Longing for a Cowboy Christmas

by Leigh Greenwood

  Every false-front building was covered with bunting and dangling ornaments. Colored glass balls and shiny tin stars hung from weathered eaves. Doors were adorned with red-and-white-calico bows the size of wagon wheels.

  Shaking his head in disbelief, Tom stared at the tumbleweeds dusted with flour stacked three high along the boardwalk to look like snowmen. Even the hitching posts hadn’t escaped the blitz. Red ribbon was wrapped around the rails candy-cane style, matching the town’s lampposts.

  Fortunately for his horse, Blaze, the water troughs had been left unmolested. No doubt an oversight.

  Muttering to himself, Tom jerked on Winston’s leash, pulling him away from the tumbleweeds. The last thing he needed was to have to yank thorns out of Winston’s coat.

  He reached for the fabric wrapped around his feet. One end was still attached to the eaves. As he tried to untangle himself, the rest of the ornaments came tumbling down, burying him and his dog a second time.

  Cursing beneath his breath, Tom battled a string of tin stars and silver bells. Next to him, Winston frantically jumped, barked, and tugged, making matters worse.

  At last, Tom managed to pull the last of the decorations away from Winston. But somehow during the battle, the snowman had lost its head.

  Winston looked at him with droopy ears, his tail between his legs. “You okay, boy?”

  “Woof!” A tin star fell to the ground, and Winston jumped. Apparently, that was the last straw as Winston ran into the shop, dragging his leash behind him.

  Sighing, Tom kicked the string of tin stars away from his feet. What an utter mess.

  A gasp sounded from behind him, and Tom spun around.

  A woman stared at him from the driver’s seat of a horse and wagon, mouth and eyes rounded. Lifting her skirts and revealing a well-turned ankle, she jumped to the ground and stormed toward him. An advancing bull couldn’t have packed more fury.

  “Have you any idea how long it took to put up those decorations?” she demanded, hands at her waist. “How much work was involved?” She looked about to say more, but suddenly stopped and threw up her hands. “Oh! It’s you. The man with the lonely dog.”

  “My dog is not—” He paused midsentence. Even discounting the red hair, he would have recognized those particular green eyes anywhere. “You’re the…eh…” He stopped short of saying the woman who got him tossed out of the boardinghouse. “Music director.” He indicated the heap of decorations at his feet. “Don’t tell me you did this.” It was hard to fathom that such a small package could cause such a disruption to his life.

  She glared at him. “Me and a crew of hard-working men.”

  Tom drew in his breath and rubbed the back of his neck. Oh, boy. Now he’d done it.

  Not giving him a chance to explain that he hadn’t purposely ruined her work, she continued. “I thought it was just the singing you didn’t like. But it’s obvious you don’t like Christmas. Period.” As efficient as she was quick, she gathered up an armload of decorations and tossed them into the back of her wagon, muttering all the while.

  Picking up the mountain of fabric at his feet, he tried folding it the best he could before handing it to her. “I like Christmas just fine—” he began, but she quickly cut him off before he could fully apologize.

  “Never mind,” she said. “I won’t bother you again.” Having collected the last of the decorations, she hopped into the driver’s seat and drove away.

  Tom watched her go. He didn’t need the headless snowman to tell him that as far as the pretty miss was concerned, his name was mud.

  Four

  Holly picked up a piece of chalk. “All right, boys and girls. Today, we’re going to write letters to the North Pole, and I want you to use your best handwriting.” She turned her back to the class and began writing on the blackboard. “This is the correct way to begin a letter.”

  She wrote Dear Santa on the board. The name Santa had grown in popularity in recent years and had replaced St. Nick. As she wrote the last sample on the board, she heard whispers behind her.

  She dropped the chalk in the ledge and turned to face her class. “Is there something you wish to share, Bobby?”

  Bobby Baker sat back in his seat, arms folded, his expression too hard and cynical for an eight-year-old. “Santa ain’t gonna bring us any toys. He didn’t bring us anything last year, and he ain’t gonna bring anything this year.”

