpapa smiled. Now, as always, his toothless grin made her forget her annoyance. That is, until he started singing off-key again, his grating voice hitting notes not found on any known musical scale. “Fa, la, la…”

  Taking this as a cue, his elderly friends joined in, and for once their voices actually harmonized in a croaky sort of way. All except Mr. Carpenter’s. The old veteran somehow managed to sing every Christmas carol to the tune of “John Brown’s Body.”

  But John Brown’s moldy body couldn’t hold a candle to Miss Wright. In her younger days, the spinster had traveled to New York to hear Jenny Lind sing. Unfortunately, her imitation of the operatic singer sounded more like a screech owl than the Swedish Nightingale.

  Holly waited for the last fa, la, la to fade away. “Let’s sing ‘Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem,’” she said. Heaven knows, they’d rehearsed it enough.

  “Aye? Whatcha say?”

  Raising her voice, Holly repeated the name of the carol for her grandfather’s benefit. “All right, everyone.” She raised her arms. On the count of three, she signaled the pianist with a nod of her head and dipped her baton. “Oh, little town.…”

  A screech owl was not part of the heavenly host on that very first Christmas, but it certainly was present tonight. And even John Brown’s body couldn’t compete with her grandfather’s imitation of a pack of howling wolves. “Fa, la, la, la, laaaaaaaaaaa.…”

  Two

  Tom Chandler stuck his head out of the second-story window for a better look at the barn next door. For five nights, he’d been subjected to the worst possible noise and was at the end of his rope.

  At first, he’d thought the wails emanating from the barn had been a dying bull. He’d also considered the possibility of someone practicing dentistry. Or maybe even a surgeon whose specialty was chopping off body parts. It took a while to figure out that the vociferous sounds were actually meant to be musical.

  “Will they ever stop?” he muttered. It was nearly nine, and he was in dire need of peace and quiet.

  Pulling his head inside, he slammed the window shut against the cool night air, but there was no glass thick enough to block out the god-awful howls.

  The hardest part had been trying to keep his dog, Winston, from barking to show his disapproval.

  Tonight was no different. After a series of low growls had failed to get the hoped-for results, Winston suddenly raced across the room in a black-and-white streak. The dog’s jarring barks threatened to wake the dead.

  Tom grabbed Winston by the collar. “Shh. Do you want to get me in trouble again?” Mrs. Greenfield had agreed to allow Winston to stay at the boardinghouse, but only if he didn’t disturb the other guests.

  The racket next door stopped, but if the past five nights were any indication, the reprieve would only be temporary.

  Winston flopped down on the floor with a sigh and crossed his front paws. Just as Tom had predicted, the loud groans—he refused to call it singing—started up again. Jumping up on all fours, Winston made a mad dash over the bed to the window. Paws on the sill, he did everything but yowl, and this time it was all Tom could do to pull him away.

  “Quiet!”

  Winston looked like he wanted to argue. Instead, he sat at Tom’s command and laid his head down with a woebegone sigh.

  Tom frowned. The dog had a disturbing way of making him feel guilty. “Do you want to get us both thrown out on the streets?”

  Woeful, brown eyes looked up at him, and Tom’s temper snapped. “Okay, that does it!” Pointing a finger at Winston and telling him to stay quiet, Tom stormed out of his room.

  Moments later, he barreled into the barn next door and came to a skid in front of six elderly people, all bellowing as if their tongues were caught in a vise.

  Whirling about, he turned to the young woman madly waving a stick.

  “We need to talk.” To be heard over the ruckus, it was necessary to raise his voice. The pianist stopped playing, but the old-timers kept going.

  Eyes the color of spring grass peered at him from the music director’s pretty, round face. It took several swipes of her stick against the music stand before blessed silence prevailed.

  “Welcome,” she said with a bright smile and an equally cheery voice. “My name is Holly. I’m so glad you decided to join us.” Without giving him a chance to speak, she pointed to a spot next to a white-haired man holding a hearing horn to his ear. “If you would kindly stand over there…”

  The old man must have misunderstood the gesture as he immediately lowered the horn and opened his mouth to sing. “Deck the halls with boughs of—”

  “Not yet, Grandpapa.”

  “Aye? Whatcha say?”

  An elderly woman leaned on her cane and yelled in his ear. “She said not yet!”

  The man looked affronted. “You don’t have to yell!” he shouted back.

  Tom’s gaze traveled from one wizened face to the other before turning back to the woman named Holly. “I don’t want to join your—” He stopped and began again in a voice he hoped would better solicit the lady’s empathy. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I croak more than sing.”

  “Then you’ll fit right in,” she said in a conspiratorial voice meant for his ears only.

  Glancing at the motley group of oldsters, he sincerely hoped she didn’t mean that the way it sounded. “Actually, the reason I’m here is that your…”—he cleared his throat—“is causing me a problem.”

  Holly’s eyes widened. “Oh?”

