Wild West Christmas

by Jenna Kernan

  Skip lifted his glass in my direction. “Thought you weren’t comin’, Gale.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  “Beer?”

  “Nah. My head already aches.”

  Jase squinted at me. “What didja come for, then?”

  Hell if I knew.

  Wrong. I did know. I had come to make sure no randy cowboy laid a finger on Lilah Cornwell.

  I scanned the entire room, including every couple stomping around on the dance floor. Should have saved myself the trip; Lilah wasn’t here.

  Well, shoot’s sake. I was too keyed up to stay at the saloon and too tired and sore to do anything else but ride back to the ranch and hit the sack.

  On the way out of town, I passed Lilah’s orange-sherbet picket fence, and I tried real hard not to look up at the house. There was a light on upstairs, and I tried not to look at that, either. I felt better knowing she wasn’t at the dance, but I sure wanted to see her.

  Hell’s bells, I couldn’t come calling in the middle of the night. I couldn’t toss pebbles against her bedroom window like a lovesick kid, either. She’d think I was way out of line.

  On the other hand, I’d already strayed so far out of line the night I kissed her I wondered if I’d ever be able to face her again.

  I gigged my heels into the horse’s flanks and moved on down the road.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lilah

  By Sunday afternoon I had worried myself into a kerfuffle that would have made Aunt Carrie laugh. Just pretend you are someone else, she would say when I confessed my uncertainties. Lie a little.

  Oh, dear aunt, don’t lecture me. Lying is what got you killed.

  I decided on my yellow dimity with the tiny pearl buttons all the way to the hem. I’d given up trying to lace myself into the corsets I’d packed in my trunk, but I felt woefully unfashionable without one. I did wear my prettiest hat, a wide-brimmed straw with a yellow ribbon, and by the time I had secured my flyaway tendrils into a neat bun at my neck, I heard a horse and buggy roll to a stop in front of the house.

  A handsome older man, dark skinned with gray streaks in his longish black hair, sat in the shiny vehicle.

  “Buenas tardes, señorita.” He climbed down and tipped his hat, then walked through the gate and lifted my portmanteau out of my hand.

  “Good afternoon,” I managed as he nestled my tapestry bag on the buggy floor.

  “I am Ernesto Tapia,” he explained. He gave me a wide grin. “And you are Señorita Cornwell. Boss lady send me to bring. I am honored.”

  As I moved down the walkway, I came to a dead stop and stared at my feet. A pale green fuzz covered the ground. My seedlings were sprouting! It was all I could do not to drop to my knees and kiss each one of them.

  Reluctantly I stepped out through the gate, and with a twinkly-eyed look in his dark eyes, Ernesto handed me into the buggy and we were off.

  The countryside beyond my little house grew greener and more lush with each passing mile. I couldn’t take my eyes off the graceful trees that towered beside the road, or the broad swaths of open fields dotted with red-and-yellow wildflowers. Ernesto drove in silence, but each time I exclaimed over some patch of red daisy-like blooms or a bush covered with tiny white flowers, he chuckled and explained what they were. Mayweed and yarrow.

  Finally the wide gate to the ranch loomed. Ernesto climbed down to unlatch it and drive the buggy on through, and I gazed about in awe.

  The house was huge, painted a blinding white that glowed in the late-afternoon sun, and its windows looked out from all three floors. A scarlet rose twined around the front-porch posts and drooped over the lattice. Beside the house, green fields stretched away to a rusty red barn and a series of sturdy-looking pole fences. Corrals, I guessed. Inside one enclosure milled the most beautiful horses I had ever seen, all colors and some even in two colors.

  “Criollos,” Ernesto said. “Wild.”

  I knew exactly how they must feel.

  Mrs. Kingman appeared on the front porch, dressed in a simple skirt of dark blue denim and a white very plain shirtwaist with a cameo at her throat.

  “Welcome!” she called.

  Ernesto handed me out of the buggy, and Mrs. Kingman came down the broad wooden steps, her hands outstretched.

  “Heavens, my dear, you look wide-eyed. Have you seen a wolf? Or a bear?”