  Since hurt feelings were more important than grammar, Holly ignored the urge to correct his speech. There would be time enough later for that. Instead, she folded her hands together and surveyed her class. Fifteen pairs of eyes turned to her. Little Alice Harper looked close to tears, and she wasn’t the only one.

  Holly sighed. She’d hoped the English assignment would bring smiles, not tears. But then she could hardly blame Bobby for feeling the way he did.

  “Last year was a bad year for everyone.” She spoke in a calm voice that she hoped would both soothe and encourage. “Even Santa had a bad year. But this year will be different. Santa has a lot more helpers, and he promises to do his best to pay a visit to each and every one of you on Christmas Eve.”

  Her assurances brought a look of relief to some, but not Bobby. The poor boy had had too many disappointments in life to believe that things would be different. Bobby was the oldest of four. His mother had died in childbirth, and his father had his hands full keeping his business running and taking care of the children, the youngest being two.

  “Any questions?” she asked.

  Sandra Miller raised her hand and Holly called on her. “Can Santa bring me a baby brother or sister?”

  Before Holly could answer, the minister’s grandson, Jimmy Johnson piped up. “No, silly. That’s God’s department.” Jimmy considered himself an authority on the subject.

  Since Sandra seemed content, Holly let Jimmy’s answer stand and called on Willie Tustin. “You have a question, Willie?”

  “Can I ask for two things?”

  “Only if you’ve been very good,” Holly said. Since no one else raised a hand, she looked at her pendant watch. “You have twenty minutes to write your letters.”

  As her students began writing, she wandered from desk to desk, looking over each child’s shoulder.

  Some children asked after Santa’s health. Others made sure to describe themselves in such saintly terms, Holly couldn’t help but smile.

  Jerry Maine wrote that he wanted a folding knife. This made Holly wonder whether the new blacksmith would be willing to donate one. Probably not, the old Scrooge.

  Actually, the man wasn’t that old. Probably not a day over thirty. Too bad he had such an aversion to Christmas.

  Shaking the thought away, she stopped at Bobby’s desk. His paper was still blank.

  * * *

  Tom held the tongs over the fire to heat the metal until it was red. After the iron was sufficiently soft, he draped it over the anvil. Using various parts of the anvil, he shaped the heel of the horseshoe and gave it a couple of good whacks with the hammer.

  The steel turned gray in color, but it was still hot enough to punch holes in. After repeatedly heating the metal and cooling it down, he inspected the newly forged horseshoe with a critical eye and tossed it into a wooden crate with the others.

  He laid the hammer down and reached for Winston’s leash. “Whatya say we take a break, buddy?”

  Getting no response, he glanced around. The front door was open a crack, and there was no sign of Winston.

  A chill raced through him. Like other towns, Haywire had no tolerance for stray dogs. Some folks feared rabies more than they feared rattlers—and pity the poor dog who got in the way.

  Cursing himself for not noticing that the door hadn’t closed properly, Tom whipped off his leather apron, grabbed his hat, and ran outside.

  A playful bark followed by a woman’s musical laughter ma
de him spin around. The sounds came from across the street.

  Tugging the brim of his hat lower to shade his eyes from the glaring sun, he scanned the opposite boardwalk. Winston was bouncing up and down like a rubber ball.

  But it was the owner of the laugh who had Tom’s full attention. He would recognize that bright-red hair anywhere.

  Sitting on the edge of the boardwalk, Holly ran her hands through his dog’s soft coat.

  Winston jumped up to lick her face, and she giggled.

  Not sure what kind of reception awaited him, Tom crossed the street. Since it appeared that Holly needed rescuing, he brought his hands together in a resounding clap. “Winston! Behave yourself.”

  Holly looked up. Today, her green eyes lacked the fiery sparks of their last encounter but were no less striking. “Oh, it’s you.”

  Since she didn’t sound especially happy to see him, Tom gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry about Winston. He’s usually only that friendly when he’s wet.”

