by Hebby Roman
It was strange, but she didn’t care.
Eight more days… and they’d be alone together… for the rest of their lives.
* * *
Davie unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. He leaned over the water trough and sluiced water over his head, chest and hands. He grabbed the bar of lye soap kept by the pump handle and washed his hands. It was getting on mid-day, and the westbound stage was due.
He’d sent telegraphs, one to the shop owner who’d ordered the ornaments, months ago from Italy, and the other to a jewelry-maker in San Antonio, who he’d had make a very special ornament.
He couldn’t wait for Crissy to see his surprises. The jeweler, along with the crafted ornament, was also sending a gold wedding band for her.
And next week, one day before their wedding, his parents would arrive from Galveston. Lieutenant Bullis had an extra room, and he’d been kind enough to host them, so they wouldn’t have to stay in town at the hotel.
He leaned forward, gazing at the horizon. How long would Crissy wait for him to come back from washing up?
He saw the stagecoach, coming around the final bend in the road. The horses were puffing and pulling at full speed. The driver, in typical dramatic fashion, whipped them up and made a show of pulling back on the reins, setting the brake, and yelling out, “Whoa, there! Whoaaaa, hosses!”
Davie crossed the street and waited. As soon as the stagecoach slid to a halt, he called out, “Sergeant Donovan here. I believe you have two packages for me.”
The stagecoach guard gazed down at him. “Yes, sir. Two packages, Sergeant Donovan.” He jumped down, cradling his shotgun in the crook of his arm. “Let me open the boot and get them for you.”
Davie expected passengers to come tumbling out, too, but the shades were drawn, and no one emerged. It was odd—no passengers going west. He shrugged and followed the guard to the back.
The guard unlaced the leather boot, reached his hand inside and pulled out two packages: one was small and displayed a jeweler’s stamp, the other was large and unwieldy with foreign writing on it and several postmarks.
Grinning, Davie balanced the two packages and said, “Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Sergeant.”
Davie stopped at the horse trough and tore into the paper and string on the smaller package. When he opened the box and saw what the jeweler had wrought, he gasped. The ornament was beautiful, a work of art!
He found the smaller box, nestled next to the decoration, opened it and glimpsed at the gleaming gold band. Perfect. He pocketed the box and closed the lid of the jeweler’s box.
He opened the church door and went inside, pausing for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the semi-darkness.
“You took long enough,” Crissy said.
“Maybe, but I was waiting on something special.”
“Oh, what?”
“Close your eyes and you’ll find out.”
“Oh, Davie, you’re such a tease! Close my eyes… again.”
“Please, Crissy, you won’t be disappointed.”
She huffed. “All right. My eyes are closed.”
“Good.”
He noticed O’Rourke had stayed with Crissy, as ordered, but he’d hidden himself behind the lectern and was leaning against the deep ledge of one of the stained-glass windows.
He’d kept O’Rourke with him, not sure why the man had tried to desert. On the Pecos, O’Rourke had acquitted himself with honor and bravery, as Davie had thought he would. It was a puzzle, but after Davie married, he’d let the incident go. Maybe the man had had doubts, leaving for the border wilderness. But he appeared to have gotten hold of himself, and Davie had no intention of watching him for the rest of his enlistment.
Davie put the boxes on the pews next to the tree and opened them. The glass ornaments glistened, even in the half-light. They were packed, row upon row, forty of them, in deep sawdust. One of them was cracked.
He touched the fragile ornament and turned it over. It was only cracked on one side—that was good.
Crissy stamped her foot. “How much longer do I need to keep my eyes closed?”
Davie chuckled. His impatient Angel. He pulled the other box lid off and laid it to one side.
“All right, you can look now.”
“Well, it’s about time.” She opened her eyes.
Davie took her arm with one hand and with the other, he offered the contents of the boxes with a flourish. “My Christmas surprise, I hope you like them.”