  “This is a very beautiful country, Mrs. Kingman,” I managed. “I expect I am, well, bowled over. Everything is so big!”

  She laughed. “Do call me Alice, remember?” She motioned for Ernesto to set my portmanteau on the porch. Just as the Mexican drove away toward the barn, the front door opened and a tall, rangy man with silver hair that brushed his shirt collar stepped out. He had very blue eyes, and when they lit on me they widened.

  “This is my husband, Charlie,” Alice said. “Meet Miss Lilah Cornwell, from Philadelphia.”

  Mr. Kingman engulfed my hand in both of his and tipped his head toward his wife. “Gonna be interesting, Allie. Real interesting.”

  Interesting? Whatever did he mean? Inside, my stomach knotted.

  Alice showed me to a lovely bedroom on the second floor where I laid my hat on the quilted bedcover, unpacked my few things and washed my hands and face. A gong clanged long and loud, and I surmised that was the call to dinner.

  I gulped a deep breath of air and steeled myself to go downstairs and make conversation.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gale

  Along about dinnertime Charlie strode out to the pump, where the hands were lined up to wash and took me aside. “Got a surprise for you, Gale.”

  “Yeah? Couldn’t be another herd of mustangs, could it?”

  “Nope.”

  That was a relief. My shoulder was still so sore it ached when I put on my shirt in the morning, and my cracked rib hurt if I forgot and leaned up against a fence.

  The boss looked kinda funny, the way he gets right around Alice’s birthday. Probably a present for her, maybe a new horse he’d want me to gentle.

  “Come on,” he said. “It’s inside.”

  “Consuelo’s fried chicken?” I guessed. “Chocolate cake?”

  Charlie just grinned.

  I was the last person to enter the dining room, and right away I noticed an extra chair had been set directly across from me. Everybody else noticed it, too. Ernesto was the only hand not whispering about it.

  Oh, no. It had to be Alice’s spinster aunt. Charlie knew I hated the old woman, and Charlie always liked playing jokes.

  Damn the man.

  I heard the rustle of petticoats coming down the staircase and I gritted my teeth and swore under my breath.

  But it couldn’t have been Alice’s maiden aunt, because one by one Jase and then Skip and then Juan and Ernesto jolted to their feet. Suspicious, I dragged myself upright, too. Ernesto pulled out the empty chair, and then the wearer of the petticoats appeared.

  Lilah Cornwell slid into place and I about swallowed my tongue.

  Double damn the man.

  The ranch hands just stood there, mouths gaping open, until Alice murmured, “At ease, gentlemen,” and they dropped into their chairs.

  Lilah didn’t look up right away, and that gave me a split second to compose myself. My God, she was beautiful. In that yellow dress she looked like a ruffled lemon drop. Some of her dark red hair had pulled out of the bun at her neck and curled across her temples and her cheeks in little swirls that made my mouth water.

  I sure hoped my mouth wasn’t hanging open like Skip’s and Jase’s. Oh, what in hell was she doing here?

  Alice explained it, along with the introductions. “This is Miss Cornwell,” she announced. “I have invited her to dinner.”

  Alice went around the table introducing everyone, and by the time she got to me I thought I’d pretty much recovered.

  Lilah smiled and nodded at all the boys, and when Alice mentioned me, Lilah glanced up and blushed. I couldn’t have said a word anyway, so
I just nodded.

  I was saved when Consuelo entered with a huge platter of fried chicken, and everything got back to normal.

  Except for me. My tongue stayed glued to the roof of my mouth through creamed corn and biscuits and mashed potatoes and gravy while Jase and Skip tried to outdo each other with tales of dangerous cowboy exploits, and Alice and Charlie looked at each other and smiled.

  Jase was seated next to Lilah, and I noticed he kept hitching his chair closer and closer until Consuelo barged in between them with a basket of fresh biscuits and elbowed him away.

  That brought a big har-har from Skip, and even quiet, self-contained Juan forgot his mama’s instructions in table manners and snickered.

  By the time Consuelo’s double-layer chocolate cake was served, I was drawn up tighter than an overpulled cinch. Whenever I got the chance I watched Lilah out of the corner of my eye, and it seemed to me she was aware of my discomfort. She never looked directly at me, but she said little things I knew were meant just for my ears.

