“Oh, no,” she cried as one box skittered across the street.
“I’ll get it!” he yelled. Dodging a horse-drawn wagon, he chased after it.
After the last of the lot had been collected, she led the way along the boardwalk and turned up an alleyway. The wind was still blowing something fierce as he followed her up a winding path to a small, one-story adobe house.
Inside, he was greeted by a warm fire and pleasant surroundings. A fir Christmas tree stood on a table next to the window, its branches laden with shiny bulbs that reflected light from the crackling fire. Festive green garlands hung from the mantel and were draped over doorways and windowsills. Gold bells hung from the ceiling on shiny red ribbons.
A matronly woman sat in a rocking chair in front of the blazing fire, knitting, her white hair tucked beneath a ruffled white cap. She peered at Tom over her spectacles, her long needles clicking away.
Holly dumped the cartons on a table piled high with similar boxes and motioned him to do likewise. “Thank you,” she said, pulling off her cape and warming her hands by the fireplace. Her cheeks were red from the cold, and her eyes sparkled like green glass. Tom couldn’t recall seeing a more fetching sight. “You helped save Christmas,” she said.
“I did?” He read the box labels, and his eyebrows shot up. “Fireworks?” He stared at her.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to blow up the town.”
His comment solicited a dimpled smile that quickened his pulse.
She rubbed her hands together and turned the palms toward the blazing logs. “Welcome to the North Pole.”
“Sorry?”
She pointed to a corner desk stacked high with unopened mail and explained what she and a group of volunteers had set out to do. “Those are letters to Santa. Most little boys requested fireworks.”
“Can’t blame them there,” Tom said and furrowed his brow. “Don’t tell me you and a bunch of reindeer plan on riding around town on Christmas Eve delivering gifts.”
The old lady looked up from her knitting. “Don’t give her any ideas.” Her knitting needles paused. “Where are your manners, Holly? Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
“Sorry,” Holly said and promptly made the introductions.
The woman Holly had introduced as Aunt Daisy had sharp eyes that he suspected missed nothing. “What made you decide to move to Haywire, Mr. Chandler?” she asked.
“Charley Watkins was my uncle.”
Holly’s aunt almost dropped her knitting. “Ole Ironsides was your uncle?” She scoffed. “Grouchiest man I ever met,” she muttered. “The old coot.”
“Now, Auntie,” Holly said with an apologetic glance at Tom. “You’ll have to forgive my aunt. Sometimes she forgets her manners, too.”
She gave her aunt a meaningful look before directing his gaze to the boxes of toys in the corner. “To answer your question, the actual stocking-stuffing will be left for parents to do. The drought has hit the town hard, and most can’t afford to celebrate Christmas. Thanks to a lot of volunteers, parents can come here and pick up gifts for their children, free of charge.”
Intrigued, Tom studied her. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
Holly’s aunt nodded in agreement. “You can say that again.”
“It is a lot of work,” Holly agreed. “But the drought has driven many families into poverty. They can hardly afford food, let alone Christmas presents.” She reached for a sheet of paper on the desk and handed it to him. “Last year, one of my students wrote this.”
He read the title of the page and was confused. “April Ham Lincon?” he asked.
“Oh, sorry,” she said. “Wrong pile.” She took the essay from him and replaced it with another sheet of paper.
This time the childish scrawl read: Deer Santa, how come you like some childrins moore than otters? I’m a good boy. Honest, but you skiped my house and gave the train I wanted to Timmy. I still like you. The letter was signed Billy Hopps.
Tom handed the letter back, and he could see by the way she carefully folded it that it had moved her deeply.
She fell silent for a moment before adding, “This year, I aim to make sure that no child has to ask why he or she isn’t liked by the man from the North Pole.”
Tom’s gaze traveled to the unopened mail on her desk. If the stack was any indication, she had her work cut out for her.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.
Her finely shaped eyebrows rose. “I thought you didn’t like Christmas,” she said with a tilt of her head.
Her aunt made a face. “Knowing who his uncle is, what do you expect?”
Tom rubbed his chin. “I like Christmas just fine,” he said. Debating how much to say, he continued. “I was the youngest of twelve children. Growing up, Christmas was like any other day of the year. There were chores to be done, and my folks didn’t have money to spend on anything that wasn’t a necessity. I grew up thinking that only the rich celebrated Christmas.”
Holly’s eyes rounded in sympathy. “But Christmas isn’t just another day,” she said softly. “Jesus’s birth is for everyone to celebrate.”
“I know that now. But back then.…” He shrugged. Funny thing was, he’d not felt deprived. As a child, he’d not known any better. It wasn’t until he was older and heard the Christmas memories of others that he realized how much he’d missed out.
Holly moistened her lips, drawing his attention to the sweet curve of her mouth. “If you’re still serious about helping…?”
He lifted his gaze to hers and was immediately drawn into the intriguing green depths. “Sure, I’ll help. Long as you don’t ask me to sing.”
She laughed, and the pleasing sound made his heart flutter. “I could use some help with opening letters and collecting donations,” she said. “That is, if you have time.”