  He was hoping to make her smile, but instead she frowned. “Winston?” She blinked in disapproval. “Such a serious name for such a fun dog.”

  Tom shrugged. “Would you rather I called him Donner or Blitzen?” he asked, alluding to her obvious love of Christmas.

  Winston jumped up and licked her on the cheek. “I think Cupid would be more appropriate,” she said and laughed.

  Since it looked like Holly was in danger of being slobbered to death, Tom grabbed Winston’s collar and pulled him away. “Speaking of names, I don’t believe we’ve properly introduced ourselves. Tom Chandler. And you’re Holly…”

  “Sanders,” she said. “Holly Sanders.”

  “Sanders, uh?” He tilted his head. “Are you sure it’s not Santa?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s Sanders,” she said, and this time her bright smile was solely for him.

  Wishing he’d had time to shave, he ran a hand over his bristly chin. “I’m afraid we got off on the wrong foot the other day,” he said. “I didn’t pull the decorations down on purpose. I wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  She narrowed her eyes as if to judge his sincerity. “I should be the one apologizing, Mr. Chandler,” she said.

  “Tom,” he said. “Call me Tom.”

  “All right, then. Tom.” She stood. “Actually, it was my fault. I thought the shop was empty. Had I known there was a new owner, I would have asked permission before letting the crew decorate.”

  “It all happened rather quickly,” he said. “Did you…know the last owner?”

  She made a face. “Unfortunately, yes. He didn’t like Christmas, either.”

  Tom frowned. He felt like he should defend his uncle, but the truth was he’d only met him once and that was years ago.

  Holly glanced at her pendant watch. “I’m sorry, I need to go. It’s almost time for the school bell to ring. It won’t do for the teacher to be tardy.”

  “You’re also a schoolmarm?” He tilted his head. “Is there anything you don’t do?”

  The dimple in her cheek deepened. “Some might say that I’m not much of a music director.”

  “And they would be wrong.”

  She studied him a moment before bending to pet Winston and instinctively found the sweet spot behind his dog’s ears. Tom never thought to be envious of Winston, but it sure did seem like he was having all the fun.

  “Goodbye, Cupid. You be good now, you hear?” Holly said.

  Watching her go with woeful eyes, Winston lowered his tail between his legs and whimpered. When she had vanished around a corner, the dog looked up at Tom as if he were to blame for the lady’s departure.

  Tom dropped on his haunches and ruffled Winston’s fur. “You like her, too, eh?”

  The dog cocked an ear as if he understood. “Okay, I forgive you for getting us tossed out of the boardinghouse. Figure out a way that I can see the lady again, and I’ll even let you off the hook for chewing up my boot.”

  Tom straightened with a sigh. What was he thinking? There was no place in his life for a woman right now. Least not till he found decent living quarters and decided whether to stay in Haywire.

  “Come on, Winston.”

  Sitting, Winston refused to budge.

  Tom slapped his hand against his thigh. “Come on, Winston.”

  Still no movement from Winston.

  Tom groaned and slapped his forehead. Oh, no. Please no. “Don’t tell me you now answer to the name Cupid!”

  This time, the dog jumped up on all fours and followed him back to the blacksmith shop with a wagging tail.

  Tom rolled his eyes. Somehow, Miss Holly Sanders had turned his life upside down in more ways than one.

  Five

  Holly stared at the stack of letters on her aunt’s desk. In addition to what her pupils had written, the postmaster had sent over letters addressed to St. Nick, Santa, and Mr. Claus. A couple of envelopes were addressed to the North Pole.

  Word had spread, and now the stack contained letters from the far corners of the county. That had added to the workload. How in the world would she ever get through the stack? Even more worrisome, how would she ever manage to fulfill each child’s wishes?

  One by one, she tore open the envelopes and read the letters inside. Each childish scrawl represented a heart filled with hope and expectations. For that reason, they were not to be taken lightly. Apparently having no paper, one child had written his wish list on a square of old fabric.

  Feeling overwhelmed by the momentous task she had set for herself, Holly resisted the urge to correct spelling and punctuation—the curse of being a teacher.