  “Today I saw the new seedlings in my garden,” she said at one point. A while later she coughed and said, “I like bright colors, purple and red. And orange.”

  I couldn’t say a damn word. She liked orange? Glory be!

  After dinner we all strayed out to the veranda, where Charlie and Alice sat on the lawn swing holding hands. Juan got out his guitar and sang some songs in Spanish that made my throat tight. Lilah sat in the high-backed wicker rocking chair with Jase and Skip sprawled at her feet.

  I sat on the top porch step with my back to her, working my thumbnail into my palm. Consuelo brought coffee.

  Then Alice blew whatever peace of mind I had managed to work up all to hell. “Miss Cornwell will be spending the night.”

  That did it. I decided not to stay and duke it out verbally with Skip or Jase but to cut and run. Bad enough that Lilah was here for dinner, but it was hard not to think about her sleeping just across the meadow from my cabin.

  I couldn’t take it any longer. I jerked to my feet and stomped off into the dark. Consuelo’s voice followed me. “You want no coffee, Señor Gale?”

  “No, thanks, Consuelo. Gotta get up early tomorrow and break some more horses. Night, Miss Cornwell.”

  “Good night, Gale.”

  What hearing my name on her lips did to my body was downright embarrassing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lilah

  The following morning I entered the dining room to find Alice sitting alone at the huge table, a blue ceramic mug of coffee cradled between her hands. I took the chair to her left, relieved that conversing with any of the ranch hands, especially Gale, or Mr. Kingman, would not be necessary.

  But I was shortly to learn something about the life of a cowboy on a ranch like this one. Apparently they got up before dawn and worked at their assigned chores until the sun was a big gold ball in the sky and Consuelo rang the gong announcing breakfast at seven o’clock.

  The men tramped in, their hair slicked down, their Levi’s dusty, followed by Mr. Kingman in a blue work shirt and a worn leather vest. Consuelo brought in platters of fried eggs, pancakes the size of dinner plates, thick slices of bacon, fried potatoes, plus a big ceramic bowl of hot biscuits. She circled the table pouring mugs of coffee and slapping away any fingers that crept to touch her ample posterior as she passed.

  The woman was well past forty but very handsome, with black hair in a single thick braid that hung down her back and sharp brown eyes that missed nothing. She never seemed to hurry, never seemed ruffled by the little flirty gestures and remarks the ranch hands indulged in, and I had to laugh inside. It was Consuelo who ruled this roost, not Charlie Kingman.

  I wondered where Gale was. The men passed the platters of food in silence and fell to cleaning their loaded plates and gulping down Consuelo’s coffee while I picked away at my small pile of fried potatoes and buttered a biscuit. When talk resumed, not one mention was made of Gale.

  “Gotta fix that back pasture fence, Skip,” Mr. Kingman said.

  “Yeah. Find that roll of barbwire yet?”

  “Let’s finish working those horses in the corral first.”

  “Too many to do in one day, boss. Too green yet.”

  I sat quietly sipping my coffee until Mr. Kingman startled me with a question.

  “Do you ride, Miss Cornwell?”

  I gulped. “Why, no, I do not. To be honest, I am afraid of horses.”

  The man’s bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows shot up. “Afraid of horses? We can fix that, can’t we, boys?”

  The chorus of yesses made me nervous. Then Alice turned to me. “Do you have a split skirt?” she asked.

  “A what?” I had never heard of a split skirt. It sounded most unladylike.

  “Or a pair of britches?” Mr. Kingman added. “I’d bet the mercantile in town would have a pair of boy-size jeans that’d fit you just fine.”

  Jeans! I was horrified at such an outlandish suggestion. Besides, I didn’t want to learn to ride a horse. I wanted to go back to my house in town and watch my seedlings grow.

  Alice caught my eye and smiled. “Maybe next time you visit. In the meantime, ask the dressmaker in town, Verena Forester, about making you a split skirt. Denim should work nicely.”