He didn’t have time. He had work to do and needed to look for new diggings. “I’ll make time,” he said, surprising himself.
Her face lit up with a dimpled smile that practically spread from one shiny earbob to the other. Knowing that her smile was in response to something he’d said filled Tom with a warm glow.
“Could you come back later?” she asked.
He nodded. “Sure, but don’t you have rehearsals?”
“We only have the dress rehearsal left. I’m afraid the group is as good as it’ll ever be. So you and Cupid can relax.”
He suddenly realized she thought he still lived at the boardinghouse, but before he could correct her, she asked, “Around six, okay?”
“Six is fine,” he said. That would give him time to stop at the bathhouse and barber before returning. Maybe buy himself a new shirt. Or would that look too obvious?
She looked pleased. “I’ll see you later, then.”
He nodded and, after saying goodbye to the aunt, headed for the door. “Later.”
Six
Holly had barely closed the door after Tom when Aunt Daisy puckered her mouth. She set her knitting down on her lap, which was always a bad sign.
“It’s just our luck that Ole Man Watkins had a nephew,” she said.
Holly stooped to count the books Kate Tucker had sent from the Haywire Book and Sweet shop. “I don’t know why you say that. He seems nice enough,” Holly said, though admittedly they had gotten off on the wrong foot. But that had been more her fault than his.
“He did offer to help.”
“Hmm.” Aunt Daisy picked up her needles and resumed knitting, but for some reason she didn’t look happy.
Sighing, Holly made a notation in her notebook, then closed it and stuck her pen in the penholder. “I’ve got to get ready for dress rehearsal. If Nelson stops by with more toys, have him put them over there.” She pointed to the only place in the room that wasn’t stacked high with donations.
Th
e knitting needles stilled in Aunt Daisy’s hands. “Speaking of Nelson, have you decided what you’ll wear to the Christmas dance?”
Holly groaned. Normally, she looked forward to the dance, but this year she’d hardly had time to think about it. Collecting toys had taken up her every thought.
“I’ll just wear…my green dress,” she said.
Aunt Daisy frowned. “You wore that last year. And the year before that.”
“You said you liked it on me.”
“I do like it on you. The green brings out the color of your hair and adds sparkle to your eyes. I still think you should have had Mrs. Cuttwell make you something new.”
Holly sighed. The town seamstress did fine work, but she didn’t come cheap. “After what everyone has gone through these last two years, I wouldn’t feel right throwing money away on a new dress.”
“It would be for a good cause,” her aunt argued. “It’s not every day that a woman gets a marriage proposal.”
“Now, Aunt Daisy. You don’t know that Nelson means to propose.”
“I most certainly do.” She gazed at Holly over the rim of her spectacles. “I’d have to be blind not to notice the way that man looks at you. If he doesn’t pop the question at the dance, that means he’s waiting for Christmas.” Her aunt gave a self-satisfied smile and held up her knitting to check her progress.
Holly knew it wasn’t just wishful thinking on her aunt’s part. She doubted a man would pay his crew to work all night decorating the town unless he had serious intentions.
“I just wish you’d be more excited about it,” her aunt said.
“I am excited,” Holly said. Only a fool would not be excited. Nelson was everything a woman could want in a husband. Once his ring was on her finger, she would be the envy of every single female in town.
“I am excited,” Holly repeated for no good reason. Okay, so she wasn’t exactly jumping up and down like her friend Janice had done when she sensed Jeff Myers was about to propose. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t excited. She just had a lot on her mind.
* * *
The wind had stopped by the time Tom left the shop with Winston in tow and walked the three blocks to Holly’s house.
The sky was overcast, and it felt cold enough to snow. The lamplighter had already made his rounds, and moths darted around the flickering lights in a frenzied dance. Ornaments were scattered all about, and none of the tumbleweed snowmen had been left intact.
After all the work Holly had gone to, he felt bad for her. Bad for the town. Still, he was at a loss to explain what had made him volunteer to help. What he should be doing is looking for a place to live.
Holly certainly had a way about her. A very nice way.
Reaching Holly’s house, he looked down at Winston. Earlier, the dog had refused to eat. Maybe Holly was right. Maybe Winston was lonely. Since so many locals feared rabies, Tom had to keep him chained in a corner during business hours. No doubt Winston missed the large yard back home in San Antonio, along with the neighbor’s children.
“Now behave yourself, you hear?”
The dog lifted his ears and wagged his tail. Shaking his head, Tom started up the walkway to the door.
Holly answered on his first knock. Her face lit up upon seeing his dog, and she immediately dropped to her knees. Tom watched as Holly and Winston carried on like two long-lost friends. It wasn’t just Winston’s tail that wagged; his whole backside swung from side to side like a trainman’s lantern.
Holly looked especially appealing tonight. She wore a white shirtwaist richly embroidered with green leaves over a red skirt. Her hair was piled on top of her head, with tendrils framing her face, and her eyes sparkled like newly polished emeralds.
Silver, bell-shaped earbobs swung from her ears as she laughed. Tom couldn’t seem to hear enough of her laughter, which bubbled out of her like water from a spring.