“Oh, my heavens. Oh, my!” Crissy cradled her face in her hands. “They’re beautiful, beautiful.” She went to the first big box and caressed one of the glittering ornaments, a pendant-shaped one with twirling red stripes, against a golden background.
She threw herself into his arms, kissing him over and over. “They’re wondrous! Like what I saw in San Antonio.” She gasped again and pulled away. “Where did you get them?”
“They came all the way from Italy. I’m glad you like them.”
“Like them!” She wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes. “Like them? Oh, my gosh, Davie, I love them! But they must have been expensive—”
“Nothing is too good for my Angel. Speaking of…” He took her arm and turned her toward the smaller box. “I had this made, especially for you. It’s true the Star of Bethlehem watched over the birth of Jesus, but there were also Angels on high, watching over His birth.”
He reached into the box and pulled out the fragile metal angel, forged with gossamer wings and a tiny halo. “I wanted our tree to have an angel on top.” He squeezed her hand. “Because you’re my Angel.”
“Oh, Davie, I’m… I don’t know what to say, except thank you, thank you! What a wonderful surprise.” She embraced him again and kissed his cheek.
She glanced at the boxes and started to sob. “They’re too beautiful, too wonderful. I don’t know how to thank you.”
He hugged her and heard the front door of the church open and shut. He hoped it was Father Fernández, as he was eager to show the priest the ornaments, too.
But it wasn’t the priest. Instead, it was a woman, Betsy McDuff. He hadn’t seen her in a while, but he’d been away from the fort. His gaze dropped, and he saw the unmistakable bump beneath her waist.
Betsy was in a family way? He hadn’t known she was married… or was she?
She stopped a few feet away and gazed at them. Hate blazed from her eyes. She raised her hand and pointed, “You, Sergeant Donovan, are the father of my baby! Everyone saw us dance at the Fourth of July celebration. You kissed me, too, in front of everybody.” She looked down. “You told me we should split up and meet by the pond. I met you there, and…” She paused and caressed her rounded belly. “This is what you gave me.”
Crissy gasped and pulled away from him.
“Betsy, that’s not right. I never touched you, except to dance. You can’t—”
“How could you?” Crissy sobbed. “How could you? You’re like all the men who used my mother and…” She ducked her head and ran for the church door.
Betsy stood where she was, smirking.
O’Rourke moved from behind the lectern. He glanced at them and ran for the back door behind the altar.
“You!” Betsy shrieked. “I thought you’d run away and left me.”
All the jumbled pieces fell into place, and Davie finally knew why O’Rourke had tried to desert. He hadn’t wanted to marry Betsy. But Davie would make certain O’Rourke did his duty.
But first, he had to go after Crissy and explain.
* * *
Crissy ran inside the fort, wondering if her new step-father would shield her from the monster she’d been ready to marry. She opened the door to his surgery. The doctor was tending a private who had a festering wound on his thigh from one of the skirmishes on the Pecos.
Thinking of the Pecos and border bandits reminded her of Davie, and she wanted nothing more to do with him… ever. He was a m
onster, a lecher. He’d gotten Betsy in the family way but had continued to court and want to marry her.
Burning in hell wasn’t good enough for him!
Her mother was making tea on the stove. She looked up and said, “Crissy, I didn’t expect you home…” Then her mother must have seen her tears and distress. “What happened?”
Isaiah came into the room and asked, “Crissy, what’s wrong. Are you all right.”
She didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to explain how she’d been duped, like her mother. At least, she wasn’t married yet. She shook her head and ran to her bedroom, bolting the door.
Then she saw it, draped over her bed—her wedding dress. Her mother had obviously been working on the gown, and it was almost finished. All that was left was to stitch the lace around the neckline and sleeves.
How she hated the dress!
It was the worst possible reminder of how much she’d looked forward to joining her life with Davie’s.
Her mother called out, “Crissy, Davie is at the door and wants to talk to you.”