  Gale still had not shown up, and I began to wonder why. Was he too busy with some task outside to stop for breakfast? Or perhaps he did not wish to see me. Last night he had sat on the porch with his back to me while everyone told stories and joked and laughed, but Gale had spoken scarcely two words to me.

  It was clear he’d been surprised to see me at dinner yesterday, but he’d spared me not one single glance. A dreadful suspicion entered my mind. Had he been disappointed in that kiss? Perhaps I had done it wrong somehow. I could barely swallow at that thought, and I roused myself just in time to catch the tail end of Alice’s comment.

  “…go riding next time.”

  “Y-yes, I will,” I said. I didn’t say another word until breakfast was over.

  “Charlie,” Alice said when Consuelo began to clear the table. “Someone will have to drive Miss Cornwell back to town this morning.”

  All four of the ranch hands suddenly sat up straight and looked at Charlie expectantly.

  “Can’t spare you, Skip. Jase, you and Gale have to work those two stallions we talked about. How about you, Ernesto?”

  “Bueno,” the stocky Mexican said. “I like drive Señorita Cornwell. She no talk much.”

  Everyone laughed, but relief surged through me like a tornado. I have found a friend.

  So later that morning I found myself once more ensconced in the trim little buggy with the kindly man with the understanding eyes and no interest in making conversation.

  Despite Gale’s puzzling absence from the breakfast table, I smiled all the way home.

  * * *

  “Split skirt!” The dressmaker, Verena Forester, rolled her eyes. “What d’you want with a split skirt, I might ask?”

  “For riding,” I replied calmly. As if it is any of your business.

  “Riding? Huh!” Verena’s voice rose in accusation. “You got a horse, have ya?”

  “I will use a horse, yes. How else does one go riding?”

  She huffed and bustled away to her pattern books like a fluffed-up hen. “A skirt like this?” She spread a page out on the counter.

  “Yes.” I jabbed my forefinger on the drawing of a young woman standing splay-legged in an odd-looking garment split up the middle. It looked for all the world like a severed turkey carcass.

  “Yes, just like that,” I said. “What sort of fabric would you recommend?”

  The dressmaker narrowed her eyes. “What I’d recommend, young woman, is to give up the whole idea. It’s indecent.”

  I just shrugged.

  “Who’re you going riding with, if I may ask?”

  “Alice Kingman. Do you know her?”

  The transformation in Verena was instantaneous. She leaned forward across the counter
and lowered her voice. “You mean Charlie Kingman’s wife?”

  “Why, yes.” I understood immediately that I had touched a nerve of some sort, and with the dressmaker’s next question I knew what it was.

  “You’ve met Charlie, I assume? Did he look…well, happy?”

  Aha! Verena had a tendre for the owner of the Rocking K. Possibly she was carrying a torch for him. I managed to smile. “Mr. and Mrs. Kingman both look extremely happy.”

  “Denim!” she snapped. “That’s what you want for your split skirt. All I have is blue.”

  “Blue will be fine.”

  “Stand over here so I can take your measurements.”

  I stood and turned and lifted my arms on command while Verena circled her tape measure around various parts of my anatomy.

  “Be ready on Friday,” she said at last. “You want to open an account? I figure if you’re friends with Alice Kingman, you’ll be going to plenty of ranch shindigs.”

  At the word shindigs I must have blanched, because Verena sent me a strange look. I certainly did not want to attend any “shindigs” where I would be expected to make polite conversation. They would be just like Mama’s afternoon teas, which I had always loathed.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to learn to ride a horse, either. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more sure I was this was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to write my stories.

  And water my flowers.

  Nevertheless, I opened an account with the dressmaker, and on her advice went across the street to the mercantile where Edith helped me find a pair of calf-high leather boots and what she termed a “cowboy” hat. It was light tan suede with a wide brim, which Edith showed me how to “train up” into a curl.

  My goodness, people out here in the West certainly dressed oddly. With any luck I would never have to wear either the split skirt or the hat or the heavy leather boots; I could just keep making excuses until Alice Kingman gave up.

  I took my package under my arm and left the mercantile with Edith gazing after me with a bemused expression. She was an intelligent young girl; perhaps she had guessed my disinclination to ever wear a cowboy hat or a pair of boots.