  “You see, my dog has sensitive ears.” He’d discovered quite by accident that mentioning his dog brought out a woman’s soft maternal side. “As I’m sure you’re aware, it’s also late.” As if to commiserate, the donkey let out a loud hee-haw.

  Since the woman appeared confused, he explained. “I’m staying at the boardinghouse next door, and Mrs. Greenfield made it clear that if I don’t keep my dog quiet, I’ll have to leave. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a place to live with a dog?”

  Her eyes softened with sympathy. “Maybe…maybe your dog is lonely,” she said, and quickly went on to explain. “Dogs tend to bark when they want company.”

  “Lonely?” Tom stared at her. “I don’t think I made myself clear, ma’am—”

  “Holly,” she said.

  “Sorry?”

  “My name is Holly.”

  “Holly,” he repeated, and wondered if her bright-red hair and sparkling green eyes had been the inspiration for her name. Since it appeared Holly didn’t adhere to formalities, he introduced himself in kind.

  “Name’s Tom,” he said and glanced at the oldsters staring at him. Not wanting to hurt their feelings, he decided it best not to mention dentistry, body parts, or even dying bulls.

  “As I’m sure you’re aware, it’s late.” He lowered his voice but was no less adamant. Her liquid eyes grew softer still, drawing his gaze ever deeper
into their depths. “Unfortunately, the…the…”

  “Singing,” Holly said, her expression daring him to contradict.

  “Singing,” he said carefully, wanting to stay on her good side, “causes my dog’s ears to—”

  “Please accept my apology. I had no idea it had grown so late, and I certainly wouldn’t want to do anything to harm your dog.” She continued in a breathless voice. “I hold rehearsals in the barn so as not to bother the other residents. I didn’t think the sound would carry next door. It was the only place we could find that had room enough for the piano.”

  Tom glanced at the upright piano that looked as bad as it sounded. The keys were yellow, and one crooked leg was propped up by a thick book.

  “That’s all right,” he said, not wanting to make her feel bad. “No harm done.”

  She gave him a grateful smile. “Christmas is only a few weeks away. As I’m sure you noticed, we still have a lot of work to do.”

  He’d have to be deaf not to notice.

  She bubbled on, words spilling from her lips like water down a mountainside. “You have my word. From now on, I’ll keep rehearsals short so as not to bother your dog.” This time, her brilliant smile almost made Tom forget his purpose in coming.

  It wasn’t until she looked at him all funny-like that he realized he was staring, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. The combination of green eyes and red hair was only partly to blame. After spending the day amid the bleak walls of his blacksmith shop, he found her lively features and bright smiles a welcome relief. Her delicate, sweet fragrance didn’t hurt, either, reminding him of violets in spring.

  Catching himself still staring, he cleared his throat. “That would be a…start,” he said, though he’d rather they stopped rehearsals altogether. But since she looked so eager to please, he added, “I’ll be happy. Mrs. Greenfield will be happy. We’ll all be happy.”

  “About your dog…” Holly began tentatively.

  “My dog will be happy, too,” he assured her.

  “I was going to suggest perhaps finding your dog a playmate. You know, so it won’t be lonely.”

  “Winston isn’t lonely,” he said, taking offense. The dog had more of a social life than he had. “The problem is my dog has sensitive ears and all that fa, la, la, la, la…”

  Apparently taking Tom’s words as a cue, Holly’s grandfather opened his mouth and began to wail like a rabid wolf.

  Holly waved her arms. “No more, Grandpapa. That’s all for tonight.”

  The old man fell silent, and his partners glared at Tom as if he’d done something wrong.

  Then Tom heard it: Winston in the distance, barking his head off.

  “That’s…that’s my dog now,” he said, backing toward the barn door. “I told you he has sensitive ears.”

  Turning on his heel, he dashed outside. The dang dog would be the death of him yet.

  Even before he sped up the porch steps to the boardinghouse and raced up the stairs to the second floor, he could hear Mrs. Greenfield pounding on his door.

  Three

  Stifling a yawn, Holly stood beneath the lamppost on Main Street, watching men pile ladders onto the bed of a horse-drawn wagon. The crew supervisor waved as he drove away.

  Nelson Parker had done her a huge favor by sending his workers to decorate the town. He offered to help only if she agreed to attend the Christmas Ball with him.

  The invitation had come as no surprise, thanks to her matchmaking aunt. Aunt Daisy had invited him to Sunday dinner on several occasions in recent weeks and always made sure he and Holly had time alone.

  Holly could hardly fault her aunt for her scheming ways. Nelson was everything a woman could want in a beau. He was educated, successful, and not bad to look at. His vast property holdings, including the Haywire Grande Hotel, made him one of the few who hadn’t been adversely affected by the drought.

  No question, she was one lucky woman. The problem was, she found him boring. She hated thinking of him that way, but she couldn’t help it. All he ever talked about was business, business, business. Last week, he’d cornered her in Gordon’s General Store and talked for a solid forty minutes about a real-estate deal in the making.

  Maybe her aunt was right; maybe Holly was simply being too picky. But she had hoped that when the right man came along, he would make her heart sing, not glaze her eyes over.