“I never want to see his face again, Mama. He betrayed me in the worst way. Please, please, keep him from me.”
There was a long pause, and her mother asked, “Are you certain, Crissy?”
She leaned against the door and whispered through the wooden slats. “He got Betsy McDuff in the family way. He needs to marry her.”
“Oh, Crissy, are you sure?”
“Yes, Mama, I’m sure.”
She turned to her wedding dress and found her sewing scissors, lying beside the measuring tape on her bureau. Tears streamed down her face, but they didn’t keep her from stabbing, slicing, and shredding the white satin to tattered rags.
When the gown lay in a sickening mess of strips on the floor, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed, sorrow spilling from her in wrenching howls.
From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Davie’s drawing above her bed. His first gift to her; she’d treasured it for months. Her tears had subsided, but inside, her stomach rolled, and rage roiled through her.
She snatched the picture off the wall and tore it into tiny pieces. They drifted, like confetti, to mingle with her ruined wedding gown.
Her heart, along with all her dreams, was shredded and ruined, like the wedding dress and Davie’s picture.
* * *
Davie shouted and begged and pleaded at the doctor’s surgery, but the way was barred to him. Crissy’s mother and her new step-father were protecting her. He couldn’t blame them, especially considering what she’d probably told them.
And besides, he had a very pregnant Betsy in tow. He couldn’t let her get away, having maligned him, until he found O’Rourke and made him confess to what he’d done. So far, Betsy had kept her lips sealed, but she hadn’t resisted.
He guessed she’d gone away when O’Rourke said he wouldn’t marry her and would run instead. But with the approaching birth of her baby, she’d decided to accuse him instead, knowing people would remember them dancing and watching the fireworks together.
He had to give it to Betsy—she’d spent her time, coming up with a way to make someone marry her. And who better than capricious Davie Donovan, a ladies’ man, who’d never took anything seriously… until he’d fallen in love with Crissy.
Turning from the doctor’s barred door, he said, “This isn’t over. O’Rourke is the father of your baby.” He stared at her. “You know it as well as I do.”
“I know nothing, except I need a father for my baby.”
“All right, we’ll do it your way. I’m taking you to Captain MacTavish. He’ll put you under house arrest.”
“Arrest? How can you treat me—”
“Drop it, Betsy. You’ve accused me of a foul and hideous deed. We both know I didn’t lie with you on the Fourth of July. You’ll stay put until I can prove my innocence. And I will prove it.”
She turned her face away and didn’t respond.
He tugged on her arm, taking her to MacTavish’s cabin and explaining why they needed to watch her.
He went to the stables and found Private Bates, the hostler. “Did O’Rourke take out his mount?”
Bates drew up and saluted. “Yes, sir. About an hour ago. Said he had an urgent message to deliver for you, sir.”
Davie puffed his cheeks out. “Did you notice which way he went?”
“Uh, northeast, I would say, toward San Antonio.”
“Figures.” Easier to hide in a big town than in the open. He clenched his hands into fists and nodded. “Saddle my horse.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who’s the best Seminole tracker?”
“Ah, the best tracker is Scout Moses Washington.”
“Thank you, Private Bates.”
* * *
Davie scratched his bearded face, not believing they’d been out five days, pursuing Private O’Rourke. He and his scout, Moses, had slept in spurts, getting up as early as there was light and stopping when it was too dark to see the tracks.
They’d finished the beef jerky and hard biscuits. Now, there was nothing to eat, and Davie’s stomach rumbled, growling with hunger. Washington was looking a bit ashen, despite his dark skin, and Davie didn’t know how much longer they could keep going.
O’Rourke was good, he had to admit, doubling back on his tracks, riding through creek beds to disguise his horse’s hoofprints, and creeping through underbrush on foot with his horse’s hooves clothed in rags.
Horses with cloths on their hooves made no tracks.