  She slit open an envelope that looked as if it had been run over by a wagon wheel. The writer’s name was Kenny Howard, and he wanted fireworks and candy. And don’t forget this year, he’d written.

  “Santa won’t,” Holly murmured. She placed the letter in the basket marked General store and made a note for the owners of the candy shop.

  Granting the wishes wouldn’t have been possible had it not been for the generous donations from others. And they were generous, even though it took much in the way of bribery and begging to procure them.

  Mr. Gordon, owner of the general store, had been among the hardest to convince to help. Not that she blamed him. Times were tough for everyone, including merchants. But he’d finally given in and agreed to provide fireworks. Though he’d insisted the donations would probably send him to the poorhouse.

  The town craftsmen had been easier to recruit. The tinker was willing to provide tin soldiers. Kate and Brett Tucker, proprietors of the Haywire Book and Sweet Shop, agreed to donate books and sweets. Emily and Chase McKnight, owners of the largest cattle ranch in the area, had made a generous monetary donation.

  Admittedly Holly was a bit nervous when Mr. Mason, the town coffin maker, volunteered his services. That is, until he explained he was also skilled in making wooden blocks and doll cradles.

  She dropped a request for a slingshot into the coffin maker’s basket and reached for the next letter in the pile, this one addressed to Mr. Claus.

  * * *

  That morning, Tom stifled a yawn as he left the shop to take Winston for his morning walk. Dark clouds gathered like woolly sheep in the northern sky, and there was a definite chill in the air.

  He still hadn’t found new diggings. A recent rabies scare in town had put everyone on edge and all dogs were suspect, Winston more than others because of his size. One boardinghouse owner had slammed the door in his face the moment he set eyes on the dog by Tom’s side.

  At least there were some people who appreciated his dog. He caught the butcher just as he was opening his shop. The shop owner saved scraps of beef for Winston and refused to accept payment.

  “Much obliged,” Tom said. Winston jumped up to sniff the bag in his hand. “Down, boy. You don’t get this till supper.�
�

  “Woof!”

  Cutting his walk short, Tom hardly made it to the end of Main Street before icy-cold winds began sweeping through town. Wishing he’d thought to don gloves, he wrapped the leash around his wrist and shoved his one free hand into his coat pocket. Brrr.

  Dust rose up in spirals, and shutters banged. Christmas decorations pulled loose, and a large, red bow flew over his head. Horses whinnied, and people ran for cover.

  By the time Tom made it back to the blacksmith shop and battled the door shut, he and Winston were chilled to the bone.

  He immediately set to work building a fire. Tossing dry kindling and green coal into the forge’s firepot, he added balls of crumbled newspaper and struck a match. He gave the reluctant flames a blast of air from the bellows, and white smoke shot up the chimney. Warmth soon spread across the room. Winston flicked his tail back and forth as if in approval.

  Tom needed coffee, but that meant going back outside. The need for a hot beverage, not to mention his still-sore back from lack of a decent mattress, added to his misery.

  He peered out the window. The wind was blowing up a gale and showed no sign of stopping. The Christmas decorations flying around made him feel bad for Holly.

  The clouds were now overhead and had completely blocked out the blue sky.

  Just as he decided to chance a trip to the Feedbag Café, he spotted Holly. She was struggling against the wind with an armload of boxes. A sudden strong gust blew off her hat and caused her to drop the load she was carrying.

  Turning to Winston, he said, “Stay,” and dashed outside.

  He found Holly frantically trying to corral the scattered boxes. Fearing the wind would blow her away, Tom battled dust, debris, and a sore back to help her.

  They reached for a box at the same time, their fingers touching. Despite the cold, he felt a warm bolt shoot up his arms. Startled eyes met his before she pulled her hand away, and he wondered if she had felt it, too.

  Even in the wind, she was a sight for sore eyes. Her hair had come loose and now blew around her head like red flames. The wind took liberties with her skirt, revealing intriguing glimpses of feminine lace.