  Sighing, she breathed in the fresh morning air and let her gaze wander. Main Street had been turned into a Christmas wonderland. So as not to interfere with business, Nelson had arranged for his men to work through the night. Now bright-red bows hung from every lamppost and decorated each shop door.

  Bunting had been draped on the false-front buildings and homemade bells dangled from corner boards and cornices. Members of Holly’s quilting bee had helped plaster paper snowflakes on storefront windows.

  It had taken weeks of hard work to get ready. Just collecting supplies had taken more time than she cared to admit. The hardest job was having to beg for donations from merchants who could barely make ends meet.

  Haywire had been hit by hard economic times. Holly hoped that making this the best Christmas ever would give the town’s residents something to smile about.

  Decorating and rehearsals were the least of it. There was still plenty of work to be done.

  Monday, she planned to have her students write letters to Santa. Last year, some of her pupils had written letters on their own, and that had turned into a disaster. She felt a pain in her heart each time she recalled the disappointment on her pupils’ faces as they stared at the sole child in her class whose Christmas wish had come true.

  This year, Holly was determined that every child writing to Santa would get his or her wish. That was turning out to be a harder task than she’d imagined, but she had no intention of giving up.

  Now, she felt a surge of excitement as the first light of dawn moved across the town like a rising tide. She could hardly wait till shop owners, businessmen, housewives, farmers, and ranchers arrived and spotted the bright decorations. If that didn’t bring a smile to their grim faces, nothing would!

  * * *

  Tom turned over and almost fell on the dirt floor. Again! The cot was too short, too narrow, too hard. Now that Mrs. Greenfield had tossed him and his dog out of the boardinghouse, he’d had no choice but to bed down at his blacksmith shop.

  It was only the third night spent sleeping there, but already his body protested. His neck hurt, his shoulders ached, and his mood took another turn for the worse.

  He flopped over on his back and stared at the dawn-lit ceiling. Morning had finally arrived.

  He’d tried talking the stubborn landlady out of evicting him and had even offered to double his rent. Just as she’d looked about to give in, Holly’s grandfather had started howling again, and Winston had gone wild. That got them both tossed out, bag and baggage.

  It wasn’t only the size of the cot that bothered him—or even that he was without a decent place to live—but that the town never slept. Somewhere around midnight, a group of rowdy cowboys had raced down Main Street shooting off pistols and yelling.

  A little after 1:00 a.m., Tom had been awakened by a drunk singing at the top of his lungs. There were other sounds, too.

  Wagon wheels, horses, and a persistent owl had kept him awake, as did a series of mysterious thumps that he couldn’t for the life of him figure out.

  Unfortunately, Winston thought it his responsibility to sound an alarm at the slightest disturbance. The dog needed a muzzle, earplugs, something…

  A sliver of sunshine crept through the cracks of the double doors. Sitting up, Tom swung his feet to the floor. Winston lifted his head and looked all droopy-eyed.

  “Serves you right for keeping me awake all night,” Tom muttered. Groaning, he stood and rubbed his sore back. The only good thing was that he lacked a mir
ror and couldn’t see how bad he looked.

  He still hadn’t made up his mind what to do about the shop. An uncle on his mother’s side had suddenly died, leaving Tom the sole heir. He’d decided to check out the town before making a decision on whether to keep or sell the business. So far, he’d not been impressed with either Haywire or its residents. Still, owning his business, even with the inherent headaches, sure beat having to work for someone else.

  He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and reached for his trousers. He needed coffee—the stronger the better. Following his usual morning trip to the Feedbag Café, he planned on stopping at the bathhouse and then the barber for a quick shave.

  But first things first. After tugging on trousers, shirt, and boots, he called Winston to the door. “Come on, boy.”

  Winston jumped up, tail wagging. Nothing he liked more than his early-morning walks.

  After slipping on Winston’s leash, Tom opened one side of the double doors. Squinting against the bright morning sun, he stepped outside.

  All at once he was ambushed—attacked more like it—and everything went black. Flailing his arms, he thrashed about, blindly.

  “What the—?”

  Yelping, Winston ran in circles, entangling them both in the leash. By the time Tom had managed to work his way free from the restraints, he was flat on his back, the dog practically on top of him.

  Tom pushed Winston away, but it took longer to unravel himself from the leash and what seemed like an endless ream of fabric. The spooked dog just wouldn’t stand still, and Tom was quickly losing his patience.

  He finally escaped from what turned out to be red bunting—miles and miles of red bunting. Looking up to the roofline, Tom’s jaw dropped. What in the name of Sam Hill had happened!

  At first glance, it sure did seem like there had been an explosion. But a closer look revealed a method to the madness. Someone had gone to the trouble of decorating his blacksmith shop for Christmas. Bombarding it was more like it. That explained the mysterious thumps heard in the night.

  A quick glance up Main Street made him cringe. Not a shop, business, or lamppost in town had escaped the onslaught.