But Scout Washington knew all the tricks and then some. The rags wore out after a few miles, and Moses would range far and wide until he picked up the trail again. Slowly, but surely, they closed in on O’Rourke and wore him down.
The hill country loomed in front of them, lying west of San Antonio. It was an easier place to hide than the flat borderlands they’d come from, with its many canyons and valleys. Davie shook his head, realizing his parents would arrive in Brackettville the day after tomorrow, and no one would be there to greet them.
There would be no wedding preparations, no bride, and no marriage. Davie wanted to cry, but he didn’t think Washington would appreciate seeing his commanding officer sob like a child.
They plodded along the rocky, terraced paths, leading their mounts, who were limping and spent. Davie wondered how O’Rourke had kept his mare going. He heard rushing water, as if a waterfall wasn’t far in the distance.
Scout Washington put one finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he whispered. “I think he’s there.”
“How do you know?”
“See his horse’s dung.”
Davie glanced down at the pile of horse manure in the path. In the early morning, chilly December air, the muck was still smoking.
Davie’s heart lifted for the first time in five days. He took out his Colt and made sure it was loaded.
Moses did the same.
They rounded a bend in the path and saw O’Rourke, bathing his face and chest in the chilly water. His brown mare was slouched beside the pool of water, drinking slowly.
“Hands up, Private O’Rourke.”
The private looked up, his eyes wide with fright. He had no shirt on, obviously having worn it out, to cover his horse’s hooves. His sidearm lay on the ground. He glanced at it and stretched out his hand.
Davie leveled his Colt. “I wouldn’t try it, if I were you.”
O’Rourke flinched and raised his hands into the air.
“You’re going back and marrying Betsy McDuff,” Davie declared. “A child should have a father. Or you can be court-martialed. Up to you.”
O’Rourke turned his face away and muttered, “Not much of a choice.”
Epilogue
Fort Clark, Texas—Christmas Day, 1875
Crissy stood in front of the full-length mirror while her mother fussed with her hair. She had on her best dress, other than the silk moiré ball gown, which
her mother had dubbed “too revealing” for her wedding.
The dress she’d chosen was actually a suit, with a wool vest and skirt. Underneath the vest she wore a white blouse, ruffled at the neck. Like her ball gown, the suit was blue, Crissy’s favorite color.
Actually, the suit was an aqua-blue, much like Davie’s eyes, with black cording. It was serviceable and smart, but not what she’d dreamed of wearing on her wedding day.
The tattered remains of her white satin wedding dress were long gone—thrown into the dust bin. She mourned its loss but only had herself to blame. She glanced up at the bare space over her bed—Davie’s picture—she’d destroyed it, too, in a fit of rage.
She should have known better, should have trusted Davie. But all the ugly times she’d lived through with her mother, had overcome her common sense.
How sorry she was—but Davie had forgiven her—it was a Christmas miracle.
Her husband-to-be had spent seven days in the wilderness, tracking, apprehending, and bringing back O’Rourke. He’d forced the private to marry Betsy and give his child a name.
Davie had convinced the commander to forgo court-martialing O’Rourke for desertion if he would promise to be a faithful husband to Betsy and take care of his child.
Crissy bit back the bitter bile, knowing if the man had run twice from being married, he’d probably run again. If he did, there would be no mercy. She hoped Betsy’s relatives would be more accommodating if such a thing happened, not wishing Betsy to know desertion, as her mother had.
Her mother patted her hair in place and said, “There. You look beautiful. Let me fetch your nosegay.”
Crissy smoothed her skirts and waited. Her mother returned with a jolly-faced bunch of colorful pansies, tied with a white silk ribbon. Crissy raised them to her nose, wondering how Jubilee Jackson could have grown such cheery flowers in mid-winter.
The pansies were bright, yellow and white and purple, with black centers. But they didn’t smell of anything. Still, she was touched by Jubilee’s offering.
Mama stood beside her. “Are you ready?”