Surprised to find himself wishing that she was as happy to see him as she had been to see his dog, he stepped into the room and unbuckled Winston’s leash.
“Sorry,” he said, and ordered Winston to sit. “He seems to forget his manners whenever he’s around you.”
She stood and gazed at him with sparkling eyes. “I seem to have that effect on people, but never before on a dog,” she said.
“So…” He glanced around the small room, his gaze lingering on the blazing fire and comfortable-looking chairs and sofa. The small Christmas tree drew his gaze now, as it had earlier in the day. Once again, he regretted all the years that Christmas had been just another workday. Nothing special.
Staring at the bright ornaments, he made a silent vow that if he was ever lucky enough to have a home and family of his own, he would insist upon having the tallest Christmas tree he could find, even if it meant cutting a hole in his roof.
Surprised to find himself thinking such things, he cleared this throat. “What do you want me to do?”
Holly directed him over to the dining-room table that separated the parlor from the small kitchen. “I’ve got you all set up here,” she said, and handed him a letter opener with a mother-of-pearl handle. “Read the letters and put them into the appropriate basket. The baskets are marked. Requests for fireworks go into Mr. Gordon’s basket. Trains and blocks go here. As for dolls…”
After she’d explained the system, Tom tossed his hat on a chair and sat. Flopping down by his feet, Winston let out a contented sigh.
Holly took the chair opposite him, and they both set to work.
Conscious of her every move, Tom reached for an envelope and tried to concentrate on the job at hand, but his gaze kept wandering across the table. The fire cast a golden glow across Holly’s delicate features and turned her red hair into dazzling flames that begged to be tamed.
As if sensing his gaze, she looked up and regarded him through a ring of dark lashes. “Is there a problem?” she asked.
Embarrassed to be caught staring, he shrugged. “I was just wondering, what made you decide to be a teacher?”
A gentle smile curved her lips as if recalling the past brought her pleasure. “When I was in grammar school, we had a boy who couldn’t talk. His name was Eddie Polk. Everyone thought him dumb and paid him little attention. But my teacher, Miss Bridget, took special interest in him and taught him how to read and write. Today he works for the Washington Post.”
“That’s pretty impressive,” he said.
“To a ten-year-old, watching Eddie go from being the dumbest to the smartest kid in class seemed like magic. That’s when I decided to be a teacher.”
Tom studied her. “Your pupils are lucky to have you.”
“And I’m lucky to have them.” She slit the wax seal on another envelope. “What about you? What made you decide to be a blacksmith?”
“After my father died, I sold scrap iron to the local smithy. I’m not proud of this, but I stole rails from where track was being laid. The money I got helped feed the family. Watching that old smithy turn a piece of metal into something useful lit a fire in me. It seemed like…”
“Magic?” she said, and they both laughed.
For several moments, they worked in silence. Tom had expected to find lists of “I wants,” but that turned out not to be the case.
Some children wrote asking after Santa’s health or the health of his reindeer. One boy had gotten his mother to sign the letter proving that he had been good. A child named Artie explained the dime he’d sent in his letter to Santa.
I bursted my bank. Please give this to the poor little sick boy.
One letter made him laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Holly asked.
He read the letter out loud. “‘Dear Santa, please send a barrel of nuts, 14 pounds of candy, a small barrel of molasses, and chewing gum.’”
Holly laughed, too. “Why didn’t he just ask for a tummy ache?”
He tossed the letter into the basket marked Sweets and reached for the next envelope. “Why do so many children ask after Santa’s health?” he asked.
Holly looked up from the letter she was reading. “Parents unable to afford gifts last year told their children that Santa was sick and wasn’t able to come.”
“What you’re doing here,” he began slowly, locking her in his gaze, “is really great.”
Her dimpled smile made his heart skip a beat. “I couldn’t do it without a lot of help.”
Fearing he was about to drown in the depth of her green eyes, he looked away. “You still deserve a lot of credit,” he said and carefully pulled the letter out of the envelope in his hand. This one was from a boy who wrote that he was seven years old. Instead of wanting toys and candy, he asked for something far more difficult to provide. Dear Santa, he wrote. All I want for Christmas is for you to move into my house so that Ma and me will feel safe again.
“What do I do about this one?” Tom asked and read the letter aloud.
Holly stopped what she was doing. “Oh dear. Who wrote that?”
Tom checked the name on the bottom of the letter. “His name is Joe-Joe.”
Nodding, Holly heaved a sigh. “Joe-Joe Adams is one of my pupils. His father died last year, and someone recently stole their horse and chickens.”
Tom furrowed his brow. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”
“Like I said, times are tough. Fortunately, some of the other farmers got together and replaced what was stolen, but Joe-Joe’s worried it will happen again.” She slit open another envelope. “I’m afraid Joe-Joe’s request might be because of something I said.”
“Oh?”
“One of my students asked what would happen if a thief snuck into the North Pole. I said that would never happen. No one would ever steal from Santa because he’s all about goodness and kindness and love, and those things can’t be stolen.”
“So, this boy…Joe-Joe…thinks that if Santa comes to live with him, he and his mother will be safe from future thefts.”
Longing for a Cowboy Christmas Page 25
